Mordecai

Mordecai Alderson, detested and infamous, came into school on Wednesday with a big bruise above his right eye. The suddenness jarred Iron Creek Academy into a buzzing frenzy, as everyone knew they wanted to hit him, but the mystery fell in knowing that no one would dare do it, not with his father as chief discipline enforcer and principal at the very establishment. Whoever would hit Mordecai, was either very brave, or very stupid.

If any member of the student body were to lay a finger on Mr. Alderson’s son, then they would hobble away with so many bruises their great grandchildren would be in pain. A first year, the outgoing but overly boisterous and excitedly fidgety Cedric couldn't sit down properly for almost two weeks after he was late with a whole term’s homework, and the studious but easily irritated Jeremiah snapped at a teacher, and had two of his fingers broken consequently under the punishing paddle of Mr. Alderson, who claimed the severity of the injury to be an accident, albeit a necessary one.

The funny thing, the really peculiar and outstanding key detail that no one else has cared to mention, but I noticed, is that Mordecai is wearing his signature tie he saves for special occasions, which contrasts the white button up he tends to wear. Nothing appears wrong with him, despite the dark purple blotch on his round face that juxtaposes his pale complexion, and his somewhat jumpy attitude that is protected thusly by extra surliness on this day. He always wears that wretched black tie when he thinks he might get in trouble. Bad grades, bothersome students, foul teachers. If he wants to threaten someone, the tie goes on.

When Darcy Frost and Agitha Dalton tried to pick on him for disrupting the arithmetic class we all share with constant questions and hand raising, by the next hour he had retrieved his tie from whatever place he keeps it handy, and by the time we had that class rotation again the two girls were not there, having been sent to his father during that hour instead of learning algebra. We, as a collective, have learned to detest and avoid Mordecai's formal wear, lest we want to get a nasty taste of the flat wooden club his father keeps in his office.

I did make sure the girls were okay. I waited outside Mr. Alderson's office until they came out, skittish and wide eyed, and asked them how badly they'd been hurt. They hadn't, thank the gods, just threatened with repercussion, and I let them know that if need be I had saved my allotted passes to the nurse’s office that I could let them use. I stay out of trouble's way, so I have things to spare that I can use to help.

Business has brought me to Mrs. Nimby, a sweet but simple older woman who teaches advanced literature, in hopes of bargaining more time with a novel I put off.

"I really am good to my word," I keep my eyes unfocused from her face as I look around for trouble even though I address her, on edge due to Mordecai's tie, which I made eye contact with all of my first hour foreign government class, trying to moderate for any sign of danger that I might be able to divert.

"I know, Leslie, I do," Mrs. Nimby tilts her head understandingly in the corner of my eye, and I briefly look at her pleadingly, knowing there's about to be a 'but,’ which follows shortly "But I have no authority over library policy, even if I did check out the book for you. I know you already have the maximum in your care, and I know your business with those books and schoolwork is what kept you from finishing this one, but it must be returned to the library by the final bell today."

I try to formulate a counter argument, but my words catch in my throat as my distracted searching finds a patch of white and black movement, and Mrs. Nimby and I pause our conversation briefly, a quick flicker of silence, before continuing it in whispers as Mordecai briskly rounds the corner and continues at a gusty pace, looking for something, his tie caught in the breeze he's creating. That awful garment isn’t too many shades darker than the alarming bruise just above his right eye, both his eyes sunken into his pudgy face, the left one always wandering away from whatever he is looking at.

"Is there really nothing you can do? I don't mean to be rude, or demanding, or forthright, but it is such a good book, and if you return it, it will be awhile for me to be able to borrow it from the library again so I can finish it," I feel almost protective over the matter, but try not to let it show in my voice, but Mrs. Nimby can tell in that sensitive, empathetic ways she has.

"I really must. But I can put in a good word to reserve it for you, Ms. Bickers," she smiles that small, pleasant smile of hers, and tries to say something reassuring, but she too is distracted by Mordecai, who has stopped across the hall and watches us with his one good eye, a wide and expressive thing, the other drifting towards his upturned nose.

We both look at him uncomfortably. His tie has more of an intimidating glare than anything his pug like face could produce, but it comes to my attention he appears more inquisitive than accusatory, and it catches me by surprise. The lazy iris he has trembles in its place, seeming to be trying to focus on me as well, and I realize none of his attention is put on Mrs. Nimby. I try to fight my stressed reaction, a grimace and the furrowing of my dark eyebrows, and just barely manage.

"H-Hello, Mordecai," Mrs. Nimby ventures waveringly “Can I help you?"

Mordecai's very wide, toad-like mouth flattens outwards in a gesture of acknowledgement, and with some hesitation he steps forwards, in those shiny black shoes he has, and then pauses there, before approaching all the way.

"It would be appreciated if I could borrow Leslie Bickers. My father would like to speak to her," Mordecai's voice is always firm and deliberate, and is perhaps the most pleasant thing about him, and if one were to close their eyes while he is talking they would find they could easily picture someone else, as he has a very sturdy, almost soothing manner about it that sounds far more measured and understanding than he is.

My amber eyes slide over and meet Mrs. Nimby's now panicked brown ones, her dark brown skinned face slack and anxious as she realizes the implication of Mr. Alderson's summoning. I suck in a deep breath, trying to calm myself, and close my fists to stop my hands from shaking.

"Am I in trouble?" I ask him, forcing my voice to stay true and not give away any signs of angst, and to my surprise Mordecai shakes his head, his long but very clean hair moving slightly in the motion, revealing for a moment one of his large ears.

Mordecai seems to care about his appearance with a ferocity only rivaled by his concern for his grades, having always been a high marks student, but only through an excruciating effort to maintain this.

"You should probably go deal with this, Leslie," Mrs. Nimby prompts me gently, putting one of her age creased hands on my shoulder momentarily, trying to pass some strength on to me "Good luck, dear. And don't forget to return my book to Ms. Vine, at the library desk. I'll speak to her about keeping it safe for you."

"Thank you," again I command my tone to hold, and then I turn to Mordecai, squaring my shoulders and straightening my already rigorous posture to try and command some respect, what little dominance I have coming from only two things: my refusal to show fear, and the fact that I am six inches taller than Mordecai, who is only 5”5 "Shall we?"

He stares up at me with that one umber eye, the other still teetering in the direction of his nose as he tries to keep his watchful gaze on me. He sizes me up for a second, before nodding, and turning promptly on his heel.

"Come on, then," and off he goes in his kind of trotting gate, which I follow with a great deal of reluctance, that doesn’t escape Mordecai’s attention, so he slows to a patient but awkward stroll so we can stand shoulder to shoulder, and again I let myself lag behind him "Do hurry up," he remarks softly in a tone that suggests both understanding of my fear and a slight offense from my demeanor "I don't bite."

"Your father might," I reply tersely, to which he snorts, and I am left unable to tell if this reaction is indicative of amusement or disdain.

But hurry up I do, and my breath hitches in my throat, my palms sweating and my heart picking up to gallop, mounting as we walk down and around the corner, into the long hall that opens two ways at the end. The left shoulder of the hallway is short, with only two doors to choose from. A janitor's closet, and Mr. Alderson's office. Mordecai keeps looking over at me, almost as if for guidance, seeming maybe intimidated or confused, or some other inexplicable emotion that is making him somewhat flighty, more so than normal, though his skittishness is somewhat masked by his chilled personality and sharp tongued confidence.

I stare straight ahead, but I can sense his gaze, and hear him shove his hands into the pockets of his black slacks, and more importantly, I can feel the presence of his tie. Mordecai stops walking at the end of the hall, and takes in a jagged breath. I stop as well, praying for mercy, that he's about to tell me to just go and get on with my day.

He's never been especially pointed towards me. Almost, just barely friendly, if such a thing is possible from him. He is such a terribly guarded, and incredibly cold person, who stays on his own at almost all times, and diverts attention by sticking his unbecoming face within books and being very, incredibly rude to anyone who must interact with him.

I think he tolerates me because I very cordially tolerate him. We've worked together on several projects, dispersed throughout the honors courses we share, including the comparative government course, arithmetic, and last semester, but no more, we shared a class on historical literature.

I never raise my voice at him, unlike most people, and I keep our conversations brief and civil, but I extend some sense of familiarity by asking him about his day, and after finding out he is very commonly plagued by insomnia, if he slept at all. He never really responded at first, maybe only with a short reply and very slightly present but well masked sense of irritation that he clearly covered in order to draw less attention to himself. Over time, though his answers never became any more warm, they did become longer and more expressive, and that emotional eye of his reacted to his very articulate words and hand gestures that became more involved the longer he knew me.

He would occasionally make jokes, with quite an abundance of scarcity, and he never laughed at anything I said, but I could tell if he found something funny by those window-esque black eyes of his, which harbor some light in their depths if he is pleased.

But Mordecai does not stay still, nor does he permit me to leave.

"Come on. I'm sorry. I really am," his voice draws out with a hint nervous chagrin, which surprises me, not really knowing that Mordecai felt bad at all in any case for his father's dealings, but I am further stunned by the fact that he turns to the right, and walks instead towards the art wing, and towards the storage room the teachers who work this area share for supplies.

"Alderson, where are we going?" I prod, following behind him, my breathing steadying, no longer anxious but confused, though my palms still sweat with what's left of my apprehension "Your father isn't… down here."

"I'm going to be frank with you, Leslie, I'm not," his voice catches, and he clears his throat "I'm not taking you to see my father. I really am sorry if I made you fret or anything over his appearance, I hope you understand it's one of the few excuses one has here to get anywhere without a hall pass."

"You… you could've just asked Mrs. Nimby the regular way," I say blankly, perplexed and somewhat agitated for having gotten worked up over nothing, and with some annoyance I wipe my hands on my black skirt, and follow now with indignance and an extra flare of distaste for his tie, a figurehead of every present danger at school, the threat Mr. Alderson poses.

"Again, to be quite honest, I don't think she would've permitted that. My father intentionally hires people who are controlling and disciplinary," he straightens that terrible, nauseating tie, and casts a concerned look over his shoulder at me, and startles me out of my mounting huffiness by actually and truly appearing to have a form remorse written across his face, which is apparent in the creases along his grimace and his very lively, thick black eyebrows that tilt up empathetically over his crinkled eyes.

"She's nice, Alderson, really," I watch him stop at the storage closet, and put his hand on the smooth wood to gather himself, which shows, triggering my apprehension, that he is garnering up the energy to execute something.

"I don't have any proof of that. She lets people get away with so much bullshit in her class. Richard Hawkins grabbed Latoya Fowl's bra strap and snapped it, and Mrs. Nimby just told her 'boys will be boys' and my dad said the same thing when I told him. Plus, she lets Everett and his girlfriend, Tabitha, say vulgar things, and when Tiffany broke her nose she told her the crookedness of it made her look 'homely and unfortunate.' She's not that nice, really," he takes in a deep breath, and opens the door "Again. I'm sorry. About this. I just want to talk to you, in private. It's a matter of importance that’s been causing me great anxiety. I really need to get this-this over with."

Mordecai holds the door open from within the room, and with a fair bit of befuddlement and a returning sense of dread, I squeeze past him, and then stand against a shelf full of acrylic paint and several cardboard boxes containing sponges in one, rulers in the next, and newspaper shreddings in another.

"State your piece, then," I take in a deep breath, and close my eyes to hear Mordecai's voice without seeing him, trying to draw some comfort from the warm, rational way he talks.

He just stares at me for a while, I can feel his stare, and then I can also hear him smoothing out the front of his shirt and pants, and then clear his throat.

"I have a very serious question for you," in my head I can see him standing up taller, and with so much clarity visualize him straightening his slender tie, but in truth nervousness prompts him to shuffle awkwardly in place, very out of character for his collected self "W-Will," it bursts of him all at once “Will you go on a date with me. Please."

I wince, squeezing my face together, and then my eyes open and I stare at a flustered Mordecai who looks very much flabbergasted and incredibly winded, his face going from pallid to flushed in a matter of seconds, and when the eye contact becomes too much for him bare, he doubles over in a bout of fake coughing.

I just. I just stare. Then I find myself blinking rapidly, my hand coming to my brow, as I go over in my head what just happened. Without meaning to, without even realizing at first, I explode in a bout of loud, horrified laughter. When I catch my breath and immediately stop, I look at him and find him watching me with stricken terror, completely wounded and trying to repress it.

"I can't exactly say no, can I?" I finally spit, having gathered enough of my senses to reply, but not enough to screen out my anger "Because then your father will find out I rejected his son, and then he'll be fucking pissed, won't he? You haven't put me in a very good position."

Mordecai sucks in several very quick breaths, trying to collect himself, and when he faces me again, his shoulders bunched upwards, his eyes are as large as dinner plates and glazed with shame. "I-I won't tell him," he croaks, voice incredibly weak and shaken, looking as though he'd like to lie down on the floor and have a death inducing seizure rather than this "He, uh, he–uh–he doesn't know I'm fond of you. I don't think. We don't really talk that much," he strains to get out the last of his choked words "A-And you don't h-have to say yes, though of course I would like it if you did. I get it, I really do, if you're not interested. And I won't hold it against you, I'm not like that. I'm-I'm actually well-well versed in taking the worst possible outcome."

I squeeze my eyes shut again, and groan under my breath.

"So is that why you're wearing the tie, then? To impress me?" I finally say, to which he nods rapidly and then grimaces "It's quite atrocious."

"You really seem to hate the thing," through the meager voice Mordecai can manage he sounds almost amused "I can take it off if you'd prefer me without it," and with that he loosens the knot of tie, and as quickly as he can pulls it over his head, and stuffs it in his pocket, showing a sliver of hope I've never seen in him before "It just, it gives me a little sense of security I can't normally afford."

He looks up at me bashfully, and smiles, for the first time I've ever seen him do so. I'm stricken for a moment, but I do get the reason for its very sparse appearance. His too-wide mouth gives way to an incredibly broad, crooked tooth smile, that lights up his unfortunate face but further serves to making him look like a doofy pug puppy. It’s sweet, but terribly unfortunate.

"I'm…" I trail off, soaking up the sincerely beaming but extremely embarrassed grin I've never seen before, before coming to my senses and finishing my sentence "I'm sorry. I'm not interested, Alderson."

The smile lingers for one faulty second longer after he takes in what I just said, and then it slips away like rain water, and he tucks his head down in a very reserved manner to decide how to respond. He makes a muted, accidental little vocalization of disappointment and hurt, but tries to cover it by clearing his throat again. He nods curtly, and then frowns.

"Okay," he says defeatedly, looking up at me with misty eyes and handling this with as much grace as he can manage, and gives me a second, smaller, understanding nod "Thank you for your time. I'm sorry for perhaps making you anxious over the…" he chokes very briefly "The matter of my father. I'm really sorry. Really."

He lets out a tense 'phew' noise, and unballs his hands which were clenched in anxious fists by his sides, stretching them out, and then without another reaction he heads to the door with what little pride he has battered but maintained through his dignity over the rejection, the flush of his face turning his bruise mahogany.

"Mordecai," I don't know what I want to say, but I need to say it "I…"

He pauses, halfway out the door, "Leslie," he speaks up with a waver in his words but a massive sense of maturity "It's okay. I'll see around. Don't feel bad, about this."

And then he leaves, and with a growing sense of sullenness I wait for him to get a head start, and then I follow. This was marginally better than being beat by his father, but only by the smallest sliver. No one likes the Aldersons, and for good reason. Mr. Alderson is a cruel, heartless person who hurts children, and though he seems to derive no pleasure from this, he also doesn't seem to get any sense of satisfaction from anything at all.

His son is an incredibly icy, occasionally sharp tongued sod who snitches people out to his monster of a father, and makes enemies by his willingness to cross the boundaries of their well being. Although my mistrust of Mordecai comes from my unease over what he could pose to the people I care about, his willingness to report to his father any misgivings, I think what really makes people hate Mordecai is the insurance he has being his father's son. No one can hurt him without them being hurt. He was terribly bullied through elementary and middle school, but in high school, anyone who tried anything with the boy got sent to his father.

It’s popular to hate Mordecai. But do I?