”All right,” coach Robert's said, “Your numbers dropped a bit, which is good. Make sure you're keeping active.”
”Uh-huh,” Panda muttered. He knew what the coach meant.
It was “Physical” day, or something like that. As if the Tests weren't boring enough, the kids were subjected to a barrage of statistical tests: hearing and eye checks, pulse checks, blood-pressure checks, height and weight, most of all BMI.
He hated BMIs. He was a bear.
It was normal.
You got lotsa 'big.'
He flexed his stomach muscles a little, while looking around.
Emeral was walking about the gym, almost like she was on patrol.
It was reminiscent of her counterpart. The bear was well aware of the socio-political forces at play, even if that's not the word he used for it. At first, he hated it. His old school had none of it, or at least it was easier to ignore. But here, he had gotten very used to it—whether he liked it or not.
Hate had turned to tolerance.
He went over to the other coach. “Miss Hicks?”
”What, sweetie?” She asked, the pony-tail that stuck out from her baseball-cap whipping to the other side of her head as she turned to him.
”Can I... have a clipboard and a pencil?”
She sort of scrunched her left eye a little. “Oh... I guess so, hang on.”
He followed her toward coaches' office. It was at the front of the gym, a room established by a chain-link-fence wall. Like someone had built the corner of the chain-link fence, and then decided that was the perfect spot to plop a garage around.
She emerged with the requested materials, and several sheets of paper. “Here ya go,” she handed them over, and batted him with the back of her hand. “Don't cause trouble.”
Hopefully, that would never have to be said without being in jest.
He didn't want to get roped into the socio-political fray of the school. He didn't want to be a bully or a protector; neither protagonist nor antagonist. He wanted to be a side-character. Like an extra in a movie. One of those blurs walking behind the characters the audience is supposed to focus on.
He sat outside. It wasn't too hot, but it wasn't cool either. Just still, and a bit muggy. He looked at the scenery. Kimberly and a girl from another class were playing tether-ball, while William watched them from the grass. He observed them for a bit, the girls laughing and giggling while the boy nervously looked on. After a few moments, his pencil touched the paper.
He'd hoped that avoiding Ritzer from anything more was possible, just to make it to the end of the year. When the lion called his house over Spring Break, he didn't answer. He was worried, that when they tried to take the pagoda that Ket carved, he would be approached again; but nothing happened.
Emeral passed to his left, walking as if she was looking for something to do. But as her eyes swept across the area, he could tell she was surveying.
Cousins, they said. Ritzer didn't outright say it, but Panda felt he knew what was going on.
And, just like everything else, he didn't want to get roped in. Knowing—not knowing. Sure—unsure. What did it matter?
Curiosity kills cats. It probably kills bears, too.
They had their reasons.
He looked up; and sighed. His subjects had moved on. He looked down at his half-finished little doodle, and unclipped the drawing from the top and rotated it beneath. As he looked about, debating on whether or not he should find a different venue, Lyza came outside just to his left.
”Hey!” He called, but she kept going. “Hey, Lyza!” He said her name, hoping that would trigger her attention. It did, but she kind of scrunched her shoulders and her ears twitched; like she got caught sneaking, rather than idly walking, away.
”Yeah?” She questioned, twisting her upper-body only.
Panda sat still for a moment before he decided not to bother her, “Just saying 'hi,'” he clarified, and looked back at his paper.
A few seconds later, he heard the scuffing of her shoes and the impact of her back against the gym's metal wall. She sank down, one knee up and the other foot beneath its archway. “Hey,” she said, passively.
He smiled, but it faded. “You okay?” He asked.
She grumbled under her breath. “I just... wanna go home.”
He nodded. “They should give us this Friday off,” he said in agreement. “I'm a little worried... I'm kinda mad I had to take that test. I've only been here... well,” he counted on his fingers, tapping them on the clipboard; “...Wow, just three months.”
”That is really shitty.” She agreed.
The cuss made his eyes shift. He chuckled, brushing it off. “But... like we said before. I'm sure we all did fine.”
”What're you doing?” She questioned, sitting up a bit and forcing her voice to sound curious.
He wondered if she was trying to change the subject. “Oh, I'm just doodling,” he replied, as if talking about the weather. “Grandpa taught me some pencil techniques... I'm just kinda scratchin' with 'em.”
Her crooked leg stretched, popliteal resting on the other ankle. “What do you doodle?”
He shrugged. “Anything.” He lifted up the other papers to the back. “I was drawing this before I saw you.”
She looked over. The figures were vague, not very detailed. But the gist of the picture got through; a girl with big, circular ears jumped up to hit a tether-ball back toward her opponent. The ball was drawn several times, indicating motion, and it wound up smacking the charicature of a canine-boy in the head. He had a goofy impact-expression, his ears splayed and his tongue out; his eyes all bugged and his arms out in front with fingers spread.
She giggled.
He smiled.
”That's a good drawing.”
”Doodle,” he corrected. “I can try to doodle something for you, if you want.”
The rabbit's interest was piqued. “...Okay,” she agreed.
Panda smiled. “i already have the idea!” His pencil set to work.
She watched, not really able to see, his left hand feverishly scribbled on the clipboard. She got to see more glimpses as he progressed, going so far as to rotate the clipboard to get better angles on the lines he wanted to make.
The sound of the pencil scratching against the paper was relaxing to her. Ironic, since for the past four days it was almost all she heard at school and it should, by all measures, cause her some kind of post-traumatic stress. Anxiety at the very least.
Maybe it was because this pencil was not meant for chore, but art. There was a difference between when she played at Mrs. Miskerwitz's house and at a performance. At the house, it was like... a chore. A rehearsal. Practice. But, at a performance, it was... a fulfillment. An exhibition. Production. There was just something so different about being in a public setting; the way her flute sounded was unique to every venue.
Perhaps it was the different environment, and how it carried the sound. Or perhaps it was the rush of adrenaline she always had to quell every time a song started, forcing her to focus so acutely on every note.
Whatever it was, as the pencil went from line to line, she got the same feeling in this present.
When a performance ended, she usually got a sense of relief, followed by concern. She thought of all the things she needed to work on, to do differently the next time.
But in the aftermath of The Tests, she felt no relief nor direction. What was she to do now? What goal was she to work toward? Would she be able to find talent in something else before the year was over—another spelling bee that she could actually win?
”There—Oh wait!” Panda was about to show her his drawing—doodle—but forgot the most crucial part. He tried to block of her peering eyes as he drew in the last little bit. It'd be rough, but maybe it'd get the idea across.
Lyza watched with a smile as his chubby fingers guided the pencil exactly where he wanted it to go, in exactly the way he wanted it to be. She noticed he held it differently from how it would be held if he were writing. It was much more fluid, much more relaxed. The lines he made were soft and thin; only sharp and dark if he wanted them to be.
Unlike the Scantron, where all you could do was mercilessly bruise the paper with graphite.
Finally, he lifted the pencil. “Okay, there,” he stated, pulling the paper from the clipboard and holding it for her to take.
As the lines began to form shapes to her eyes, she saw the little flute. It pointed up in the air held by a long-eared, bubbly, cartoony rabbit with very long ears that fell down the back of her head. Lyza could tell it was a she, because of the little bow at the base of the ears. Her eyes were closed, and her body was not much more than an oblong ellipse. Disproportioned stick-legs sprang from the bottom of the ellipse, one kicked out in front while the other was flat on the ground, giving the impression that she was marching forward.
A trail of notes flew from the flute, carrying backwards across a three-lined, wavy musical staff that carried off in the air behind her.
Not far behind the rabbit, a large-eared, crudely-drawn rat walked with arms swinging down and shoulders far forward. Her—she had a bow as well—tongue lolled from her muzzle, and her eyes were swirled without any pupils, as if hypnotized.
Lyza giggled. “That's really good,” she said.
”It's not as good as my painting,” the bear admitted. “You can keep it if you want.”
”Thanks,” she said with a genuine smile, then proffered it back; “You should sign it,” she suggested.
He gingerly retrieved it. “Yeah, you're right,” he agreed. The pencil quickly touched the paper as he left his artist's mark upon it.
Lyza took it back and examined the paper for where it was. She found it in tiny little cursive letters just beneath the flute. “Cool, it's so—”
Just as she found it, and started her comment on how fancy it looked, she was shrouded in shadow. Squinting, she looked up.
Ritzer stood rather close to them, hands in his pockets with all fingers except the thumbs. “'Mon Robby-boy.” He spoke.
”What do you want?” The bear asked, trying not to sound as meek as he felt.
”Nee'ta talk.”
Lyza glanced at her friend.
His lips were ajar, and he had a bit of a worried look on his face.
She watched as he took in a stilted sigh and made to stand. She was up in that second. She turned her gaze to the lion.
”Wha'j'oo loogin'et?”
”Just waiting to go talk.” She replied.
A smile crawled up the far corner of his muzzle for just a split second before it dropped back down. “Ain' none-a ya'.”
By now, Panda was hesitating to stand up.
”Really?” The rabbit crossed her sun-lit white arms, the drawing pinched in the fingers of her left hand. “Well then maybe you should've thought about that before having the audacity to interrupt our conversation. No 'please;' no 'when you have a chance;' no 'once you guys are done.' Just,” she lowered her voice, “'Mon.”
That smile flicked up again. “D'hell you sayin?”
She swiveled her ears back. “If you're going to talk to Pan, you'll just have to say what it is in front of me.” She glanced down at her friend for just second. “But I get the feeling you don't really want to talk to him.”
”Jus' like a girl. Always butt'n'to every'n's bid'ness. Why don' ya jus' f—”
”How about you fuck off for once, 'kay?”
Panda's eyes went wide.
The smile flashed once again.
As Lyza felt the nape of her neck tickle with adrenaline, the paper in her hand was suddenly tugged, and wrenched from her grasp.
Ritzer whipped it to straighten it out, looking it over. “You play th'floo', righ'?” He asked.
”I assume you're asking if I play the floo-tuh,” she suggested, enunciating the word. “Yes.”
”Well...” the lion held up the picture. “If I'idin't know bedda',” he pointed at the rat. “'Dis some'ne w'know, righ'?”
She squinted. “Not really sure what you mean,” she replied.
That smile whisked by again. “I thin' Reen migh' li'ta' see 'dis. She like ar'n'all dat.”
”I'll be sure to show it to her.” The rabbit stated, extending her hand. “I'll have it back, please.”
The coach's whistle blew, signaling the end of P.E.
Ritzer folded the paper into eighths and slipped it in his front-left pocket. “I'll may'sher she ge'ssit.” He said, briskly heading off.
The rabbit pursed her lips, and then glanced back at Panda. Her face relaxed. “What do you think that was about?” She questioned, offering her hand to help him up.
He took it, and their eyes were level the entire time as he got to his feet—and even a moment after. But all Panda managed to ask before Lyza gave a nervous smile in response was: “Did you really just... tell Ritzer to go... eff off?”
