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The sound of the clock ticking in the silent room is really starting to get on James’ nerves. To be fair, everything is getting on his nerves today. His brothers, his parents, his classes, this clock. Himself, most of all.
He sits silently in the uncomfortable plastic chair, running his finger along the edge of his desk. Back and forth, back and forth. He looks back up to the clock, growing even more frustrated at the amount of time that had passed since he’d last looked at it. Ten seconds. Silently, he wills that the clock vanish from its place on the wall and throws his head back to stare at the ceiling instead.
“Bored, Mr. Wilson?” The librarian tasked with handling detention asks, looking at him over her red cat-eye glasses. Her hand only briefly pauses its writing on the pages in front of her.
“To tears, Mrs. Patel,” he responds.
“Good,” she says, looking back at her desk. He closes his eyes and nearly slams his head on the desk. The clock on the wall keeps its incessant ticking.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been before the door opens again. “Mrs. Patel?” A new voice asks. One that James hasn’t heard before. He looks up to see a vaguely familiar kid, tall and lanky and whose face conveys nothing but sincerity. “I think I saw some freshman in the library, putting books in their bags. I think you should probably handle that.”
Mrs. Patel shoots up like a rocket, features set in newfound rage. “Thank you for letting me know, Mr. House. Mr. Wilson, you can go.” With that, she leaves the room swiftly, heels clicking menacingly on the tile. James looks to the other kid, House, who looks right back at him. They stare at each other for a moment before the other jerks his head in the direction of the hall.
“You heard the woman,” he says. James stares for a moment before Mrs. Patel’s parting words finally make sense in his brain. He scrambles to collect his bag, standing up from the desk and pulling his brown jacket around his shoulders. Strangely, House watches him the entire way. When James leaves, he follows. They make it all the way out the front doors and onto the sidewalk outside the school before James turns to face him.
“Why are you following me?” House just stares at him, head cocked slightly to the side. His strikingly blue eyes bore into James’ own.
“James Wilson, right?” He says, avoiding the question entirely but using it as an excuse to strike up conversation nonetheless. James nods. “Straight A student? Teacher’s pet, kiss-ass? What’s a guy like you doing in detention?”
James sputters. “I—what? I am not a kiss-ass.”
House smiles mischievously. “Deflection. A great move, if the person you’re deflecting doesn’t notice. Unfortunately, I noticed. Now, I repeat—What’s Mr. Perfect doing in detention?”
James rolls his eyes. “Why do you care?”
“Because it’s interesting. Clearly it’s embarrassing, or you wouldn’t be avoiding the question. It can’t have been too big, or you would have gotten more than just detention. Granted, you are a good student, and both of those things could be attributed to that. Every toe out of line is embarrassing to good students. So, what is it?”
“I think you just like to listen to yourself talk,” James says, using sarcasm to cover his befuddlement expertly.
“Ohh, psychoanalyzing me, now are we?”
James isn’t really in the mood for this. He needs to get home. He looks thoughtfully into the distance, pretending to ponder his answer. Finally, he turns back to House, meeting his gaze. “Yes,” he says, and he turns to start walking toward home. House chuckles and continues following.
“Oh, great Wilson, what other wisdom do you have for me?” James would react to the use of his last name, but he doesn’t have a leg to stand on, considering he doesn’t even know House’s first name.
“I think you’re way too invested in this. What were you even doing at school nearly forty-five minutes after it ended?”
House waves his hand as though it’s not important. “Orchestrating your escape, obviously.”
“It took you forty-five minutes to come up with that lie? Freshman stealing books?” James raises an eyebrow.
“No, obviously not,” House rolls his eyes dramatically. “It took five minutes to escape my English teacher, two to walk down the hall and see you sitting all alone in detention, and the remaining thirty eight to convince two freshman to steal books. Freshman are too scared for their own good.”
“Scared of Mrs. Patel? They should be. You clearly haven’t seen her enact vengeance on those who’ve wronged her. The real question is, why were you so invested in the mystery of my detention that you would spend so much time breaking down their natural instincts?”
House shrugs. “Like I said, it was interesting.”
“So I’m just a particularly difficult puzzle, then.”
“Something like that. I think you’re still avoiding the question. Why the detention?”
James snorts. “And I think you’re being an ass.”
“That’s my middle name,” House says, bowing dramatically. “Gregory Ass House, pleased to meet you.” James rolls his eyes and keeps walking right past him. House straightens up and returns to walking at James’ side. They stay like that, sharing quips and walking side-by-side all the way to James’ house. He keeps expecting House to split off, to pretend to be surprised that he’s been going the wrong way and turn around, or anything of that nature. He wouldn’t be surprised if House just vanished, revealing himself to be a hallucination born of James’ bored-to-tears brain and that James is still stuck in detention.
Instead, House follows him all the way up James’ street, only stopping when James himself stops in front of his house, with its neatly trimmed lawn and white picket fence. He notes that the driveway is still empty and doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. He decides to ignore the conflicting emotions in favor of turning back to House.
“Well,” he says, “this is it. My house.” He waits for some kind of indication that House has heard him, but all he receives is the other boy staring at the building before him. His eyes run over the white paint, the second story windows, the front door. They linger for a moment on the driveway before returning to meet James’.
“Nice place,” he says.
“Thanks, I’ve lived here my entire life.”
House nods as though the information fits perfectly into everything he’d already learned about James. “I’ve lived here,” he gestures to the house next to the Wilson residence. “for my entire two months of living in Jersey.”
James nods, stowing away the information in his newly designated House file. “Nice place,” he says. House nods.
“Thanks,” he replies. They stand there, staring at House’s house for several minutes. James doesn’t want to go inside, not yet. He doesn’t want to face the empty halls. It occurs to him, then, that House doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to head inside either. He wonders idly what he might be avoiding.
The sun casts a warm light over the entire neighborhood, bathing it in golden light and turning the clouds pink. James turns to the sunset, taking in what he can see of it between the rows of houses.
“Nice sunset,” he adds uselessly. House turns to it, humming in absentminded agreement. He seems suddenly tense, holding his book bag just slightly tighter.
“Well,” he announces. “I really should get going. See ya around, Wilson.” And with that, House turns up his own driveway and disappears into his own front door.
Wilson watches him silently, feeling a new emptiness fill him at the retreating back of his neighbor. He’d… liked talking to the other boy, for whatever reason. Enjoyed the invasive questions and dry sarcasm. It felt oddly like the world was turning correctly for the first time in years. With that weird mix of emotions turning in his gut, he turns back to his own house and makes his way to the front door.