“That’s… not a law,” Malcolm tells him. “The law mandates that the punishment fit the crime. You could have so gotten out of that. If I’d been there…” He trails off.
If you’d been in the New York of a renowned art thief? Martin questions from his usual seat in the corner of the room. Are you going with the assumption that, in a city of eight million people, a man like that would even notice you?”
Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut and clears his throat.
"I was at a new school. I just started going by 'Bright'. He, um. He found out who I really was and right before a long weekend he shoved me in a janitor's closet and locked me in," Malcolm tells him. "They didn't find me until everyone came back to school."
He doesn't know if this will lower Neal's opinion of him.
Of course it will, but that's fine. You don't need a boy with a weak stomach, Malcolm.
He picks at the blanket on his own bed, not realizing he's mirroring Neal a bit, and takes a deep breath.
"After I got out of the hospital and came back to school... he was in gym class when I got there. I went into his locker and stole his asthma inhaler. I emptied it out and then stuck it in my pocket not sure if I was really going to follow through and when I saw him... When I saw him he goes 'have a good weekend, Whitly?' like it had rained on my vacation or something and I punched him in the solar plexus. I knew it would trigger an asthma attack. He'd fumble in his pockets for his inhaler. And he did. And so I gave it to him. And it was empty. And he fell to the floor and flopped around like a fish on land and I... just... watched. But I couldn't go through with it, so I called for help. There was no evidence that I did it on purpose, but the headmaster knew my real name by then, too. I was expelled."
Neal feels a little queasy as Malcolm goes on. Not at Malcolm's actions, exactly. He was a teenager. The things you learn not to act on in adulthood make perfect sense as a kid. But the violence of it, the premeditated nature of it--
It reminds him of Keller, almost. Except that Keller would have gone through with it.
And the scare of it was more than deserved.
He's also trying to wrap his head around the fact that Malcolm was expelled. "Was the other kid?"
"No. His father was an important Wall Street investor. My father was in prison for serial murder. Only one person could reasonably be expelled in that scenario," Malcolm says with a hollow little laugh.
You heard it, though, right? The pause. The faint change in his tone. He's good at hiding his emotions, but you're better at noticing them.
Malcolm puts his hand over the phone's mic (effective as that is) and hisses "Stop it!" at the corner of the room before bringing the phone back to his face.
"Anyway, that was a long time ago. I passed all the exams that summer. Went to Harvard. Then Quantico. I did fine."
Neal nods, realizes Malcolm can’t see it, breathes out a little laugh at himself. “I never actually finished high school. Dropped out my senior year. Is one of your roommates hovering?”
“Who…?” For one bewildered moment Neal wonders if Malcolm has Someone Else there, but he hardly would have called if that were the case. Neal is a good judge of people, and Malcolm isn’t the kind of person to get off on that sort of adrenaline.
“Well… I guess I realized school wasn’t for me. It wouldn’t get me where I wanted to be.”
He falters a moment, glad Malcolm can't see his face. He should have expected that question. He did expect that question, but he opened the way to it anyway.
"Ah... I found out my inspiration wasn't as inspiring as I thought."
“I always loved art.” He goes to the window, the whiteout view. “The beauty, at first, and then more and more the history. The… bizarre magic in the fact that we get to lay eyes on these expressions of moment and emotion from a whole different world.”
"People have always been people. I've never been very... into the art world. Though I did purchase some art. It fit my aesthetic. I told my partner once that nobody captures the desolation of the soul like Goya," he says with a hint of a chuckle.
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If you’d been in the New York of a renowned art thief? Martin questions from his usual seat in the corner of the room. Are you going with the assumption that, in a city of eight million people, a man like that would even notice you?”
Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut and clears his throat.
“Anyway, it’s not right.”
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Malcolm’s declaration about what he would have done, though, makes Neal feel warmer inside.
“I believe you.” There’s an unmistakable fondness in his tone. “For some reason I get the feeling you don’t tolerate injustice well.”
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“I suppose I don’t. Not to anyone, but… I like you more than… anyone,” he admits awkwardly.
Interesting technique you’ve refined of being both needy AND desperate.
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“For the sake of my ego, I’m going to internet that literally.” It’s teasing, though. A pause. “I wouldn’t…”
He dabs lightly at his lower lip with his tongue. Neal feels embarrassingly like a teenage boy with a first crush. “I like you the same way.”
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He smiles, breathing out a breath of relief he didn’t know he was holding.
“I didn’t think I was that lucky of a person.”
INTERNET THAT… signs I should have gone to bed rather than writing more tags
An awkward pause. He clears his throat. “What about you? Your claustrophobia?”
I KNEW WHAT YOU MEANT
"Oh. Um. A kid at school locked me in a closet," he says, like it was no big deal, then awkwardly adding "for three days."
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“He what?”
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It's clear from the tone in Neal's voice that he's not going to be surprised if the answer is 'no.'
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Of course it will, but that's fine. You don't need a boy with a weak stomach, Malcolm.
He picks at the blanket on his own bed, not realizing he's mirroring Neal a bit, and takes a deep breath.
"After I got out of the hospital and came back to school... he was in gym class when I got there. I went into his locker and stole his asthma inhaler. I emptied it out and then stuck it in my pocket not sure if I was really going to follow through and when I saw him... When I saw him he goes 'have a good weekend, Whitly?' like it had rained on my vacation or something and I punched him in the solar plexus. I knew it would trigger an asthma attack. He'd fumble in his pockets for his inhaler. And he did. And so I gave it to him. And it was empty. And he fell to the floor and flopped around like a fish on land and I... just... watched. But I couldn't go through with it, so I called for help. There was no evidence that I did it on purpose, but the headmaster knew my real name by then, too. I was expelled."
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It reminds him of Keller, almost. Except that Keller would have gone through with it.
And the scare of it was more than deserved.
He's also trying to wrap his head around the fact that Malcolm was expelled. "Was the other kid?"
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You heard it, though, right? The pause. The faint change in his tone. He's good at hiding his emotions, but you're better at noticing them.
Malcolm puts his hand over the phone's mic (effective as that is) and hisses "Stop it!" at the corner of the room before bringing the phone back to his face.
"Anyway, that was a long time ago. I passed all the exams that summer. Went to Harvard. Then Quantico. I did fine."
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"No. I'm in my room." Maybe Neal wants to elaborate and doesn't feel comfortable if someone might overhear. "What made you decide to quit school?"
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“Well… I guess I realized school wasn’t for me. It wouldn’t get me where I wanted to be.”
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Smooth, son. You're definitely not going to be single again any time soon.
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"Believe it or not, I wanted to be a cop when I was a kid."
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"Ah... I found out my inspiration wasn't as inspiring as I thought."
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