The rain fell.
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"How's the weather!?"
"Just right!!"
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Lucas furiously blinked precipitation from his eyes.
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"What's our favorite color!?"
"Clear!!!"
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His borrowed dress shirt was too loose at the collar and fell over his wrists. His father would have disapproved of its faded polyester blend.
His other father, at least, the one he hadn't seen in nearly seven years.
His real father had pulled it off the clearance rack at Ross with a shout of victory.
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"Does this mean I have to call you 'Dad' now?"
"I think we both know that's never going to happen."
"Okay, so why don't I just--"
"--I might not actually be your dad, but I sure am old enough to be. We are not going to be on a first-name basis."
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His socks were soaked through, but he paid no attention.
He had endured worse insults to the body.
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"These are ridiculous. What am I--how am I...? There must be some mistake."
"Nope."
"But these are girls' shorts! You can't possibly expect me to--"
"Man up, Luc."
"I am defending my masculinity and my modesty. These leave terribly little to the imagination."
"Well, it's not like there's much to see anyways."
"Coach--"
"--stop whining and get changed. God knows your pasty English chicken legs could use some sun."
"Contrary to popular belief, ultraviolet exposure--"
"--Course records weren't set in basketball shorts. Put those on, or you'll be racing in your boxers. I don't think anyone wants to see that."
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But at the same time, he was aware of a distance, an opening chasm.
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"Lucas, let me in!"
"Sod off!"
"Quit holding the door shut. It's not your fault, Luc."
"Bloody buggering-- How is this not my fault? I'm a smart person, or I thought I was, but I'm not. I'm just normal. Stupid. Stupid."
"This has nothing to do with being smart, Luc. Being smart doesn't mean you automatically understand everything, especially not people. You can't troubleshoot people."
"I disagree. People have inputs and outputs, just as does any black box. We don't necessarily require understanding of the internal computational processes, but we should be able to, within a reasonable margin of error, predict its activity. I should know this, and I should sodding be capable of evaluating and selecting appropriate response patterns without experiencing a bloody system overload!"
"Luc, just sit down for a minute, will you? Here. I'll shut the door. Let's talk, just you and me."
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He'd never really known anybody to die before. Except his mother, of course, but it wasn't as if he'd had the opportunity to make introductions on the operating table.
He felt the presence of Anne Riley and her two children behind him, respectfully or resentfully allowing him to stand on his own before the open grave of someone who had loved him enough to let him be.
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"I don't understand."
"Well, I can't say that I'm an expert on this topic."
"No, not about that. I meant--"
"--I know what you meant, Luc. I was trying a little humor to lighten the mood."
"Oh."
"Not funny?"
"...Well, I can't say that I'm an expert on this topic."
"That's my boy."
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It was precisely this love that had gotten him killed.
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"She kissed me," he blurted.
Uncle Rick raised his bushy eyebrows.
"I would congratulate you, but I don't think that would help right at this moment," he said.
Lucas moved his fingers restlessly. Thumb on forefinger. Thumb on forefinger.
"I don't--" he choked, drawing further into himself, feeling the traitorous tears well up again, the hopeless frustration, the shame.
Uncle Rick sat carefully in the large chair next to Lucas's. He waited, casually glancing around at the clutter of his office, the lines of golden trophies and banners draped across the shelves.
"I can't--"
Shouts from out the window facing the muddy dirt track, laughter.
Lucas slammed a fist into the arm of the chair.
"Why is this so difficult for me!?" he shouted, "Why can't I just--" he broke off, fingers twitching furiously, "Too much is happening right now."
They sat in near-silence for several long minutes.
Lucas drew a deep, shuddering breath and wrapped his arms around his legs, burying his face in his knees.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled.
"There's nothing to be sorry about. I'm glad you came here."
Lucas scrubbed a trembling hand across his face.
"What am I supposed to say to her?"
Uncle Rick sat back in his chair.
"Cat's a smart, sensitive girl. I don't think you need to say anything, but it'll help her feel better if you do. She probably feels terrible."
Lucas winced.
"Our first kiss, and I ran away screaming."
Uncle Rick laughed, "Was it at least a good one?"
Lucas shot him a withering look.
"My brain short-circuited for most of it, and besides, it's not as if I've experienced anything comparable."
"That bad, huh?"
Lucas rolled his eyes weakly, slowly unfolding himself from the chair.
"I should probably go talk to her?" he phrased the statement as a request for reassurance.
"That would probably be a good idea," Uncle Rick replied.
Lucas trudged to the door, and right at that moment, the fire alarm began screaming.
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Though unaccustomed to death, he was no stranger to violence. One of his earliest memories involved his father beating a shabbily-dressed man from the front walk of their sprawling house in Windsor with a red-hot poker.
Then, when he'd come to America, he'd put his boxing lessons to good use in fisticuffs and found himself summarily thrown out of boarding school and into juvenile hall.
But since he'd arrived in the sleepy suburbia that Richard Riley called home, he'd felt the fear leech from his bones, and with it had gone the anger, leaving only frustration and resentment, which were tamer beasts by far.
Now, however, fear snaked back down his collar like so many burst dams, like rain the color of red with a little blue.
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The ceiling sprinklers kicked on, drenching them in seconds.
Cracking through the shrieking alarm came one pop, two pops, three pops, like bang snaps on the Fourth of July, but louder and faster and coming closer.
It wasn't Lucas's first time hearing gunfire. Neither was it Uncle Rick's.
"Get away from the door," Uncle Rick snapped, grabbing him--hard--by the arm and yanking him back.
His blue eyes flashed, and Lucas stumbled back against a shelf. Several trophies clattered loudly to the floor. Lucas froze.
"Under the desk," Uncle Rick hissed, shaking wet hair out of his eyes, "Now."
Lucas couldn't move. Uncle Rick shoved him to the floor. He dragged Lucas's chair, still warm from unspeakable frustration, to the door and wedged it under the door handle.
Because, Lucas knew, there was no lock.
Uncle Rick snatched up a massive trophy from the floor, trailing a spray of glittering droplets. Lucas remembered proudly hefting it above his head last season at the state meet. It was heavy, but Uncle Rick held it with one hand over one shoulder.
He used his other hand to push his own chair straight up against the desk, hiding Lucas from view.
Beneath the shrill alarm and the storming sprinklers, the door handle rattled furiously.
Lucas curled up tightly against the bulk of the desk and asked himself why Uncle Rick wasn't next to him under the desk and away from the door. He knew the answer, of course.
He tugged his phone from his pocket and dialed 911.
Angry pops shattered the little window on the door and fractured the window behind him. He heard tinkling glass, heavy feet squeaking through the rain.
"911, what's your emergency?" someone somewhere far away said in his ear.
"Help," he breathed.
The chair wedged under the door handle toppled over.
He held his breath.
The door drifted open.
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He'd never heard a grown man scream before.
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Uncle Rick didn't scream when he slipped in the false downpour and the gun coughed once, twice, three times. He didn't scream when the impact sent him to the ground, gasping for breath. He didn't scream when the gunman turned away, towards the fractured window behind the desk.
But the gunman pulled aside the chair in front of the desk, and Uncle Rick screamed, wordless denial.
Lucas looked up at the grey man with the gun and, without recognition, sobbed, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The ceiling sprinklers hissed.
Lucas closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he was alone, and the dead rain on the ground was the color of red.
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SLAIN HIGH SCHOOL TEACHER REMEMBERED FOR (adj), (adj)
Today, at (cemetery name) in (city name), a small suburb of Los Angeles, a private ceremony was held for Richard Riley, history teacher and cross country coach, who was shot and killed in his office at (high school) by (an as-yet unidentified gunman? check with ABC aff.). There were no other casualties.
Mr. Riley was described by students and staff as (adj) and (adj), with an eagerness to teach that "brought out the best" in those he mentored. Last year, he coached the boys' cross country team to the state title, which, in an interview with the student paper, he called his "proudest moment."
Local chief of police Alfred Munch(sp?) said that Mr. Riley's actions had "definitely prevented something worse from happening" and reported that, even after sustaining three gunshot wounds to the chest, Mr. Riley had used a "blunt instrument" to knock the gunman unconscious, a feat described by the coroner as "superhuman."
School officials have issued a statement saying that commencement will continue as planned next Thursday evening at (venue).
Mr. Riley is survived by his sister, Anne.
He had no children.
He had no children.
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ft. Oasis and Sam's Town
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