PhD Candidate Faustus

7: strike a terror to my fainting soul

Mephistopheles

"You disrespected a teacher."
"He was mocking a student! And he was wrong!"
"And he laughed—,"
"He didn't—,"
"And clapped—,"
"He's immaterial—,"
"What's more he's still laughing," the Dean of the school should be more imposing but holy hell I just watched Faustus take apart a middle aged divorce who got off on mocking teenagers. I feel like we can do anything. Where was this dude when I was failing the sixth grade and they kept telling me I needed to concentrate harder?
"It was beautiful, you would be laughing too if you'd been there, I should have recorded it," I say.
"It was cruel, and wrong. He was spreading misinformation and using slimly accurate scientific facts to intentionally confuse and belittle already nervous students," Faustus says, "I demand he be removed."
"We're not removing anyone," Dean Alleyn sighs, "You have a graduate degree in organic chemistry I think whatever frustrations you're having—,"
"I've spent years studying the chemical arts he does not bother or even affect me I gradated with a Master's of Science in O-chem summa cum laude at the age of fourteen. These children can't tie their shoes properly let alone, let alone comprehend intentionally confused equations," Faustus snarls.
"Look, look, um, how about this?" I raise my hand, this is about to be a bit selfish but I can live with it, "I'm not smart enough to understand what he's saying or what's wrong, but how about if he leads a study group for our class? They were all clapping with me they all like him, and he's really good at explaining things to do with numbers."
"I can't do that," Faustus says, shaking his head, "I'm not—I've had no teaching courses."
"Shh a minute—how about it, boss?" I ask the Dean, "There's a study hall block time, right? Whoever is getting confused by low-rent Jake Gyllenhaal, can come to our study group."
"Did—did you just call a teacher low-rent Jake Gyllenhaal?"
"No, you musta misheard me."

Faustus

"I cannot believe you talked us into a study group," I growl.
"We're out of trouble, aren't we? Getting in and out of trouble One-oh-fucking-one, volunteer to do a nice thing," he says, slapping my back. "Look at that, we are off the hook, and you get to talk about chemistry for a few more hours a day. Win win."
"I'm supposed to be talking about my thesis," I say, as we walk out of the main building to the sporting complex. Lunch is over, we missed it getting in trouble and waiting to see the Dean.
"Well, we'll do that too, you can run it by us. For now, we're not on the hook anymore and that dude knows better than to cross you. You asserted your dominance."
"I didn't. I just corrected him—I've never asserted dominance before in my life," I almost laugh.
"Well, you just did. In a very nerdy, very very cool, very you kind of way," Mephisto says, skipping and walking backward for a moment, "See, this would be so much better with a skirt on. Skirts were made for skipping."
"You're an odd sort of fallen angel," I say, shaking my head and walking past him.
"Why, had many fallen angels have you?"
"Oh shut up," I mutter, "Thank you for not letting me stutter by the way."
"You are most welcome, even when I'm not there, you know, think of me smiling at you turning my notebook which was originally your notebook, into confetti to throw at you when you get done roasting dark-timeline BoJackHorseman."
"Wish you could do that when I'm defending my thesis," I mutter.
"What, shred up little bits of your notebook to throw at you while yelling Brava?" He laughs.
"Well yes, but mostly be vandalizing my personal property in the background so I'm too busy thinking about that to think about stuttering."
"Did you—not want the notebook paper confetti?"
"Not really, but also why would you think to do that?"
"Happiness, most situations can be improved with a healthy amount of glitter or confetti, Fausty—oh fuck," we are halfway in the door of the fencing studio to see our fellow students all stretching and starting to run laps in work out clothes.
"That looks really athletic," I say, halfway in the door.
"Yeah fuck that," Mephisto says, braced above me in the doorway, "I'm out."
"You have muscles and things, also you're a demon," I say, doubtfully.
"Again with the looking at my tits, Fausty?"
"Please stop saying that word?"
"Fausty?"
"The one before that?"
"Again?"
"I'm so thrilled you're both always like this, get in here, now, yes you two," Coach Marlowe, cigarette in one hand, watching us brace in the doorway and bicker.
"I don't do things that involve sweat," Mephisto says.
"I only have one leg," I say.
"I'm happy for both of you. I have slots I need to fill and you have a sport requirement get in here, so other people can use the doorway."
"We're both sick," I say, about to leave.
"Bullshit, you cowards, it's not like you'll get hurt—NED ONE SWORD WE TALKED ABOUT THIS, and put your goddamn mask on, Jesus child do you want to look like your father—?" getting distracted by a couple of middle schoolers, one of whom had a sword in each hand was clearly about to start stabbing his friend with both.
"Yeah, please coach?" The kid leans in the doorway, holding two swords, half in a little white uniform, no helmet mask thing.
"Shall we bolt?" Mephisto asks.
"God yes," I say.
"One sword, and suited up, ten minutes or you owe me twenty pushups—GET BACK HERE YOU TWO!!"
We reluctantly start to slink in the doorway.
"Excuse me, sorry," a girl slips by us.
The girl.
She's already in shorts and Rose and Swan t-shirt. She has glowing gold skin and caramel colored hair that falls nearly to her waist, straight and angel soft. She has the most beautiful face I've ever seen, soft, bronze, smooth, clear, with the softest of all blue eyes. She flashes us a smile as she slips past us.
"Her?" Mephisto asks, quietly.
"Her," I say, nodding, "Looks like we're staying after all."