FHFIF Fic: Fragments - Chapter 1

"Mac, you're up first."

High school freshman Malcom “Mac” Marquette dreaded those words. He wasn't ready. Not with his speech outline like this.

But he had no choice. The outline was also required to be turned in, meaning he'd have to follow it--no going off the cuff. And he simply couldn't turn it in late. Gates never accepted late papers, especially not near the end of the semester.

Eyeing his classmates from the corner of his eyes, Mac nodded and slowly made his way to the front of the classroom, doing everything in his power to make his demeanor come off careless. But he doubted that anyone bought it.

Ignoring their overwhelming collective gaze, he cleared his throat. "Ahem. Okay… Hi, my name's Mac. I'm here to talk about something important that's being left out of school." He paused, gulping as he finally looked at the class staring him down. "Figments."

Some eyes widened, but the room remained respectfully quiet. God, he wished some kind of music was playing in the background. Maybe someone’s iPod carelessly not plugged into headphones correctly. Or a car alarm was going off in the parking lot. A catfight in the hallway--anything to distract everyone from whatever was to come.

Heart heavy, he continued. "Everybody who’s anybody knows why figments are created.” It took a mighty force inside of him not to groan at his own voice.

Someone raised their hand. Mac knew what they wanted to ask: Why ARE they created? But the teacher waved her hand disapprovingly at the boy, and his hand fell back to his desk. Questions were for after the speech.

“When someone feels miserable, or hopeless, or-or both…” Mac studied his outline with narrowed eyes. Some of the words were crossed off, and new words were written right over them. He was lucky enough that their teacher let them read their speech straight from the outline, or he’d be even more screwed. “Their… miserableness goes into making something real, and make someone, or something, that can guide them, or help them cope with whatever they’re going through." Gaining a little confidence, he continued with a louder voice. Maybe this would be more interesting than he thought, after all. "Many figments--or imaginary friends, as they’re more commonly known as, are created during childhood and adolescence, when a kid is still growing. I made mine, Bloo--"

Pause. Sweat was already forming in his palms. He should have read over the paper more thoroughly before class. If only he’d had the time…

Mac cleared his throat again, the respectful silence now hanging over him like a lead weight. "I made mine, Bloo--Blooregard Q. Kazoo, to be exact--when I was three. A-and I made him because--"

Pause again. Mac lifted his eyes from the paper and back up to the classroom. Even the students who were once dozing off were now all-ears. He gulped, and gritted his teeth. He was not getting into the details of this.

But it was too late to skip this part. He’d already said Bloo’s name.

"He came around because I… was sad. He appeared in my room one night and showed me how to be tougher."

No reaction. Not even a student shifting position in their desk. Everyone seemed to be listening, but no one was making a sound. If they started snickering, at least he’d have a reason to look to the teacher to put an end to it--to pull the plug.

Why was waiting for mockery so much worse than actually getting it?

Mac’s shoulders slouched. "Now, I'm doing better because of him, but I still need him in my life. I mean, what would I do without my best friend?" Mac pushed as much confidence into his voice for this next part, even though the absurdity of what he was saying made his brows knitted. "Get a service dog? Phaw. No... Bloo exists for a reason. I need him in my life, just like other people need their imaginary friends. A-and this brings me to the subject of my speech.” He read the sentence to himself twice before saying it out loud. “Why imaginary friends should be allowed to go to school. If service dogs are allowed in schools now, then they ought to be too. They serve the same purpose, but imaginary friends are, well... cooler..."

Mac couldn’t help but trail off this time. He couldn’t bear to look at his peers, so his eyes rested on the teacher. She was sitting at her desk, not looking up from her grading sheet. He couldn't tell if she was really hearing this garbage or not. His chest and face were burning. He wanted to run to the window and expose his face to the chilly November winds, just so he could breathe.

He couldn't go on any longer. He was finishing this now. Screw the grade.

"So, I think if we had more figments, like service animals, at school, it'd be really cool." At last, he swallowed the lump in his throat. “Uh, that’s it. Thanks for listening."

From the rows of desks, still no reaction. If anyone had a question, they either forgot, or were too embarrassed to ask now.

After a few blinks, and one last look at the outline, Mac clumsily made his way to the teacher’s desk, and slid it into the homework collection box. He then made his way back to his seat, and slumped as far into it as he could, until he looked like how he felt--a sad, pathetic little caterpillar.

He only wished he was. Then he could be quickly and painlessly crushed to death under the stampeding students as they fled the classroom at the sound of the bell.

It was only then, after a few awkwardly silent beats, that Mrs. Gates, who had been drowsily nursing her overpriced cappuccino since she came in the door that morning, became aware that Mac had left his spot at the front of the room. "Wait, is that it?" She looked over at the messy haired freshman, not only finding him not to reply, but not even acknowledge her with eye contact.

A teacher more cruel, or dense, might have urged Mac to continue. But all it took was the sight of Mac’s ‘let me be invisible’ stance for Mrs. Gates to decide to leave it alone. At least for now. “Uh, alright then. Er, Fillmore, you’re up.”

Mac mentally thanked the woman for taking his humiliation into consideration. He didn’t care if Fillmore’s speech had to do with reorganizing the library catalog. As long as it was boring enough to make the other students forget what he had just said.

Please… Just forget…

-- The ninth bell of the day, rattling off the tiny, locker-filled hallways was normally music to Mac’s ears. But in the mood he was in right now, nothing was.

The last period teacher didn’t even dismiss the class before Mac charged out of the classroom. In the halls, he vigorously swam through the oceans of kids, pushing someone aside and receiving dirty looks. But for once in his life, he wasn’t in the mindset to care.

Mac was pissed.

So much so that he hadn’t noticed the darkening skies outside of the windows as he stormed past. But the moment he launched from those front doors, raindrops pelted his baggy sweater and oversized khakis.

He eyed the seniors flying to the parking lot with the slightest sensation of envy. He was still a freshman, so he didn’t have his driver’s license yet, let alone a car to drive. At the rate his family saved, he’d have to do a lot of work himself to get one, when it came time.

With mom still at work and having zero interest in getting a ride from his brother, Terrence, Mac was more than fine walking to his next destination, with the cold rain on his face. And no, it was not home.

Even though it was anticipated since the morning, cold rain was the worst kind of rain. And Mac had no other umbrella except for the one Terrence had torn a hole into.

And it was already a shitty month as it was, where boredom and frost knocked on the doorstep at once. Mac shivered in his jacket as he trudged down the local public high school’s front stairs. Thankfully, he wasn’t the only one--his peers too had given into their fate, and started to bundle up for the inevitability of winter.

Mac usually wore several layers of clothing, anyway: A shirt over a sweater, or a jacket. Anything that gave him a little armor, so to speak. It gave him a reason to cover his awkward pubescent body from judgemental eyes without looking like a wimp.

Besides, he was used to the cold--or at least he should’ve been. The apartment's heater was a total tin can when they needed it in the winter. Whereas in the summer, the AC, under Terrence’s diligent control, worked too well--always just a few degrees too low for Mac’s comfort. If Mac tried to turn it down, the fan would make a racket. And if he turned off the AC altogether, there was no way to cool down the bathroom. Not to mention, the shower and its dumb squeaky handles was a pain in the butt to use.

Their apartment overall was falling apart, and as soon as Terrence was gone for good, Mac wanted to kiss it goodbye, too.

"Not for long," rang his mother's voice from a week ago, still clear as day in his head. What this meant, he could only assume. She didn't say anymore than that. As Mac twisted his body in the direction of the sidewalk, all he could do was hope she was getting a raise, maybe a promotion. She worked hard and deserved it. After everything the family had gone through, an extra dollar an hour was the least she deserved. Anything would help. At least until he was old enough to get a job of his own.

Once off school property, he reached into his jean pocket, as if reaching for a pack of smokes, and pulled out his mp3 player, only to realize his headphones were missing. It wouldn’t come as a surprise to him if his idiotic sludge of an older brother had taken them from him. He'd have to storm into Foster's with the sounds of nature. When he could have used music the most to calm down, it wasn’t there for him.

Mac looked up at the cloudy gray sky as he walked on the sidewalk, breathing in the scent of rain, trying to cool his temper. He didn’t mind the rain either way, but if there was one thing about it that he really liked, it was that smell.

He looked back down at the pavement, seeing puddles forming already, reminding him of the time he and Bloo got sick playing in the mud outside of Foster’s. Or when they’d be walking on the sidewalk and avoid the cracks before they broke their mother’s back (though Bloo would always purposefully step on the cracks, anyway--”I don’t have a mom!”).

Maybe it was his mood, but something about these memories was turning him into a seething mess. Mac knew exactly what Frankie was talking about before, about enjoying being a kid and having no responsibilities. Now he had more homework, had to help prepare dinner, wash the dishes, and he knew he'd only get more as time ticked by. All the while, the now adult Terrence continued to be a freeloader.

But his umbrella-ripping piece of trash of a brother was not the target of Mac’s anger right now.

Right when the enormous manor came into his view, a beaming sunbreak dawned over his body. He wondered if that was a sign that the day would turn around from here on out.

He entered through the open gate, drawn by the sound of crunching leaves. Up on the porch, a familiar, tall red man in a jacket and jeans was holding a broom with his one hand; A pile of leaves collecting on the pavement.

"Hey Wilt!" Mac called out to him, a calmness swooping over him, knowing that there were other people he could talk to right now, besides him.

"Huh?" Wilt turned his head and saw the boy before smiling back. "Oh! Mac! What’s up?”

Mac skidded to a halt before the steps, and hit a pile of wet leaves on the path leading up to the house. “Don’t tell me you’re doing the entire yard by yourself,” Mac said. “In the rain?”

“Nah, just sweeping the porch for Madame Foster,” Wilt smiled, winking his bad eye at Mac. “Don’t want her to slip on wet leaves.”

The boy rolled his eyes. It was a kind gesture, sure, but it still didn’t make up for the ridiculousness of taking care of an outside chore in this weather. But when it came to Wilt, one could expect no less. A cool breeze hit his damp face as he stepped under the shelter of the porch roof, and he shivered. “Well, I guess as long as you’re not drowning in the rain. Y’need a hand?”

“Thanks, but there’s only one broom for now--Clumsy had a little accident in the tool shed. Besides, I’m almost done. But Frankie’s got her hands full. Maybe she could use some help."

Typical Wilt. Shooing away help for someone else. Mac considered. “I think I will. After I have a talk with a certain someone, anyway… Thanks, man,” he said to Wilt before he approached the door. “Don’t take too long, or you’ll get sick!” he tossed over his shoulder.

The telltale sound of the vacuum hit him almost as soon as he opened the door. Without even seeing who was operating it, anyone who knew Foster’s Home well enough could take a guess. And since Wilt was outside, there was only one possibility.

At the top of the grand main staircase was the tall, thin, redheaded woman, just as Wilt had promised.

Even when wet, cold and angry, the sight of her eased his nerves, almost magically. "Hey, Frankie."

"Hey, Mac," Frankie said over the noise, looking up from the nozzle of the old vacuum tiredly. But upon seeing the teen’s condition, her eyes widened. “Mac! You’re drenched!”

“Oh, really?” he asked, laughing emptily. “I hadn’t noticed. Hehe…”

“Ugh, this is so like you. You have my number, you could’ve called, and I could’ve given you a lift here today.” She set the hose for the vacuum across the banister and hurried down the steps. For just a moment, his heart fluttered, wondering if she was going to feel his forehead like she did when he was eight.

Instead, she ran right past him to shut the front door. In the anticipation of seeing Frankie, he’d left it wide open, letting the cold wind and leaves spill inside. She should have been annoyed with him for that, but he guessed she was too concerned to care at the moment.

“That’s okay,” Mac told her. “I wouldn’t want you to stop right in the middle of cleaning for that.”

“Please,” she rolled her eyes. “It would’ve been an excuse to get away.”

Mac nodded and walked a few steps closer to her. Even after all these years, he had to keep a distance from her in order to hide all hints of his crush from his voice. "Have you seen Bloo?”

“He should be in the gameroom with Eduardo, giving the machines a dusting,” she told him. “At least we can only dream.”

“Thanks,” Mac told her, running up the staircase, careful to dodge the step with the extension cord for the vacuum. But halfway up the second flight, he paused and turned around. “You don’t, um, need any help with the vacuuming and junk, do ya?”

"I'm almost done, actually," said Frankie. She blew a lock of hair that had escaped her loose ponytail from in front of her face before smiling at him. “But thanks. That’s really sweet.”

"N-no problem," said Mac, continuing up the stairs. He was grateful he had an excuse to look red in the face. For all Frankie knew, he was just getting sick again.

Mac disappeared into the shadowy corner of a hallway. Outside, the last bits of daylight were hidden behind the clouds, and the rain was coming down harder. He would probably have to take Frankie up on that ride back to his apartment, even if he wasn’t looking forward to it. Maybe Madame even made her famous cookies and hot chocolate.

But he had to focus on the present. If he knew that prick, he was leaving Eduardo to clean while he helped himself to a round.

Wasting no time, Mac found and slipped through the open doorway to the gameroom. The wide, horned figure the teenager knew all-too-well was facing a dark corner. Donned in a black-laced apron over his jeans that Mac guessed was borrowed from one of the girls’ Halloween costumes last year, the teen found Eduardo sweeping dust off of the older arcade cabinets with intense meticulousness. Mac narrowed his eyes, and approached the giant monster with the duster.

With surprise, but no longer fear, Eduardo gasped and turned to face the boy. “Hola, señor Mac! Er, try not to sneak up on me while I am cleaning, okay?”

“Sorry, Ed,” Mac apologized, looking around the room for Bloo--except he couldn’t, because the room was pitch dark. “Why are the lights off?”

“Because it is the game room, silly. Es always dark in here!” he told Mac with a toothy grin, displaying razor sharp canines in the coziest, most well-meaning way a creature like himself could make.

“Yes, but you can’t see the dust in the dark! Why not just turn on the lights for a while?”

“Ah, because Azul did not want the lights on.”

“And you actually listened to him?” asked Mac. Though he didn’t know why he was asking. It was obvious.

“Of course. He is recording for Left 4 Dead 2.”

“Recording?” repeated Mac. Then he smacked his forehead. That’s right. Bloo had recently started a YouTube channel. “Nevermind. Just, uh, do me a favor.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Do you mind, uh, cleaning up the bedroom for about ten or twenty minutes? I need a word with Bloo. Alone.”

“But Mac, I am almost done! And it is looking perfecta!” Eduardo griped, despite not being able to see his own cleaning. “Señorita Frankie will be muy satisfecha!”

“Come on, Ed! It’ll only be for a few minutes.”

Eduardo sighed. “Fine. I will reorganize my tea party mates collection in the toybox for the fourth time…”

Mac waited patiently for the big lug to leave the game room, and shut the door behind him. He then turned to the television at the front of the room, and the blue imaginary friend who was using it. Now it was just the sounds of people screaming, canned gunshots, zombies falling to their death, and Bloo’s mashing of the controller.

Said imaginary friend’s creator wasted no time. He stormed up and stood in front of the TV, his blocky head leaving a box shaped shadow in front of the screen.

“Hey, Mac,” said Bloo in a deadpan voice, sounding remarkably unphased as he leaned to see the TV, his finger rapidly hitting the trigger button.

“‘Hey’?” The drenched teenager repeated, indignantly, holding his arms out. “That’s all you have to say to me? ‘Hey’?”

“Hey. Hi. Hello. Greetings. Salutations. Konnichiwa,” Bloo rattled off, bowing in the couch cushion. “Whadduya want?”

“What do I want? What do you think I want? What, Bloo, do you think I came all the way here, in the freezing rain, by my own two feet, to say to you? I’ll give you two seconds to figure it out!”

“I dunno, I thought you come over every day or something for a reason.” He squinted his eyes at the shadow on the television, and paused the game. “Hey, Mac, do ya mind? I can’t see the screen, man.”

“Do you care even the slightest bit why I’m pissed off right now?!” Mac asked.

Bloo looked around the room, as if he’d find out what made Mac so angry this way. “Uh… should I?”

“Should you? SHOULD YOU?!”

“Hey, man, you sound stressed. Here:” he passed Mac a spare controller--complete with the broken analog stick. “You could use some gaming time. I’ll save this game, start a new one and record more later. I won’t even make you be Rochelle this time.”

“I’m not--Ugh!” Mac smacked his temples. “I don’t want to play right now, asshole!”

Bloo shrugged in defeat. “Fine, fine. Then pop a squat and watch me for a few rounds. You’ll feel better, I promise.”

At last, Mac had had enough. Frustrated, he tossed off his backpack, got on his hands and knees, and began digging through it.

With Mac’s head no longer obstructing his view, Bloo shrugged and resumed the game as if his creator was no longer there.

Mac retrieved a paper, complete with a pink note stapled on top, from his backpack. “Do you know what this is?”

He thrust the paper before his imaginary friend. But Bloo’s eyes never left the TV screen. “It’s obviously an A+ grade on that speech you turned in today. Mac, I realize you’re jealous that you couldn’t write a speech as well as I could. But you’re better at other things! You help me figure out change when the pizza guy comes. Maybe it’s just writing you suck at.”

“Oh sure! The outline was so great, everybody loved it! See how it says ‘See Me After Class’ in big, red letters at the top?”

“I’m kind of focused on killing this horde of zombies right now, but I believe you. What’d she say?”

“Read it yourself, Mr. Head-Honcho Writer!”

Mac thrust the paper before Bloo’s eyes. His vision obstructed in a crucial moment, the teenage figment lost his patience.

“Mac, c’mon!” He pushed the paper out of the way with his momentarily free hand, but it was too late; His character had been overwhelmed by zombies. “Nooo! Dude, I’m doing a no-death challenge, man! What was that for?!”

“You ruined my speech!”

“Ruined?”

“And for what? Just to embarrass me?”

Bloo was legitimately puzzled. “Why would I want to do something like that?”

“I dunno, because you do it literally all the time! Because you think it’s funny!”

“Mac, relax. I doubt it’s as bad as you think it is.”

“Bloo, this is serious!”

With an annoyed stare, Bloo yanked the speech outline from Mac’s hands and briefly looked it back over. “I don’t see what the big deal is. I did exactly what you wanted: Write a new way to improve the school system.”

“Oh, really? Then read this!” he repeated, jabbing at the pink slip stapled on top of the paper with his index finger. “Mrs. Gates called the office, and set me up with a counselor! They think I’m clinically depressed or something!”

“Well, you’re sure acting like it right now,” Bloo told him with folded arms.

Mac snarled, his teeth showing. “UGH, give me that--” Just like Bloo had done to him, he snatched the paper back. He then went to the wall and flipped on the lights--which wasn’t easy. The gameroom’s overhead lights had been off for so long, Mac had to force the switch.

When he did, even he had to squint. Ghastly illumination filled the room. Neither of the boys had ever seen the gameroom with the lights on before. Bloo’s screen-adjusted eyes were momentarily blinded, and he threw his hands up to protect them. “IT BURNS!!”

Mac’s eyes adjusted sooner, and he buried his nose into the outline he’d read from this morning. “I made mine, Blooregard Q. Kazoo, when I was three. I made him because MY DAD'S GONE AND MY BROTHER BEAT ME UP.”

The imaginary friend on the couch blinked. “Yeah?”

Mac’s jaw dropped. “YEAH?” But he huffed, and returned to the paper. “Dogs are kind of dumb and don’t live for very long. Sure, they’re cheaper to take care of, but imaginary friends are just more useful no matter how you look at it.”

Bloo snickered, and looked off to the side. “I mean, I’m not wrong--”

“Bloo, this is TERRIBLE!” Mac snapped. “It’s awful and sappy and humiliating, and oddly hateful to animals, a-and I don’t want my classmates to know any of this!”

At last, Bloo’s smug aura fell apart, and he too scowled. “Fine, see if I help you next time you need to catch up on schoolwork! If you’re so smart, you can do it all yourself.”

“Gee, I wish I would’ve thought of that when I told you NOT TO HIJACK MY SPEECH IN THE FIRST PLACE!” Mac shoved the speech back into his bag. “Maybe it’s a good thing you can’t go to school!”

Bloo blinked again, then rolled his eyes in even more annoyance than before. “Why does it bother you so much when I come to see you at school, anyway? It’s not like there’s a law against it.”

The human boy’s voice began to quiet down, but only a little. As it became clear that his point wasn’t sinking in, Mac finally gave up. “Because people already think I’m crazy enough without you hanging over my shoulder 24/7, making my life a living hell!”

Mac didn’t even give Bloo a chance to respond before storming out of the room, on the hunt for something warm to fill his empty stomach. As if to add insult to injury, he made sure to shut off the lights again before closing the door. Now Bloo’s only company was the light of the TV, and his dead character on the ground in a pile of blood.

Very soon, he burst into a fit of resentful laughter. “Yeah, well you’re sure not doing yourself any favors in that department, buddy!” he shouted to the closed door. But by then, Mac was already down the hallway and far out of earshot.

Bloo sank deep into the couch with a sigh. Despite his last remark, he was hurt. He turned back to the television in the cozy, warm room, and folded his arms across his chest. Stupid Mac. He’d done him a favor, and this was the thanks he got? As far as Bloo was concerned, if Mac wasn’t such a pussy, it wouldn’t matter to the other kids what he revealed about his past.

He stared at the screen with contempt. He had no desire to start another round, and Mac had put him off of doing anything else but sitting there, in the dark and silence.

So he was startled when a knock on the door broke that silence. “Um, Azul? Can I, uh, come back in, now?”