Whatever She Needs: Distraction (3/?) - Degrassi, PG-13

Another week passed, and Snake’s everyday routines were now defined by distraction and discomfort. He taught while his mind wandered, suddenly struggling to remember how he had presented the same material just an hour earlier—what once came naturally had become forced and stilted. It must have been painful for everyone involved.

Normally when something was bothering him, Snake would push it out of his mind and repress it to the depths of his subconscious; he had a gift for moving on. To hide his fear of cancer, he shaved his head. After cheating on Spike, he sang to her in a mall. Snake had the ability to make light of any situation, no matter how serious. He never obsessed over anything.

It drove him crazy that Darcy was the exception.

He assumed that she would transfer out of his class, but she stayed. This mystified him. She even participated in lessons: she’d raise her hand and ask questions, she’d smile politely and say “Bye, Mr. Simpson, have a good day,” on her way out the door, and if she managed to meet his gaze, he saw only the same look of faint recognition and respect that he saw in the eyes of all his students. Somehow this was worse than silence. When she hadn’t been speaking to him, when she ignored and avoided him and cast her eyes downward, at least there had been a reason. At least he had known that anger and fear and sadness and self-doubt were all driving that behavior. Now it seemed that she had stopped feeling, period.

So Snake set aside his hopes of being the hero. He could be the smart, funny, dorky, endearing high school computer teacher, but rescuing Darcy was officially out of the question. Things would go back to how they had always been. He never had a problem with it before, so why now?

And yet, inexplicably, Darcy consumed his thoughts to the point of inappropriateness. Every time she smiled or made a kind, but ultimately impersonal remark, he felt himself growing more impatient and frustrated. One tortuous week seemed more like an eternity.

Snake lingered in his classroom after school, staying back to catch up on classwork. He had fallen behind because he was so preoccupied lately, but his new routine of working overtime predated Darcy’s confession. Simply put, there was no real reason to rush home anymore. Spike hadn’t trusted him since his one small screw-up, the idiotic fling with Daphne. It felt like she was never going to forgive him, and every dreary day since reminded him why he had been so tempted to cheat in the first place. It was wrong, and he had learned from his mistake, but now it had been over a year and he was done learning. Everything about that house now—the table between them as they ate dinner or the space between them in the bed at night—was cold and uncaring. Snake had told himself that it would all blow over eventually; now it seemed he’d be waiting eternally.

It was nearly seven when he left. He gritted his teeth in anticipation of the hell Spike would raise when he walked through the front door. Keeping a brisk pace, he made a conscious effort not to think about Darcy, which meant, of course, that she consumed his thoughts completely. And why? He wanted to believe it was because of his responsibility, as an adult and a teacher, to help. He wanted to believe it was because he cared about all of his students, especially one who was in trouble.

He didn’t want to believe that it was because he was bored in his life and his marriage, or because he wanted to feel for once in his life that he could make an impact, that he could be a positive force in another person’s life instead of just there, like a piece of furniture. He didn’t want to believe that it was because he lately felt so unhappy and unwanted. He didn’t want to believe it was because he so desperately needed to mean something to someone again.

Snake opened the front door and braced himself for the worst: Spike screaming at him for being late (again) and not calling (again), his dinner cold, Emma’s perpetual disappointment and mistrust—instead he stepped inside and found both of them sitting on the couch, glued to the TV.

“Uh, hi,” he said, placing his bag on the floor. No response: they must have been really pissed. He threw his arms up in the air. “I’m sorry. I was catching up on work and lost track of time. I should have called.” Neither bothered to glance up. Snaked sighed, “I guess I’ll go ahead and heat up my dinner…” He began walking towards the kitchen, while turning to look at the TV just to see what the hell was so fascinating that they couldn’t bother to acknowledge his existence for a split second. And that’s when he saw the headline.

ROOFIE RAPIST IDENTIFIED; WARRANT OUT FOR ARREST. These words were accompanied by a man in his late twenties with an unapologetic smirk and menacing eyes.

Snake’s heart sank to his chest. Within seconds, he entered the living room and stood beside the couch, but when and how he had mobilized himself in that direction, he wasn’t sure.

“What—what are they saying?” Snake managed to choke out.

“It’s just sick,” Spike responded, assuming his question either rhetorical or unimportant.

“Oh my god,” Emma breathed. “They just said he attended several parties at Mount Heron. A bunch of Degrassi students went there a few months ago. That’s… that’s scary. That’s messed up. It could have been one of them.”

Snake felt himself retreating, as if he were floating away. The entire house seemed so suffocating now; the walls were closing in, constricting him somehow. “I, um, I need to get some air,” he announced breathlessly, heading for the door. He wasn’t sure if Spike or Emma heard him or cared. He walked hurriedly, thoughtlessly, aimlessly, even though he knew exactly where he was going; he refused to think about the fact that he was consciously walking in the direction of Darcy’s neighborhood. He knew where she lived only because he had picked up Emma at her house a couple times, when it was really late or dark out, like it was right now. She lived about a mile away, so he was on her street in less than twenty minutes.

He didn’t know what he was doing.

But there was a bus stop with a bench, and it made sense to sit down, so he did. He sat and covered his face with his hands and rubbed his eyes, wondering if he could erase the mental image of the rapist’s disgusting face. Suddenly he heard footsteps approaching, and he stood up and turned around, already knowing whose figure he would see.

Darcy was walking slowly and staring at the ground. She had a duffle bag strapped over one shoulder. Snake cleared his throat so she’d notice him, and she jumped, jerking her head up to see him.

In one smooth motion, she dropped her bag and ran to him, clinging, wrapping both arms around him and squeezing tight. He reciprocated, fighting back his own tears and she sobbed into his jacket.

“I saw his face on the TV,” she said breathlessly.

“Me too,” Snake murmured, gently caressing her hair.

“He’s still out there.”

“I know.”

She held tighter, and he let her, and they stayed like that for at least five minutes, maybe longer. She didn’t let go until a bus pulled up, at which she stepped back and picked up her bag.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing hold of his hand with her smaller, softer one.

He should have refused, he should have talked her out of it, he should have, at the very least, asked where she planned to go and why. But he didn’t do any of these things. He realized it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she needed someone, and even if she never meant for it to be him, it was him. She needed him now while everyone else in his life merely assumed that he’d show up eventually.

So he followed, and they sat down together, and when she leaned her head against his chest, Snake wrapped his arm around her and kissed the top of her head so she’d feel more comfortable there. He didn’t know where they were going, and he didn’t know what would happen, and he did know, completely, that he had crossed well-established boundaries, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It occurred to him then that he needed her just as much as she needed him.