Chapter Text
#23. What flower, symbolic of innocence, does Ophelia hand out in Act 4?
A. Fennel
B. Rosemary
C. Daisy
D. Pansy
Shit, Alfred thought. Then he said it under his breath, all drawn out, just for good measure: “Shiiit.” He tapped his chewed-on pencil once, then twice on his desk, glancing around the room at his peers, all bent studiously over their tests. How was he supposed to know what flower represents thoughtfulness? How was he supposed to remember one flower in Act 4 of Hamlet? Alfred couldn’t even remember reading Hamlet! He paused, considering. Now that he thought about it, he probably hadn’t even read Hamlet at all. Whoops.
Alfred scratched his nose sorrowfully, staring at the second hand of the classroom clock as it made its impossibly slow circular journey. His nose really was itching today.
He turned back to his test, glaring at the 23rd question. He knew it wasn’t fennel, because he distinctly remembered fennel representing adultery, which he, as an 18-year-old boy, believed to be extremely funny. Rosemary, to Alfred at least, was a strange green thing his mom sometimes put on food, so he knew that wasn’t right either. Daisy or pansy? Daisy or pansy? He scratched his nose again, this time with his pencil, and sniffed. Why was his nose running? The mere act of thinking of flowers was making his body react. Daisies or pansies?
This was all so stupid. Alfred hated this. He hated tests, he hated quizzes; he hated the mundane hours spent listening to bored teachers half-heartedly ramble through lectures. This was his senior year, and though it was only March, he could feel graduation like it was a palpable, tangible force; a voice, beckoning him, singing to him of freedom and opportunity and summertime. He could feel it, the same way you can smell the arrival of spring on the breeze. Alfred didn’t want to remember the meaning of some stupid flower, nor did he want to recall anything about the old geezer who wrote the play. In the grand scheme of things, Shakespeare was just some dead guy from the UK.
Suddenly the door to the English classroom flew open, startling Alfred from his reverie. He glanced at the clock - how had he wasted fifteen minutes choosing between daisies and pansies? He hurriedly circled one at random, then cast his attention back to the door, where the cause of the commotion stood.
The interloper was definitely foreign, Alfred decided within seconds. Maybe not foreign, but definitely not from Farmington, Nebraska. No one in Farmington would show up to school looking like that. The guy was slight in build but quite tall, with ivory skin and a tuft of curly, bleach-blonde hair dyed red at the tips. His hair flopped over his forehead in a slightly awkward way, resting on a pair of round glasses. Harry Potter-lookin ass, Alfred thought, smirking. The boy’s eyes darted around the room, assessing his surroundings - as the newcomer surveyed the scene, Alfred couldn’t help but notice those eyes were a startlingly bright green. The interloper’s outfit was what really struck Alfred as strange, though: the boy wore tight plaid pants, scuffed-up black platform loafers, a faded, grubby t-shirt, and an army green jacket that looked at least three sizes too big. As Mrs. Bonam, the dreaded geriatric English teacher, tottered over to the new student, Alfred looked back down at his test. He didn’t want to seem creepy. He scratched again at his nose, then sneezed. Man, he really did have the sniffles.
Alfred tried to keep his eyes on his test, but as Mrs. Bonam led the oddly-dressed boy to the front of the room, Alfred's eyes followed him, tracking his movements. The boy was just … so much to take in. He was unlike anything Alfred had ever seen. Boys, at least in Farmington, wore sweats and sneakers. They were on principle averse to any color other than navy blue, gray, black, or maroon, and sometimes, if they really wanted to make a splash, they wore a sports jersey. They definitely wouldn’t be caught dead in plaid, and they certainly didn’t have dyed hair. Boys, at least to Alfred, were dull and uninteresting. This boy, however, was not.
"Yoo-hoo, boys and girls!” Mrs. Bonam called, as if addressing a room of seven-year-olds, rather than a half-asleep mass of sweatshirts, airpods, and teenage angst. “We have a new student here! Would you like to introduce yourself, young man?”
The boy pursed his lips, adjusting his grip on his orange Fjallraven Kanken bag. Alfred narrowed his eyes. Of course this kid had one of those bags. Of course it was orange. Of course. “I’d really rather not,” the boy finally said in a thick British accent. Harry Styles-soundin’ ass, Alfred thought bitterly, scowling.
Mrs. Bonam ignored the British kid’s obvious disrespect - or, perhaps she hadn’t even realized he was being rude - and smiled. “Okay, mister. Boys and girls, this is Arthur Kirkland. He’s a foreign exchange student from England.”
"Great Britain,” the kid muttered under his breath.
Mrs. Bonam continued, oblivious. “His flight got delayed a bit…”
"Cancelled. Twice.”
Alfred quirked a smile at that. He was starting to take a liking to this guy - sure, he was just overwhelming British and maybe a bit prissy, but he seemed funny and his eyes sparked with hidden mirth.
Mrs. Bonam tittered on. “...He was originally supposed to stay in New York City, but got reassigned to our little paradise instead!” She clapped happily, beaming.
“Yeah, the literal arsehole of America,” the kid, Arthur, said with a sneer. Alfred’s smile dropped. What a prissy bitch! Alfred's good impression of the Brit was gone - how dare he insult Alfred's hometown like that? Alfred sneezed twice in anger and wiped his running nose on his sleeve.
Mrs. Bonam paused. “Did you say something, Mr. Kirkland?”
Arthur stared despondently at the ground. “No.”
"Alright, well, let’s give this new little fellow a hearty Midwestern welcome, shall we?” She began to clap in earnest, urging the class to join.
A few students half-heartedly applauded, and one of the slackers in the back woke up from napping to add a loud “Huh?” to the pitiful welcome.
Alfred watched carefully as Arthur headed to a seat near the back, dropping his bag with a loud thunk. How dare Arthur insult Farmington like that? What a dick. Alfred turned back to his test, determined to put the dumb British kid, and his dumb British comments about Alfred’s hometown, out of his mind. He wiped his nose again, sniffling, and suppressed the urge to sneeze again. What the hell was going on - were his allergies acting up again? Alfred squeezed his eyes shut against the impending headache, willing his sniffles to go away. He thought he’d left his allergies behind him, along with his squeaky voice and wheezy breathing. All of those were locked safely behind him in middle school - or at least, he’d thought.
He wiped his nose again, and risked another look back at the British Bitch, as Alfred decided to call him. Arthur was slouched back in his chair, taking his glasses off to rub his face. That’s when Alfred noticed two things: first, Arthur’s eyebrows were gigantic. Like monstrous, Frida Kahlo caterpillars situated over his eyes. Second, Arthur had a tattoo on the back of his left hand. Alfred couldn’t decide which was more startling, the crazy thick eyebrows or the tattoo. He took a closer look at the ink: from what he could make out, it showed a daisy with a wound at its center, painted blood dripping down Arthur’s wrist. Around the flower was one word: "Innocent."
Ah. So that’s what daisies symbolized.
Alfred went to erase his answer on his test, feeling like an observant genius.
He risked another glance at the boy, taking in his outfit, his eyebrows, the contrast of his bright emerald eyes against his pale skin. This guy had no right to look so interesting. He was just a dumb British guy. Alfred realized he was staring just a beat too late, and found himself locking eyes with Arthur. He felt a jolt of something unfamiliar, something akin to electricity, even as the angry boy looked back at him incredulously. That’s when Alfred noticed the hot, oozy slide of liquid over his lips and chin, and as he watched blood splatter over his test, he felt an all-too-familiar wooziness and promptly passed out.