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“Why do you never correct me?” Roman asked, suddenly serious from their joking conversation on where their social circle fit into the place of Wuthering Heights. It was laughable to call it a circle really with the small number of people actually in it. Roman occasionally referred to them as “pack” in his head and once out loud but Peter had given him that glare of, I want to want to hit you but I’m half-tempted to laugh so I’m going to glare.
It was one of those joking conversations too that had become so involved that it actually bordered on academic; such were the lengths to which they were discussing who would fit in where and why.
There were points in both their columns about being Heathcliff and Peter had casually jotted down his ethnic advantage on the scoreboard, Rroma.
Peter broke off from bringing the tone down with a dick joke to raise his eyebrows, “You’re wrong about so many things you’re going to have to be more specific.” He’s graced with an exasperated smile that flickers back to actual interest.
Roman traced the slip of space between their two desks as he replied, “I mean smartass when I call you gypsy.” The finger drifted to the messily written Rroma and rested there. “I looked it up. Well Shelley did,” his voice is not all that hushed considering they’re in class but everyone’s talking instead of doing the reading; also he’s Roman Godfrey and feels entitled to whatever space he currently occupied. That was a point in his column of Heathcliff points. “And it’s a racial slur like...” he listed off a few other choice ones attracting more than one set of eyes. He paused on meeting the teacher’s gaze, “We’re discussing modern day parallels regarding racial tension,” he offered cheerfully and with that damned charming confidence of his. Their teacher nodded slowly clearly not quite believing them; Peter hid a smile by cutting in before Roman’s list of slurs could continue
“I know what a racial slur is and I know gypsy is one...it’s one I’m kind of fucking used to.” Roman blinked slowly as he thought about that fact, the fact that the word tripped off people’s tongues more often than “because I’m a writer” did from that Wendall girl. From teachers too which was really fucking weird. He pressed on brow creased slightly,
“So why don’t you say anything? Like it’s derogatory as shit and you just let it slide...that’s what I don’t get.”
Peter gave him a look of disbelief before replying. “This is Pennsylvania Roman; it’d be like shouting at a really big wall...a really Christian wall. Made of entirely white brick you get me?” Roman hummed in agreement and Peter pressed on,
“Yeah it fucking bothers me but like...what the fuck can I do about it? It bothers you when people are dicks to Shelley or whisper behind Letha’s back about what the fuck she must have done to be knocked up, but people are dicks and are going to continue to be so like...why waste my breath correcting them when people don’t care anyway?” He laughed once, bitterness in his voice, “people round here are so dumb they’d as sooner expect to stand for canine rights than for Rroma ones!”
There was a lull in their conversation then, Peter having gathered enough volume to draw the attention of surrounding students; and their whispers.
Some blonde girl sniggered to her friend about trouble in paradise while there were murmurings a few rows back from the more thick-headed of their classmates. The mutterings and comments weren’t new or even particularly disliked. They generally just ignored them although Roman seemed to almost enjoy the questions about his and Peter’s friendship and would invite them with a carefully slung arm over his shoulder, an ass grab in the corridor as greeting, always a lazy grin to accompany Peter’s laugh or brush off his mildly exasperated sighs.
To break the scrutinised silence that wavered between them Peter pulled Roman’s tally chart towards him and added a point in Roman’s column, looks more like Laurence Olivier, if Olivier was the product of a giant and Steve Buschemi. Roman snorted, swinging his knee into Peter’s in admonishment. He returned the favour a few seconds later, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip as he considered his reply.
Those lips were half the problem Peter thought absentmindedly. They invited comments as much as they invited Peter himself to think about them. His eyes flicked over the page, the two columns equal in number of points but possessing considerably different levels of neatness and order.
Roman had written in Peter’s column, at the beck and call of a rich brat whom he not so secretly wants to bang. Peter shook his head with a smile but didn’t cross it out. Roman gave him a genuine grin, the kind that never occurred inside school, and made a scrabbling gesture with his hand,
“Let me in...” he half-wailed, high pitched and quavering, eliciting a guffaw from Peter and attracting the attention of their teacher.
“So Mr Godfrey! As you and Mr Rumancek have clearly spent all of class time examining the text, you’ll obviously be able to answer a simple question?” Roman’s scrabbling hand dropped to tap the desk as he met the teacher’s gaze. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed at being called on in class; he was annoyed that someone had thought they could interrupt him having fun. She met his gaze coolly and went on, her tone pointed and dry,
“What are your thoughts on the relationship between Heathcliff and Cathy? Try and give me an opinion that you haven’t stolen from spark-notes...” There was a ripple of quiet polite laughter, the kind that strict teachers always seem to get even if the joke isn’t a terrible one. Peter and the class turned to Roman anticipating his answer with mild interest. Calling on Roman was always a bit of a risk, their teacher knew that. You’d either get a smartass but irrefutably correct answer or you’d get something so simplistic it was the bait to a joke.
“Forbidden love between sexy mysterious Rroma man and rich, spoiled brat with equal measures of cruelty and beauty?” Roman shrugged, “honestly, it’s fucked up but it’s hot.”
*
Roman got a detention for swearing in class, Peter got a warning for laughing at his “profanity-laden answer”, the teacher’s words not his own, and much later, after Roman had persuaded the teacher that the blank page on his desk was 100 lines about not swearing in class, Peter got to experience first-hand how fucked up and hot those lips could be.