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Stanley stared at the hands clenched in his lap. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked to stay after class and it certainly wouldn’t be the last; however, it was the first time with this particular teacher.
And to be honest, Mrs. Phreespirit wasn’t someone Stan ever foresaw having issues with. She was the only middle school staff member who didn’t have a stick up his/her butt and wasn’t afraid to let loose. She was fun, eccentric and totally nonjudgmental.
Most teachers had Stanley Pines pegged as a troublemaker the minute he walked through the door. And given his reputation, they probably had the right - but not Mrs. Phree. And whaddya know, she liked having him in class, told him so even.
“Relax, Stanley,” she laughed, after watching his leg bounce with nervous energy. “You aren’t in any trouble.”
“I’m not?” he perked, taken-aback. “Then why I am here?”
“I wanted to talk about the poetry assignment.”
“Oh,” said Stan, slouching. “Was something wrong with it?”
“No, not at all,” Mrs. Phree assured. “On the contrary, it was the best in class.”
That made Stan freeze, unable to believe his ears.
Believe it or not - and most people wouldn’t - but Stanley hadn’t always been a slacker, and he wasn’t completely unfamiliar with receiving a decent grade.
Stan had always done as well as Ford in English or history, at least when they were younger. He would always ace the history quizzes, loved learning about the proclamations of President Lincoln or Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo.
And Stan was a sucker for adventure stories. He used to have a copy of Treasure Island stashed beside his pillow. He would read until his eyes grew heavy and tired, and then his dreams would be filled with fantastic sea voyages and swashbuckling ventures.
Not anymore, though. There was a status quo in the Pines family; never mentioned but definitely adhered to, enforced even.
Taking slow, measured breaths, Stanley tried to remain calm. But Mrs. Phree kept going on about his stupid poem, what a lovely read, deserved an A, where had he gotten the inspiration - and suddenly he was nine-years-old and-
He hadn’t meant to hear it.
It was a picnic or gathering, some sort of small get-together with the neighbors. Ma had Ford setting the table while she prepared the food and told Stan to yank his fingers out of his nose and fetch his father.
Pop was outside drinking beer and chatting with the other men. Stan hid out of sight, just within earshot, curious as to what they were saying (since adults always seemed to change the conversation as soon as a kid showed up).
“Hey, Filbrick,” said Mr. DiNozzo from across the street. “I always wondered, what the hell possessed ya to name both yer boys Stan?”
Stan listened intently. He had always wondered, too.
“Well, it’s no secret the wife and I weren’t expecting twins. And we only had the one name picked out so when she looks at me like, 'What’re we gonna do?’ I shrug and say, 'Name 'em both Stan.’”
The other men laughed uproariously. “Very uncreative of you,” Mr. DiNozzo snorted.
“Bah, they’re twins,” Filbrick dismissed. “Practically the same anyway.”
“My wife says that Stanford of yours shows signs of genius,” remarked Mr. Goldman, who they knew from the local synagogue. “She teaches at the elementary school.”
“And the other is eh, okay,” he continued in a blasé tone. “Not as good as his brother, but well, always there in case the other one’s out sick, right?”
More chortles. “That’s the nice thing about twins - you’ll always have a spare,” Filbrick conceded.
From his hiding spot, Stan felt his stomach drop. What had they called him? A spare? How could a person be a spare?
Spare was like having two of the same thing. Like an extra.
Having twins was like having an extra kid… But while he might’ve been unexpected, did that make him unwanted, too?
A spare, Stan mused morosely. Was that all he amounted to? Just a copy of his brother? Destined to be forever second best, a second rate Stanford, not a first rate Stanley?
It was then Stan realized that if he was to be his own person, he would need to step out of his brother’s shadow. Find something that he did well or forever be considered the spare son. Discouragingly, he wasn’t good at much of anything except making people want to punch him.
Until Pop signed them up for boxing lessons. It was grueling work, starting out, but also a huge relief. Finally he had something he could do as well as Ford, something that could be his talent. That endeared Stan to the sport more than anything else.
And along with his new skill became a new persona.
In a way, it was nice. People didn’t expect as much from you when they thought you were a meathead who’d gone a few too many rounds in the ring without a helmet. You got as much attention being the class clown as you did the brainiac, and while it earned you a bad reputation, at least you were noticed.
But it came at a price. Punchers didn’t get As on history quizzes or read their English assignments. Math and science started to look like foreign languages around seventh grade, so scarcely passing those classes wasn’t a problem. The others took a little more effort - or lack thereof.
With a heavy heart, he tossed his beloved adventure books under the bed. Sometimes he read by flashlight, under the cover of a blanket beneath the bottom bunk, as his brother snored above. But only in secret. Only when nobody was watching.
After much adjusting and accepting, Stan came to appreciate his new identity. Enjoyed it, even. Everything was fine. Until this damn poetry assignment.
He could’ve skipped it as he usually did. Could have copied something from a magazine or comic. Made up an excuse. Took the failing grade with grace and a sheepish shrug.
But when she assigned it, Mrs. Phree had told them to write about something they liked - something they were good at. She urged them not to worry about rules or structure, that the beauty of poetry was that it was perfect in its imperfections.
Plus, he liked Mrs. Phree. Maybe so much that he didn’t want to disappoint her like he did everyone else. But that backfired because he sure as hell never meant to impress her, either.
“I dunno why you like it so much. I barely put any effort into it. Just wrote whatever came to mind. Doesn’t even rhyme,” he prattled dumbly, in a panicked attempt to cover his ass. “It’s nothing special.”
“I beg to differ,” said Mrs. Phree, and without further adieu, began to reading aloud.
“In the boxing ring he stands
A fighter with fists raised,
His goal to bring home gold
Today he fights to win
In the ring it isn’t so scary
‘Cause the blows last only a second
The pain is only skin deep
And that’s his favorite kind
His eyes are swollen and puffy
He won’t be reading tonight
But fighters don’t read anyway
So it’s really not sure a loss
At least that’s what he says
When he sits quiet in class
Knowing his place isn’t to answer
The questions only smart kids get
He likes being a fighter
It’s something he does best
He’s not bad at books or school
Just not as good as others
But there’s no silver for second
Outside of the boxing ring
And you can’t have brains
If brawns is your strength
And some battles can’t be won
Some competitions too steep
One thing about being a fighter
Is knowing when you’re beat
So if you can’t be the best,
Why not be the worst?
At least then you stand out
A face among the crowd
The boxer takes his stance,
Nose bloody, but who cares?
It still beats the pain
Of being just the spare”
“Stanley, this is marvelous,” she gushed. Stan blushed, unused to such flagrant praise. “It’s poignant and real and just - spectacular on so many levels. Seeing such depth and creativity in my students truly makes my day.”
He slumped further into his seat, stomach churning. One some level he liked being complimented, but on another, it made him sick with discomfort.
“In fact, there’s a poetry contest for students your age, and as your teacher, it would be my privilege to nominate your poem.”
“So other people can see?” Stan swallowed, chest tightening. “And know I wrote it?”
He didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not to him. School was Ford’s thing. Would he be mad or hurt if Stan intruded on his turf? He couldn’t do that to his brother!
And what about Ma or Pop? Would they even care? Was it worth raising his hopes, only to face inevitable disappointment? It would be another academic award: another A lost among Ford’s millions. Or if he lost, another failure to add to his own collection.
“Stanley,” said Mrs. Phree kindly, as if reading his inner anxiety. “If you would prefer, I could submit the poem anonymously…would that be okay?”
Mutely, Stan nodded, drooping with relief. Yeah, that could…that should be fine. He relaxed with an exhale.
“And Stanley,” she went on, smiling with such care but no pity, never pity. “You know if you ever need to talk, about anything, my door is always open.”
Stan nodded, offering a small, gracious smile before he left.
As he exited the classroom, he noticed Ford waiting for him nearby, and the sight inflated him with affection for his brother. No matter what the status quo, at least they would always have each other.
“What was the hold up?”
Stan shrugged vaguely. “Mrs. Phree wanted to talk about my poem.”
“What about it?” asked Ford quizzically. Stan chewed his lip indecisively.
“…It was two days late,” he answered. “That’s all.”