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Cries of a Shadow	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2757 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
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As expected, when Tom opened his locker the following morning, he found a note from Tyrell Carson. Typed on a ripped piece of paper, the instructions were clear yet concise.
$100.00
NO DISCOUNTS
Crumpling the correspondence in his hand, he shoved it in his pocket. Booker’s calculations had proved close to the mark and Fuller was now in possession of six hundred dollars’ worth of cocaine. It amazed him that high school students could come up with such a large sum of cash, but he figured those from wealthy families didn’t bat an eye at spending a hundred dollars on some blow. The entitled rarely considered what that amount of money could do for those whose low socioeconomic status had them scrambling for every penny they could find. It was the age-old law of society: The rich got richer and spent their money without a care in the world, and the poor, well, they just needed to suck it up and try harder.
Angry at the world, the young officer slammed his locker door closed with a bang. It was then he caught sight of Booker standing beside him, one eyebrow raised in question.
“Problem?”
Tom huffed out a sigh. “It’s nothing. I’m just pissed off at the unfairness of it all.”
A grin crinkled the corners of Booker’s eyes. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
In no mood to get into a deep and meaningful discussion with the man who, through no fault of his own, exacerbated his feelings of inadequacy and shame, Tom attempted a half smile. “Forget it. It’s just one of those days, you know?”
Booker did know, but he sensed the uncomfortable vibe in the air had something to do with him. For some unknown reason, Tom was pulling away, and the dark-haired officer couldn’t help but think he might be responsible for his friend’s sudden desire to retreat back into his shell. It was a puzzling scenario, but try as he might, despite the dunking in the pool, he couldn’t come up with any valid reason for Tom to withdraw from human contact. His friend’s mood troubled him, and so he attempted to clear the air by using humor. “C’mon, what did I do? You’d better tell me, or I’m likely to make an ass of myself by doing it again.”
There was no mistaking the playfulness behind the statement, but it surprised Tom that Booker thought he was the reason behind his somber mood. Eager to make amends, he grabbed his friend by the sleeve and dragged him into the boys’ bathroom. After checking the stalls were empty, he pulled the crumpled note out of his pocket and handed it to his partner. “I found this in my locker.”
After reading the message, Booker gave the note back to Tom. “Yeah, so? We already figured Tyrell would leave you a message. What’s the big deal?”
Annoyed by his friend's lack of understanding, Tom snatched the piece of paper from Booker’s hand and crammed it back in the pocket of his tight-fitting jeans. “The big deal, Dennis, is the rich kids think nothing of spending a hundred bucks on a gram of blow when the poor kids come to school hungry. It’s fucked up. Why do some people get to stroll along the paved road of life while others are forced to climb a fucking mountain?”
Sensing Tom’s outrage was more to do with his own life than that of the students at Westview High, Booker attempted to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. But Tom instinctively pulled away, leaving the dark-haired officer’s hand suspended in midair...ineffectual...impotent, unable to bestow the comfort its owner craved. Hurt by Tom’s reaction, Booker let his hand fall to his side, his brow creasing into a frown. “Geez, Hanson, what’s up with you? I thought we were getting along and now you’re acting all weird again.”
“It’s McQuaid,” Tom muttered.
Tired of the head games, Booker rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”
Tom opened his mouth to speak, but the shrill clang of the class bell cut him off. He stood waiting, his hands clenched, his face a mask of pure misery, but by the time he found his voice, Booker was already walking out the door.
**
Booker spent the rest of the day asserting his authority as the school bully, his carefully orchestrated charade cleverly played out in front of Tyrell Carson’s watchful eye. Tom hung in the background, unwilling or unable to participate in the deception, his jaw tight, his eyes deliberately avoiding the panicked looks on the victim’s faces. The two officers met briefly at the warehouse during their lunch break, but neither man confessed their dissatisfaction with the other, even though it was foremost on their minds. Instead, they briefly discussed Tyrell and the elusive men he worked for before agreeing to meet up at the chapel after school.
So, when the final bell of the day released the students from the drudgery of passive learning, Booker hightailed it to his car and drove the short distance to the Jump Street team’s headquarters. Being a Friday afternoon, he was pleased to see Penhall, Ioki, and Hoffs and he quickly integrated himself into their group. As their conversation flowed, all thoughts of Tom’s strange behavior vanished from his mind. It was the end of the week, and he was happy to put the stress of breaking in a new partner out of his mind for a while. While he genuinely liked Tom, he found his conduct mentally exhausting, and he longed to relax and forget about Tyrell Carson and his band of brothers for the next two days and enjoy some much-earned R and R.
“Are you busy tonight?” Penhall inquired. “We’re thinking of going to the BoHo to celebrate if you wanna join us.”
The casual invitation immediately gained Booker’s full attention. “Celebrate what?”
Penhall clapped the dark-haired officer on the back, an impish smile curving his lips. “Who knows, but I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
Keen to blow off some steam, Booker grinned back. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
From behind his desk, Tom watched the four friends leave together, their excited chatter fading as they disappeared into the stairwell. The ensuing silence bore down on him, crushing his spirit, but outwardly, he remained stoic. His exclusion from group activities wasn't a new experience, and he wore his disappointment like a faint scar, visible only to those who chose to look closer. It was less painful that way, especially when misfortune and heartache continued to plague his life. However, despite his benign resignation, he longed to call out, to ask his colleagues to wait up so he could join their fun. But the words froze on his lips, forever unspoken, his fear of rejection too ingrained to risk yet another brush off.
A distant feeling settled over him, and his gaze remained fixed on the doorway, his vision blurring in and out of focus, his mind transporting him back to a happier time. As the minutes ticked by, he remained locked within his memories, blissfully unaware of his surroundings until the bang of a door released him from his past. With a jolt, his eyes refocused and looking around him, he realized he was alone. Pushing back his chair, he stood up and placing his hands on his hips, he stretched out his spine. When he glanced up at the wall clock, he was surprised to see an hour had passed, and a tingle of fear ran down his spine. Will was expecting him, and if he didn’t act swiftly, he’d find himself enduring the punishment for the third time in five days.
Picking up his backpack, he hurried from the chapel. If he were lucky, he might just make it home in time. If not, he would suffer the consequences in the same manner he always did...obediently, respectfully, and without complaint.
**
The BoHo on a Friday was the place to be. Workers from all walks of life congregated at the trendy bar, most to drink, some to hook up, and others just to hang out and listen to the local indie bands. For the Jump Street officers, it was a place to shake off the stress of work while hanging out with people their own age. Masquerading as a teenager paid the bills, but by the end of the week, they were ready to revert back to their own identities and kick up their heels, if only for a few hours.
Leaning against the wooden bar, Booker’s leg jigged to the beat of the music. His first week in a new job was over, and his fear of not fitting in had proved unwarranted. For the first time in his career, he felt part of a team, due in part to the age compatibility of his colleagues. Internal Affairs was a breeding ground for overweight, middle-aged cops, many jaded by long years on the job, others bitter after being passed over for promotion. His first year as a rookie was mostly dissatisfying, but all that was behind him. He finally had the chance to make his mark as an undercover officer, and he was grateful for the opportunity. Life was funny that way, you never really knew where it would lead you, but the ride, whether bumpy or smooth, was all part of the adventure.
Out of the corner of his eye, Booker saw Ioki and Penhall approach. “So, it looks like I’ll be joining you and Hanson on Monday,” Harry informed him with a smile. “Try not to rough me up too much while selling me your drugs.”
At the mention of his partner’s name, Booker looked around the crowded bar. “Speaking of Tom, where is he?”
Harry shot a look at Penhall, who downed the remainder of his beer before answering. “He’s not here.”
Booker's eyebrow arched in surprise. “He's not? How come?”
After signaling to the bartender to pour him another, Penhall gave Booker a cryptic reply. “I would have thought the answer was obvious.”
As the meaning behind the officer's words became apparent, Booker's brow furrowed. “You mean he wasn't invited? Shit. I thought he’d follow us here. I can't believe I left him alone at the chapel.”
After swallowing a mouthful of his freshly-poured beer, Penhall wiped a hand over his froth-flecked lips. “Don't sweat it. He made it pretty clear he wasn't interested in our Friday night shindigs, so eventually, we stopped asking him. Anyway, you’ve spent time with him, can you really imagine him here, shooting pool or drinking shots? C’mon, man, the guy’s a buzzkill, he’d ruin the party, and after a hard week, we’ve earned a night of fun.”
“I s’pose,” Booker reluctantly agreed. But as the evening wore on, he couldn’t shake off his feelings of guilt, and at 8 p.m., he called it a night and went in search of Tom.
**
From his position curled up on the couch, Tom watched his brother prepare a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. Much to his surprise, Will had picked up on his melancholy mood and had offered to make him his favorite meal. It was these small acts of goodwill that helped soften the pain of his abuse. When his brother showered him with kindness, it was easy to forgive him his transgressions. In Tom’s mind, it was all about balance. Life wasn’t all bad, and he tried to focus on the good as much as possible because otherwise, he feared the weight of his despair would eventually drive him toward the unthinkable.
“Food’s ready,” Will called out cheerfully. “I hope you’re hungry ‘cause I over-spaghettied.”
The lame joke elicited a faint smile from Tom, and rising to his feet, he walked into the kitchen. “Thanks, Will,” he murmured, and taking the offered bowl, he returned to the couch and proceeded to force the food into his mouth. His stomach churned, but he continued to eat because the last thing he wanted to do was let his brother down.
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Cries of a Shadow