dexter rafferty | six | fin

Musically inclined.

It had been the one thing on his application that had forced the administrators to take him seriously. His grades were only deemed acceptable among the many scholarly minds of District Six, and he didn't have an athletic bone in his lanky body. Dexter Rafferty would never have a scientific breakthrough, or create some confusing math equation. He would never run faster than the other boys, or turn a small business into an empire. But he could play the cello; he'd started learning when he was six.

He still remembered the first time he'd laid eyes on one, leaning up against the wall in music class. Everyone in his grade was required to take at least a semester of music; the majority had taken the easy route and snagged a recorder. A few had chosen guitar, while some of the wealthiest students decided to take advantage of the piano lessons they'd been forced into during their toddler years. No one seemed to be paying it any attention, old and worn and less shiny than the others. Dex had reached out with his tiny little finger and plucked a single string. He then turned to his teacher and smiled.

"I choose this one," he'd said.

It wasn't much compared to some other applicants, but it was enough to get him an audition for Cartier Academy, an elite school for gifted children. Some people were raised their entire lives being groomed for a place in that school, with its overqualified professors and their vast range of classes. He once knew a kid named Misha, who'd been moved up two grades because his parents had forced him to learn math at such an early age that the curriculum wasn't challenging enough for him.

Dex remembered being proud of the high B he'd gotten on his report card that year.

The audition was the most nerve-wracking thing he'd ever experienced; he was one of sixty who hoped their talent with an instrument would be enough to get them into the most prestigious program for young talent District Six had to offer; the reality was that only ten of them would be selected. He sat in a room with them for hours, several dozen teenagers tuning various instruments and checking their ties in the mirror, making sure their shirts were tucked in and there was nothing in their teeth, triple-checking that they'd brought backup strings and that their reeds were cleaned— anything to distract from the fear that grew within them like weeds.

For Dex, the roots were somewhere in the pit of his stomach with a gnarled stem making its way past his chest, leaves taking up all the available space in his throat and making it hard for him to breathe correctly. You'll be fine, he told himself, wishing his parents were there to reassure him. Either you'll make it, or you won't. Either the sun will rise tomorrow, or it won't. No guarantees. No holding back.

"We're ready to begin," a woman said, leaning in through the door as the applicants gathered their things and headed to the auditorium.

No guarantees. No holding back.

——————————————————

He'd never been the most reliable person, to be fair. Even a year at Cartier Academy hadn't been enough to break him of that. Teachers were lucky he was in class on time, never mind if he'd forgotten to do the homework because he'd stayed up late working on his solo for the spring showcase. He thought it had been perfectly clear when he was accepted: he wasn't exactly great at school. And he wasn't interested in pretending to be. His brilliance came with what sat in the case right next to him. He eyed the office, minimal and spacious. It felt more humid here; why was that? Why was the principal's office always such a different atmosphere than anything else in the school around it?

He bit his nails and tapped his foot in anticipation; he'd never been reliable, and he'd never been good at masking his emotions. He liked to think he was, but he wasn't. "This is dumb," he muttered, focusing on a picture of the dean and his son on a fishing trip. If that guy had somehow managed to make it to his senior year at the academy for doing fuck-all, there was no reason why literally anyone else should get into trouble. He was gonna say that. Maybe he should. Maybe if you stopped giving your son special treatment everyone would take this place more seriously. Yeah. Maybe.

No.

That didn't really make sense, did it?

The dean walked in with his hands folded behind his back. He had an unsettling amount of arm hair. The kind that only middle-aged men who didn't bother trying to impress anyone could manage to have. Maybe his marriage was boring. Maybe his deviant kid had set something on fire again and he was just too stressed to worry about grooming those days. Maybe Dexter would tell him that.

"Mr. Rafferty," he huffed. Everything he said was a huff. Asthmatic hairball.

"I'm sure you're aware the spring showcase is fast approaching."

Oh hell no. He'd just walked in and he was already dangling the showcase in Dex's face like someone did a bone to a dog moments before they tossed it into obscurity. He opened his mouth, ready to list every single thing he didn't like about the dean, about his office, about his peers, about the school in general, but he got the jump on him.

"Mrs. Eagon tells me she has been very impressed with your work lately."

Uh, yeah. Because he was actually good at cello. Which is why he needed to spend more time doing that and less time bullshitting essays about boring books that were written three centuries ago.

"It's unheard of for a sophomore, but she has asked that you be moved to first chair."

"Well you c— Excuse me?"

"Assuming you can handle the pressure, of course?"

"I— yes. I can."

Dexter stood quickly, reaching out to grab the dean's hand, his hairy hand, and shake it.

"Good. Then you need to report to Mrs. Eagon for further instruction."

"Yes sir, absolutely! Thank you so much! You look great today, by the way! Blue is a great color on you!"

——————————————————

The murder changed things. People were quiet in the quad, walking to and from classes. Everyone looked over their shoulder and locked their doors at night. A number of things would've made it easier for people to sleep at night: if it hadn't been the dean's son who died, if it hadn't happened so close to graduation, if the school didn't have to hire a replacement at the end of the school year, if they'd caught the killer.

None of that happened, though. Graduation still happened, the new dean was much less hairy, everyone and no one was a suspect. Summer break came, and when the new school year came, everyone had forgotten about it. Or, if you asked Dex, they were better at hiding it. It was his personal belief that everyone, like he himself, always kept it in the back of his mind. Every conversation, every group assignment, he had the passing thoughts and the moments of doubt that maybe someone in this room was a killer. Maybe even in his group.

Maybe he'd piss someone off and get stabbed on his way back to his dorm. Maybe they'd been planning it for months, or maybe he would just be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

No guarantees.

Or, mybe someone would admit to it tomorrow. Maybe he'd graduate next year and he'd never hear of any of this again, and it would become a fun story he told his friends about some day, and he would go on to have an incredible career.

No holding back.