Claire's Song (4 page)

            "Yeah?" I stand from my bed, my phone falling onto the plush comforter that still smells like Jamie, still holds his ghost.

            "We need to talk and I need…" she gasps, holds back a sob. Finally she regains composure and begins to speak, "Jamie's mother called me and you need…maybe you should sit down." She puts a hand on my shoulder and tries to get me to sit, but I fling her arm away from me.

            "What? Where's Jamie? Where is he?" I can hear the frantic shake in my voice. It's in the way Mom won't look at me now, the way she shakes her head and looks at her feet. I see the tears fall from her eyes and drop onto the floor, one after another in a steady stream. Jamie was essentially her second kid.

            "Mom?" I sound like I'm five again, begging her to tell me the monsters that live under my bed aren’t real, that they’re only in my dreams.

            "Jamie's dead, honey."

The song reaches its highest pitch, the chorus echoing throughout the room. I fall into a heap on the floor; the crushing of my heart causing my breath to come in gasps, the buzzing in my ears telling me this is not real. This is not real. This is not real. I see my mother preparing to tell me more, but I cover my ears.  I rock back and forth and think about nothing and everything at the same time. Then the tears come, along with a banshee wail that erupts from the darkest depths of my heart. It’s not true.

            Mom pulls my hands away from my ears, her tears falling harder, faster now, keeping time with my own. She pulls me to her chest, smoothes my hair, but my body is not stilled. My heart is being shredded into tiny pieces each one with Jamie's name imprinted on it, with his smile, his laugh, and in all its finality, his kiss, the soft press of those perfect lips to mine.

            "His sister found him in his room. He overdosed on a mixture of pills…" she takes a breath, the words too much, the pain too much for us both and I feel myself shattering into a million pieces, never to be happy again. All chances of happiness gone with this one single selfish moment.

            Deep down in my heart I know the answer before I ask the question. But I have to know for sure; I have to know, even though I am fully aware that it will ruin me. "Did he mean to?"

            My mother nods slowly, more tears falling from her face. I hold her tighter; I feel another wail building up in my chest. He said he wouldn't go, that he wouldn't leave me. My mother runs her hands through my long, black hair and I think of him. I think about how much he loved my hair.

            Jumping up from the floor, away from my mother, I run to the bathroom. I lock the door, despite her pleading for me to open up. The dizziness overtakes me, the reality that Jamie left me on purpose settles in, guilt immediately throbs in my veins and I feel utterly sick. I barely make it to the toilet before I lose everything and I heave and heave until there's nothing left to give, my mother still begging, crying for me on the other side of the door.

            When I finally stand up, I look at myself in the mirror, my putrid reflection staring back at me. I reach for the scissors and begin to cut, cut, cut away my hair, so no one else can touch it like Jamie did. So no one else can think it's beautiful. So that it belongs to him and only him and I cry, loud and hard with each snip of the scissors, because each strand that falls is a piece of him I've lost forever.

RYDER

            I was only kidding around with her, but I swear she looks like she's seen a ghost. Her gaze is distant and I know she's not here with me. She's somewhere far away from the halls of this school. She sways a little and I rush forward to catch her.

            "Claire, you're freaking me out," I whisper as I hold her limp form in my arms and then she blinks. The way her eyes widen, the way she steps back from me, and the crazy cute blush that sweeps across her cheeks tells me she's back.

            "You okay?" I ask.

            She holds her hand out to the wall, steadying herself as she grabs her head with her other hand. I watch as her eyes glaze over. "Yeah. I'm fine. Let’s go."

Claire doesn't look back at me once she begins to wobble forward, her hand staying along the wall. But my eyes are glued to her, to her tiny frame swallowed by the black cardigan she wears, the faded band shirt, and her skinny jeans, to the messy ponytail and the tiny hairs that curl around her neck. This girl mesmerizes me and I can't quite put my finger on it. And when I think of the pain that flashed across her face just moments ago, I wish I could’ve been inside her head, that I could know what to do to make it better.

            We both remain quiet as she leads us to the quad. It's a circular area in the middle of our campus, completely surrounded by brick, but there are a few trees and stone benches scattered throughout. The sun's hiding behind the clouds and there's actually a pretty decent breeze given that a Georgia fall can still sometimes feel like the seventh circle of hell.

            Claire unfolds herself on the slight hill near the brick, her cheeks flushed with more than embarrassment. She’s not looking at me. Instead she’s studying that stupid packet with more intensity than I’ve ever seen anyone study anything. The five year old in me wants to snatch it from her grasp, to get her to look at me, to pay attention to me. What is it with this girl that makes me want to be noticed by her? Why do I care? I have to remind myself that I can’t care. How am I supposed to do that now that I’ve got a project to work on with her? When she mentioned college, I heard white noise. I wanted to tell her that I wouldn't be around for college. What would she think of me then?

            “I can feel you staring at me, so stop it,” she suddenly snaps, her eyes still glued to the all too bright pages.

            I try not to, but I find myself laughing at her feistiness. Claire’s not what you’d expect. “Really? Weren’t you the one being the creeper the other day?” I snap back with what is probably the goofiest smile plastered across my face. I even sweep my hair from eyes to get a better look at her reaction.

            Those green eyes roll as she lets out an exasperated breath. Finally she looks at me. I’m such a pansy because I’m happy that she’s just looking at me. I’ve got her attention now, but what do I do with it?

            “I was curious about you. There’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t remember seeing you around anywhere and I…I wanted to try and place you. Nothing creepy about that,” Claire continues, her button shaped nose pointed up in the air. It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. And then I realize that I haven’t stood out to her in all four years we’ve been in high school together. It’s not like we live in a metropolis or anything, so she should’ve at least known who I used to be. I used to be
that
guy, on track to get a football scholarship and any girl he wanted. I made the grades because I had too, not because I wanted to. The reason I started playing guitar was so I could get more girls. I had it all. Past tense:
had.

            But then again, it’s no wonder she doesn’t realize who I am. She and Jamie Morgan were practically joined at the hip until he died last January. And Jamie, man, he had no clue. All the girls wanted him, talked about him, batted their lashes at him, but he didn’t even look twice. I saw it, and I wonder if Claire saw it: he only had eyes for her. All those years he looked at her like she was his everything, his very air to breathe. They never seemed to be a couple, but then again, I kept to myself, skulking against the walls, keeping my head down, just trying to make it to the end of the tunnel, to the end of it all. But he and Claire never noticed me, never gave me a second look, always too wrapped up in each other.

A thought hits me. Why did he do it? I’ve heard the rumored reasons ranging from Claire breaking his heart to the idea that he was terminally ill, but I don’t know the truth. Do we have more in common that I thought?

Claire’s looking at me expectantly and I realize that I’ve been so deep in my own thoughts that I haven’t spoken. I quickly grab my guitar pick, my own peace of mind and start flipping it between my thumb and index finger.

 “Well I’m not anyone, so it’s not really a surprise that you don’t know me,” I reply as I watch the black pick spin around. I don’t want to see her face now. I don't want to do this project and I suddenly start wondering if I could take a zero. Would it hurt Claire’s grade? Why do I even care?

“Don’t say that,” she whispers, her voice so threadbare and fragile that my eyes snap up to meet her gaze. She’s looking at me differently, the paper on the ground next to her, forgotten.

“It’s true. But I know who you are. You’re Claire Watkins.”

Claire shakes her cute black bob out of its ponytail and it kisses her skin. “You don’t really know
who
I am. I’m more than a name.” After she lets out a sigh, she continues, “Besides I’m sure you only know me as the reason Jamie killed himself.”

I’m struck by her honesty, her bluntness, as she averts her gaze, swallowing hard. Her eyes are glassy and I don’t know what to do. I don’t have experience in this area. Even when my Mom cried, I didn't know how to comfort her. Besides, she’s too screwed up to cry now.

“Hey,” I move closer to her and hand her my guitar pick. My lucky guitar pick. “This helps me. When I’m nervous or whatever, I just focus all my attention on it. Try it.”

She looks at me with uncertainty in her eyes, then her gaze moves to the pick and I see the curiosity there. Her tiny fingers take it and I watch her flip it around like I do. Her entire focus is on keeping the pick spinning and not hitting the ground until soon the glassy look in her eyes is gone.

Then what happens next ruins me, completely screws up everything and I don’t know what to do. She smiles at me. She gives me this perfect smile, one that feels and looks rare and out of practice. There’s a tiny light in her eyes, something that wasn't there before.

“Thank you,” Claire continues to smile as she hands the pick back to me. I don’t want this. I don’t want the pick back and I want to erase the memory of that beautiful smile of hers. I don’t want to think about that or those green eyes that seem to notice everything.

“You keep it,” I push it back to her gently and then turn my attention to the pages. I’ve got to do better than this if I want to keep Claire out of my life. I refuse to do what Jamie did to her.

“Thanks. I see why you do it,” Claire sighs and then I hear her fidgeting. “How long have you played the guitar?”

I shake my head, not wanting to get personal, not wanting to do this with her. “A while,” I answer, my words clipped. I can feel the shift in the energy between us. I’m screwing it up and a sense of relief settles on my shoulders, although I feel guilty as hell for being mean to this girl. She’s been through enough.

“Okaaay.” There’s another pause and I can’t even focus on the words on the page or what we’re supposed to be doing. “Did you know him?” She breathes out as she asks me this. My entire body goes rigid at the question. I've never seen Claire talk to anyone, so it surprises me that she would not only talk to me, but also bring up
his
name.

“Nah,” I say simply although the traitor in me wants to console her, to tell her that I thought he was a lucky guy to get to hang out with her every second of the day.

“He was…he was perfect, you know?” she smiles a little as she looks off in the distance.

“Why are you talking to me about this?” I snap, as I make sure she meets my hardened gaze. I’m the worst guy on the planet, I know this.

Claire's taken aback again. I see it all over the delicate features of her face, but I’ll be damned if she’s not determined. She sits up straighter, pulls her cardigan sleeves up like she’s ready for battle. “Because you remind me of him in some ways.”

CHAPTER FIVE

CLAIRE

And he really does remind me of Jamie. I don’t want to tell him exactly how, but part of it is in the hollowness of his eyes. Whenever I look back at the moments spent with Jamie I realize I should’ve seen it coming. His eyes started becoming less vibrant, less
alive.
I see that exact look in Ryder's gray blue eyes and I don’t know why, but it bothers me. It’s not like Ryder’s had it easy or anything.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he speaks, his voice gravelly. I can tell he’s trying to push me away. His biggest mistake was letting me get a glimpse into the guy that he really is, the guy behind the black hoodie and hidden eyes. I’ve seen how kind he can be, but within split seconds he retreats back into himself.

“Why not? You guys are really similar.” I’m pushy. Jamie used to tell me that all the time. Every time I think about him it feels like I’m punched in the gut. I take a deep breath and let the dizziness pass.

“You okay?” Ryder's looking at me with concern etched across his chiseled face.

I nod, “Fine. Sometimes…sometimes it’s hard to think about him. It still hurts.”

Ryder’s gaze refuses to leave mine and I can see him thinking hard about something. I want to ask him what, but I decide against it. I’ve already pushed him a great deal in a span of minutes.

The bell rings signaling the end to whatever this was. Ryder snaps his eyes away from me and starts gathering his stuff. He turns and starts walking off without a single word. Anger wells up inside of me.

“Ryder Andrews! You get back here right now,” I call out. Students passing by give us dubious looks. The outcast and the pariah. I’m sure they are completely entertained, but I couldn’t care less.

Ryder turns around and gives me a tiny smile, the most I’ve seen on that handsome, stone set face of his. He spreads open his arms, waiting for me to speak.