Claire's Song (8 page)

            "Shelly, is that any way to treat company?" Ryder steps outside, the woman's mouth agape. Shelly?

            Before I have time to question it, I rush forward and throw my arms around Ryder, thankful that he's okay. The stench of alcohol and a coppery scent burns my nostrils. I pull back and take in his face. He's got several cuts all across his gorgeous face, some still oozing blood. His eyes are unfocused and glazed over.

            "What happened to you?" I whisper. "Are you drunk?"

            Mrs. Weathersby steps forward, her gaze going straight to the cuts on Ryder's face and then to the woman he called Shelly. "Are you his mother?" she asks coldly.

            "I am. Now, you need to be going. Ryder's not feeling well as you can see." Shelly starts to grab Ryder by the arm but he shrugs her off.

            His mother, seeing she's defeated, slams the door in our faces without another word.

            "Ryder, what's going on?" Mrs. Weathersby asks as we all move closer towards her car. Ryder's barely able to walk straight and it makes me wonder how much he's had to drink.

            "Nothing," is all he says and I don't miss the fact that he won't meet my gaze.

            "Where did you get all of those?" I ask, lifting my fingers to touch them gingerly.

            Ryder jerks away from me and puts his hands up, "You shouldn't be here." His words are slurred. Mrs. Weathersby gives me a concerned look.

            "You should be at school, Ryder. And you better be telling me how you got those cuts and quick," she snaps.

            "I fell on a glass table," he says with a small laugh, but he's the only one in on the joke. I'm still reeling from how he's acting towards me, especially given the crazy way my body reacted to seeing him.

            Mrs. Weathersby snorts, knowing full well he didn't fall on a glass table. Anyone with eyes knows where the cuts came from.

            "What the hell are you doing here?" He turns on me now, gesturing wildly with his arms. "Come to see how the poor people live? Do you still think I'm a good guy now?"

            His words slice and I clench my teeth in order to keep from saying something I don't mean. He's been through a lot, but I still don't deserve to be treated like this.

            "Ryder, you need to chill out,
now
." Mrs. Weathersby says, but then pauses a moment, the wheels visibly turning in her head. "And I think you need to go with Claire," Mrs. Weathersby looks at me and then back at him. "We'll go to the school and sort this thing out."

            "I'm not going anywhere with her,” Ryder spits. He’s still stumbling around and my teacher is looking older by the minute.

            “This isn’t up for negotiation. You go with her and I’m right behind you guys. When we get to school, I’ll take you to the counselor’s office. You’ll sleep off this stupidity in there and then we'll figure out what’s next,” Mrs. Weathersby gets closer to Ryder, all determination and fire for her short stature. Ryder looks down at her, almost like he’s going to argue. She lifts an eyebrow and he lets out an angry breath.

            “You got any gum?” Mrs. Weathersby looks at me with a pinched expression.             I’ve been standing still, frozen by Ryder’s anger with me. Part of me wants to punch him, the other wants to hug him again. The relief I felt at hearing his voice, at holding him in my arms, all of that still frightens me. Am I getting in deeper than I should, especially with what happened with Jamie? What if Ryder leaves me too?

            “Claire?” Mrs. Weathersby asks again.

            I shake my head.

            “Fine. Just don’t let anyone get close enough to him to smell that reeking breath. Let’s get out of here,” she waves us to our cars and I can almost see her shiver at what we’ve stepped into.

            Ryder stumbles and falters to my car, all the while not looking at me. He slides inside and he looks so natural there in that spot that Jamie held all those years.

            “I’m not drunk,” he says, his elbow propped on his knee.

            “Whatever, Ryder. We don’t even have to talk,” I mumble. Despite the anger, I can’t get the image of his mom out of my brain. She looked like a white trash skeleton and I didn’t miss the way Ryder called her Shelly instead of Mom. As we pull out of the trailer park, I sneak a look at him. His cuts are horrible and are more like gashes. Maybe he needs stitches? 

            We don't speak until we pull into the school parking lot. The entire drive I've stressed out about his bleeding gashes, knowing full well he didn't crash into a glass table. My stomach churns as I think the worse and deep in my gut I know his mother is responsible. She didn't even look human. And she was amped. Majorly. I don't do drugs but even I could tell that.

            Mrs. Weathersby rushes to the car to help Ryder get out. He's more in control of his faculties now and I wonder if the ride actually sobered him up a little. He finally looks at me and his eyes are a little clearer.

            "We’ll take him in the side door," Mrs. Weathersby directs as she digs in her purse. She finds a tissue and hands it over to Ryder who just looks confused. With a huff, I take it out of his hands and immediately start wiping at the blood as we walk.

            "I like your tattoo," he says.

            I freeze, my mind instantly going to Jamie. I got the tattoo on the week anniversary of his death. I needed some way to keep him with me forever. I wanted to be able to tell my future husband, my kids about him. But most importantly, I wanted a piece of him with me always. Just looking at my wrist can make me feel a little better although lately I've been ignoring those initials, because rather than the sweet reminder it was intended to be, Lindy has turned it into guilt and nasty nicknames. But now Ryder is focusing on it and Mrs. Weathersby has even stopped, her head turned to the side to examine the cursive letters.

            "For Jamie?" she barely whispers.

            I nod. Ryder reaches out and touches the letters, softly tracing their curves and scrolls, his eyes on me and then back on my wrist. His path leaves warmth and gives me stupid butterflies. Once his hand drops we continue walking and I keep dabbing the blood on his forehead, trying to hide how affected I am by his touch.

            "You're really pretty, too, you know that right, Claire?"

            Mrs. Weathersby laughs and then takes Ryder by the shoulders, "Okay, I think that's my cue to get him to the counselor's office before he embarrasses himself more than he already has. Thank you so much Claire. You're a really good friend to him."

            Ryder turns around as he's being led away; the look in his eyes shreds my heart. I want to go after him, but I don't. I never do. Instead, I carry the bloody tissue with me into the school, ready to face more of the same.

RYDER

            My head is starting to clear. Having Claire and Mrs. Weathersby show up at my crappy trailer really killed my buzz. Everything feels heavier now, especially sitting in the counselor's office. I know I was a jerk to Claire. I saw the hurt in her eyes. Good. Maybe she'll stay away now. Then I think of the stupid mess I said to her. I've always noticed her tattoo and I know whose initials those are. Why did I have to say something about it though? To show her that I actually notice the little things?  At the time I was pissed off that Mrs. Weathersby led me away from Claire, but looking back at it now, I'm glad. I was getting mushy or whatever, telling her she's pretty and it was only bound to get crazier. When I turned back around, she was clutching that bloody tissue in her hands looking like her heart was breaking into a million pieces. Did I really matter to her? It's hard to believe that I matter to anyone.

            "How are you feeling?" Mrs. Weathersby asks as she kneels in front of me.

            "I've been worse. Where's Claire?" It comes out of my mouth without thinking.

            My teacher looks at me and smiles. "She's in class, Ryder. Where you should've been today. Now, Mr. Clark is coming in here and we've got to talk about these gashes."

            My hand presses to my face, my head. It's covered in the painful beginnings of crusty scars. Now that the buzz is gone I can feel the pull with each movement of my face.

            "Ow," I wince.

            "Ryder?" Mr. Clark walks into the room. He's dressed in khakis, a dress shirt and a tie. I don't want to talk to this guy with his nice haircut and his pretentious nasally voice. I look to Mrs. Weathersby. She gives me the slightest nod with a stern look. I'm starting to think she's the second person to see through the walls I've built up around myself.

            "Yeah?" I answer.

            "I'm Mr. Clark. We've never met," he extends a hand out to me. I stare at it for a minute, until Mrs. Weathersby clears her throat. I take the man's hand and shake it.

            Mrs. Weathersby starts talking, telling him about her visit, that Claire somehow followed her out there. I can't help but smile at that. Claire is a feisty little thing. Then the conversation gets real. She starts telling him about the ill repair of the trailer, how I was drunk and my mom home. It hurt to hear her describe my mom as a druggie, but I know it's true. It's just hard to imagine that she's the same woman who took me to get ice cream on Sundays. Dad really did a number on both of us, I guess.

            Mr. Clark nods and then we move into the discussion of my cuts. A social worker comes in, we re-hash the story. They take pictures of my face; the nurse comes in and examines me. She cleans up the cuts and it's seriously one of the worst pains you can ever face, salt in the wound and all that. Colorful words fly from my mouth, only to have the women cluck their tongues at me. The social worker, Mrs. James, takes all the adults outside and they have some kind of serious conversation, judging by their faces when they come back inside.

            "Do you have someone you can stay with tonight?" Mrs. James asks. She's an older woman, with graying hair and glasses. There's something grandmotherly about her and it's oddly comforting.

            I rub the back of my neck. "Not really," I scoff.  I haven’t had friends since ninth grade. Claire's the closest thing I've got and I go out of my way to screw that up, to push her away.

            Mrs. Weathersby's looking at me like she's going to cry. She looks at everyone in the room. "Well, he can't go back there," she snaps.

            "He won't. We'll find somewhere for him," Mrs. James assures her.

            "Actually, you know what," an idea strikes. "If someone will get my car for me, I know a place." More like my car. But they don't need to know that. I really don't want to get stuck in some sort of shelter or foster care over night or for however long this will take. The way everyone's looking I know it's going down and I know I won't be going back home. "And what about my stuff?" I ask. I'm mainly concerned about my guitar and my music notebook.

            "DFACS is headed out here now. They want to talk to you about what happened to your face," Mr. Clark speaks up.

            "You calling me ugly?" I try to smile, my faded inappropriate sense of humor choosing now to rear its head.

            To his credit, Mr. Clark chuckles and shakes his head. "No, Ryder. The
cuts
on your face. You'll need to be honest with them, okay?"

            I nod. About an hour later, someone from the Department of Family and Children Services shows up. It's a tall, bald headed guy who looks like he used to play football. He's huge and imposing, and he tells me his name is Jack. He sits at Mr. Clark's desk while everyone else waits outside. It's just the two of us in this stare down thing. He asks me to tell him what happened to my face. Inner conflict takes over. I want to tell him because my mom treats me like crap and this isn't the first time. At the same time I struggle because…deep down inside that horrible person she's become, she's still my mom. I was lucky her boyfriend wasn't home or he would've gotten in on the fun, too. Before Claire I could avoid this, avoid getting found out. I would just stay out of school and my old teachers didn't care enough to find out why and I didn't have any friends who would miss me. I could float through life unnoticed, not even a blip on anyone's radar.

            Finally something inside me clicks. It just clicks and I open my mouth and the truth starts pouring out. I tell Jack everything. I tell him how Shelly pawns my stuff, how she lets me drink beer, as long as it's not beer she's paid for, how she does meth and every other foreign drug known to man. She and that piece of crap boyfriend of hers have drug parties some nights. I tell him about how they both hit me, have nearly broken my ribs before. With a hand on the gashes on my head, I tell him how Shelly hit me with the glass beer bottle because I refused to tell her where my guitar was hidden. I should cry, feel something, but instead I feel empty. After pouring all of this out, I feel like there's nothing else left.

            Jack nods and is really cool about the whole thing. He gets up and goes outside for a minute, leaving me to think about what I've just done. Panic starts to rise slowly in my chest, but I manage to tamp it down. I can figure something out. Living in my car for starters. I'm eighteen, so I can get a job to pay for food. I'll do anything to stay out of the foster care system. Anything.

            After what feels like an eternity, Jack is back with the rest of the crew. They walk me through what's going down. DFACS and the police are headed out to my trailer, where my mother will be arrested. I'll have to miss school again tomorrow because there's going to be a court date to discuss my situation. I don’t miss the emphasis put on that last word. They're going to discuss where I go and I feel sick to my stomach. This is no way to spend my last few months of life. Then again, neither was sitting in that trailer, just waiting to get the crap beat out of me and inhaling whatever they were smoking.