by Ashley King
Homecoming dance is tonight and Darren is throwing a killer party. The pep rally today was okay and Kyra will be cheering me on from the sidelines. Afterwards we have to go to the dance. Not that I want to do that. If I had my way, we'd skip the dance and go straight to the after party.
I pull into the driveway and Dad's car is nowhere to be seen. He's usually home after school, at least for a minute or two. Mom's car is blocking the driveway, the parking job a little too aggressive, too crooked. An eerie feeling creeps over me as I park on the curb in front of our beast of a house.
Instead of going in, I sit and study the house, looking for something out of place. Everything else seems the same and I figure I’m just crazy. I get out and go inside and call for Mom. I hear sniffles, then a loud sob coming from the living room. I throw my backpack down and race into the room that looks like a museum instead of a room where people actually live.
What I see almost stops me cold, but I push forward. My mother is on the floor, pictures of her and Dad spread all around her. Her mascara is streaked down her face and a huge, completely full glass of wine is sitting next to her. I've never seen her so defeated. She hasn’t always been the best mom, not even close to winning an award or anything, but she's falling apart right in front of my eyes.
"Mom?" I say as I lower myself next to her.
Her bloodshot eyes meet mine and then she starts to sob all over again. I put my arms around her and I can feel her shake. I don't know what to do with this. I pat her back while my mind is racing.
"What happened?" I ask.
She cries a little longer before she pulls away, wipes her eyes and answers me. "Your father left us." The hatred in her voice is unmistakable and I feel my whole world shift beneath my feet.
"What do you mean, exactly?" I ask, rubbing the back of my neck.
Mom gathers the photos from around her and walks over to a bucket she's placed by the table. She throws them in there and I watch her, wondering what she's up to and why my Dad left. Where has he gone?
"He's been sleeping around with that secretary at work and now they've run off together. He was so hoping you'd be here so he could tell you good bye." Sarcasm drips from her tongue as she angrily searches through a kitchen drawer.
Meanwhile, I feel like I've been punched in the gut, a hit from a linebacker knocking me flat on my face. My Dad's never been perfect, but I didn’t see the signs that something was wrong. But then, I wouldn't have. I was too busy with my world, with football, school, Kyra, and parties. Popularity has been more important than my family. Immediately I feel like I'm at fault, but I don't dare say it out loud. The last thing my mother needs right now is to validate me.
"He's selling the house, so we've got to move out within the week," she says as she stops searching. She removes a lighter from the drawer.
"Where will we go?" I follow her, scared of what she'll do. I've seen a few manic episodes of hers, but this one is by far the scariest because Dad isn't here to calm her down.
"I don't know, Ryder. I don't know what we'll do," Mom answers me as she zones out on the pictures in the bucket. I'm not even here as far as she's concerned.
She flicks the lighter, once, twice, and then there's a flame. She holds a photo to it and the edges curl. I figure she'll blow it out, but she doesn't. She throws it in the bucket, allowing the other pictures to catch on fire.
"Burn in hell, Robert," she sneers and then she leaves the room. She leaves me alone in the room with a bucket full of pictures that are on fire.
"Seriously Mom? Are you trying to catch the place on fire?" I shout as I rush to the kitchen for a glass of water. I dump it in the bucket, extinguishing the fire before anything crazy happens, well, anything crazier than this.
My mom slams the door of her bedroom in reply and I'm contemplating what to do. The Homecoming Game, the dance, the party, all of that seems so trivial now. Life seems so trivial. I clean up the mess my mother made and decide that I'm not going to the game.
Kyra calls me and I try to explain the problem to her, but she only yells at me, says I’m too sensitive about this, and breaks up with me for leaving her dateless for Homecoming. Not exactly the support I was looking for when I answered the phone.
I look up and see a picture of my Dad smiling back at me, sitting nice and pretty on the mantle. I pick it up and study the man in the photograph. What kind of man leaves his family like this? Kicks us out of our home just to be with someone else? Divorce happens all the time, but did it have to be like this? I didn't even get to say goodbye and I don't know where he's gone. Hatred is contagious and it begins a slow burn in my chest and when all the "what ifs" and "what will we do nows" race through my brain, I clutch the frame in my fist. I throw it with everything I have at the fireplace and leave it there, glass and all, because as far as I'm concerned, my father is dead to me.
And he still is dead to me in a way. Even so, I know that I’ve got to go in there. Claire’s right. I’ve got to do this and give the old man a chance. Of course I don’t think he’s genuine, but he is moving down here for a little over a month, even though he thinks it's until graduation. I collect my thoughts, flick my pick between my fingers and go inside.
Dad is sitting at a table near the window, our old table, wearing a polo shirt and khakis. His hair is neatly combed, not a single hair out of place, just like always. The newspaper is spread out in front of him on the table and the moment he sees me, he quickly snatches it back up to make room for me. He smiles at me like he’s actually happy to see me. I keep asking myself if it's real. I’m always wary of people who are nice to me because that usually means they want something from you. The only people I've never really questioned are Claire and her folks.
“Ryder, I’m glad you came,” he says as he motions for me to sit across from him. The waitress is there in an instant and takes my order. Everything else may have changed, but my order remains the same. Once she leaves, Dad gets all serious, which makes me nervous.
“I was afraid that maybe you wouldn't come,” he admits. His eyes look tired. They mirror the exact look of my own eyes.
I shrug my shoulders, not sure if I should show much emotion yet. “You live here now. Might as well, right? You do know where I live.”
He acts as though he’s just been reminded of something and pulls out a folded envelope from his billfold. “I’m glad you mentioned that. I want you to have this,” he offers as he slides the envelope across the table like we’re in the mafia or we’re doing a drug deal. That actually wasn't so out of the ordinary in my old life.
“What’s this?” I put my hand on it and eye it carefully, not accepting it yet. Strings are always attached, always.
“Money for you, so Claire’s parents don’t have to pay for everything. I feel awful that they’re picking up our slack. There’s enough in there for you to have whatever you want, too. Mad money,” Dad says as he grins at me. His teeth are whiter than they were a few years ago and is he really that tan in November?
“So, you're buying me back?” I scoff as I put the envelope in my pocket. I touch my pick and think of Claire. I’m taking the money because he’s right about the first part. I’d like to repay the Watkins family for everything they’ve done. Also, why not have some fun before I die? And at my old man’s expense. That’s a big fat heck yeah.
My Dad’s reaction to my comment is priceless. He looks like he swallowed something wrong. His face is twisted up in a grimace. “Ryder, now that’s not it at all. I wanted to meet with you today because I wanted to apologize to you for everything.”
My hand wraps around the soda cup, the condensation trickling between my fingers. I watch as the beads fall onto the table leaving a ring. I wish Claire were here. Finally I speak, fully aware that I’m playing the moody, pissed off teenager part all too well. “Then apologize.”
Dad nods, “Fair enough. I deserve that.” He sighs and leans forward, elbows on the table. “Ryder, I did try to get in touch with you after I left.”
I interrupt him, “Why’d you leave?” There’s no childish begging in my voice. I just want to know.
“I had to, Ryder. I wanted to get out of here, away from everyone who judged me for things that happened with Carrie.”
“Was it worth it? Every minute you had with her? Was it worth splitting up your family for her?”
Dad rubs his face with his hands, a trait I picked up from him. “Carrie and I aren’t even together anymore. I wasn’t in love with her.” He huffs again. “I was never in love with her. None of it was worth it, but I knew I had to get out. Me and your Mom weren’t seeing eye to eye anymore, we just weren’t in love.”
I cross my arms and lean back as the waitress brings us our sandwiches. “Was Mom always psycho?”
Dad gives me a small smile as he picks up his sandwich. “Not always, but I could tell it lurked beneath the surface. It was getting worse the older you got. I think she needed something or someone to manage and when she couldn’t do it, she just…fell apart.”
“But the drugs? I mean she was doing hardcore drugs. She was letting me drink in the afternoons, mornings, whenever I wanted, as long as it wasn't her beer. She wasn’t even like Mom anymore. Do you know I stopped calling her that about a month after you left? That’s how fast she went downhill.”
“I am so sorry, Ryder. A child should never have to go through that. It’s your mother's fault and mine. She threatened me with a nasty custody battle that would make the divorce even worse, so I just went with it. She said you were fine and I never expected her to lie to me, not about you, our own child.” Dad’s voice breaks towards the end of his speech and his eyes are watery. I feel bad for him, I do, but I’m having a hard time just being okay with everything.
“You could’ve visited, but you didn’t. I never got anything from you on my birthday, holidays, not even a phone call. Nothing,” I mutter, my food still untouched. Dad puts his sandwich down.
“I sent you cards for your birthday and for Christmas. I called your mother and she told me that you didn’t want to talk to me, so I took it as the truth,” his voice is angry and I can see that he’s growing more frustrated with my mother by the minute. I can't blame him, because I am too. The woman lied to me, lied to him.
“Let me ask you this. Did you send money in those cards?” I ask, because I know exactly what happened. My stomach sinks as I recall all of those times I went without food or had to walk to school because I didn't have the money for gas, all because Shelly spent it all on drugs.
Dad nods and then realization dawns on his face. “That…that woman took the money for drugs, I bet.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.
I nod. “You know I kept that guitar you got me. She pawned it so many times I lost count, but I still have it.” I don’t know why I tell him this. I feel like he’s telling the truth, but I’m still angry with him. He made a lot of mistakes by me. A more concerned parent probably would've done more or done things differently. But take into account the fact that my mother’s freaking nuts and well, that changes things. Claire's voice rings in my head and I think maybe I should at least give the guy a chance. He looks so tired, so old and I think his penance has been paid.
Dad gives me a sad smile. “Ryder, will you let me make it up to you?”
I lean forward and pick up my sandwich. Before I take a bite, I look at my Dad and nod. “Yeah, I think I will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
CLAIRE
It’s been a week since Ryder reconciled with his Dad. Things aren’t exactly what they should be, but they’re working on it. Ryder and I have been doing a lot better and things almost seem…normal?
However, things threaten to change on November 15th, Jamie’s birthday. I wake up and that's the first thing on my mind, the first thing weighing me down. Our birthdays were always a big deal to each other. Jamie used to go all out for mine and I would do the same for his.
I pull up to Jamie’s house and park on the curb. I carefully put the McDonald’s bag containing his favorite breakfast in his seat. I don’t go in. I hate going in his house. His parents are always fighting and he’s always caught in the middle and they’ve even pulled me into their disagreements more than once. It’s always yelling, yelling, cussing, and more yelling. I've never seen anyone throw a punch, but I wouldn't be surprised. It just goes to show you that pretty things don’t always go on behind the doors of pretty houses. Jamie’s sister, Jules, moved out as soon as she turned eighteen and didn’t care that she had to drop out of school and work two jobs to pay the rent. She just wanted out.
The door opens and Jamie comes walking down the path to the car. His ear buds are in and I know that’s his defense mechanism. I hope his parents were at least good to him this morning. His backpack is slung over one shoulder and his focus is on his Ipod. I guess he finally realizes I’m there because his head snaps up and when our gazes collide, he smiles a broad smile, but there’s still something missing there, something that the old Jamie used to have. He looks tired and I attribute that as the reason for the gradual change in him. It must be a nightmare to live in that house with those people.
The car door opens and Jamie’s gaze instantly swings down to the seat. “Score,” he laughs as he picks up the bag and sits in its place.
He reaches over and hugs me, tight and close, his spicy cologne drifting into my nose. I want to tell him. I want to tell him so badly that I’m in love with him, but I can’t, I won’t, especially not on his birthday.
So instead I say, “Happy Birthday Jamie.” When he pulls back he winks at me and starts to dig through the McDonald’s bag.
“It is a very happy birthday because I got you,” he says around a bite of his biscuit.
The elation I feel at his words is traitorous. I know he means as friends. I’m well aware, but I still like to torture myself. If Jamie knew, he'd probably call me a sadist. “Your parents okay this morning?” I ask as I pull the car away from the curb.
Jamie stops chewing and looks introspective. We’re almost to the turn for the road leading to the school when he finally answers me, “Let’s skip today.”
“What?” I ask. I’m not against the institution of skipping, as long as it’s well timed. I want to keep my grades up so I can get into a good school. I mentally flip through the calendar for the day. No tests or big assignments that I can think of, but of course if Jamie suggested we leap off a bridge, I’d probably do it.
“That’s what I want to do for my birthday. I want to spend the day with you, preferably not involving four cement walls and a nasty lunch. Today calls for something more,” he says and his voice sounds distant, matching the faraway look in his eyes. I keep going past the road where we’d turn and I spare another quick glance at Jamie.
“Then you’ve got to tell me where you want to go.” A full day with Jamie is always the best day and the idea of it delights my greedy bones. I try not to smile at the thought.
“Go to the park, the one on the other side of town,” he directs.
I know which one he’s talking about immediately. It’s the prettiest park in town, aptly covered by shade trees and quite private, save for the tennis court that’s rarely in use. We’re quiet until we reach it. I park in the grass, noticing how brown everything looks. Last time we came here everything was so green, so alive.
Jamie hops out and discards the remains of his breakfast in the trashcan. He stretches and my eyes are drawn to the sliver of abs peeking from beneath it. He catches me looking and clears his throat. A sly smile plays across his face and then he stalks off towards our spot near the gazebo. A blush wrecks my cheeks and I just want to bury my face in my hands. Instead, I take off after him, keeping a nice distance behind.
Jamie lays down near the pile of leaves that someone’s raked, his arm behind his head. I carefully settle in next to him and all I can see are our ratty Converses and it makes me smile.
“Much better than school, right?” Jamie asks as he turns to face me.
I nod, my hair brushing my face. The wind picks up and whips it around me, black leaves in the breeze. Jamie’s eyes are drawn to it and then he runs his fingers through my hair.
“Your hair has gotten so long.” He smiles at me, but even so, he still looks sad.
“What’s the matter Jamie?” I ask as I sit up, my hair falling through his fingers like the sands of time, signaling our time is almost up.
“Nothing, Claire. It’s just been rough lately.” He moves his fingers from my hair and I look into his eyes, his gorgeous sparkling brown eyes, only to find that they are marred by redness and purple half moons beneath them.
“Liar,” I whisper, wondering if he can hear me. Why are his eyes like that? His head whips towards me and I see anger mount in his features. Will this be another one of our more frequent arguments? We used to never argue, ever.
“Claire,” he warns, his voice almost a growl. “It's my birthday. Think you can lay off? I just want it to be about us and hanging out. Who knows how many of these we have left?” The spark in his eyes disappears as he sits up, mirroring my position in the dead grass.
I shrug, not wanting to tick him off more than I already have. He’s right. It’s his day and I’ll leave him alone.
“Fine,” I reply, although I hate how pitiful my voice sounds. I’m so needy, so desperate to stay in his favor that sometimes I wonder if I’m losing myself. Then again, I don’t even care. That’s how gone I am.
It’s amazing how much things change in ten months. I sit cross-legged on the bed, staring at our photos. I’ve got Ryder now. I need him like he’s a drug. My mother’s words come back to me. Am I just using him to dull the ache in my heart? I don’t think I could, because the feeling in my chest is different when it comes to Ryder. I don’t know if it’s love requited or what, but I feel differently for Ryder, that much is true. When he plays his guitar for me, it throws everything into a tailspin and I feel like I’m falling. And I know I am. It’s a dangerous, slippery slope, but I've allowed myself to go there.