by Bryan Bliss
But maybe God was right, and the pictures were nothing. That’s what Claire couldn’t shake.
“People don’t do that sort of stuff unless they have real problems,” Derrick said.
“I have real problems,” Claire said.
“That’s different,” Derrick said.
She wanted to tell him about Dark’s grandmother. Everything God and Leg had told her. How the explanations danced across her mind, making sense one moment and burying her in panic the next.
She started to cry.
“Whoa, hey. What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know what’s right,” she said, trying to stop herself from crying.
“What? I don’t understand.”
And that just made her cry harder because she couldn’t explain it to him, the way every single moment in her life felt open to interpretation. She didn’t want to tell him that she might’ve made a mistake, because it didn’t feel like a mistake in the moment. It didn’t feel like a mistake now.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t one.
Chapter Thirteen
CLAIRE DIDN’T GO TO SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY AND SHE was on edge the whole time—waiting for the next knock on their door. When it didn’t come, it only made her feel worse. When Derrick offered a trip to the skate park early the next morning, she hesitantly agreed.
By the time they got to the Lair, she didn’t want to get out of the car and Derrick, unsure what to do, let her sit there in the warm car while she—what? Fifteen minutes later she started feeling foolish, so she grabbed the keys, her board, and pads, and walked in.
The place was empty; the only sound was the music softly playing through the PA system. Somewhere she could hear the sound of a single board hitting the ramps.
When Mark-O saw her, he gave her a nod and told her that Derrick was already skating. And then he looked back down at the magazine he was reading.
“Is anyone else here?”
“Nope,” he said, not looking up. “It’s early on a Tuesday. Not exactly peak.”
She walked back into the main room, taking a moment to appreciate the emptiness—the complete stillness, like a painting.
Derrick appeared at the top of the ramp and waved.
“You going to ride?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice echoing in the empty room.
But she didn’t move, even as Derrick dropped back into the bowl and started skating. She stood there, trying to reclaim that one moment of peace she’d found when she walked in. It was funny, because so much of what she’d originally wanted from the Lair was not stillness, but movement.
Claire eventually put her board down and crossed the park a couple of times, trying to forget the feeling of Leg’s and God’s guiding her around the room. Her legs felt weak, like she’d already been in the room for an hour, and when she kicked her board into her hand a couple of runs later, she was ready to lay down.
She scrambled up the ramp to the couches. Mark-O had said the room was empty, so when she saw a person wrapped in a too-small blanket, curled up and motionless, she dropped her board and nearly fell back down the ramp.
Before she could yell out for Derrick, the body shifted, and she saw his face.
“Dark,” she said.
He mumbled and rolled onto his back, stretching his legs the length of the couch. She said his name again, this time a little louder. When he sat up and saw her, his eyes went narrow.
“Fuck you,” he said.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Fuck you.” He grabbed his bag, rolled his tiny blanket into a big, messy ball, then tried to shove it into a hole in the plywood wall behind the couch. It kept getting caught and he started cussing louder. Claire looked back to see if Derrick had noticed, but he was still in the bowl, oblivious.
“Are you living here?”
“Just . . . fuck you.” It came weaker this time. And when the ball of belongings wouldn’t go into the hole, he dropped them and fell to the couch. He sat there, staring off into the emptiness—refusing to look at Claire, to even acknowledge that she was here.
“God and Leg are really worried about you,” she said.
He laughed bitterly. “Well, they won’t have to worry much longer, since I got fucking expelled.” He looked at her then, his eyes more sad than angry. “You kept one of my journals? And then showed it to them? And now I’m officially on the fucking Most Wanted list. Or something.”
“I’m sure you’re not on the Most Wanted list,” Claire said, unsure of what else she could say.
“Well, I’m a threat,” he said, once again giving Claire a pointed look. “As you know.”
Before Claire could say anything else, he sighed and said, “It’s not like I would ever do anything. I want you to know that.”
Claire hesitated, unsure of what she should say. But Dark wasn’t finished.
“Why didn’t you just ask me?” He leaned forward toward Claire. “Please, just tell me why.”
Claire could feel the storm starting to rage, rising higher and higher into her throat—she could taste the bitterness in her mouth. And before it choked her completely, she spit out the first thing that came to mind. The truth, she realized.
“Who’s going to admit they’re dangerous? Who would ever say they’re going to do something?”
Dark opened his mouth, but this time it was Claire’s turn to keep talking.
“Do you know how many times I’ve heard somebody say they saw the warning signs but didn’t do anything? Do you know how many times the kid who shot up my school posted about guns or told people he was going to make everybody pay?”
Dark’s head dropped and he turned toward her, hesitantly putting his hand on top of hers. The simple pressure, the weight of his hand, was calming. They sat there like that, like middle school kids afraid to hold hands at a dance, until Claire started to feel like she wasn’t turned completely inside out.
And when she finally could, she looked at Dark and tried to say the right words.
“I know this all sounds like an excuse, but I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she said. “And I am sorry. Really sorry.”
Dark leaned back on the couch. “I guess it wouldn’t have been that bad if my grandma hadn’t, you know, already kicked me out of the apartment.”
“Is that why you’re living here?” Claire asked.
“Better than the alternatives,” Dark said. “Plus, Mark-O gave me a key a couple summers back when I helped lead a camp. Leg and God don’t know I have it.”
He studied Claire, trying to figure out if she could keep his secret. She wasn’t sure she could.
“They’re really worried about you,” Claire said. “And I assume even more so now, not that they’d talk to me at this point.”
“They’re loyal idiots, that’s for sure,” Dark said.
“What are you going to do?” Claire asked.
Dark shrugged. “Live off the land. Maybe grow a beard. Not sure what order those come in.”
Claire laughed and, a few seconds later, so did Dark.
“Do you, like, need anything?” Claire asked.
Dark thought about it for a second. “I would love some Taco Bell.”
Claire was always amused that there was a Taco Bell next to the otherwise industrial complex that housed the Lair. When she told Derrick she wanted something to eat, he paused long enough to fish a sweat-soaked twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and hand it to her.
“Get me one of those Crunch Wraps,” he said. “The Supreme kind.”
“I don’t think they make a non-Supreme Crunch Wrap,” Claire said, smirking.
“Well, that’s because the Bell has standards,” he said, dropping back into the bowl, his laughter rising up to surround her.
She walked over to Taco Bell, hurrying through the cold, and spent the entire twenty dollars, which amounted to an absurd amount of food. When she carried it into the Lair, Mark-O eyed the bag and she was sure he was going to remind her of the strict n
o-outside-food policy. Instead, he smiled and let her pass.
Before she could get through the door he said, “Tell Dark to clean his shit up after he’s done.”
Claire spun around, shocked. Mark-O didn’t look up from his magazine. “Do you really think I wouldn’t know that somebody was essentially living here every night?”
Claire’s mouth dropped open, and she stared at Mark-O, who finally looked up and smiled. “Don’t tell him I know. But make sure he cleans up; I’m serious about that.”
“Okay,” Claire said, hurrying into the main room. Derrick was sitting on the lip of the bowl, and Claire tossed his Crunch Wrap Supreme up to him. He stared at the otherwise stuffed bag.
“Shut up, I’m hungry,” she said, turning to walk back to the other side of the room. When she was out of eyesight, she climbed back up the ramp and dropped the bag of tacos on Dark’s lap.
He handed her a taco and they ate silently. She was about to unwrap a second taco when Dark cleared his throat and quietly said, “What about you?”
At first Claire didn’t understand. She looked at the bag, thinking that he was being Minnesota Nice, unable to take the last taco. But it was still full, and she was about to say as much when it hit her.
What about you?
She was suddenly aware of every sensation in her body. She’d felt like this before, after being called “bossy” during a middle school group project. The other kids had misinterpreted her excitement, or maybe they hadn’t. But she heard their laughter—could feel the way her neck got hot with embarrassment—for weeks afterward. The same feeling of helplessness gripped her now, leaving her unable to do anything but stare at the taco growing cold in her lap.
“I’m not an expert, but I think you need help, too,” Dark said.
Claire felt tears begin to well up in her eyes. She wiped at them, but they wouldn’t go away. Her entire body felt like it was on fire and nothing would ever be able to mute the flames. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“I . . . I don’t know,” Dark stammered. “Maybe that’s part of, you know, all this.”
Claire didn’t need to see Dark to know what he meant. All of this. The last few days. The last few weeks. Hell, the entire year—every single moment of her life since that kid walked into the high school and started shooting.
“The Monster,” Claire said, looking over at Dark.
He looked confused for a second, but then he nodded.
“The Monster.”
When Derrick finished skating, Claire was already sitting in the waiting area—trying to look normal. However, as soon as he saw her, he opened his mouth to ask what was wrong. Claire stopped him with a smile and, after a beat, he changed course and asked, “Got any tacos left?”
The idea that she would’ve eaten ten tacos was ridiculous, but she shook her head anyway.
“Finished them off,” she said, forcing the words to be light. “Trying to get to my goal weight.”
It made him laugh. “Okay, well. Ready to hit it?”
She stood up and glanced at Mark-O, who was still deeply invested in his magazine and ignoring them. But once Derrick was turned to the door, he looked at Claire and winked.
When they got to the car, Derrick was still in a good mood—still laughing about her comment. But every bit of energy Claire had in reserve was gone and she slumped against the window of the car, feeling the cold against her cheek.
Dark had struck to the heart of something she and Derrick had tried to bury, whether intentional or not. They’d convinced themselves she was getting better. That all they needed was time. Another day. Another absence from school. Another skating trip and the wound would scab over and heal and be nothing more than a light scar. Something you might not even notice if you weren’t looking for it.
She didn’t even realize she was crying at first, and when Derrick looked over at her, tears on her cold cheeks, he turned the radio down.
“Hey—what’s happening?”
“I need help,” she said.
For a few seconds, she could see him flipping through the various kinds of help she might need in the car before it hit him, with the same force that it had hit her, taking the air out of his stomach, the color from his face.
“We can do that.” He rubbed his hand up and down his face, stopping the car just as a traffic light was turning yellow. A car honked behind them.
“God, Claire. I fucked up.”
He hit the steering wheel once. He wasn’t angry, just on the verge of tears, too. And so many times before, Claire would have assured him that everything was okay—attempted to walk back her own feelings, her anxieties. Not because she thought it was Derrick’s fault, but because absolution was the only action she could take.
She didn’t do that now. They’d both fucked up and chose to keep fucking up again and again, day after day. She looked out the window and tried to think of something they could do. It didn’t have to be much. But maybe that first step would lead to another smaller step and, soon, they’d be halfway down the road to wherever they needed to be.
“We can do this,” Derrick said, reaching over and squeezing Claire’s knee. “We can do this.”
Chapter Fourteen
DERRICK FOLLOWED CLAIRE INTO THE SCHOOL, AND they waited silent and nervous in the office—a glass box right at the entrance of the school. And while Claire knew it wasn’t true, it felt like every set of feet stopped when they saw her. Every pair of eyes stuck to her like she was a person of interest. See something, say something. And she could all but feel their whispers, every single accusatory word they spoke as they passed.
She told herself it wasn’t true. Tried to focus. But she couldn’t keep herself from looking out the windows, half expecting to see God or Leg suddenly standing outside the office, something worse than anger on their faces—indifference.
Derrick reached over and touched her on the shoulder, just as the counselor was coming to greet them.
“Hey, Claire. Derrick. Follow me back?”
Claire was surprised to find the principal already sitting in a chair in the counselor’s small office. When they walked in, she stood up and greeted them warmly. After the obligatory handshakes, they all sat.
Derrick cleared his throat, but it was the principal who started talking.
“We’re wondering if Claire might benefit from . . .”—she smiled, a genuine but still practiced emotion—“a more focused environment. There are a number of schools that can help Claire navigate everything she’s working through.”
Claire looked at Derrick, expecting him to be shaking his head. Instead, he was looking at his palms.
“I don’t want to leave Central,” Claire said.
It wasn’t because she felt any sort of attachment to the school, or even because she liked it. But the idea that she would have to start over. Would have to learn all the little things—which routes to take in the hallway, which teachers would understand when she needed to just put her head down, everything that made her feel safe—made the storm, the panic, rise up.
She didn’t want to feel unsafe again. And for all its faults, at least she felt mostly safe at Central.
“Claire, let’s listen to what she has to say,” Derrick said.
The principal continued, handing Derrick a piece of paper.
“There are a number of schools we consider to be trauma-informed. You could take a week or even a month—however much you need—and do some more intensive services and then, maybe, start at the new school right after spring break.”
Derrick nodded, taking everything in. Now Claire looked down at her hands. This is what she wanted. She wanted help. But for some reason, the idea of leaving and starting over made it seem impossible.
And maybe it was more than just not wanting to start over. Maybe she was feeling something else entirely, a loss that she hadn’t expected. The loss of friendship. Of the only community she’d had since leaving her own school, even if two-thirds of that community weren’
t currently speaking to her.
“It sounds pretty good, Claire,” Derrick said. “What do you think?”
She didn’t look at Derrick as she nodded.
Claire stopped listening as the principal continued explaining the process of switching schools. The phone numbers for therapists. Treatment. Help. Everything could be buttoned up by early next week, depending on when Claire was ready.
“Can I at least say good-bye to . . .” She struggled to pull a name. In fact, she’d been a ghost to most of this school. But her struggle to name a single person must’ve looked more like emotion because the principal reached over to pat Claire’s hand.
“Sure thing, Claire. Take as much time as you need.”
Claire walked up the stairs slowly, figuring that she could stop by and make sure she hadn’t left anything in the narrow locker they’d assigned her at the beginning of the year. By the time she got to the top of the stairs, she was nearly out of breath, and instead of turning to go to her locker, she walked toward Dr. Palmer’s room.
Naturally, she had a class—packed with kids Claire had never seen—and they were all busy working with their heads down. At first Claire was just going to walk by but before she could get past the doorway, Dr. Palmer saw her and hurried into the hallway.
“Claire, how are you?” Dr. Palmer looked like she wanted to give her a hug, but suddenly remembered they were in school. She leaned close, almost confidentially. “We’re bringing the trebuchet home tonight.”
Claire couldn’t hide her shock. “You’re not, like, breaking it out of the impound or anything, right?”
Dr. Palmer laughed loudly and when the students in her classroom looked into the hallway, she said, “Back to your projects.”
She turned to Claire and said, “No. They’re letting us have it as long as we promise not to fire any more watermelons onto the highway.”
Claire laughed and very quickly, she started to cry. This time, Dr. Palmer didn’t stop herself. She put a hand on Claire’s shoulder.
“Does your brother know you’re here?”
“He’s downstairs. I’m—”