A/N: I hope I doing this right, because that means I've finally figured out this blasted website. No judgie, but I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to type my disclaimer (BTW: I don't own FNL) or to thank all of you for your reviews and alerts. I'm sure I look like a thankless author, but I'm not. Me and technology just have an unbalanced relationship. So thank all of you for you reviews (even if I haven't commented on them yet, know that I love reading them) and patience :) I hope you all enjoy Ch. 8!

[Fall 1988]

CHAPTER EIGHT

After about fifteen minutes of applying, smudging, reapplying, and smudging the concealer along my jawline and throat, I deemed myself presentable enough to attend school. It had been hell trying to sneak myself into my bedroom with a newly purchased thing of makeup considering if Janie had busted me: 1) I would have to explain why I was taking the initiative to buy makeup when the most I ever put on my face is chapstick, and 2) she would see the finger-shaped bruises that I was working to hide. I hadn't even realized the marks were there until I was halfway home from the diner and happened to look up at myself in the rearview.

Sighing, I tucked the makeup up my sleeve so that I could return it to its proper spot tucked behind a book on my shelf. Janie and I were avoiding each other like the plague after my little disappearing act, and I wouldn't put it past her to sneak into my room praying she wouldn't find evidence of depression or thoughts of suicide. She was overly dramatic, but she always meant well.

I looked at myself in the mirror, stroking my bangs in an attempt to get them to lie flat…er. They were the only pieces of hair not violently yanked back into the ponytail lying flat along my back. I briefly thought about cutting the locks that fell to the middle of my back: they were nothing but a hassle during the soccer season, and they seemed to act as beacons whenever I was in public. It wasn't my honey-toned skin or vibrant eyes…no, it was this damn hair.

I pulled my hair over my shoulder without taking my eyes off myself. I could do it. I could cut my hair. It would take some time for Janie and my friends to get used to, but they'll get over it. But I knew I never would. No. Cutting my hair might bring unwanted attention, and with my injures healed and gone, I was thisclose to returning to my invisible existence. Besides, sometimes the length could almost act as a shield if I wore my hair down; over my shoulders, I could only see ahead of me. The end of the semester loomed closer, bringing graduation that much closer. God, I could almost taste the freedom. Surely, once I leave here, everything would get better. It just had to.

Throwing my hair back to its place down my back, I take a deep breath. "Just a few more months, Clara," I whisper in my own little mental pep-talk. "Just keep your nose clean." I wanted to laugh at myself. I had to be the most ridiculous person in the world.

Stepping out into the hallway, soft snores drift in and out my head from Janie's room. Must be nice to sleep in. But she worked the graveyard shift at the Walmart and had to report to her secretarial position at the firm in Midland Lee in a few hours. I smiled, leaning against the frame and just listening to her sleep. She didn't deserve what I had put her through…what I still put her through.

Grabbing my things at the door, I throw my strap on my shoulder and leave silently, making sure to lock up tightly before heading to my truck. My neighborhood was silent as the grave, so I felt pretty bad starting my engine as its roar filled the air. But I used the drive time to prep myself into staying calm during school. Sure, I see him in the hallways and cafeteria, but we have no classes together. I just need to make sure I don't make any sudden movements that might give me away.

/

I used to believe that I was a pretty transparent person. Wearing my emotions on my sleeve and all that jazz. But as the morning progressed into the warm afternoon no one seemed to notice the sudden appearance of make up, or that I seemed jumpier than usual. I thought I was being obvious. I guess not.

And I'm not sure how that makes me feel.

On one hand, I don't want word of a second attack spreading around school again. I really don't. That kind of infamy is still weighing heavily on my mind from the first round, and if it happens again, people would likely assume I did it to myself for the attention. (Because the people at my school are, honest-to-God, that moronic.) But I want the people who are supposed to care about me (or say that they do) to just know me well enough and tell when I'm upset. I know it's not fair to be that expectant of them, but it's how I feel.

Lee and Stasia are prime examples if only because of the fact that they left me to fend for myself in the lunchroom. Stasia's meeting me later but she had to run to meet with a teacher and Lee's cheating off a boy in her physics class for a homework assignment. I suppose I could've eaten lunch in a classroom due to the fact that food and drink were prohibited in the library, but truth be told, it's just as easy for me to sit here alone and read my—

"Hey, Clara, mind if we join you?"

The fruit speared on my plastic fork pauses halfway to my awaiting mouth as I glance up, stunned to find Brian grinning at me. I gap like a fish, the word "No" nearly out of my mouth when I swallow it back down. Instead, I ask, "We?"

"Cool."

He sits down, and I'm about to protest when out of the blue, Mike Winchell sits beside me, shooting me what seems to be an apologetic smile. "Hey, Clara."

I love his slow, southern drawl. "Hi, Mike," I say softly.

"Do you mind if I sit down?"

I look up and blush at Don's emotionless stare. He hasn't really said or done anything since my little overheard outburst in the library, but since my attack, I haven't the nerve to at least apologize. Besides, this is what I want. Distance.

I nod in quick, short increments, almost spastically really. "Yeah, yes, of course."

He ducks his head and sits down beside Brian. They eat calmly, as if this is something we do every day. I, however, can't help but notice that sudden stares from our peers, and I feel my palms become sweaty and I swallow nervously.

Just as I formulate some kind of question as to what the hell they're doing, Brian opens his mouth (full of fries) and says, "How've you been, Clara?"

"Why?"

I didn't mean to sound defensive or petulant, but for me, I always expect an ulterior motive. Clearly Brian senses this, because he frowns before covering it up with an amused laugh. "Because I haven't seen or spoken to you in ages!"

I feel my hairline sizzle. "Right, of course. I'm fine, great even. Fantastic. And you?"

He smirks and I flush again. "I'm good, Clara."

Not wanting to seem rude, I turn to Mike. "And what about you? How have you been, Mike?"

He nods as if trying to reassure my discomfort. He probably would understand better than anyone. "I've been good, Clara. Real good."

I give him a nervous smile. God, this is all so awkward. Why are they here? "Good."

We fall silent and I'm staring at my fruit salad stupidly, wishing the table would swallow me whole and quickly. "Aren't you gonna ask me how I've been?"

My attention span stumbles and my gaze jerks until it lands on Don. "What?"

"Well, you asked Chavo and Mike here how they've been but not me."

A proper response to his gentle accusation evades me. So naturally, I go for the next best thing: "Oh, well, of course. I didn't mean anything…it must've slipped my mind. I'm…so sorry…"

We just look at each other, silent understanding passing between us as he ducks his head down and then looks back up at me, once again, up through his lashes. I don't know how long we sit like that, but Brian suddenly calls out, "Hey, what's up?"

My gaze jerks from Don and instinctively towards the edge of the table. I look at his face for a moment before a chill washes over me, forcing my eyes down. I feel myself wanting to curl up but I stop myself. Act normal and he'll go away. Act normal and he'll go away. Suddenly, the bruises on my neck seem to burn.

"Nothing much, Brian, just got a message from Coach for the players."

You're that Baker Girl, right?

"Shoot."

"Just that practice is being pushed back an hour while the paint on the field dries for this week's home game."

What are you doing out here by yourself.

"Hey, have you met Clara yet? Clara Baker?"

"No, I don't think I've had the pleasure."

Who the fuck have you told?

Out of the corner of my peripheral vision, I see his hand move. I flinch, pushing into Mike. When I realize he's holding his hand out I almost cry with humiliation. Why, for the love of God, can't he leave me alone? "I have to go, I'm so sorry."

Without thinking, I leave my things behind. Without thinking, I plan to exit through the doors. Without thinking, I run straight into the last person on this earth that I want to see right now.

"What the fuck, Clara?"

I'm aware of a few people laughing, but otherwise the cafeteria is eerily silent. Looking down, I see spaghetti sauce splattered over my jeans and sneakers, but it's nothing compared to Maria who's literally lying in her lunch. If I wasn't so terrified of Maria, it would be hilarious. But as my life would go…

"Oh, God, Maria! I'm so sorry, I didn't see you—"

"Don't. Fucking. Touch. Me."

I was holding out my hand to help her up, but she nearly scooted away from me, as if I carried some kind of contagious disease. Maria stands up, food falling to the floor as she does so. "I should make you pay for my lunch you stupid bitch!"

I say nothing and this only seems to fuel her enraged fire.

"God, you're a fucking embarrassment, you know that right? For Christ's sake, take a fucking hint, do us all a favor, and drop dead, Clara. No one wants you here."

My face is so hot it's any moment now before my hair catches fire. I hear Maria snort and mumble under her breath before the squeak of her expensive shoes signal her leaving. Which leaves me standing in the cafeteria, covered in Maria's lunch. It's as if I've disassociated from myself, feeling numb. Facing my two-timing attacker and a bitter Maria in less than thirty seconds is enough to overwhelm all good instincts that tell me to get out now.

Stone-washed jeans entertain my downcast gaze and I can only feel a slight relief that I'm no longer standing alone.

"Clara? Wanna get out of here?"

Old Clara would've said, "No" because she knew it was wrong to skip school for no good reason. But as I stood in that silent cafeteria, I had an epiphany of sorts: I didn't want to be Old Clara. I didn't want to feel too cowardice to defend myself, too ashamed, too silent. In all honestly, it just made me tired and secretly bitter at the world for being so cruel.

But the whole world wasn't cruel.

Take Don right now, for example. Showing a simple act of kindness, or Brian, who pushed his friends to join me at lunch so I didn't have to sit alone. Take LeAnn, who use to hate me, or Stasia, who didn't know me from eve. All good people I intentionally distance parts of my life from because it just makes everything…easier.

"I heard there's a twenty-four hour diner that's pretty good," I say softly.

I hear Don chuckle, "Is that so?" I nod mutely. "In that case…"

He grabs my hand, and I only have a second to notice my bag in his other hand before he's pulling me along. And for the first time in my life, I don't pay attention to the stares that follow me…us, out the cafeteria. All I can do is stare at the back of Don's head and smile.

/

"I never did thank you, for what you did for me today."

Don looks up from the takeout tray full of fries to find me staring at him. "It's not something you have to thank me for, Clara. I should've busted Maria in the mouth—"

"No, you shouldn't've," I correct with a soft smile. "But I wish you could."

He grins before popping a fry into his mouth. Naturally, they were cold by now, but neither of us noticed as we ate in silence. We sat in the bed of my truck, our backs against opposite sides so that we face each other with the tray between our stretched out legs.

I never, in the years since Don moved here and became "It", would've believed I would spend an entire afternoon with him, let alone enjoy it. He's surprisingly…comfortable. Safe, but not in a settling way. Safe in a way that makes my face flush when he looks at me for a long time, or my skin shiver as he voice roams over it, or my body warm when his arm accidentally grazes mine when he reaches for the salt. Safe in a way that I actual feel like I can trust him.

"Clara?"

"Hmm?"

"…Are you okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You're staring at me."

I blink quickly. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean—"

"What are you thinking about?"

You. "Nothing."

He grins as if he knows I'm lying, but thankfully doesn't push the question. Looking for a change of conversation, I glance off into the horizon where the desert sun leaves a warm palette of colors across the sky. I get so lost in the view that it's not until I stiffen at his arm around my waist that I realize Don's behind me. I turn in confusion as he pulls me between his legs, trying to urge me to lean against his chest. My chest tightens with nerves as my mind summersaults to the last time we were so close, and instinctively, I resist.

"I don't bite, Clara," Don murmurs, almost sounding insulted.

"I know," I respond quickly, "I'm just—"

"Not used to it," he finishes. "Well get used to it."

With that, he pulls me in so that I can feel the heat of his skin through my blouse. I watch his hands slide down my arms until our fingers are tangled together, and I marvel at how much larger his hands are than mine. Then he moves our arms so that they rest on my stomach.

"See," he teases gently, "harmless."

I can almost sense his patience as I mentally adjust to the change in atmosphere, from casual to intimate at his discretion. But of course he would have to push for it because I never would. He presses his legs against mine and I feel immersed in a cocoon.

"Yeah, h-harmless."

This guy is gonna be the death of me.

Yet, a single nagging thought prevented me from leaning completely into him. As if my body physically recognized one small, tiny detail that seemed to still hang in the air.

"People are gonna hate you for this."

He stiffens and the comfortable silence becomes thick. "Clara—"

"No point in acting like you won't face the same kinda crap I get," I snap sharply, his ignorance irritating. The moment lost, I detangle myself from him and slide off the truck, turning to face him with my arms crossed and my emotions steeled for the ugly truth.

He suddenly looks confused, likely wondering where the hell this came from. "Clara, I don't understand what you want."

I floundered in my thoughts. I didn't quite know what message I was trying to get across, and thought carefully about my next words. "I'm not gonna lie, because…you already overheard me say it before: but I do like you." He studies me with gentle eyes that urge me forward. "Today…I can't remember the last time I've laughed so much…ever. But as much as I wish today could last forever, it won't. Tomorrow we have to face our classmates, your friends, and you'll be Don Billingsly of the Permian Panthers and I'll be the Mutt—"

"Clara—!"

I smiled ruefully but I'm sure Don saw past it. "Don't act like you haven't heard the nicknames, the stories about Janie and I…and if we…if you and I…"

"Date?" Don said with a small smile.

"Yes, that. If we date you'd be in the same boat as me: an outcast. I watched it happen to LeAnn: all her friends, save for those on the soccer team who like me enough, ditched her because of me. And God knows I love her for that…but I can't ask that of you. It's not fair and you'd be giving up so much—"

"Clara, shut up."

Okay. Ouch.

Don sidles over until his long legs dangle over the edge of my truck, and when his hands grasp my hips, I feel a sudden wave of my resolve break on the shore. "How Maria treats you—the slurs, the beer, the threats—is cold and cruel." His eyes narrow and I swear his voice deepens with anger. "She always thinks she has the right to tread on whomever she wants and it makes me sick, especially since you never asked for it, Clara."

"It's how she was raised—"

"Doesn't make it right!" He looks at me, right at me. "And if I left you now, I'd hate myself as much as I'm starting to hate her."

I can't look him in the eyes, so I keep my focus on the side of my truck, but I can't help the impact his words have on me. It's a shame that I've lived a life where a simple act of human kindness stops my heart with disbelief, as if it's waiting for the Catch.

"Clara…what do you want?"

I closed my eyes, thinking back. What do you want from me? Now he wants to know what I want, and I'm struck dumb. I wanted a lot of things: for Maria to leave me alone, for James to talk to me again, to rewind time back before my attack…like I said, a lot of things.

Suddenly exhausted, I sit down beside Don as we both stare silently out at the sinking sun. It would be dark soon, and I couldn't avoid Janie's wrath for my afternoon absence any longer.

"Let's just take it one day at a time," I say finally. "See where that gets us."

"One day at a time, hmm?" He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me into his chest. This time, I relax in his embrace. "I think I can do that."