Author's Note: yes, I have noticed that the chapters about Claire and John are the longest. But Andy and Brian piss me off. :P Allison is cool, though! This chapter was originally twice as long, but I cut it in half, which explains the rather abrupt ending to this chapter. Anyway, I'm listening to The Breakfast Club Soundtrack while writing this, which should help! ^_^
Second Author's Note: Modess = sanitary pads/maxi pads/things that are far more comfortable than tampons, and serve the same purpose. Textiles = sewing/clothes designing class.
Warning: some sappiness ahead! But not all that much! ~_^ And sorry if this drags a bit. And sorry it's so long. But please, bear with me. And please review!
For all other author's notes and the disclaimer see Chapter One. Please read them before reading the fic. Thanks. Send feedback to nova_mist@yahoo.com Please read and review.
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The Altered View Monday Can Bring
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March 26th, 1984
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Chapter Twelve – Concealer and other Catastrophes==========================================
Claire led John through the halls until they finally reached the staff bathroom on the third floor.
"The staff bathroom?" John asked her incredulously.
"They never use this one." Claire explained. "All the way up on the third floor? Do you really think they could be bothered to come all the way up here just to take a leak? And we have even less of a chance of being interrupted this period because of the staff meeting." She pointed out.
John nodded. "Good point, Red. You ain't just a pretty face."
Claire looked at him slyly. "You think I'm pretty?" she asked him.
John went red, which Claire thought was a fascinating thing. She didn't know that John could actually look embarrassed. "Yeah, beautiful." he replied, not looking at her. "I can't believe these arseholes get bench-sinks that are actually strong enough to hold five people!" John snapped, hoisting himself up to sit on the bench sink, leaning against the wall. One of his feet dangled into one of the sinks. "And clean mirrors, to. Fucking hell!" he leaned forwards to look in the mirror, and pulled back his hair. He winced. "Okay, maybe it's better to have dirty mirrors." He whispered.
The bruise had continued to swell, and was now turning purple.
"You fell over, huh?" Claire asked sceptically.
John spun around and glared at her. "Well, that's what I told you, isn't it?" he snapped harshly.
Claire glared back at him, defiant. "That's bullshit, John!" she hissed. John looked up at the ceiling, upset. "That bruise of yours has been caused by something far more serious than you just falling over. It looks like somebody punched you!"
John's head snapped around, and he looked at her, surprised. His eyes were wide with shock and maybe…was that a trace of fear? "What?" he snapped. "What do you mean 'it looks like somebody hit me'?" he asked, jumping down of the counter to stand in front of her.
Claire frowned. "Exactly what I said. The bruise looks like it was caused by a fist slamming into your face at maximum velocity." She replied. She was worried. John looked scared.
"I…I…" he trailed off, his eyes darting around wildly, as if he was subconsciously looking for an escape route.
"Did someone hit you?" Claire asked him quietly. She was becoming afraid. Had someone actually hit John that hard as to cause a bruise that nasty? Who had done it?
John pulled back his sleeve, revealing a circular burn scar on his right arm, near his elbow. "See that? It's about the size of a cigar...Do I stutter? You see, this is what you get in my house when you spill paint in the garage."
Claire bro8ught her hand to her mouth and gasped, shocked. She gasped. "John…your father…did he…"
John smiled bitterly. "My father…hit me." John whispered, looking down at the ground, avoiding Claire's eyes. John laughed mirthlessly. "Just another day in the good old Bender household." He said sourly, his voice cracking.
Claire put a hand under John's chin, lightly lifting his head up so she could see his face, lifting his hair away again to examine the bruise. "It looks like he punched you, John, and pretty hard, too. Are any of your teeth broken? Here, show me your teeth."
John just looked at her in wonderment. "You…" he paused. "You actually care?" he asked her incredulously.
Claire looked him in the eyes, and gave him a funny look. "Of course I care, John."
"I'm not used to anyone caring about me, that's all." It slipped out before John could stop it. He looked embarrassed, and tried to pull away from Claire, but she pulled his hands into her own.
"John, why did he hit you?" Claire asked softly.
John looked down at the ground again. He sighed deeply. She'll know if you are lying. And if I don't tell her now, sometime in the future I'll probably break down, crying like a baby, about how Daddy Dearest beat me.
John sighed heavily again. "I accidentally knocked over my father's bottle of beer – the last in the house – and it fell to the floor and broke." He replied after a long silence.
"He hit you for that?" Claire asked incredulously before she could stop herself. But Claire had a nagging feeling that John was hiding something.
John looked up at her sharply, eyes blazing. "Well, not everyone can have a perfect fucking family like you, Princess." He snarled venomously.
It took all of Claire's strength to not just drop John's hands and storm off, yelling derogatory terms over her shoulder, running back to the likes of Geena, Hannah, Mandy, Brittany and Jody, who were so wrapped up in their artificial lives it made Claire sick.
But Claire knew John better than that, now. She knew that it was just on the tactics he used to try to drive people away, one that usually worked.
But not this time.
Claire just continued to hold John's hands in hers, and lock her eyes with his own. "My family is no where near perfect, John." She whispered. "As I told you on Saturday, my parents only use me to get back at each other. All they ever do is fight. And on Saturday night, they had a fight so bad that my father slapped my moth-" she stopped speaking abruptly, embarrassed of what she had started to tell him. She looked down at the ground, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
And, slightly hesitant, John reached over and gently lifted her head up and looked her in the face.
"Don't cry, Claire," he said softly, in barely more than a whisper. "They aren't worth it. Their failings and mistakes aren't worth your tears."
Claire smiled through her tears. He was right, of course. Her parents' failings were not worth crying over. And if John – whose parents were far worse than her own – wouldn't cry over his parents, she would not cry over her own.
She looked at John's face carefully, noticing the fact that John had pulled his hair back over his face again. "So, are your own parents worth crying over, John?" she whispered.
"No, of course not." John replied airily.
Claire smiled sadly. "So then why are you crying?"
John looked startled. "I'm not crying." He snapped sharply. "Why the flying fuck would I cry for?" he continued.
Claire felt tears prick the back of her eyes. "Oh, John…" Then she leaned forwards and pulled him into her arms. She was crying. "Oh, John. John, John, John. How could anyone do that to you?" she sobbed.
John sounded like he was choking, and pulled Claire back so he was holding her at arms length. "Didn't you hear Vernon on Saturday, Claire?" he whispered. "I'm a bum. White trash. I ain't worth shit."
"That's not true!" Claire protested forcefully. "You aren't worthless!"
John tilted his head to the side. "I'm not?"
"Of course you aren't!" Claire snapped angrily. "Jesus Christ!"
John smiled at her. "So, you actually do like me?" he asked her playfully.
Claire glared at him. "Well of course I like you, dimwit!" Claire replied sharply. "Honestly! What is it with men? You have to tell them the same thing a thousand times over before they understand you, and even then they think that you are only joking!" she said, exasperated. "Right, you, get up on that damn bench so we can do this."
"Yes, ma'am!" he saluted her, grinning, and he lifted himself back up onto the bench where he was sitting previously. Claire noticed that John was doing everything he could to not see his bruise in the mirror behind him. She jumped up onto the bench beside him, and they faced each other, John sitting Indian-style and Claire kneeling.
Claire opened her bag, and tipped the contents out onto the bench in front of her. A comb, make-up compacts, a Cosmopolitan magazine, a couple of sanitary pads still in their wrappers, hair-ties and the tube of anti-inflammatory cream fell out.
John looked at it all in fascination, and looked at the sanitary pads. "You don't use tampons?" John asked her curiously, before he could stop himself.
Claire smiled at his innocent wonderment, and shook her head. "Nope. I took one look at one and thought: 'there ain't no way in the world that I'm going to stick one of those things up there!'" she replied.
John laughed so hard there were tears in his eyes. "Smart girl!" he told her.
It was only then that Claire realised what she had said. "Shit, I didn't just say that out loud, did I?" she asked him.
John nodded at her. "Not so pristine, eh?"
Claire giggled. "Shut up," she said good-naturedly, and opened the tube of and squeezed some onto her fingers. "Now, hold still. And tell me if I'm pressing down too hard." Claire whispered to him.
John looked up at her. His eyes glittered strangely. "Okay," he whispered. John held very still as Claire gently rubbed the lotion into his bruise. Claire was very careful to keep her nails out of the way, so as not to scratch him.
John closed his eyes. He hadn't had anyone fuss over him like this since he was a little boy, and his mother and father actually cared about him. But that was a long time ago. That's in the past, John. he snapped at himself. Leave it back there, where it belongs. In happier times.
"That stuff you said about Victoria back in History, was it true?" Claire asked him, as she pulled the concealer tubes out of her bag, trying to think which one would best suit John's tanned skin.
"Yes," John responded quietly.
"You did that just to get the attention off me, didn't you?" Claire whispered, leaning back slightly. "And you said that about Victoria to defend me, right? To throw it back in her face - and to let everyone know - that it's Victoria who is the slut, not me."
John smiled, embarrassed. "Yeah." He admitted. "Are you angry?"
Claire shook her head. "No," she whispered. "I'm not angry."
John nodded, relieved, but didn't meet her eyes. He looked down at the ground.
"Why?" she asked. "Why did you do it?" There were tears in her eyes.
"Because you're my friend, Claire." John replied.
Claire hesitated. "What did you mean, back in history, when you muttered that I was probably your only real friend in the entire world?" she asked in a whisper.
John looked at her sharply, and for a moment, Claire was afraid that he'd get up and storm off and never talk to her again. Then, he sighed. He sounded defeated. "Exactly what it means." He responded.
"That can't be true." Claire said softly. "What about all your friends that you normally hang out with?" she asked innocently.
John snorted. "You mean Spike and Jarred – or Stoner and Jay as you'd probably know them when your little rich-bitch clique point them out." He spat. He then immediately regretted his harsh words when he saw the hurt expression on Claire's face. Good one, John! he sneered at himself. "Look, Claire, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, okay? I'm an arsehole, you know that."
Claire shook her head slowly. "No, John, it's okay. You're right, anyway. That is the only way I knew of them. Geena has pointed them out to me before. She pointed Stoner…err…I mean, Spike," she hastily corrected herself, and John smiled at her. "She pointed Spike out to me, who was standing with four other guys, and told me: 'They're the Stoners, Claire. Keep away from them. All they ever do is get high.'" Claire mocked Geena's slightly nasal voice.
John was looking at her in a way that was slightly unsettling. Not in an angry way, and not in a sexual way, but it was unsettling all the same. It was like he was looking right into her soul, reading her mind.
"Um, here, give me your hand." Claire said, wanting to change the subject. She gently pulled his hand into her own, and gently pulled off the glove, and wiped a few different concealer tones onto an uninjured part of his hand, finally finding the right one. She looked back up at him. "Well, I've found the right concealer tone." She told him. He looked at her suddenly, and then looked at his hand. He hadn't noticed what she was doing before now. He looked at his injured hand, and then back at Claire's face. He squinted slightly, as if trying to read her expression.
She frowned slightly. "What?" she asked him, careful to keep her voice casual.
"What, no comment on the messed-up state of my hand?" John asked her sharply.
Claire frowned again. "I didn't think you would want my opinion on it." she told him cautiously, pulling the make-up brushes required out of her bag, and covering the bristles with the concealer. Claire, gently pulling John's hair back, started to gently brush the concealer over the bruise.
John closed his eyes again, and forced himself to relax. She's not going to beat the shit out of you. he reminded himself. Just relax. She's trying to help you.
Claire noticed that John was grimacing to himself, and frowned. He was obviously deep in though. Claire was about to ask him what was wrong, when he quite suddenly became calm. He wasn't smiling…but he wasn't grimacing either. He looks almost…relaxed. Claire mused.
It took Claire at least twenty minutes to properly conceal John's bruise. When she was done, she leaned back to admire her handiwork. "Hah, I'm a genius!" Claire informed John.
John, who had been distracted, lost in his thoughts, was startled. His head snapped up quickly, and his hazel eyes locked with Claire's brown ones. "Um, what?" he asked her, confused.
Claire raised her eyebrows. "We're done. Concealer, lotion, everything." She repeated. "Take a look for yourself." She gestured to the mirror behind them.
John looked at her for a moment, and then turned and looked at his reflection and saw…
Nothing.
"It's gone!" he cried, amazed. He turned to face her. "Completely gone!"
Claire grinned. "I told you I was a genius." She giggled, leaning forward and gently pulling the tortoiseshell headband out of John's hair.
John laughed. "Damn right you are!" he replied, turning this way and that, and being exceedingly happy when he found no dramatic change in colour, and that the swelling was already going down, and could only be seen at certain angels. He looked at Claire again and smirked. "There's more to you than meets the eye, Princess."
"Well, I should hope so!" Claire replied. "I look like a ditz!"
John laughed. "Yeah well, just because you look like a ditz, that doesn't mean that you are a ditz." He told her. "But then again, only ditzy girls get a detention for skipping class to go shopping-OW!"
John was cut off as Claire playfully whacked him on the knee with the Cosmopolitan magazine.
"Oh! She wounds me!" he said dramatically.
"Well, that's what you get for calling me a ditz!" she pouted.
"But baby," he replied. "You are a ditz!"
"Oh, like, shut up!" she said in a Valley Girl accent. "You are so totally, like, disagreeable!"
John laughed at her theatrics. "Do you even know what a big word like 'disagreeable' means?"
Claire started giggling again. Then John cracked up. They were having a playful tug-of-war with the Cosmopolitan magazine when-
BBBBBBRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGGG!
"AHHH!" Both Claire and John nearly jumped out of their skins. Then they both burst out laughing. It was nothing but the warning bell that class was five minutes away.
"Maybe we should switch to decaf." John suggested, as he and Claire got off the bench. Claire giggled and started to put all of her things back in her bag. John helpfully handed her the now bashed-up Cosmo. "Hmm, maybe it's not so bad that Madonna's face had been slightly dented." John suggested.
Claire smiled. "Here, show me." Claire then immediately cracked up after seeing that there was a dent in Madonna's face from where Claire herself had sent her shoe heel into it while trying to wrestle the magazine off John. "I don't know, I think it suits her."
John smirked at her. "Yeah, it'll be the new fashion trend: face dents. All you need is for someone to send a high-heel into your face." He looked at the magazine again. "Preferably right into your forehead." He added, handing Claire her concealer compact and the anti-inflammatory cream.
"Thank you, John." Claire said, putting the things in her bag.
John reached for the next thing on the bench, which just so happened to be the modess. "Umm…" John said awkwardly.
Claire giggled. He's so cute. She thought to herself. Under that bad-ass exterior, he really is very sweet. "Go on, they won't bite."
"Are you sure?" John muttered, and gingerly picked them up by the corner of their wrapping, and handing them to her. She was trying very, very hard not to laugh.
"Positive." She told him, opening the door to the bathroom. "Come on, we'll be late for second period." They started to walk down the hallway. "What do you have?"
"Uh, Biology." John replied. "We're doing that boring plant-growing experiment. Have you done it yet? You know, that one where you get to chose a plant, and then plant some seeds and then watch them grow, all the while making interesting 'observations' about how well the plant is growing under the heat lamps and everything?"
Claire smiled. "Yeah, we're doing that now as well. It is about as exciting as watching grass grow. Because we literally are watching grass grow. Which plants are you using?"
John rolled his eyes. "Hydrangeas. My friend Asher chose them. Well, actually, I think he nicked them out of his grandmother's garden, but he stole the dirt from the school garden beds."
Claire burst out laughing. "Well, we all know that Asher Zhang is a very smart boy." She said.
John laughed. "So, while I happen to have the incredible honour of watching Asher's stolen plants grow in dirt stolen from the school rose bed, what have you got next period?" he asked her.
Claire thought for a moment, then she rolled her eyes. "Textiles." She replied. "My whole clique takes it. We're all in the same class."
Suddenly, John looked uncomfortable, uncertain. "Your whole group, eh?"
"Yeah, all of them." Claire replied, feeling her heart drop to her feet. "Shit." She muttered.
John glanced at her sharply. "What's the matter? Regretting this whole fiasco?" he asked harshly. Well, Johnny Boy, game's up. She regrets it. She'll see all her little rich-bitch friends in textiles, and fall in to their pressures, and it'll all be over before you can say: 'You shallow bitch!'"
Claire looked at him, annoyed. "Well of course I don't regret it!" Claire replied. Then she grinned. "Besides, do you really think I'd waste all my free samples on someone I didn't like?" she asked, turning in the hallway towards the Textiles room.
John laughed. "Well, I dunno, you could always get more free samples…" he replied, grinning at her annoyed expression.
"From that department store?" Claire asked him. "I don't think so! They're such tight-arses it's amazing they can function!" Then she looked at John very seriously, and stopped walking. They were just down the hall from the Shop room, in plain sight of everyone, but Claire hadn't seemed to notice this. "John, I'm not the leader of my clique. I'm just one of the followers.
"That's why I was complaining on Saturday about the pressure that my friends put on me: because I don't put any pressure on them for anything." She held his hands between her own. "I've been a sheep, John. I haven't submitted my opinion. I've just done everything that Geena and Hannah have said. I've been sitting in the backseat. This isn't going to be easy for me. I know how they all work." She paused for a moment. "If they don't pester me for the details about us now, they'll do it later. But it'll probably happen as soon as we all sit down in the textiles room. But I will not succumb to their pressures this time, John." she told him.
She looked him right in the eyes. "You. Are. My. Friend." She told him. "I will not run you down to them. I will not stop being friends with you just because they think that I should be going out with a Preppie or a Jock. But I don't want to go out with a Preppie or a Jock. I like you. And if they have a problem with that, well, they can go fuck themselves."
John looked at her in silence for a long moment. "You like me." he repeated. "As in you like me."
"Um, yeah." Claire replied, feeling embarrassed. "I really like y-"
But she was cut off as John leaned down and kissed her right on the mouth. Claire was so shocked for a moment that she just stood there.
John started to pull away, thinking he'd done the wrong thing, when suddenly, he felt Claire entwine her fingers in his longish hair.
"Where do you think you are going?" she whispered playfully, pulling him back towards her, kissing him. And in less than five seconds, they were having a full open-mouth kiss right in the middle of the hallway. After a minute or two, they came up for air, and they stood there, arms wrapped around each other, grinning at each other, hearing the whispers in the hallway reach maximum volume.
"Oh. My. GAWD! Did you see that?"
"What the hell?"
"They're kissing now?! In the middle of the hallway?!"
"But I thought all they did was sit together in History!"
"Well, you two seem to be getting along very well." A very familiar voice said directly to Claire and John. They both turned their heads towards the source of the voice.
John's blood ran ice cold in his veins. He looked deeply worried, a little fear creeping into his eyes.
Claire noticed, and mouthed, "What's wrong?" to John.
John took a deep breath, and didn't reply. "Well, hello Dick," John said conversationally, trying to defuse the situation. Shit, just go away, Vernon. I don't have the energy for this shit right now. We aren't breaking any rules, so fuck the hell off.
"Both of you. My office. Now!" Vernon snapped at them, and prodded them down the hallways until they reached his office.
"Shit." John and Claire muttered in unison.