Hello, my readers. (smiles) Thanks for the positive reviews
of last chapter.
A/N: I know most of my chapters have been centering Chris's POV so far, and they may remain that way awhile longer, but Hunter will get his fair share in soon enough.
Also, it has come to my attention that the reader known as "Krystalblazejerikor" has called me her sister. Jerk. The truth is out, friends.
I was put into the Witness Protection Program (WPP) of Fanfiction.net approximately six months ago when I angered an author by sending a less than helpful response. Due to this review, the author buzzed my computer with a virus, one that sent my computer into total shock, causing me to lose practically all my stories. I pleaded into the management Fanfiction.net to put a stop to this user, but they revealed to me that this user was a liable threat in "real life" and my situation was only a taste of his power. Due to this, they could not shut him down, for fear of a total chaotic breakdown of Fanfiction.net and fear of assassinations in "real life," possibly my own. For this reason I was sent into the WPP, where I was given this new identity and told to live a quiet life.
But for now, Krystalblazejerikor has endangered my life.
For I am known other than the Jerikor of the two.
Yeah right. There is no WPP of Fanfiction.net, I made it up as a fancy way of saying this was my new penname, and my old was Krystalblazejerikor, and I really am Jerikor of the two. This is my new penname, though I do still post stories in my old penname, the recent being "To Kill it All Away." Shameless self plug.
Happy now?
I hope this causes none of you to lose respect for me . . . or anything. Lol.
Sorry for the incredibly long note . . . I hope you got a laugh out of it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Chris Irvine, Hunter Leseveque, Shawn Michaels, or Joanie Laurer. They belong to themselves and I make no claim to their minds or thoughts.
On to the fic!
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From Here to Heaven
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Chapter Seven
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Chris: The Unknown
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"This school seems to have a lot of activities," said Shawn, browsing through the literature that had come in the mail.
Even a week after the declaration had been made, I still felt the awe in what had transpired. In the corner of the apartment sat a backpack, a few binders, and packages of pens and pencils. Open before us on the coffee table were papers and certificates, spread in a messy chaotic order. Resting on a cushion was my braced leg, which I was massaging with my hands for the spikes of aching pain that shivered through it. Therapy was preparing me for what lied ahead.
And what was ahead, in four days, was Franklin Memorial High School.
I felt . . . I felt happy.
I hadn't felt happy in a long time.
"It does," I said. "When do I get to choose my classes?"
"You should probably look at this first," he said, sliding a booklet toward me. "It's the class description booklet. They offer advanced courses. Did you say you took those?"
"Yes," I answered, starting to flip through the booklet. I turned to the page about credits and scanned the writing for a moment. "Wait. Did you say that when you're fifteen you're a sophomore?"
"Yeah," Shawn said, now reading a pamphlet on the lunch program. "So?"
"Well, it actually depends on how many credits you have," I said, keenly aware of what he read. "It says I'd be a junior, with the amount of credits I have."
He looked up at me in surprise. "Well, then you'd graduate a year early. I guess that's a good thing."
I cocked my head at him. Did he want me to graduate early? I'd be only sixteen when I graduated, not even legal. It was probably better to graduate at the right age, at least here- I'd still only be seventeen, but it would be closer than sixteen.
I looked at Shawn. "What do you think?"
He seemed surprised. "It's not my decision, it's yours. I'd say go for it."
I looked back at the description booklet. I'd still be young when I graduated, but at least I'd have something challenging to occupy my mind with. And besides, it was a year out of Shawn's pocket- if I actually stayed around that long.
"I'll be the junior," I said. "At least I'll at be challenged in the classes."
"That's the spirit," he said, smiling, his eyes going back to the pamphlet he held. "I think we can you on the free lunch program. Single-parent . . . yeah, I make less than that. Well, at least you'll be able to eat."
I didn't answer him; I wasn't sure how. I remembered with too much clarity, and too much shame, the night I had broken down in front of Shawn and Hunter. Sometimes I still got angry thinking about how far I had let myself fall. It was just another mistake on my record. Another mistake that haunted me was the day after, when Hunter had come over with his bag of food.
I still burned over that. Since that day, almost a week ago, I had not seen Hunter. And Shawn barely even talked about him, just in passing reference, almost like a joke. They were still fighting, I could see. A deep wedge had been driven into their friendship, and that deep wedge had been me. It scraped at the pit of my belly, that shame. I wanted to hide my head and hurt myself when the memory what had happened surfaced in my mind.
I had caused the rift. I was the rift.
And that hurt me more badly than I ever thought it could.
I hadn't said anything about it and neither had Shawn. I could see the look in his eyes sometimes, at night when it was just me and him. He looked restless, almost bored. He would talk to me, and then we'd run out of things to talk about and he'd get this . . . lonely look in his eyes. He missed his best friend.
And I was the reason. I was the only reason.
"Chris?"
Shawn's voice broke my revere and commanded my gaze.
"Huh?"
"I was saying, are you ready to start on Monday?" He looked at me closely, as though my failure to respond to him the first time was the bottom line, that he now doubted my capability to function on Monday.
Following that line of thinking, I blurted, "I'm fine! I'm ready to start on Monday, trust me! Of course I'm ready, why wouldn't I be ready?"
He smiled faintly. "I'm glad you are. But I really want to know if you will be with this leg of yours." He tapped the braced leg resting on the cushion.
"I can walk," I declared, pushing back my chair and lowering my leg to the floor.
"A demonstration isn't necessary, you don't have to do-"He started, startled.
I threw myself to my feet and swaggered as best as I could around the little room. There was no pain anymore, really, in my knee- it was just the incapacity to bend and move the leg that was the problem. My step was a shuffling one, a lopsided gait that made me look more hurt than I really was. I had gone to three sessions of therapy, to restore movement to the limb and provide mobility in the brace. The only hurt I felt were aches after walking and standing for too long. Those aches could be fiery and sometimes they caused me to cry to myself at night, but most of the time I lapped up the pain medication and it was all better, no more worries.
I turned around and settled my eyes on Shawn, smiling. "See? I'm ready."
"You're sweating," he observed.
"You need an air conditioner," I said, making my way back toward the table. "I'll be fine, Shawn. Really, I will be. But I want to know if you will be."
Once the words left my mouth I couldn't call them back.
I watched Shawn's face form into puzzlement. "What are you on, kid?"
I took a steadying breath, praying I was ready for this conversation, praying that if I messed up and caused him hurt, he wouldn't seek retribution through the punishment of me. "I want you to talk to Hunter, Shawn. If that's okay with you," I added quickly.
He eyes arched in surprise. "What gives you the impression we aren't speaking?"
I allowed that illusion to hold for a second, so that I wouldn't have to finish this talk, but I knew it was false, and I let the vision evaporate. "I know you aren't, Shawn; I'm not stupid. Please, can you please just talk to him?"
He sat very still and no emotion crossed his face. "I don't need to talk to him. We still see each other."
Again, the image of rightness lasted only a second. "I know you're don't, Shawn. Please talk to him! You miss him!"
He looked at me and this time, an emotion like loneliness and anger permeated his eyes. "I don't have to have this conversation with you," he said stonily. "Now find what classes you want so I can take you down to the school so you can make give them to the counselor. It's almost time."
How desperately I wanted to let this go, to let us go on blissfully unaware of the damage being done. If I persisted, he would get angry, and I didn't know what he would do if he was angry. I trusted him not to hurt me . . . but for the second time, his silence was worst then his fists could ever be.
"You don't," I said, trying to draw in my courage. "I'm asking you to, Shawn. Please! I know you've given me a lot, and I'm grateful for it. But I won't have you lose Hunter over me!"
He stood up, pushing at the contents on the table. "I said to hurry up."
Anger now, filtering through his voice. Fear quaked through me and I tried not to let the shudders shake me. Not too much.
"No. I'll leave then."
I started to get up, slowly pushing back my chair.
"You're not going anywhere, Chris, sit your ass back down," he growled, pushing gently on my shoulder to sit me back in the seat.
I trembled underneath his hand slightly. I had lost so much control over the past week it scared me.
"No," I repeated. "Shawn, you're being stupid. I'm not coming in between you and your friend."
"He's still my friend," Shawn snapped, releasing my shoulder. "Now hurry up!"
"You let him go!" I clenched my fists. "You let him go for me!"
He paused for a moment, hazel eyes cold. "I did no such thing," he breathed, starting away.
"You don't even care about him anymore! As soon as I got here, you let him go! Now stop being such a stubborn asshole and call him!"
He stood rigidly, his back to me. My body quivered as he stood there, silently, for almost a moment, not speaking. In the depths of silence around us, I could feel the ripples of his tension, of my own abated breath and fear. Into this I had never willingly tread. But now into it I dove, pushing away the pain, and while I pushed that away, back came the certainty that after this, I would be punished.
His body sagged slightly and he turned back around to face me. "Get up and go wait in the car," he said.
I blinked at him. "What?"
"You heard me. Go wait in the car."
"Shawn-"
"GO WAIT IN THE CAR!"
Fear thundered through me, adrenaline screamed through my veins, and I clambered up off the chair, desperately making for the door. My back was to him; I was defenseless in my position. Tears were welling behind my eyes and in my head I could hear the voice, telling me again and again, you were stupid for ever listening to him, stupid for ever trusting him.
I tore open the door and bright sunlight bore down upon me as I heard a clatter of footsteps, coming closer to me, and pain broke into my mind. He was going to hit me, he was going to-
I threw myself out the door and slammed it shut, not even waiting for it to close before I was dragging myself down the stairs, my breath coming out in furious pants. As I reached the landing of the stairs, Shawn's battered, rusty car came into my view, sitting there serenely as though everything was right in the world.
Everything was not right in my world.
Tears blurred my eyes. Shawn had said to wait in the car. But Shawn was angry now. He was going to come down those stairs, go the car, and if I was in it, he was going to hurt me. Agony thudded through my heart. Why had I trusted him? Why had I even listened to him?
It was stupid. It was a stupid dream that I shouldn't even had believed. It was my own stupid fault for being so naïve and thinking that there was a person in the world who cared.
I wasn't going to wait around for Shawn to come down the stairs so he could hit me. He might come down, apologize for yelling, but in the end, he would punish me. The mask he had worn for the past week was deceptive, the Roman hind becoming the lion. He had helped me, yes- but it all fell away now.
Everything fell away now.
I shuffled furiously past the car, toward the edge of the building. I could hide in the alley running along behind the apartment complex. I'd wait until dark and then I'd stealthily make my way toward the highway, where I could follow it west. It would be a slow process, one of sickness and pain, but it was better than being stuck here in a place where I was hunted. Yes, the highway. I could make it there in less than an hour. Long trek to California, and then to Mexico. Yes, Mexico, where-
"Hey! You!"
I froze, shivering. Every fiber in my being told me to move, but I remained as still as a sculpture.
"Kid, come here."
I turned around, my heart about to burst from my rib cage.
The police officer in the dark blue uniform started to jog up to me, dark glasses covering the top part of his face. His name tag read JONES and his belt looked especially cruel. He looked like one of those men from the movies who, when you least expected it, turned out to be the killer in the dark corner. He was approaching me warily, hands outstretched, mouth twisted into a grimace.
"What are you doing out of school?"
I blinked at him, not really comprehending his meaning. Everything in my body told me to run, to sprint off down the alley and escape this cop. I was trapped if I didn't move! Trapped between this cop and Shawn. Trapped between things that, if given the chance, would both hurt me . . . the only way out of the pain was through the alley and I was paralyzed!
"Why aren't you in school?" the cop repeated, coming stand a few feet away from me.
TRAPPED!
I started to inch away, toward the alley, the paralysis finally releasing its grip on me.
"Don't do anything stupid," Jones warned, his hand gravitating toward his belt and nightstick. "Are you ditching? That's all I want to know."
I had to remain calm. I could talk my way out of this. My eyes drifted toward the complex. I had to do it quickly.
"No, sir, I'm not ditching," I said, breathing hard. "I'm new to the area and I'm starting on Monday. My dad and I are going right now to write down my classes."
To my own ears my voice rang with sincerity, and for a moment, I held in my hands the hope that I had actually fooled the cop.
"That's a mighty good story," Jones said, eyeing me, or at least looking like he was through the glasses. "But the fact is, you look like a runaway. Fancy finding you here."
My breath caught in my throat.
NO!
"Sir," I managed. "My dad's right in the apartment."
He smiled grimly. "I don't think you're ditching, but I don't think that you're telling the truth either. Now come on. What's your name?"
My mind raced.
There was no way out.
With my bad leg there was no way I could outrace him down the alley. And if I went the other way, I went straight back to Shawn. I was trapped! Each way was the wrong way and I was trapped!
"What's your name, kid? I'm going to call CPS. You're a foster runaway, aren't you?"
My heart thundered inside my chest and I wanted to cry.
More pain.
More pain either way.
"You fit the description of the foster runaway I just got," he said, his voice turning cajoling. "Blonde hair, long, blue eyes, 5'6. You look pretty banged up too, kid. Now what's your name?"
"Chris Michaels," I squeaked, the words coming of their own accord.
"Michaels," Jones mused, looking at me hard. "I've got an APB for Chris Irvine. Are you sure that isn't you?"
I closed my eyes.
I was dead.
"CHRIS!"
Shawn came barreling down the stairs, clutching what looked like a sheaf of papers in his hand, racing toward us.
Panic surged through me, vitalized me.
I could leave, now, run and then get caught.
Trapped.
Deer in the headlights.
I trembled and didn't move.
"Sir," Jones said, his voice betraying his confusion. "Do you know this boy, sir?"
"He's my son, Officer," Shawn said breathlessly, and I almost collapsed. "Is he in any trouble?"
So I'd be going with Shawn now.
"No trouble," the officer replied, still confused. "I'd like to know why he's out of school, though."
"We're new to the area," Shawn explained. "I'm taking him to sign up at Franklin Memorial right now." He showed the cop the papers in his hands like an explanation. I realized it was the course description booklet.
The cop nodded, still eyeing me. "I just thought he was ditching," he said, smiling pastily. "I'm sorry for the trouble. Have fun at school."
He turned around and walked back to the police cruiser parked by the curb.
"No trouble, Officer," Shawn chirped cheerfully as Jones drove away. "Just doing our parts as citizens!"
I stood motionless as Shawn walked closer to me.
"That was a close one," he said, taking my shoulder in his hand.
I jerked away, looking up at him wide-eyed.
He frowned. "Chris . . ." He stretched his hand out to touch me again.
I moved just out of his grip and he looked at me, puzzled.
"Chris, what's wrong?"
I waited for him to make his move, for him to strike me. Maybe I could get in one hit. One hit to cripple him momentarily and then I'd . . . I'd do something. I'd move. I'd just GET AWAY!
"Chris, I'm sorry for yelling at you, it was a stupid thing to do." He again moved toward me and I again took a step back.
"Go ahead," I dared, my voice shaking. "Go ahead and try it."
His mouth twisted into a confused look. "Try what, Chris? Chris, you have to tell me what's wrong. Are you mad because I yelled at you?"
I breathed hard. "Go ahead and try hitting me," I repeated, daring him. If I dared him, I'd be ready when he really attacked. It was better if I was ready.
His eyes dashed with confusion, puzzlement, and finally they settled into pain. "Chris, I'm not going to hit you," he said in a voice thick with pity. "Where did you ever get that idea from?"
I stepped back, now almost even with the alley. "You know when," I hissed, chancing a glance. Empty. Totally empty. Good.
His eyes were full of heartbreak. "Chris, please, I didn't mean to scare you, I really didn't mean to scare you. I wasn't mad at you. I was just frustrated. Come on, Chris. Just come with me. I'm not going to hurt you."
How many times had I heard those lies before, spewed the same way they were being now?
I started to inch toward the alley.
"No, Chris, listen to me, you have to. I'm not going to hurt you. Now just come back with me to the car. We're going to sign you up for classes, remember? That's what we're going to do."
"No," I said softly, and darted into the alley.
"Chris, NO!"
Footsteps after me.
RUN!
I clattered down the alley, my leg jerking. Run, move, FASTER!
A hand grabbed my shoulder.
Spun me around!
NO!
Shawn wrapped his arms around my middle and held me close to his side. I began to kick and yell, connecting with his flesh many times, but not nearly enough to break his hold. ESCAPE! I was still weak from my inactivity and my leg was slowing me down tremendously.
"Chris, stop! Please stop!"
He heaved me into the wall, pressing me flat against it, so I was held helpless.
I screamed, fighting, fear pounding against me, hammering against my back, tampering with my winds.
"Stop, Chris! Stop fighting! I'm not going to hurt you!"
LIES!
All of it was LIES!
I struggled. I kicked. I fought. I screamed.
But I couldn't get away.
Trapped. Trapped as only a dead person could be trapped: in a coffin of pain and bitterness and silence.
"Chris, please." Shawn's voice was soft and aching. "Please listen to me. Please stop fighting me."
Slowly, slowly, slowly I felt my body relax.
Slowly, slowly, slowly I felt the energy surging through me deplete.
Slowly, slowly, slowly I came to the conclusion: I was trapped. He was going to punish me.
There was nothing I could do.
Accept the inevitable.
Tears!
NO TEARS!
NO WEAKNESS!
But they came. They squeezed through my closed eyelids, dripped down with startling heaviness, and sobs started to tear through my lips.
"Chris, please," Shawn whispered, lulling me off the filthy alley wall and pressing me against his chest. "Chris, you have to believe me when I say I'm not going to hurt you."
He started to stroke my hair, stroke me in the same manner that Hunter had the first night, the first time I had broken down.
But I hadn't been hurt then.
I shook against him, my tears soaking his shirt and dripping onto the wall.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated. "I am not going to hurt you. Look at me."
I refused to turn my head and I trembled.
He grabbed my head and forced my eyes to lock onto his own.
His eyes held pain, only pain. Pain for what I couldn't be sure. Not a shadow of violence was in his gaze, not a whisper of doubt or anger. Only pity and pain. Only the two emotions I couldn't stand.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said softly. "You have to believe me when I say I'm not going to hurt you."
I broke the connection of our gazes and he hugged me tightly against his chest, and the memory of safeness circled back to prey on my mind. I was safe again, safe here in a cradle of security and strength. In this haven I couldn't be touched. I was invincible to whatever emotion claimed me. As long as I stayed in this warm place, I would be okay. I would be safe, at least for a little bit.
At least for a little bit.
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The aroma wafting through the kitchen was tantalizing, a perfect complement for my aching stomach. The metal scraping a spoon against the bottom of a pan hurt my ears, but at least in a little while I'd be made of it with the soup.
"It's going to be watery," Shawn warned. "I added too much water."
Without even looking up from my hands, I replied, "That's fine."
"Well, I hope you like broth," he said, sounding a little revolted. "I can never understand why some people like no meat and flavored water."
"It's good flavored water," I answered. "Very soothing."
"Broth is soothing. I still don't understand. It's water and some spices and that's all it is. You're crazy if- yap!" He yelped and I looked around to see him cradling his hand.
"Are you okay?" I asked, already up out of my chair.
"Fine," he said, blowing on his hand, wincing. "I hate cooking."
I smiled.
The phone jangled and I looked up at Shawn. I was nearer, but Shawn and I had an almost unspoken rule that I never answered it. Who knew who could be calling?
"Answer it," Shawn said, turning on the water, shoving his hand under the stream, and letting out a moan of satisfaction as the cold substance hit his burning hand.
I picked up the phone and answered, "Hello?"
"Shawn? Shawn, is that you?"
I cocked my head. It wasn't Hunter- not that I expected Shawn to take my advice and call Hunter. Tears blurred my eyes at the memory of the earlier day. I had acted childish and immature and proven to Shawn that I was still weak. He had promised we'd try the school again the first thing tomorrow morning, but I saw the way he looked at me, with arched eyebrows and unspoken questions. He doubted my mental stability.
And unbeknownst to him, I doubted it as well.
"Shawn, please!"
"Hang on." I cleared my throat. "Shawn, it's for you. It sounds urgent."
"Who is it?" he demanded, water still rushing over hand.
"No idea. Who's this?"
"Who's this?"
I would have smiled if the tone in the man's voice hadn't been so serious. "I asked first."
"It's Shawn's father, now put him on, whoever the hell you are! Where is my son?"
"Oh." I looked back up. "Shawn, it's your dad."
The water snapped off and Shawn rushed toward the phone, his hands still soaking wet, his face strangely pale.
"Shawn, are you ok-"
"Give me that!"
He jerked the phone out of my hands and I fell back.
No, he's not mad, he's not going to hurt you, it's just an important call.
Somehow, someway, I managed to control my breathing, managed to control my heart and come to long enough to hear Shawn say, "Is she okay?"
I watched as his face grew even paler and his mouth trembled and his hand went to his forehead and brushed back his hair. He made a lot of sounds, his voice tired and trembling and scared. He sat down in the chair, the phone dragging along the counter, spilling over a cup of water. He didn't even notice, his eyes stony and stoic.
I went around the counter, grabbed the paper towels, and started to slowly wipe off the mess, still watching him closely.
Finally he said, "I'll go up there as soon as I can. I have to pack a few things, but I should be up there by tomorrow morning at the latest. Will she . . . will she be okay until then?" A pause, a look of revelation in his eyes, and he said, in a slightly more energetic voice, "Okay, I'm on my way. Love you too, Dad."
He hung up the phone and sat very still for a moment, eyes staring blankly ahead as I continued to mop up the mess. He stayed that way for another minute and finally I had to ask him, "Shawn, what's wrong?"
He snapped out of his trance and his eyes glued to my face. "My mom's sick. They took her to the hospital. They said it's her diabetes catching up with her. She's okay now, and she should probably stay that way . . . but man, it scared me." His voice trembled, but he caught himself before he let any more emotion slip. "But I need to fly up there and see her, just in case it does go south. I've got to leave right now."
He was up off the chair and down the hallway toward his bedroom before I could say a word. I finished cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, and then just stood there, feeling suddenly very much alone.
Had I been stupid enough to think that I was the center of Shawn's life? That now I was here in the world everything stood still? Now everything revolved around me? I had let myself fall into that thinking pattern. Now what? His mom was sick. It was a big deal. I was just a lump in the package. Probably just extra baggage. No point in having me around anymore.
I threw the wet paper towels in the waste basket and turned off the stove before the complex could burn down. I hobbled into the living room and eased myself onto the couch, sitting rigidly, in any case Shawn needed me to do something, anything . . .or just leave. I could accept that.
I could leave. No more pain. No more fear of pain.
Shawn barreled down the hallway five minutes later, dragging a small duffel bag. He dropped it on the floor and went into the kitchen, busying himself in drawers and cupboards.
I cleared my throat, steadied my voice, and said, "If you want me to leave . . ."
His head snapped up at though he had just realized I was there. Eyes formed into confusion, as though he didn't recognize me. Tiredness settled on his face, followed by a small, sad smile. "Of course not, Chris. I don't want you to leave. I just can't take you with me. You understand, right?"
"Of course I do!" I said loudly, a little too. "Of course! I . . . didn't think you were going to anyway."
"Oh. That's good." There was an awkward silence following his words. "I . . . I don't want to leave you here by yourself."
I frowned. "I've been taking care of myself for years, Shawn. I think I can handle it."
His head tilted. "But that's made you what you are now. Being alone for so long." Before I could interrupt him, he went on, "I'll call Hunter. He can stay here while I'm gone- only a few days."
I looked at him in amazement. "You're going to call Hunter?"
He smiled again, a wisp of a smile. "Yeah, I'll call him. I don't want you being alone."
I was half-touched, half-amused by his statement. I'd been taking care of myself for six years. Living on the streets for nearly a year of that time. And he thought that with a roof over my head I couldn't take care of myself? It was outrageous, really. He thought that after years of being alone I was incapable of taking care of myself? Funny.
But at the same time, I felt a fuzzy feeling in my chest at the fact he cared enough, while he was in crisis, to make arrangements so I wouldn't have to be alone. And even though Hunter wasn't my favorite person in the whole world, there were a lot of people who weren't. And I could deal with Hunter.
Shawn picked up the phone and dialed the numbers, slamming closed the drawer and stepping back into the hallway, presumably to head back into his bedroom. I could hear his distant voice, but couldn't discern the words. I felt strangely disappointed by it, although it was probably for the better that way. Again I sat in living room for another five minutes, tense, waiting for any instructions, should they come.
Instead, Shawn entered the kitchen again, his face twisted in a sardonic expression, holding a smaller tan bathroom bag, tossing it on the floor next to the larger. "He'll be here in half an hour," he told me shortly, setting the phone back on the hook. "He's going to be spending the next couple of days here until I get back . . . he'll take you to the school tomorrow."
"What?"
"He'll stay here for a couple of days and he'll take you the school tomorrow. If I'm not back by Monday, he'll take you there again. I'll know by tomorrow when I'll be back. And if I'm not back by the weekend, he'll take you to get a few more clothes. Is that alright?"
"Shawn . . ."
"What?"
I licked my lips. "You're not serious, are you?"
He arched an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't I be? Have you seen the phone . ... ?"
"It's on the hook." I stared at my clenched fist. "Shawn, you realize it's Hunter we're talking about, right?"
He half-smiled at me. "Oh, so now you want me to take it back?"
I shook my head furiously. "No! It's just . . . it's a lot of work."
He smiled grimly. "Yes, it is. Make no illusions about it. But Hunter has a lot of make penance for and I think he's just starting to figure it out."
I was thoroughly confused. "What?"
"Yes, hello, I need to order a ticket for tonight . . ."
I listened to him making his plane reservation for about ten minutes, still sitting awkwardly on the couch. At the eleventh minute I realized that trying to straighten up the apartment and talk at the same time, so I picked myself up and took the magazine he held away from him and put it neatly on top of a pile of other papers. He looked at me gratefully and then moved back into the kitchen.
For awhile the only sounds were his drawling words and my clumping walk as I scuttled around the room fixing up the papers and magazines. And then the doorbell rang, Shawn still yammering away on the phone. He motioned for me to answer the door and then disappeared down the hallway.
I breathed in deeply, tried to tell myself that Hunter wouldn't get mad, that he . . . still had a lot to make penance for. Whatever Shawn meant by that. My hand slick with sweat, I opened the door and stood back.
Framed against a backdrop of stunning orange and red color stood Hunter, hair alit with flame as the sun slowly sank to its grave. A small duffel bag was gripped in his hand and the other jammed in his jean pocket. His blue eyes were nervous, questioning. I saw no trace of anger in his face, only tiredness, but what came out of his mouth persuaded me otherwise.
"Move over," he snapped, shoving past me rudely to set his bag down on the floor. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, glaring at everything except for me, as though the world was the cause of his problem, not me. "Where's Shawn?"
Hardly trusting my own voice, I replied, "He's in his room. He's talking to the airline."
He nodded tersely and immediately headed for the bedroom. I could hear muffled words and then Hunter's rising crescendo, and then they both came back out and stood in the middle of the room, Shawn reaching down to grab his bags.
"You do understand what I'm asking you?" he questioned Hunter.
For a fraction of an instant Hunter's gaze rested on me. "Yes, I understand what you're asking me, and I better damn well get something in return."
Shawn smiled faintly, a challenging smile, one not yet over anger. "Sure, Hunter."
"Get out of here," Hunter demanded, grabbing his bag and stalking away toward Shawn's room, where I supposed he would set up camp.
"Grab this bag and come out with me, Chris," Shawn said. Taking a final glance around his home, he nodded once and set off down the stairs. I followed in his wake, wondering what exactly Shawn had meant when he had asked Hunter if Hunter had known exactly what Shawn was asking. They had to be talking about me. Right? What else could they be talking about? Housekeep? Bills? Possibly, but I didn't think so. No, they had to be talking about me. But what had Shawn wanted Hunter to understand?
It was maddening, this cycle. I didn't understand a shred of it. Half of the time I didn't know where Shawn stood with me, or even if he fully realized I was there. Hunter was just another complication thrown atop a growing pile, and both Shawn and I were at means with him. But when Hunter and Shawn had emerged from the bedroom, they appeared to be at tense ends, even friendly banter, while they had been at each others' throats for nearly a week. Yes. It was all maddening.
Shawn and I stopped outside his rusted bucket of scrap metal and Shawn threw his bag in the passenger seat. When all his luggage had been secured inside the car, he turned around to look at me. For the first time I saw the tension in his face, his itch to be off and see his mother for himself. To make sure she was okay. To make sure she was still alive. His face, full of high strung hope and little patience.
He took a deep breath. "Well, Chris. The first over night stay away from each other."
I forced a laugh. "Cut it out. You're being stupid."
He smiled. "Don't talk to strangers, make friends with stray animals, or run away to join the circus. I guess that about covers it."
I struggled with the feeling inside me, the feeling inside me that shied away from every sentimental tone in Shawn's voice. "Get out of here. I don't need you."
He nodded, relief stealing over his face. Happy to be off.
I should be happy for him to leave. Happy that he was happy.
But why wasn't I? Why was I dismayed and sad that he was leaving? Why had the emotions I had kept at bay for so long finally been brought to the surface?
He clapped a hand to my shoulder, tightened his hand, nodded, and got in the car. The engine choked and spit for a moment, then drew to life again. He applied pressure to the gas and backed out of the parking space, wheeled around and moved out of the lot, car helm pointed toward the freeway. He waved, two fingers in a short way, and then sped away.
The wind pitched around me, pitched around in a howling shriek as the nails were finally bolted into the sun's coffin and the moon rose from its bed. The streetlights snapped on, orange light flooding the pavement in an eerie glow that showed scarred pavement and dead grass. The howling wind could not hide growing sounds of activity from the alley behind the complex.
And all I could do was stare at the pathway Shawn's car had taken, while the moon bathed me in its unearthly liquid water, and wonder why it hurt so much that he had left.
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Hunter's car was not as junky as Shawn's, but it was still up there.
Streaks of blue and white highlighted the sides, while the trunk, hood, and top were painted boldly black. It vibrated when it rested and coughed every five minutes. The wheels sagged with extra weight and the doors creaked and wailed when opened too fast or shut too hard. Aggressive moments in the seats triggered an almost cataclysmic breakdown of the main components of the engine.
It was an awesomely bad car and I wondered why Shawn and Hunter, both bachelors and well-paying jobs for one person, could own such trash.
I didn't complain, though, as the car sputtered down the street and Hunter turned the volume on the radio up another notch.
He was in an almost good mood, I thought. We had had an almost normal conversation over the breakfast I had cooked, jeers his way toward me, and baited insults my way toward him. It surprised me, actually, the way we got along. He had slept in Shawn's room and I had slept on the couch, as usual, and it hadn't been too terse or too strange. I had woken early before him, like I had always before Shawn, and washed and dressed like I always did. Around eight he had stumbled into the kitchen to the smell of my food, and eaten like he had always lived there, with me.
Afterward he seemed to have remembered that he was supposed to be taking me somewhere and even after that realization, he was still in a considerable mood. Around ten we had finally gotten out the door and heading toward the school in his junker of a car.
We didn't speak on the ride to the school, until some squat beige buildings came into sight and he stopped before a red light. He turned to me, and I couldn't read the expression in his eyes, for his yellow and blue sunglasses.
"When we get there, I'm your uncle," he said, no emotion in his voice. "Your 'father' is away on a business trip and I'm checking you into the school. It should hold. You've got your birth certificate, your updated immunization records, everything you need. It should be okay. Got it?"
"Yes," I answered. "Got it."
He nodded and we rolled the last leg to the school. Only one side of the campus was visible to me, the front side. The office was a single-story unit, fat and square. The brown paint coating was chipping, revealing in some places scars of a lighter orange. Behind the office I could see the uppermost portion of two buildings, indicating they were two- story units. From there I could see another littering of other square, smaller buildings, some long and some short. To my direct left was what looked like a gymnasium and behind that I could see stadium lights, indicating the football field.
It looked like a normal high school, with a sign in front of it proclaiming "FRANKLIN MEMORIAL HIGH- HOME OF THE MUSTANGS." A greatly detailed picture of a horse with glossy mane stood off the side, pawing the ground angrily, smoke exhaling through its nostrils. Oh yeah, a mustang. I'd be a Franklin Mustang. The name sounded sickening.
Hunter pulled into the half-full parking lot and parked close to the entrance. My heart started to twist in my chest, and I fiddled with the air conditioning vent nervously. School. I hadn't entered that sacred place for a long time. I hadn't been around kids my age even longer. Even when I had gone to school I had been the loner, the weird one. When I had showed up to school with bruises on my face and handprints around my neck they all knew what had happened. When I had barely been able to walk, they had known. The teachers knew too, and kindly they called CPS.
Bad decision.
"Ready?" Hunter didn't wait for an answer; he opened the door and stood up, surveying the lot through yellow tinted glasses. I sucked in my breath; it didn't matter if I was ready or not.
We made our way to the door, Hunter striding ahead of me as I dragged along behind with my bad leg. He opened the glass door and went in without waiting for me. I followed in behind him, huffing, and the air conditioning immediately blew back my hair. A line of chair stood to the right, comfortable looking things, pressed into a wall covered with plaques and certificates. On the left wall was a mural, abstract swirls and lines. After a second I realized the patterns made a horse, galloping as though to leap from the wall onto the tiled floor.
Hunter went straight up to the front counter. Beyond the counter I could see hallways and more rooms. The receptionist, glasses hanging from her neck, came up to us and her gaze questioned us before she could say a word.
"Hello," she said curtly, as though she had something more important to do. "What do you need?"
"We're here to enroll him in school," Hunter said, motioning to me.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.
Hunter fumbled with a slip of paper. "Yes. We're to speak with Mr. Nemark in a few minutes."
She nodded, her eyes drifting behind her to a room with glass panels. "Mr. Nemark is in there. I'll buzz you in and you just go to the receptionist in there." She jerked her head to a door on the right and pressed something behind the desk, which emitted a long buzzing sound.
Hunter stepped past me to open the door and held it open for me. I assumed that since we were in public now he couldn't denounce me too openly. We walked down the hallway toward where the receptionist had pointed and entered the room.
On the left wall were rows and rows of magazines and books, sporting smiling faces and names of universities and colleges. A few round tables with chairs cluttered the room, some students reading silently or writing, some looking up curiously as we came in. To the right in a hollow stood another desk, with a woman behind it, swallowed by mounds of papers and stacks of folders. To this woman we went.
"Hi," she said, sounding harassed. "What can I do for you?"
"We have an appointment with Mr. Nemark," Hunter said. "In a few moments."
The receptionist looked at the paper, nodded, and motioned to the table closest to a line of doors I hadn't noticed before. "He'll be out in a moment."
We went to the table and sat down. Tried not to notice the kids staring. Tried to look at the red Marine display in front of me. Tried to figure out what Hunter was thinking, sitting serenely, eyes hidden by his glasses.
Suddenly the door nearest to us open and a man walked out.
"You must be Mr. Leseveque," he said, smiling broadly. "And Christopher. Well, come in. Let's get started."
Trying not to feel as though I were being led into some hidden doom and this man was my captor, I followed him into the smaller office.
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Constructive criticism is strongly advised on this chapter.
A/N: I know most of my chapters have been centering Chris's POV so far, and they may remain that way awhile longer, but Hunter will get his fair share in soon enough.
Also, it has come to my attention that the reader known as "Krystalblazejerikor" has called me her sister. Jerk. The truth is out, friends.
I was put into the Witness Protection Program (WPP) of Fanfiction.net approximately six months ago when I angered an author by sending a less than helpful response. Due to this review, the author buzzed my computer with a virus, one that sent my computer into total shock, causing me to lose practically all my stories. I pleaded into the management Fanfiction.net to put a stop to this user, but they revealed to me that this user was a liable threat in "real life" and my situation was only a taste of his power. Due to this, they could not shut him down, for fear of a total chaotic breakdown of Fanfiction.net and fear of assassinations in "real life," possibly my own. For this reason I was sent into the WPP, where I was given this new identity and told to live a quiet life.
But for now, Krystalblazejerikor has endangered my life.
For I am known other than the Jerikor of the two.
Yeah right. There is no WPP of Fanfiction.net, I made it up as a fancy way of saying this was my new penname, and my old was Krystalblazejerikor, and I really am Jerikor of the two. This is my new penname, though I do still post stories in my old penname, the recent being "To Kill it All Away." Shameless self plug.
Happy now?
I hope this causes none of you to lose respect for me . . . or anything. Lol.
Sorry for the incredibly long note . . . I hope you got a laugh out of it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Chris Irvine, Hunter Leseveque, Shawn Michaels, or Joanie Laurer. They belong to themselves and I make no claim to their minds or thoughts.
On to the fic!
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From Here to Heaven
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Chapter Seven
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Chris: The Unknown
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"This school seems to have a lot of activities," said Shawn, browsing through the literature that had come in the mail.
Even a week after the declaration had been made, I still felt the awe in what had transpired. In the corner of the apartment sat a backpack, a few binders, and packages of pens and pencils. Open before us on the coffee table were papers and certificates, spread in a messy chaotic order. Resting on a cushion was my braced leg, which I was massaging with my hands for the spikes of aching pain that shivered through it. Therapy was preparing me for what lied ahead.
And what was ahead, in four days, was Franklin Memorial High School.
I felt . . . I felt happy.
I hadn't felt happy in a long time.
"It does," I said. "When do I get to choose my classes?"
"You should probably look at this first," he said, sliding a booklet toward me. "It's the class description booklet. They offer advanced courses. Did you say you took those?"
"Yes," I answered, starting to flip through the booklet. I turned to the page about credits and scanned the writing for a moment. "Wait. Did you say that when you're fifteen you're a sophomore?"
"Yeah," Shawn said, now reading a pamphlet on the lunch program. "So?"
"Well, it actually depends on how many credits you have," I said, keenly aware of what he read. "It says I'd be a junior, with the amount of credits I have."
He looked up at me in surprise. "Well, then you'd graduate a year early. I guess that's a good thing."
I cocked my head at him. Did he want me to graduate early? I'd be only sixteen when I graduated, not even legal. It was probably better to graduate at the right age, at least here- I'd still only be seventeen, but it would be closer than sixteen.
I looked at Shawn. "What do you think?"
He seemed surprised. "It's not my decision, it's yours. I'd say go for it."
I looked back at the description booklet. I'd still be young when I graduated, but at least I'd have something challenging to occupy my mind with. And besides, it was a year out of Shawn's pocket- if I actually stayed around that long.
"I'll be the junior," I said. "At least I'll at be challenged in the classes."
"That's the spirit," he said, smiling, his eyes going back to the pamphlet he held. "I think we can you on the free lunch program. Single-parent . . . yeah, I make less than that. Well, at least you'll be able to eat."
I didn't answer him; I wasn't sure how. I remembered with too much clarity, and too much shame, the night I had broken down in front of Shawn and Hunter. Sometimes I still got angry thinking about how far I had let myself fall. It was just another mistake on my record. Another mistake that haunted me was the day after, when Hunter had come over with his bag of food.
I still burned over that. Since that day, almost a week ago, I had not seen Hunter. And Shawn barely even talked about him, just in passing reference, almost like a joke. They were still fighting, I could see. A deep wedge had been driven into their friendship, and that deep wedge had been me. It scraped at the pit of my belly, that shame. I wanted to hide my head and hurt myself when the memory what had happened surfaced in my mind.
I had caused the rift. I was the rift.
And that hurt me more badly than I ever thought it could.
I hadn't said anything about it and neither had Shawn. I could see the look in his eyes sometimes, at night when it was just me and him. He looked restless, almost bored. He would talk to me, and then we'd run out of things to talk about and he'd get this . . . lonely look in his eyes. He missed his best friend.
And I was the reason. I was the only reason.
"Chris?"
Shawn's voice broke my revere and commanded my gaze.
"Huh?"
"I was saying, are you ready to start on Monday?" He looked at me closely, as though my failure to respond to him the first time was the bottom line, that he now doubted my capability to function on Monday.
Following that line of thinking, I blurted, "I'm fine! I'm ready to start on Monday, trust me! Of course I'm ready, why wouldn't I be ready?"
He smiled faintly. "I'm glad you are. But I really want to know if you will be with this leg of yours." He tapped the braced leg resting on the cushion.
"I can walk," I declared, pushing back my chair and lowering my leg to the floor.
"A demonstration isn't necessary, you don't have to do-"He started, startled.
I threw myself to my feet and swaggered as best as I could around the little room. There was no pain anymore, really, in my knee- it was just the incapacity to bend and move the leg that was the problem. My step was a shuffling one, a lopsided gait that made me look more hurt than I really was. I had gone to three sessions of therapy, to restore movement to the limb and provide mobility in the brace. The only hurt I felt were aches after walking and standing for too long. Those aches could be fiery and sometimes they caused me to cry to myself at night, but most of the time I lapped up the pain medication and it was all better, no more worries.
I turned around and settled my eyes on Shawn, smiling. "See? I'm ready."
"You're sweating," he observed.
"You need an air conditioner," I said, making my way back toward the table. "I'll be fine, Shawn. Really, I will be. But I want to know if you will be."
Once the words left my mouth I couldn't call them back.
I watched Shawn's face form into puzzlement. "What are you on, kid?"
I took a steadying breath, praying I was ready for this conversation, praying that if I messed up and caused him hurt, he wouldn't seek retribution through the punishment of me. "I want you to talk to Hunter, Shawn. If that's okay with you," I added quickly.
He eyes arched in surprise. "What gives you the impression we aren't speaking?"
I allowed that illusion to hold for a second, so that I wouldn't have to finish this talk, but I knew it was false, and I let the vision evaporate. "I know you aren't, Shawn; I'm not stupid. Please, can you please just talk to him?"
He sat very still and no emotion crossed his face. "I don't need to talk to him. We still see each other."
Again, the image of rightness lasted only a second. "I know you're don't, Shawn. Please talk to him! You miss him!"
He looked at me and this time, an emotion like loneliness and anger permeated his eyes. "I don't have to have this conversation with you," he said stonily. "Now find what classes you want so I can take you down to the school so you can make give them to the counselor. It's almost time."
How desperately I wanted to let this go, to let us go on blissfully unaware of the damage being done. If I persisted, he would get angry, and I didn't know what he would do if he was angry. I trusted him not to hurt me . . . but for the second time, his silence was worst then his fists could ever be.
"You don't," I said, trying to draw in my courage. "I'm asking you to, Shawn. Please! I know you've given me a lot, and I'm grateful for it. But I won't have you lose Hunter over me!"
He stood up, pushing at the contents on the table. "I said to hurry up."
Anger now, filtering through his voice. Fear quaked through me and I tried not to let the shudders shake me. Not too much.
"No. I'll leave then."
I started to get up, slowly pushing back my chair.
"You're not going anywhere, Chris, sit your ass back down," he growled, pushing gently on my shoulder to sit me back in the seat.
I trembled underneath his hand slightly. I had lost so much control over the past week it scared me.
"No," I repeated. "Shawn, you're being stupid. I'm not coming in between you and your friend."
"He's still my friend," Shawn snapped, releasing my shoulder. "Now hurry up!"
"You let him go!" I clenched my fists. "You let him go for me!"
He paused for a moment, hazel eyes cold. "I did no such thing," he breathed, starting away.
"You don't even care about him anymore! As soon as I got here, you let him go! Now stop being such a stubborn asshole and call him!"
He stood rigidly, his back to me. My body quivered as he stood there, silently, for almost a moment, not speaking. In the depths of silence around us, I could feel the ripples of his tension, of my own abated breath and fear. Into this I had never willingly tread. But now into it I dove, pushing away the pain, and while I pushed that away, back came the certainty that after this, I would be punished.
His body sagged slightly and he turned back around to face me. "Get up and go wait in the car," he said.
I blinked at him. "What?"
"You heard me. Go wait in the car."
"Shawn-"
"GO WAIT IN THE CAR!"
Fear thundered through me, adrenaline screamed through my veins, and I clambered up off the chair, desperately making for the door. My back was to him; I was defenseless in my position. Tears were welling behind my eyes and in my head I could hear the voice, telling me again and again, you were stupid for ever listening to him, stupid for ever trusting him.
I tore open the door and bright sunlight bore down upon me as I heard a clatter of footsteps, coming closer to me, and pain broke into my mind. He was going to hit me, he was going to-
I threw myself out the door and slammed it shut, not even waiting for it to close before I was dragging myself down the stairs, my breath coming out in furious pants. As I reached the landing of the stairs, Shawn's battered, rusty car came into my view, sitting there serenely as though everything was right in the world.
Everything was not right in my world.
Tears blurred my eyes. Shawn had said to wait in the car. But Shawn was angry now. He was going to come down those stairs, go the car, and if I was in it, he was going to hurt me. Agony thudded through my heart. Why had I trusted him? Why had I even listened to him?
It was stupid. It was a stupid dream that I shouldn't even had believed. It was my own stupid fault for being so naïve and thinking that there was a person in the world who cared.
I wasn't going to wait around for Shawn to come down the stairs so he could hit me. He might come down, apologize for yelling, but in the end, he would punish me. The mask he had worn for the past week was deceptive, the Roman hind becoming the lion. He had helped me, yes- but it all fell away now.
Everything fell away now.
I shuffled furiously past the car, toward the edge of the building. I could hide in the alley running along behind the apartment complex. I'd wait until dark and then I'd stealthily make my way toward the highway, where I could follow it west. It would be a slow process, one of sickness and pain, but it was better than being stuck here in a place where I was hunted. Yes, the highway. I could make it there in less than an hour. Long trek to California, and then to Mexico. Yes, Mexico, where-
"Hey! You!"
I froze, shivering. Every fiber in my being told me to move, but I remained as still as a sculpture.
"Kid, come here."
I turned around, my heart about to burst from my rib cage.
The police officer in the dark blue uniform started to jog up to me, dark glasses covering the top part of his face. His name tag read JONES and his belt looked especially cruel. He looked like one of those men from the movies who, when you least expected it, turned out to be the killer in the dark corner. He was approaching me warily, hands outstretched, mouth twisted into a grimace.
"What are you doing out of school?"
I blinked at him, not really comprehending his meaning. Everything in my body told me to run, to sprint off down the alley and escape this cop. I was trapped if I didn't move! Trapped between this cop and Shawn. Trapped between things that, if given the chance, would both hurt me . . . the only way out of the pain was through the alley and I was paralyzed!
"Why aren't you in school?" the cop repeated, coming stand a few feet away from me.
TRAPPED!
I started to inch away, toward the alley, the paralysis finally releasing its grip on me.
"Don't do anything stupid," Jones warned, his hand gravitating toward his belt and nightstick. "Are you ditching? That's all I want to know."
I had to remain calm. I could talk my way out of this. My eyes drifted toward the complex. I had to do it quickly.
"No, sir, I'm not ditching," I said, breathing hard. "I'm new to the area and I'm starting on Monday. My dad and I are going right now to write down my classes."
To my own ears my voice rang with sincerity, and for a moment, I held in my hands the hope that I had actually fooled the cop.
"That's a mighty good story," Jones said, eyeing me, or at least looking like he was through the glasses. "But the fact is, you look like a runaway. Fancy finding you here."
My breath caught in my throat.
NO!
"Sir," I managed. "My dad's right in the apartment."
He smiled grimly. "I don't think you're ditching, but I don't think that you're telling the truth either. Now come on. What's your name?"
My mind raced.
There was no way out.
With my bad leg there was no way I could outrace him down the alley. And if I went the other way, I went straight back to Shawn. I was trapped! Each way was the wrong way and I was trapped!
"What's your name, kid? I'm going to call CPS. You're a foster runaway, aren't you?"
My heart thundered inside my chest and I wanted to cry.
More pain.
More pain either way.
"You fit the description of the foster runaway I just got," he said, his voice turning cajoling. "Blonde hair, long, blue eyes, 5'6. You look pretty banged up too, kid. Now what's your name?"
"Chris Michaels," I squeaked, the words coming of their own accord.
"Michaels," Jones mused, looking at me hard. "I've got an APB for Chris Irvine. Are you sure that isn't you?"
I closed my eyes.
I was dead.
"CHRIS!"
Shawn came barreling down the stairs, clutching what looked like a sheaf of papers in his hand, racing toward us.
Panic surged through me, vitalized me.
I could leave, now, run and then get caught.
Trapped.
Deer in the headlights.
I trembled and didn't move.
"Sir," Jones said, his voice betraying his confusion. "Do you know this boy, sir?"
"He's my son, Officer," Shawn said breathlessly, and I almost collapsed. "Is he in any trouble?"
So I'd be going with Shawn now.
"No trouble," the officer replied, still confused. "I'd like to know why he's out of school, though."
"We're new to the area," Shawn explained. "I'm taking him to sign up at Franklin Memorial right now." He showed the cop the papers in his hands like an explanation. I realized it was the course description booklet.
The cop nodded, still eyeing me. "I just thought he was ditching," he said, smiling pastily. "I'm sorry for the trouble. Have fun at school."
He turned around and walked back to the police cruiser parked by the curb.
"No trouble, Officer," Shawn chirped cheerfully as Jones drove away. "Just doing our parts as citizens!"
I stood motionless as Shawn walked closer to me.
"That was a close one," he said, taking my shoulder in his hand.
I jerked away, looking up at him wide-eyed.
He frowned. "Chris . . ." He stretched his hand out to touch me again.
I moved just out of his grip and he looked at me, puzzled.
"Chris, what's wrong?"
I waited for him to make his move, for him to strike me. Maybe I could get in one hit. One hit to cripple him momentarily and then I'd . . . I'd do something. I'd move. I'd just GET AWAY!
"Chris, I'm sorry for yelling at you, it was a stupid thing to do." He again moved toward me and I again took a step back.
"Go ahead," I dared, my voice shaking. "Go ahead and try it."
His mouth twisted into a confused look. "Try what, Chris? Chris, you have to tell me what's wrong. Are you mad because I yelled at you?"
I breathed hard. "Go ahead and try hitting me," I repeated, daring him. If I dared him, I'd be ready when he really attacked. It was better if I was ready.
His eyes dashed with confusion, puzzlement, and finally they settled into pain. "Chris, I'm not going to hit you," he said in a voice thick with pity. "Where did you ever get that idea from?"
I stepped back, now almost even with the alley. "You know when," I hissed, chancing a glance. Empty. Totally empty. Good.
His eyes were full of heartbreak. "Chris, please, I didn't mean to scare you, I really didn't mean to scare you. I wasn't mad at you. I was just frustrated. Come on, Chris. Just come with me. I'm not going to hurt you."
How many times had I heard those lies before, spewed the same way they were being now?
I started to inch toward the alley.
"No, Chris, listen to me, you have to. I'm not going to hurt you. Now just come back with me to the car. We're going to sign you up for classes, remember? That's what we're going to do."
"No," I said softly, and darted into the alley.
"Chris, NO!"
Footsteps after me.
RUN!
I clattered down the alley, my leg jerking. Run, move, FASTER!
A hand grabbed my shoulder.
Spun me around!
NO!
Shawn wrapped his arms around my middle and held me close to his side. I began to kick and yell, connecting with his flesh many times, but not nearly enough to break his hold. ESCAPE! I was still weak from my inactivity and my leg was slowing me down tremendously.
"Chris, stop! Please stop!"
He heaved me into the wall, pressing me flat against it, so I was held helpless.
I screamed, fighting, fear pounding against me, hammering against my back, tampering with my winds.
"Stop, Chris! Stop fighting! I'm not going to hurt you!"
LIES!
All of it was LIES!
I struggled. I kicked. I fought. I screamed.
But I couldn't get away.
Trapped. Trapped as only a dead person could be trapped: in a coffin of pain and bitterness and silence.
"Chris, please." Shawn's voice was soft and aching. "Please listen to me. Please stop fighting me."
Slowly, slowly, slowly I felt my body relax.
Slowly, slowly, slowly I felt the energy surging through me deplete.
Slowly, slowly, slowly I came to the conclusion: I was trapped. He was going to punish me.
There was nothing I could do.
Accept the inevitable.
Tears!
NO TEARS!
NO WEAKNESS!
But they came. They squeezed through my closed eyelids, dripped down with startling heaviness, and sobs started to tear through my lips.
"Chris, please," Shawn whispered, lulling me off the filthy alley wall and pressing me against his chest. "Chris, you have to believe me when I say I'm not going to hurt you."
He started to stroke my hair, stroke me in the same manner that Hunter had the first night, the first time I had broken down.
But I hadn't been hurt then.
I shook against him, my tears soaking his shirt and dripping onto the wall.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated. "I am not going to hurt you. Look at me."
I refused to turn my head and I trembled.
He grabbed my head and forced my eyes to lock onto his own.
His eyes held pain, only pain. Pain for what I couldn't be sure. Not a shadow of violence was in his gaze, not a whisper of doubt or anger. Only pity and pain. Only the two emotions I couldn't stand.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said softly. "You have to believe me when I say I'm not going to hurt you."
I broke the connection of our gazes and he hugged me tightly against his chest, and the memory of safeness circled back to prey on my mind. I was safe again, safe here in a cradle of security and strength. In this haven I couldn't be touched. I was invincible to whatever emotion claimed me. As long as I stayed in this warm place, I would be okay. I would be safe, at least for a little bit.
At least for a little bit.
__
The aroma wafting through the kitchen was tantalizing, a perfect complement for my aching stomach. The metal scraping a spoon against the bottom of a pan hurt my ears, but at least in a little while I'd be made of it with the soup.
"It's going to be watery," Shawn warned. "I added too much water."
Without even looking up from my hands, I replied, "That's fine."
"Well, I hope you like broth," he said, sounding a little revolted. "I can never understand why some people like no meat and flavored water."
"It's good flavored water," I answered. "Very soothing."
"Broth is soothing. I still don't understand. It's water and some spices and that's all it is. You're crazy if- yap!" He yelped and I looked around to see him cradling his hand.
"Are you okay?" I asked, already up out of my chair.
"Fine," he said, blowing on his hand, wincing. "I hate cooking."
I smiled.
The phone jangled and I looked up at Shawn. I was nearer, but Shawn and I had an almost unspoken rule that I never answered it. Who knew who could be calling?
"Answer it," Shawn said, turning on the water, shoving his hand under the stream, and letting out a moan of satisfaction as the cold substance hit his burning hand.
I picked up the phone and answered, "Hello?"
"Shawn? Shawn, is that you?"
I cocked my head. It wasn't Hunter- not that I expected Shawn to take my advice and call Hunter. Tears blurred my eyes at the memory of the earlier day. I had acted childish and immature and proven to Shawn that I was still weak. He had promised we'd try the school again the first thing tomorrow morning, but I saw the way he looked at me, with arched eyebrows and unspoken questions. He doubted my mental stability.
And unbeknownst to him, I doubted it as well.
"Shawn, please!"
"Hang on." I cleared my throat. "Shawn, it's for you. It sounds urgent."
"Who is it?" he demanded, water still rushing over hand.
"No idea. Who's this?"
"Who's this?"
I would have smiled if the tone in the man's voice hadn't been so serious. "I asked first."
"It's Shawn's father, now put him on, whoever the hell you are! Where is my son?"
"Oh." I looked back up. "Shawn, it's your dad."
The water snapped off and Shawn rushed toward the phone, his hands still soaking wet, his face strangely pale.
"Shawn, are you ok-"
"Give me that!"
He jerked the phone out of my hands and I fell back.
No, he's not mad, he's not going to hurt you, it's just an important call.
Somehow, someway, I managed to control my breathing, managed to control my heart and come to long enough to hear Shawn say, "Is she okay?"
I watched as his face grew even paler and his mouth trembled and his hand went to his forehead and brushed back his hair. He made a lot of sounds, his voice tired and trembling and scared. He sat down in the chair, the phone dragging along the counter, spilling over a cup of water. He didn't even notice, his eyes stony and stoic.
I went around the counter, grabbed the paper towels, and started to slowly wipe off the mess, still watching him closely.
Finally he said, "I'll go up there as soon as I can. I have to pack a few things, but I should be up there by tomorrow morning at the latest. Will she . . . will she be okay until then?" A pause, a look of revelation in his eyes, and he said, in a slightly more energetic voice, "Okay, I'm on my way. Love you too, Dad."
He hung up the phone and sat very still for a moment, eyes staring blankly ahead as I continued to mop up the mess. He stayed that way for another minute and finally I had to ask him, "Shawn, what's wrong?"
He snapped out of his trance and his eyes glued to my face. "My mom's sick. They took her to the hospital. They said it's her diabetes catching up with her. She's okay now, and she should probably stay that way . . . but man, it scared me." His voice trembled, but he caught himself before he let any more emotion slip. "But I need to fly up there and see her, just in case it does go south. I've got to leave right now."
He was up off the chair and down the hallway toward his bedroom before I could say a word. I finished cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, and then just stood there, feeling suddenly very much alone.
Had I been stupid enough to think that I was the center of Shawn's life? That now I was here in the world everything stood still? Now everything revolved around me? I had let myself fall into that thinking pattern. Now what? His mom was sick. It was a big deal. I was just a lump in the package. Probably just extra baggage. No point in having me around anymore.
I threw the wet paper towels in the waste basket and turned off the stove before the complex could burn down. I hobbled into the living room and eased myself onto the couch, sitting rigidly, in any case Shawn needed me to do something, anything . . .or just leave. I could accept that.
I could leave. No more pain. No more fear of pain.
Shawn barreled down the hallway five minutes later, dragging a small duffel bag. He dropped it on the floor and went into the kitchen, busying himself in drawers and cupboards.
I cleared my throat, steadied my voice, and said, "If you want me to leave . . ."
His head snapped up at though he had just realized I was there. Eyes formed into confusion, as though he didn't recognize me. Tiredness settled on his face, followed by a small, sad smile. "Of course not, Chris. I don't want you to leave. I just can't take you with me. You understand, right?"
"Of course I do!" I said loudly, a little too. "Of course! I . . . didn't think you were going to anyway."
"Oh. That's good." There was an awkward silence following his words. "I . . . I don't want to leave you here by yourself."
I frowned. "I've been taking care of myself for years, Shawn. I think I can handle it."
His head tilted. "But that's made you what you are now. Being alone for so long." Before I could interrupt him, he went on, "I'll call Hunter. He can stay here while I'm gone- only a few days."
I looked at him in amazement. "You're going to call Hunter?"
He smiled again, a wisp of a smile. "Yeah, I'll call him. I don't want you being alone."
I was half-touched, half-amused by his statement. I'd been taking care of myself for six years. Living on the streets for nearly a year of that time. And he thought that with a roof over my head I couldn't take care of myself? It was outrageous, really. He thought that after years of being alone I was incapable of taking care of myself? Funny.
But at the same time, I felt a fuzzy feeling in my chest at the fact he cared enough, while he was in crisis, to make arrangements so I wouldn't have to be alone. And even though Hunter wasn't my favorite person in the whole world, there were a lot of people who weren't. And I could deal with Hunter.
Shawn picked up the phone and dialed the numbers, slamming closed the drawer and stepping back into the hallway, presumably to head back into his bedroom. I could hear his distant voice, but couldn't discern the words. I felt strangely disappointed by it, although it was probably for the better that way. Again I sat in living room for another five minutes, tense, waiting for any instructions, should they come.
Instead, Shawn entered the kitchen again, his face twisted in a sardonic expression, holding a smaller tan bathroom bag, tossing it on the floor next to the larger. "He'll be here in half an hour," he told me shortly, setting the phone back on the hook. "He's going to be spending the next couple of days here until I get back . . . he'll take you to the school tomorrow."
"What?"
"He'll stay here for a couple of days and he'll take you the school tomorrow. If I'm not back by Monday, he'll take you there again. I'll know by tomorrow when I'll be back. And if I'm not back by the weekend, he'll take you to get a few more clothes. Is that alright?"
"Shawn . . ."
"What?"
I licked my lips. "You're not serious, are you?"
He arched an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't I be? Have you seen the phone . ... ?"
"It's on the hook." I stared at my clenched fist. "Shawn, you realize it's Hunter we're talking about, right?"
He half-smiled at me. "Oh, so now you want me to take it back?"
I shook my head furiously. "No! It's just . . . it's a lot of work."
He smiled grimly. "Yes, it is. Make no illusions about it. But Hunter has a lot of make penance for and I think he's just starting to figure it out."
I was thoroughly confused. "What?"
"Yes, hello, I need to order a ticket for tonight . . ."
I listened to him making his plane reservation for about ten minutes, still sitting awkwardly on the couch. At the eleventh minute I realized that trying to straighten up the apartment and talk at the same time, so I picked myself up and took the magazine he held away from him and put it neatly on top of a pile of other papers. He looked at me gratefully and then moved back into the kitchen.
For awhile the only sounds were his drawling words and my clumping walk as I scuttled around the room fixing up the papers and magazines. And then the doorbell rang, Shawn still yammering away on the phone. He motioned for me to answer the door and then disappeared down the hallway.
I breathed in deeply, tried to tell myself that Hunter wouldn't get mad, that he . . . still had a lot to make penance for. Whatever Shawn meant by that. My hand slick with sweat, I opened the door and stood back.
Framed against a backdrop of stunning orange and red color stood Hunter, hair alit with flame as the sun slowly sank to its grave. A small duffel bag was gripped in his hand and the other jammed in his jean pocket. His blue eyes were nervous, questioning. I saw no trace of anger in his face, only tiredness, but what came out of his mouth persuaded me otherwise.
"Move over," he snapped, shoving past me rudely to set his bag down on the floor. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, glaring at everything except for me, as though the world was the cause of his problem, not me. "Where's Shawn?"
Hardly trusting my own voice, I replied, "He's in his room. He's talking to the airline."
He nodded tersely and immediately headed for the bedroom. I could hear muffled words and then Hunter's rising crescendo, and then they both came back out and stood in the middle of the room, Shawn reaching down to grab his bags.
"You do understand what I'm asking you?" he questioned Hunter.
For a fraction of an instant Hunter's gaze rested on me. "Yes, I understand what you're asking me, and I better damn well get something in return."
Shawn smiled faintly, a challenging smile, one not yet over anger. "Sure, Hunter."
"Get out of here," Hunter demanded, grabbing his bag and stalking away toward Shawn's room, where I supposed he would set up camp.
"Grab this bag and come out with me, Chris," Shawn said. Taking a final glance around his home, he nodded once and set off down the stairs. I followed in his wake, wondering what exactly Shawn had meant when he had asked Hunter if Hunter had known exactly what Shawn was asking. They had to be talking about me. Right? What else could they be talking about? Housekeep? Bills? Possibly, but I didn't think so. No, they had to be talking about me. But what had Shawn wanted Hunter to understand?
It was maddening, this cycle. I didn't understand a shred of it. Half of the time I didn't know where Shawn stood with me, or even if he fully realized I was there. Hunter was just another complication thrown atop a growing pile, and both Shawn and I were at means with him. But when Hunter and Shawn had emerged from the bedroom, they appeared to be at tense ends, even friendly banter, while they had been at each others' throats for nearly a week. Yes. It was all maddening.
Shawn and I stopped outside his rusted bucket of scrap metal and Shawn threw his bag in the passenger seat. When all his luggage had been secured inside the car, he turned around to look at me. For the first time I saw the tension in his face, his itch to be off and see his mother for himself. To make sure she was okay. To make sure she was still alive. His face, full of high strung hope and little patience.
He took a deep breath. "Well, Chris. The first over night stay away from each other."
I forced a laugh. "Cut it out. You're being stupid."
He smiled. "Don't talk to strangers, make friends with stray animals, or run away to join the circus. I guess that about covers it."
I struggled with the feeling inside me, the feeling inside me that shied away from every sentimental tone in Shawn's voice. "Get out of here. I don't need you."
He nodded, relief stealing over his face. Happy to be off.
I should be happy for him to leave. Happy that he was happy.
But why wasn't I? Why was I dismayed and sad that he was leaving? Why had the emotions I had kept at bay for so long finally been brought to the surface?
He clapped a hand to my shoulder, tightened his hand, nodded, and got in the car. The engine choked and spit for a moment, then drew to life again. He applied pressure to the gas and backed out of the parking space, wheeled around and moved out of the lot, car helm pointed toward the freeway. He waved, two fingers in a short way, and then sped away.
The wind pitched around me, pitched around in a howling shriek as the nails were finally bolted into the sun's coffin and the moon rose from its bed. The streetlights snapped on, orange light flooding the pavement in an eerie glow that showed scarred pavement and dead grass. The howling wind could not hide growing sounds of activity from the alley behind the complex.
And all I could do was stare at the pathway Shawn's car had taken, while the moon bathed me in its unearthly liquid water, and wonder why it hurt so much that he had left.
__
Hunter's car was not as junky as Shawn's, but it was still up there.
Streaks of blue and white highlighted the sides, while the trunk, hood, and top were painted boldly black. It vibrated when it rested and coughed every five minutes. The wheels sagged with extra weight and the doors creaked and wailed when opened too fast or shut too hard. Aggressive moments in the seats triggered an almost cataclysmic breakdown of the main components of the engine.
It was an awesomely bad car and I wondered why Shawn and Hunter, both bachelors and well-paying jobs for one person, could own such trash.
I didn't complain, though, as the car sputtered down the street and Hunter turned the volume on the radio up another notch.
He was in an almost good mood, I thought. We had had an almost normal conversation over the breakfast I had cooked, jeers his way toward me, and baited insults my way toward him. It surprised me, actually, the way we got along. He had slept in Shawn's room and I had slept on the couch, as usual, and it hadn't been too terse or too strange. I had woken early before him, like I had always before Shawn, and washed and dressed like I always did. Around eight he had stumbled into the kitchen to the smell of my food, and eaten like he had always lived there, with me.
Afterward he seemed to have remembered that he was supposed to be taking me somewhere and even after that realization, he was still in a considerable mood. Around ten we had finally gotten out the door and heading toward the school in his junker of a car.
We didn't speak on the ride to the school, until some squat beige buildings came into sight and he stopped before a red light. He turned to me, and I couldn't read the expression in his eyes, for his yellow and blue sunglasses.
"When we get there, I'm your uncle," he said, no emotion in his voice. "Your 'father' is away on a business trip and I'm checking you into the school. It should hold. You've got your birth certificate, your updated immunization records, everything you need. It should be okay. Got it?"
"Yes," I answered. "Got it."
He nodded and we rolled the last leg to the school. Only one side of the campus was visible to me, the front side. The office was a single-story unit, fat and square. The brown paint coating was chipping, revealing in some places scars of a lighter orange. Behind the office I could see the uppermost portion of two buildings, indicating they were two- story units. From there I could see another littering of other square, smaller buildings, some long and some short. To my direct left was what looked like a gymnasium and behind that I could see stadium lights, indicating the football field.
It looked like a normal high school, with a sign in front of it proclaiming "FRANKLIN MEMORIAL HIGH- HOME OF THE MUSTANGS." A greatly detailed picture of a horse with glossy mane stood off the side, pawing the ground angrily, smoke exhaling through its nostrils. Oh yeah, a mustang. I'd be a Franklin Mustang. The name sounded sickening.
Hunter pulled into the half-full parking lot and parked close to the entrance. My heart started to twist in my chest, and I fiddled with the air conditioning vent nervously. School. I hadn't entered that sacred place for a long time. I hadn't been around kids my age even longer. Even when I had gone to school I had been the loner, the weird one. When I had showed up to school with bruises on my face and handprints around my neck they all knew what had happened. When I had barely been able to walk, they had known. The teachers knew too, and kindly they called CPS.
Bad decision.
"Ready?" Hunter didn't wait for an answer; he opened the door and stood up, surveying the lot through yellow tinted glasses. I sucked in my breath; it didn't matter if I was ready or not.
We made our way to the door, Hunter striding ahead of me as I dragged along behind with my bad leg. He opened the glass door and went in without waiting for me. I followed in behind him, huffing, and the air conditioning immediately blew back my hair. A line of chair stood to the right, comfortable looking things, pressed into a wall covered with plaques and certificates. On the left wall was a mural, abstract swirls and lines. After a second I realized the patterns made a horse, galloping as though to leap from the wall onto the tiled floor.
Hunter went straight up to the front counter. Beyond the counter I could see hallways and more rooms. The receptionist, glasses hanging from her neck, came up to us and her gaze questioned us before she could say a word.
"Hello," she said curtly, as though she had something more important to do. "What do you need?"
"We're here to enroll him in school," Hunter said, motioning to me.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.
Hunter fumbled with a slip of paper. "Yes. We're to speak with Mr. Nemark in a few minutes."
She nodded, her eyes drifting behind her to a room with glass panels. "Mr. Nemark is in there. I'll buzz you in and you just go to the receptionist in there." She jerked her head to a door on the right and pressed something behind the desk, which emitted a long buzzing sound.
Hunter stepped past me to open the door and held it open for me. I assumed that since we were in public now he couldn't denounce me too openly. We walked down the hallway toward where the receptionist had pointed and entered the room.
On the left wall were rows and rows of magazines and books, sporting smiling faces and names of universities and colleges. A few round tables with chairs cluttered the room, some students reading silently or writing, some looking up curiously as we came in. To the right in a hollow stood another desk, with a woman behind it, swallowed by mounds of papers and stacks of folders. To this woman we went.
"Hi," she said, sounding harassed. "What can I do for you?"
"We have an appointment with Mr. Nemark," Hunter said. "In a few moments."
The receptionist looked at the paper, nodded, and motioned to the table closest to a line of doors I hadn't noticed before. "He'll be out in a moment."
We went to the table and sat down. Tried not to notice the kids staring. Tried to look at the red Marine display in front of me. Tried to figure out what Hunter was thinking, sitting serenely, eyes hidden by his glasses.
Suddenly the door nearest to us open and a man walked out.
"You must be Mr. Leseveque," he said, smiling broadly. "And Christopher. Well, come in. Let's get started."
Trying not to feel as though I were being led into some hidden doom and this man was my captor, I followed him into the smaller office.
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Constructive criticism is strongly advised on this chapter.