Witness
by Peaches
AN: Oh, I am SO glad you all liked it! I was so worried it was too depressing... and it might very well be a bit to depressing for some of you. But, anyway, I hope you like the next chapter!!
2. Rifts
I stayed a Spinelli after the divorce. Besides, would it have mattered if I had changed my name? Everyone already knew me as Spin or Spinelli anyway, so, whether I liked the name or not, I was basically stuck with it.
Through grade 10, my friends, not the old gang (we never hung out anymore), but others, would almost constantly ask me what was wrong. I think TJ was more worried than any of them. I still can't believe I dragged him into it, but I did. I'm just thankful he's still around to go through the aftermath with me...
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"What the hell do you think you're wearing? You think you're leaving the house like that?"
I was used to these daily interrogations. Ryan would always find something wrong with me in the morning, whether it was my clothes, my make up, my hair, or even what I ate for breakfast. This morning, I felt I looked rather good in a black tank-top, black and red plaid skirt with numerous safety pins adorning the hem, a fishnet top over my tank-top and fishnet tights, polished off by my favourite scuffed up combat boots. My panther black hair was long in partial dreds. And, of course, I never left the house without my spiked collar and bracelets.
"Well, Ryan," I said dryly, "I am wearing what western civilization commonly classifies as clothing." I sounded out the last word like I was talking to a foreigner. My stepfather shot me a dirty, angry look, but he kept his mouth shut as I ate my breakfast of cold Pop-Tarts and black coffee. It wasn't until I was about to leave that he started at me again with his opinionated bull.
"I told you you're not leaving the house like that," he snapped. I smiled grimly.
"Would you rather I go naked?" I asked sardonically. "Because you know I will." He glared at me once more before I slammed the door on my way out. My bookbag perched on my shoulder, I quickly walked the three doors to TJ's house.
TJ was about the only person I really kept in close contact with these days. Sure I had a acquaintances and everything, and I had gone out with a few guys since middle school, but TJ was the only one who still seemed to remember what I had been like before my life went to hell. He even seemed to want to bring me back. Rather useless, but I appreciated the gesture. One you go dark, there's not much hope of breaking out of it.
TJ, while nowhere near the most outrageous boy I'd seen, was pretty high up on the list of people who wouldn't have been expected to punk out. In grade 9, he dyed his hair dark blue, wore his older brother's old jean jacket (decorated with a few of his own safety pins as a personal touch), and took the "Path of the Spikes". He certainly wasn't the young, freckle faced, stocky boy he had been back in the day, wearing the spikes and metal chains on his wrists and gelling his hair every other day. For one thing, he'd taken after his real dad and turned out rather wiry, but still pretty strong.
TJ found out about his real father by accident. Just before his 13th birthday, he discovered his own adoption papers signed by the person he'd called dad his whole life. According to the papers, his mother was his mother, but his father was not William Detwhieler. His real father, a man by the name of Gregory Matthews, was living in New Orleans, and didn't seem to want anything to do with him. TJ had tried on several occasions to contact him, but his letters were all unanswered. It really tore the poor kid up, having been in such a happy, stable family. He really didn't know who to be madder at: His mother and the man who'd raised him, for not telling him, or his real father, for not contacting him. I really felt what he felt to some degree. Both of our childhoods were torn to shit by circumstance. Maybe that's why we were still friends after so long after the rest of the old gang disbanding.
Starting up the steps to TJ's place, I could hear angry yelling inside. I stopped as I heard the doorknob turn. Within seconds, TJ appeared in the doorway, his usually palish face slightly red with anger. Not noticing me for a moment, he yelled an angry "GO SCREW YOURSELF!" to whoever was on the other side of the door. He noticed me after he slammed the door with enough force to knock over a hanging plant above the porch. His eyes darted to the ground and his face went it's usual white as he saw my gaze.
"Hey," he muttered, hoisting his bookbag up on his shoulder and started toward me. We walked down the steps together. I knew better then to talk to him in this particular state. He always spoke when he was ready. I was sure he'd be fine by lunch at the latest. He usually only took a little while to feel better... unlike myself, who took at least a day to feel ready to talk after a fight.
By the time we were two blocks from Washington High, where we both attended, he was already feeling a little better. He asked me how things were going between me and my mother. I told him what I told everyone else: I'm not buried, and neither is she... it could be worse.
My mother and I were constantly at each others throats. She was always after me to clean up my act, and she never let me think for one moment that I was even remotely welcome in the house. I would have moved in with dad in a heartbeat, but I would have had to go to Jefferson High School across town. I'd never abandon TJ. Me and him were all each other had for support these days. I think we fed off each others pain to survive. It was like a symbiotic relationship. We co-existed with each other in a world that didn't seem to want us.
Walking up the front stairs everyday was pure torture for anyone who was not a prep or jock at Washington High. It was the favourite hang out of anyone whose brain was as active as a ball of lint. I hated walking up the front stairs. Most of it was the presence of Vince LaSalle; Quarterback, Centre, Goalie, and general star of just about any sport you could think of. He never said anything to us when the jocks and preps would hiss at us or yell insults, but I never saw him try to stop it. He would either completely ignore us, or just laugh along coldly with his little sheep-like followers. There had always been some animosity between Vince and I. I know we had mainly gotten along in the past for TJ's sake, but it was harder now to be civil toward him, seeing as how I didn't have to be anymore.
TJ left for first class a few minutes early. His first class was gym, and mine was writing. He wanted to get changed so he would have time to warm up before class. I has no worries about being late. Even if I was, Mr Jackman wouldn't yell at me. I was his prize pupil, scoring highest in all of the tenth grade last year on the exam, except for, of course Gretchen, who aced it.
I didn't see that much of Gretchen anymore. For someone who had been my best friend for so long, she never did take much interest in keeping us that way. Of course, on the flip side, I was just as much to blame as she was. I think the intensity of my pain scared her. She was used to stability, facts, and evidence. She played it safe, relying on her calculations and formulas. I held no grudge. Some people are just that way. She spent most of her time in the Science laboratories, working out problems, and saving mankind and the likes.
Gus I saw around every now and then. It was hard to even try to patch things up with a guy who looked like he could crush you with his thumb. He had passed nearly everyone in height, reaching his promised 6'4" by the age of 14. He was gangly at first, but followed his father around religiously that same summer, becoming pretty buff while he trained alongside his father's army recruits. He could be found in the library most days with his fellow army brats, playing Risk, like it was another little world he could escape to. I heard he won a few Risk championships when there were conventions in town. Maybe Gus was onto something; maybe we all need somewhere to escape to.
Mikey had, inevitably, joined drama in grade 10. That same year, Washington High took first place in the State Drama Festival, and was beat only by California and New York at the Nationals. Winning third was a great honour for Arkansas. It was the furthest the school had ever gotten in the festival. I knew that Mikey would push himself and the others to win all the way this year. He really hadn't changed much. He'd lost a bit of weight, and I think we more or less just drifted because of separate interests more than anything. I liked Punk, and he liked Broadway; I liked action movies, he liked romance movies, whatever. As said before, that's just the way things happened. To tell the truth, I think he was a little bitter at me for scoring higher than him on the English exam.
I never thought anything could bring us all together again. And if I had known then what I know now, I wouldn't have wanted it to.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Fridays always drag on forever anyway, and, worse, Ryan was waiting with a full verbal assault when I got home. Mom came home an hour later and started getting on my case too, so I did what I normally did... I went to my room, locked my door, and blasted punk-metal loud enough that you could hear the bass at the end of the street. Normally, they would leave me alone when I did this, but tonight Ryan was more irritable then normal, Mom was on the verge of what looked like a meltdown, and it must have been Everybody Try To Piss Off Spinelli Day, because I was ready to blow the hell up.
I was actually doing okay with my temper until about supper time.
"Ashley, pass me the butter," Ryan muttered across the table, no 'please' or anything. I was about to tell him where to go, but I realized I could just watch him die a slow, painful death by loading him up with the cholesterol filled butter. I passed it to him, but my tongue was too fast for me.
"I can see mom married you because of your manners."
Wrong damn move on my part. I swear, I had never seen mom's eyes get so wide, or Ryan's mouth move so many times without any sound come out. Maybe what he was doing was the real meaning behind blowing hot air.
"Go to your room," my mother hissed. "NOW!" Ryan, however, held his hand up to silence her, and just smiled sarcastically.
"Let her stay," he sneered. "So, miss, you think you're so much better then the rest of us, do you? Well, by all means, give us your view of life, Miss Perfect. Tell me, what have you ever done that's of any significance?" His white-blue eyes blazed with malicious flame.
"Leave me alone," I muttered.
"No!" Ryan snapped. "Tell me what you know that we don't! None of us want to get in the way of the all mighty, all knowing Ashley Spinelli! Hell, without her around, her mother might be, dare I imagine it, HAPPY!!"
"SHUT UP!!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. In short, I snapped. Ryan's smile stayed plastered on his wicked face. Mom just sat there looking down at her plate quietly. I stood up, knocking the chair over as I did. As I stomped toward the door and pulled on my boots, Ryan's wrath kept coming like a verbal wasps nest.
"That's right, run to your little boyfriend next door!" he yelled after me, following me to make sure I could hear every word. "Little tramp! You leave, don't even think about coming back!"
"Fine! Agreed!" I yelled back. "By the way, the key to mom's happiness doesn't have anything to do with me! Beating up on your wife will tend to make her a bit depressed!"
CRACK
The side of my face was tinted red as I ran sobbing to TJ's house.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
by Peaches
AN: Oh, I am SO glad you all liked it! I was so worried it was too depressing... and it might very well be a bit to depressing for some of you. But, anyway, I hope you like the next chapter!!
2. Rifts
I stayed a Spinelli after the divorce. Besides, would it have mattered if I had changed my name? Everyone already knew me as Spin or Spinelli anyway, so, whether I liked the name or not, I was basically stuck with it.
Through grade 10, my friends, not the old gang (we never hung out anymore), but others, would almost constantly ask me what was wrong. I think TJ was more worried than any of them. I still can't believe I dragged him into it, but I did. I'm just thankful he's still around to go through the aftermath with me...
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"What the hell do you think you're wearing? You think you're leaving the house like that?"
I was used to these daily interrogations. Ryan would always find something wrong with me in the morning, whether it was my clothes, my make up, my hair, or even what I ate for breakfast. This morning, I felt I looked rather good in a black tank-top, black and red plaid skirt with numerous safety pins adorning the hem, a fishnet top over my tank-top and fishnet tights, polished off by my favourite scuffed up combat boots. My panther black hair was long in partial dreds. And, of course, I never left the house without my spiked collar and bracelets.
"Well, Ryan," I said dryly, "I am wearing what western civilization commonly classifies as clothing." I sounded out the last word like I was talking to a foreigner. My stepfather shot me a dirty, angry look, but he kept his mouth shut as I ate my breakfast of cold Pop-Tarts and black coffee. It wasn't until I was about to leave that he started at me again with his opinionated bull.
"I told you you're not leaving the house like that," he snapped. I smiled grimly.
"Would you rather I go naked?" I asked sardonically. "Because you know I will." He glared at me once more before I slammed the door on my way out. My bookbag perched on my shoulder, I quickly walked the three doors to TJ's house.
TJ was about the only person I really kept in close contact with these days. Sure I had a acquaintances and everything, and I had gone out with a few guys since middle school, but TJ was the only one who still seemed to remember what I had been like before my life went to hell. He even seemed to want to bring me back. Rather useless, but I appreciated the gesture. One you go dark, there's not much hope of breaking out of it.
TJ, while nowhere near the most outrageous boy I'd seen, was pretty high up on the list of people who wouldn't have been expected to punk out. In grade 9, he dyed his hair dark blue, wore his older brother's old jean jacket (decorated with a few of his own safety pins as a personal touch), and took the "Path of the Spikes". He certainly wasn't the young, freckle faced, stocky boy he had been back in the day, wearing the spikes and metal chains on his wrists and gelling his hair every other day. For one thing, he'd taken after his real dad and turned out rather wiry, but still pretty strong.
TJ found out about his real father by accident. Just before his 13th birthday, he discovered his own adoption papers signed by the person he'd called dad his whole life. According to the papers, his mother was his mother, but his father was not William Detwhieler. His real father, a man by the name of Gregory Matthews, was living in New Orleans, and didn't seem to want anything to do with him. TJ had tried on several occasions to contact him, but his letters were all unanswered. It really tore the poor kid up, having been in such a happy, stable family. He really didn't know who to be madder at: His mother and the man who'd raised him, for not telling him, or his real father, for not contacting him. I really felt what he felt to some degree. Both of our childhoods were torn to shit by circumstance. Maybe that's why we were still friends after so long after the rest of the old gang disbanding.
Starting up the steps to TJ's place, I could hear angry yelling inside. I stopped as I heard the doorknob turn. Within seconds, TJ appeared in the doorway, his usually palish face slightly red with anger. Not noticing me for a moment, he yelled an angry "GO SCREW YOURSELF!" to whoever was on the other side of the door. He noticed me after he slammed the door with enough force to knock over a hanging plant above the porch. His eyes darted to the ground and his face went it's usual white as he saw my gaze.
"Hey," he muttered, hoisting his bookbag up on his shoulder and started toward me. We walked down the steps together. I knew better then to talk to him in this particular state. He always spoke when he was ready. I was sure he'd be fine by lunch at the latest. He usually only took a little while to feel better... unlike myself, who took at least a day to feel ready to talk after a fight.
By the time we were two blocks from Washington High, where we both attended, he was already feeling a little better. He asked me how things were going between me and my mother. I told him what I told everyone else: I'm not buried, and neither is she... it could be worse.
My mother and I were constantly at each others throats. She was always after me to clean up my act, and she never let me think for one moment that I was even remotely welcome in the house. I would have moved in with dad in a heartbeat, but I would have had to go to Jefferson High School across town. I'd never abandon TJ. Me and him were all each other had for support these days. I think we fed off each others pain to survive. It was like a symbiotic relationship. We co-existed with each other in a world that didn't seem to want us.
Walking up the front stairs everyday was pure torture for anyone who was not a prep or jock at Washington High. It was the favourite hang out of anyone whose brain was as active as a ball of lint. I hated walking up the front stairs. Most of it was the presence of Vince LaSalle; Quarterback, Centre, Goalie, and general star of just about any sport you could think of. He never said anything to us when the jocks and preps would hiss at us or yell insults, but I never saw him try to stop it. He would either completely ignore us, or just laugh along coldly with his little sheep-like followers. There had always been some animosity between Vince and I. I know we had mainly gotten along in the past for TJ's sake, but it was harder now to be civil toward him, seeing as how I didn't have to be anymore.
TJ left for first class a few minutes early. His first class was gym, and mine was writing. He wanted to get changed so he would have time to warm up before class. I has no worries about being late. Even if I was, Mr Jackman wouldn't yell at me. I was his prize pupil, scoring highest in all of the tenth grade last year on the exam, except for, of course Gretchen, who aced it.
I didn't see that much of Gretchen anymore. For someone who had been my best friend for so long, she never did take much interest in keeping us that way. Of course, on the flip side, I was just as much to blame as she was. I think the intensity of my pain scared her. She was used to stability, facts, and evidence. She played it safe, relying on her calculations and formulas. I held no grudge. Some people are just that way. She spent most of her time in the Science laboratories, working out problems, and saving mankind and the likes.
Gus I saw around every now and then. It was hard to even try to patch things up with a guy who looked like he could crush you with his thumb. He had passed nearly everyone in height, reaching his promised 6'4" by the age of 14. He was gangly at first, but followed his father around religiously that same summer, becoming pretty buff while he trained alongside his father's army recruits. He could be found in the library most days with his fellow army brats, playing Risk, like it was another little world he could escape to. I heard he won a few Risk championships when there were conventions in town. Maybe Gus was onto something; maybe we all need somewhere to escape to.
Mikey had, inevitably, joined drama in grade 10. That same year, Washington High took first place in the State Drama Festival, and was beat only by California and New York at the Nationals. Winning third was a great honour for Arkansas. It was the furthest the school had ever gotten in the festival. I knew that Mikey would push himself and the others to win all the way this year. He really hadn't changed much. He'd lost a bit of weight, and I think we more or less just drifted because of separate interests more than anything. I liked Punk, and he liked Broadway; I liked action movies, he liked romance movies, whatever. As said before, that's just the way things happened. To tell the truth, I think he was a little bitter at me for scoring higher than him on the English exam.
I never thought anything could bring us all together again. And if I had known then what I know now, I wouldn't have wanted it to.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Fridays always drag on forever anyway, and, worse, Ryan was waiting with a full verbal assault when I got home. Mom came home an hour later and started getting on my case too, so I did what I normally did... I went to my room, locked my door, and blasted punk-metal loud enough that you could hear the bass at the end of the street. Normally, they would leave me alone when I did this, but tonight Ryan was more irritable then normal, Mom was on the verge of what looked like a meltdown, and it must have been Everybody Try To Piss Off Spinelli Day, because I was ready to blow the hell up.
I was actually doing okay with my temper until about supper time.
"Ashley, pass me the butter," Ryan muttered across the table, no 'please' or anything. I was about to tell him where to go, but I realized I could just watch him die a slow, painful death by loading him up with the cholesterol filled butter. I passed it to him, but my tongue was too fast for me.
"I can see mom married you because of your manners."
Wrong damn move on my part. I swear, I had never seen mom's eyes get so wide, or Ryan's mouth move so many times without any sound come out. Maybe what he was doing was the real meaning behind blowing hot air.
"Go to your room," my mother hissed. "NOW!" Ryan, however, held his hand up to silence her, and just smiled sarcastically.
"Let her stay," he sneered. "So, miss, you think you're so much better then the rest of us, do you? Well, by all means, give us your view of life, Miss Perfect. Tell me, what have you ever done that's of any significance?" His white-blue eyes blazed with malicious flame.
"Leave me alone," I muttered.
"No!" Ryan snapped. "Tell me what you know that we don't! None of us want to get in the way of the all mighty, all knowing Ashley Spinelli! Hell, without her around, her mother might be, dare I imagine it, HAPPY!!"
"SHUT UP!!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. In short, I snapped. Ryan's smile stayed plastered on his wicked face. Mom just sat there looking down at her plate quietly. I stood up, knocking the chair over as I did. As I stomped toward the door and pulled on my boots, Ryan's wrath kept coming like a verbal wasps nest.
"That's right, run to your little boyfriend next door!" he yelled after me, following me to make sure I could hear every word. "Little tramp! You leave, don't even think about coming back!"
"Fine! Agreed!" I yelled back. "By the way, the key to mom's happiness doesn't have anything to do with me! Beating up on your wife will tend to make her a bit depressed!"
CRACK
The side of my face was tinted red as I ran sobbing to TJ's house.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~