Usual disclaimers apply, because, like Angry!Ryan!, I'm just too damned tired to repeat 'em.

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Chapter Six

It's Monday. It's lunchtime and I'm at a table in the cafeteria. I'm alone. Which really shouldn't be a goddamned surprise to anybody. Because I'm always alone these days. By choice. Or, at least I tell myself it's by choice. And it is. Well, mostly. Even though no one's offered to sit next to me. Even though I didn't exactly have to chase anyone away. Though maybe I did. Maybe I do. Maybe there's something different about me these days. Not that I was ever Mr. Popular. Or even wanted to be. But, I'd always at least scanned the room first to see if there was someone to sit with before—and now—now I'm just looking for an empty table.

I'm definitely not putting out too many welcoming vibes these days. Or any. In fact, I can't remember the last time I voluntarily talked to anyone who wasn't an Atwood or Theresa. I can't remember the last time I was even forced by circumstance to talk to someone who wasn't a teacher. Or fucking AJ.

I dunno. Maybe there's something in my demeanor. Maybe there's something in the way I look at people—or in the way I don't look at people. Maybe there's just something out there that's telling them all to back the fuck off. Because, that's how I'm feeling and that's what they're doing. So maybe—just maybe—I'm doing something fucking right for a change.

But, it's much more likely that I'm doing something wrong. Hell, even I know I'm doing everything wrong. I'm just so fucking zoned out all the damn time. I'm a fucking zombie. I mean—I think Catarina said "hi" in the hallway just before, but it didn't even register. Well, it registered. But by the time I'd thought to react—by the time I started to lift my hand in recognition—she'd already passed. And, by the time I'd turned to see where she'd gone, she was out of sight. It's like I'm living my life in slow motion and everyone else is moving at normal speed. It's just so fucking weird and it's beginning to creep me out, but I don't know what to do about it. I don't know how to make it stop.

Christ, there's something wrong with the knuckle. Not my knuckle. Well, yeah, my knuckle. There's something definitely wrong with my knuckle. I think I may have broken it when I swung at AJ. It would be a helluva lot better story if I'd'a connected with his ugly-assed ape of a face and caused the prick to bleed. Or at least to hurt. Even just a little. But I didn't. I was swinging wildly. Trying to connect with something. Trying to connect with anything. Which was completely my bad. Because—you know—mission accomplished and all that bullshit. I'd connected with something. I connected with the fucking floor. And the floor didn't give. Not one bit. So my knuckle had to. And now it's all swollen and purple. Well, purple with gray, black and yellow undertones. It hurts like a motherfucker and the pile of aspirin I took this morning is for shit.

I pass the dull charcoal tip of the pencil lightly over the drawing several more times trying to fix the knuckle. Adding shade where shade is needed. Pausing every few seconds to gingerly shut my hand and to study it—before picking the pencil back up again.

"I said, 'Did your hand look like that on Saturday?' "

It's Theresa. I didn't even know she was there. Behind my right shoulder. Looking at my fist and the drawing of my fist. Shit. I shut the notebook in one fluid motion. Or as fluid as I can manage when I'm caught completely off guard.

"Hey, Theresa."

"The hand." She says again, plopping her tray on the table, sitting next to me.

"What?"

"Your hand. Did it look like that on Saturday? I don't remember it looking like that on Saturday." She talks in staccato and mimes like she's signing. "Jesus, Atwood, don't get all Helen Keller on me."

"Sorry." I apologize without thinking. "Um, yeah. I guess." I shrug, squeezing the fist tight and sending a stab of pain shooting up the knuckle, through the hand and halfway up my forearm. For no other reason than to wake me up a little. For no other reason than to feel something. To feel anything. Because feeling pain is better than feeling nothing—and I'm feeling a whole lot of nothing these days.

"So—what? You don't do goodbyes anymore?"

"Sorry."

"No way, Ryan—we're not talking apologies. We're talking goodbyes. Don't get me wrong—you're fine with the apologies—you're a freaking artist with the apologies—but, not so much so with the goodbyes. And you did the whole sorry thing on Friday. I only take one of those a week."

"It's Monday—new week?" I'm hoping she'll let me off the hook. I'm hoping she's not going to start something. Because, I'm just not up to a fucking argument right now.

"You're an ass."

"Okay." Easy enough. Agreed. Except—of course—that would take the kind of luck that doesn't reek of the Atwood curse.

"So, you just took off—again. Is that your new thing? 'Love 'em and leave 'em Ryan Atwood?' You're really not all that. You gotta know that—right? 'Cause, you know—you're short—and you've got kind of a big nose—and to tell you the truth, you smell kinda funky—a little like chicken." She exaggerates a sniff, pinches her nose closed and fans her hand in front of her face to give me the full effect.

"I had to get home. You were still asleep. I told your mom—"

"Yeah, well, if she's the only one you're concerned with—maybe next time you should get my mom to blow you."

Jesus, Theresa. Give me a fucking break. I was already asleep when you came back out. I wasn't looking for a goddamn thing. "I must have missed the part where I asked you to blow me."

"Whatever." She rolls her eyes. "You didn't exactly say 'no,' either. I was there. Remember?"

I raise my eyebrows and attempt a half-hearted grin. I guess she buys it, or at least she's faking like she does—because she flicks a french fry at me. I don't even think to try to catch it till it's already bounced off my shoulder and come to rest on the table.

"Where were you yesterday, anyway?"

"With Trey."

"You're sure spending a lot of time with Trey these days."

I shrug. It's true. I am spending a lot of time with my brother. But, I have to spend time with somebody if I'm avoiding home. Which I'm definitely doing. And at least when I'm with Trey I don't have to talk much. I don't have to talk at all. Because, he doesn't push me to explain one goddamned thing. Not that he has to. Because he already knows everything about anything that needs explaining—and he's not exactly one to want to talk about it much, either.

"So." She puts a fry to her lips, hesitates before biting into it. "I went by your house yesterday."

"Why?"

"To find you."

"And—"

"And, I met your mom's boyfriend. Sweet guy." Her voice is saccharine. She's trying to be coy, but all I can think is that she has no fucking clue. She has no fucking clue how stupid that is. Jesus, you'd think she'd have a fucking clue. Especially when she keeps telling me she knows what's going on. Especially when she's pretty well got that goddamned pegged.

"What'd he do?"

"Who—the boyfriend? Nothing. He was flirting—I think. I couldn't really tell—there's no chance he's palsied, is there?—because that might explain the strange tic."

She jerks her head to the side awkwardly a couple times in rapid succession and I know she's trying to get me to laugh, but I can't quite bring myself to do the funny. Not when it's about AJ. Because there's not one fucking thing that's funny about AJ. And Theresa shouldn't be anywhere near the guy. "Don't come by again." My tone is deadly serious—not that she's fucking getting it.

"Your house—you're joking—right? 'Cause I've been coming by your house since we were, what—nine? Suddenly, I'm not supposed to come by—what's going on with you, Ryan?"

"Nothing—it's just—he's just—I dunno." I sputter before giving up. "My mom's boyfriend—he's dangerous, is all."

"I can see that." She says—points an accusatory fry at my face, moves it in a circular motion to encompass the damage she sees.

"This isn't him. I already told you—I got into a fight with Trey." I don't care that she isn't buying a word of it. My response is automatic. My brother taught me well. He taught me the value of sticking to whatever story is already out there. Even if you had to make it up on the spot. Even if it isn't probable—or even possible. Don't get bogged down in the details. Don't waiver. Not ever. Not even if no one believes a word you say. Not even if everyone already knows it was your dad who beat you up last night, or that your mom's on a bender and hasn't come home in a couple of days, or that you're late to school because you're hung over and still a little bit drunk from the night before—or that the goon who's shacked up with your mom's kicking your ass on a regular basis. If you stick with whatever version of the story is already out there—if you don't embellish it—well, then you don't get caught in your own lies. It really is as simple as that.

Theresa regards me for a few seconds in silence before she finally harrumphs in exaggerated frustration. "We used to be best friends, Ryan." She sounds oddly sad. So maybe her frustration isn't as exaggerated as I thought. And I feel like a complete and utter shit. I just want to be left alone—but, I don't want to hurt her, either. I don't want her to hate me. I just want her to give me a little space. Because I like Theresa. And she likes me. But, I really need to be left alone right now. Not that I can tell her that.

"We're still best friends."

"Really? 'Cause that's not the vibe I'm getting here."

I force a grin. "You see anyone else around?"

"No. But, I'm only here because I sat next to you—you walked right by me three times last week to go sit by yourself—you don't wait for me after class anymore—you never even would'a noticed me today if I didn't hunt you down—and—well—you didn't exactly look like you were happy to see me just now."

"Sorry."

"There you go apologizing again. You're all about the apology. I'm not looking for an apology, Ryan."

"Then—what—exactly—are you looking for, Theresa?" It comes out sharper than I intended and I immediately wish I could take it back. I feel like shit—especially since we both know what she wants. And because I know I can't give it to her. And for half a second, I hope she didn't take it in the way I intended it. But I can tell by the way she colors slightly, the way she looks away and the way she just suddenly looks so fucking hurt, that she knows exactly what I meant.

"I dunno—" She finally says. "How about an explanation?"

"For what?"

"For why you're never around. For why you're hanging out with Trey all the time—for why you're becoming just like him."

"Becoming just like Trey?"

"Yes."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means that you're skulking around like you're pissed off at everyone and everything—you're fighting all the time—you're skipping school—and when you even bother to show up, you fall asleep in half your classes—it's just—I dunno, Ryan—it's just not you—or, it didn't used to be you—it's Trey, maybe—but it's not you—you're not you."

"I'm a little distracted is all." Yeah, I know. It even sounds lame to me.

"That's the best you can come up with? You're a little distracted?"

"I guess—I mean—I dunno—it's complicated." Christ. Can't she just take the hint and leave me the fuck alone. I don't want to talk about it. I don't know how to make it any clearer without attacking her. And I don't want to attack her. I won't attack her.

"Yeah, and I'm sure I wouldn't understand. Because you're just so fucking deep, Ryan. It's not like I haven't known you since—when? Like forever."

"C'mon Theresa, I don't want to do this." I can't fucking do this. Don't make me fucking do this.

"Do what—talk?"

"Fight."

"Really? 'Cause maybe you should tell that to Aldo. Because you sure looked like you wanted to fight when you busted his lip open a couple of weeks ago."

"Aldo's an asshole."

"And Brandon? Is Brandon an asshole, too?"

"Brandon hit me first."

"And Ty?"

"Ty smells like chicken." I offer her the best smile that I can muster in the hopes of diffusing this whole powder keg of a conversation before either of us say something we'll regret.

It's weak and Theresa's not going for it. "Well—then the two of you have a lot in common."

She bites her lip and hesitates a moment before she sucker-punches me. "Make it up to me Ryan—go to the dance with me." And she looks so goddamn wistful for a minute that I almost consider it. Except I can't. I can't go to the fucking dance with her. Because if I go to the dance with her, she'll think I'm her boyfriend. Which is what she wants me to be. And I can't. I just can't. Not that I don't want to. Jesus, she'd be my first choice if the option was even feasible. But it's not. Because I can't be anyone's fucking boyfriend right now. I just don't have it in me.

There's just too much going on in my fucked up life right now. I'm expending too much fucking energy just getting by day to day. And getting my mom by day to day. Because she's the one that really needs me right now. Theresa doesn't. Even though she thinks she does. But, she's got her mom—she's got Arturo. Mom's got nobody. She's got nobody but a fucked up prick of a boyfriend. And Trey. And me. And, her fucked up prick of a boyfriend won't let Trey come around. So, I know I'm not much—but I'm something. And I'm all she's got—she's my mom—so she's gotta come first. And I just don't have enough fucking energy to take care of her and anyone else.

"C'mon, Theresa, you know I don't do dances." I make my voice as soft and as plaintive as I can, in the hopes that she'll just—fucking—understand. But she doesn't. And I can't make her.

"Yeah—I know. You don't do a lot of things lately." Theresa's eyes narrow and she's spitting out her words. "You don't do goodbyes—you don't do smiles—you don't do jokes—you don't do conversation—just about the only thing you're doing these days is Maggie Cox." Her voice is raised and I don't have to look around to know that her last statement got the desired reaction from those who are tittering around us.

Theresa abruptly stands and picks up her tray. The food on it's mostly untouched. She pivots on her heel and walks away without looking back and by the time I think to call her back, she's gone. Which is great. It's just fucking great. Because, now I can officially add her to the long and growing list of people waiting in line to kick my ass. Along with Brandon Cox, of course. Which is just what I fucking need. Because that kid outweighs me by 50 pounds and has at least five inches on me. And, I guess my only consolation is that he won't get in the first punch in on me this time. Or—who the fuck am I kidding? He probably will. Because, I'm still moving in slow motion and the whole rest of the world is charging forward at full speed ahead.