Thanks for the great comments on the last chapter. Chazper and P.L., your insights are great to read and your effort appreciated.
This chapter's a little longer.
A Week Before Cohen
Chapter Five
Ryan was determined to land himself a job.
Whether he was livingwith Trey or back at home, he knew rent was an issue, and at 16, he was more than capable of doing something about it.
Besides, last year he put in a solid summer of working construction with the only decent man his mother had ever been with. Ryan didn't make much, but it was totally under the table and, at the time, the money was his to do with as he pleased. The leather jacket he bought for himself was the only thing he'd ever actually "owned."
It was taking him longer than expected to type up his resume; the public computer at the Chino Hills Library had frozen twice already and automatically shut down to restart, forcing him to start over both times.
He rushed through it on the third try, typing up what he now had memorized. When he got to the references section and found he still had a blinking cursor, he paused and scratched his cheek.
What was that guy's last name, anyway? And could he use the company as a reference if they had no record of him ever working?
In the end, he typed in a fake number and prayed any future employers wouldn't bother following up. After all, he was 16; it's not like he was going to be hired to perform brain surgery.
He pressed "print" quickly and held his breath, letting the air out slowly when he heard the old printer chug to life.
He scanned his work briefly, satisfied with the final result, and walked over to the librarian's desk.
"Is there a machine here I can make copies on?"
The lady spun around in her chair and pointed to the corner. "There's one just—" she stopped suddenly. "Ryan?"
Ryan looked at her—actually looked at her. "Mrs. James?"
His old sixth-grade teacher was smiling widely. "Look at you!" she said proudly gesturing toward him with his hands, and then leaned forward in her chair. "Look at you. What happened to your face?"
Ryan looked away and answered as quickly and naturally as possible. "Brotherly stuff," he said with a snarl. He knew from experience that the quicker he answered, the fewer questions they asked. Hesitation was fuel.
She smiled, shook her head and clucked her tongue. "You kids…."
He nodded and smiled with her. Always react with them. If they laugh, laugh. If they lecture, look ashamed.
Tried and true.
"So, in the corner…?" Ryan asked, pointing to the copier.
"Here." She held out her hand. "Watchya got there?"
"It's, uh…my résumé."
"Oh!" she said in surprise, tilting her head and scrutinizing his work. "Just one page?"
Ryan tentatively handed over the single sheet of paper that summed up his limited skills and work experience. He should have made it longer. So much for selling yourself, Atwood.
"Yeah," he answered quietly.
She smiled warmly, pulling her glasses down low on her nose and looking him directly in the eye. "Well, if it's in the interest of responsible employment," she said in a low quiet voice, "I'll bend the rules just this once and make those copies for you." She rolled her chair back and stood, lifting the lid to the copier behind the desk. "How many do you want? Thirty?"
Ryan was only going to make ten, but if he wasn't footing the bill, thirty sounded good.
"Sure, that'd be great. Thanks."
Mrs. James returned shortly with a thick folder. "Good luck," she said, handing it over the counter.
He thanked her and walked out into the hot August sunshine, the naïve teacher's words ringing in his ears. "I'll need it," he grumbled, wiping off the sweat that instantly formed on his forehead.
"Look, no offense, but customers don't want to talk to some kid with a black eye." The guy held out the piece of paper. Ryan took it back grudgingly. "Clean yourself up, stay out of trouble, and then we'll talk."
He replaced the resume in the folder and thanked the manager for his time. If he was desperate, he'd come back in a few days when his face was all the same color.
Once outside, he did a quick count of the remaining resumes. Nineteen. Not bad, but he knew that at least half of the ones that were accepted were thrown in the trash or used as scrap paper as soon as he turned his back.
No one wanted to hire a 16-year-old guy. Especially not with one who wore his troubles on his face.
So far the only place that had paid him any attention at all had been the repellent public pool—the one place where Ryan actually cringed when he walked in. Even as a kid, he swore that pool was filled with blue-colored urine.
He reached the end of the street and stood on the corner for a few minutes. The sun was going down, and he had a long walk back to the apartment still ahead of him. There really wasn't anywhere else worth trying; he'd already hit up all the city-owned places and those were probably his best option.
He sat down on the wooden bus bench—the folder with the unwanted resumes slapping down beside him—and rubbed deep circles over his eyes until he saw a technicolor show behind his lids.
He was so tired. The past couple nights had been spent battling with the bulging springs in the old sofa. Since his head started feeling better, he was more aware of the bruise on his back, and the sofa had turned into his worst enemy.
He slumped down a little on the bench and tilted his head back. The setting sun caused a soothing, warm orange glow behind his eyelids. He sighed deeply, crossed his arms over his chest, and enjoyed the quiet evening.
Ryan startled awake to a honking horn.
"You getting in or not, kid?"
He sat forward abruptly, shaking his head at the bus driver. "Uh…no. Thanks."
The bus jolted forward, the engine whining as it pulled away from the curb at a good clip.
The Vomit Comet. Ryan knew it well—the only bus in Chino that ran 24-hours. Even if he could afford it, he had no desire to step foot on it.
He blinked and glanced around. It was dark. Really dark. And all the cars that were parked on the street had since been moved, leaving Ryan alone on the bench in the middle of the night.
He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, grimacing at the stiffness in his back and neck. It would appear as though the bench was no better than the sofa.
He yawned and rose to his feet. The folder of resumes was on the ground—probably swept away by the wind that seemed to be blowing the air around and providing a heat snap for the first time in weeks.
Ryan reached down to gather what remained of the papers and place them back in the folders. When he straightened again, he was nearly knocked off his feet by a wave of dizziness.
He cursed, grabbing onto the back of the bench for support and closed his eyes, waiting for the unnerving feeling to pass. It was disconcerting, knowing that AJ—such a useless piece of scum, as far as Ryan was concerned—could have such long-lasting affects.
And then he felt it. He held his breath and willed it to go away, but it was still there, making his conscience itch like a bad rash. If after almost a week alone, Ryan was still feeling AJ, what kind of damage could he have caused in the past few days without interference? What was happening back home? Was AJ at least barefoot when he slipped into a drunken, blinding rage?
Ryan cringed at the thought.
But when he opened his eyes and stepped away from the bench, he stood solidly in place—his coordination sharp enough to catch a résumé that was almost swept up by the wind, his vision clear enough to make out the smudge of a dirty thumbprint on the corner.
Maybe there was hope after all.
Ryan stepped into the apartment, surprised to see that all the lights were still on. Arturo was lounging on the sofa, staring at the TV with half-shut eyes. Ryan didn't bother saying "hi," knowing it would be a futile effort.
He briefly considered removing his boots but then thought better of it. He was almost positive there wasn't a broom, vacuum or mop anywhere in the apartment.
"Is that him?" Trey's voice called out from behind the closed door of his bedroom.
Arturo tilted his head back onto the sofa, and squinted tightly—his own dirty socks, Ryan immediately noticed, on the pillow again. "Who?"
Ryan rolled his eyes. Surely Arturo could see him.
"Who the fuck do you think?" Trey responded bluntly, emerging from his room. When he caught sight of Ryan, his face reddened just slightly, and Ryan instinctively took a step backward.
"Where the fuck have you been?" Trey's eyes jumped around wildly, and Ryan didn't even realize he'd taken another step back until he felt the door against his back.
"I was…out. Looking for a job," he said in a rush. He added, "Sorry, man," even though he wasn't sure why. He took a shallow breath and held it—nerves clawing at his insides.
Trey shook his head, the vein on the right side of his neck throbbing with anger and adrenaline, and Ryan's confusion grew exponentially by the second.
"Looking for a job? At three in the fucking morning?" A humorless smile came and left abruptly.
Ryan breathed out quickly and pressed hard against the door until the wooden frame whined under his weight. "Yes…I mean, no. I was…then I fell asleep."
He added "sorry" again, and he was really starting to believe he'd done something horribly wrong, though his mind was reeling to find an answer to what.
Arturo lazily climbed off the sofa, the dirty pillow dropping to the floor. "Screw this," he mumbled, ambling into his dark bedroom. He didn't bother shutting the door before dropping into bed—the mattress springs squeaking loudly.
For the first time since he came in, Ryan noticed the potent smell of pot in the thick air.
Trey turned and walked into the kitchen, his breathing slowing significantly with every step. Ryan let his shoulders relax a bit and shoved his hands into his pockets, his fingers working furiously at balling up loose lint—a nervous habit he never noticed until Theresa pointed it out.
Trey stood at the counter, leaning against it with his arms. He stared out the broken window for a few seconds, then turned and walked back into the living room.
Ryan caught a slight limp in his brother's step.
"What happened to you? You okay?"
As if Ryan's words were fuel, Trey's receding anger shot back up a notch.
"I went looking for you!" he yelled. "When I couldn't find you here, or at Theresa's, I went back to Mom's. You fill in the blanks."
Ryan's stomach turned over, and he had to swallow quickly and take a few short breaths to avoid throwing up.
He looked up slowly. "It's Friday…."
Trey just stared back blankly for a good minute or so—no anger or frustration now, just an undeniable tiredness that swept across his face and made his entire body go slack.
They didn't need to say it; they both knew the schedule.
Friday: AJ's pay day.
Neither of them would ever go home on Fridays.
It was a given Ryan would stay at Theresa's that night. Her mother would have the sofa all made up before they even got home from school.
"I'm sorry," Ryan said again, and he meant it now, because he was. And he wanted to add, "Thank you," but he knew that would just make Trey angry, so he bit his lip instead.
Trey looked up at the ceiling and inhaled audibly. Ryan could see the redness in his eyes, and an sickening guilt forced him to swallow again.
Finally, Trey started toward his room. Ryan couldn't help but notice there was no limp this time—an obvious effort on his brother's part.
"I'm glad you're okay," Trey muttered with his back turned, closing his bedroom door.
Ryan nodded and leaned back against the apartment door again. He shut his eyes and let out the tension with a shaky sigh. "You too," he whispered.
Never had Ryan felt a stronger urge for a cigarette.
TBC
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