Brittany, this is for you for constantly bugging me to update.
Song to listen: Savage Garden: Crash and Burn
Chapter Seven: Johnny Jump Up
"Hello?" A female voice answered the phone like a receptionist—calm, cool, and emotionless.
"Mom?"
The voice warmed instantly. "Chris! Hi, honey, I was just about to call you—when I called, Tommie said you were out, and I thought you'd be back by now, so—"
"Mom?" Chris interrupted quietly.
"What is it, baby?"
"Are you—are you and Dad really getting divorced?" he knew he sounded like a frightened child, but he really didn't care.
"I—" Simone Banyon hesitated, and the bottom dropped out of Chris's stomach.
"Mom, why?"
"Baby," his mother said pleadingly. "Can't we talk about this some other time? When are you coming home? I was thinking that we could go and visit Cammie—"
"Mom," Chris ignored her wheedling tone. "Why are you getting divorced?"
"Why are you asking me that when you already know the answer?" his mother retorted, losing her cool facade.
"I know it's not because there aren't children in the house anymore. Is it—Mom, is he cheating on you?"
"No." She must have heard him take a breath to ask the inevitable next question, because she added, "and I'm not cheating on him either, so get that thought out of your head."
Why had he thought that?
"I just can't take this—this—this lack of love in this house. Everything revolves around work, your father and I don't sleep in the same bed anymore, and we just fell out of love, Christian. It's as simple as that."
Nothing's as simple as that. He lifted his arms and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes in frustration. "Mom. . . . ."
"Christian, don't whine at me. Just accept it. You knew this was coming."
"I know, but I just thought—"
"Please, Christian, can we talk about something else?" She sounded desperate now, and he sighed.
"Fine, Mom."
§
When he came out, Reanna was still poring over her violin, and she looked pensive about something.
"What's up?" he asked, and she looked up, startled. "Oh, I didn't see you there." She looked closer and frowned. "Are you okay?"
"My parents are getting divorced," he told her tightly. "Do you think I'm okay?"
"I—" her eyes widened and she drew back slightly. "I'm sorry, I just—"
"Shit, I'm sorry. I've just had a bad day and now I'm taking it out on you."
She looked a little relieved, and some of the tension left her body.
There was still something nagging at him from behind her eyes, and he wondered.
"Listen," he said, trying not to sound overly enthusiastic as an idea hit him. "Do you want to go out and get something to eat in a little bit?"
She looked startled, then her brow furrowed. "I guess. I mean, I don't have that much money on me, but if you want—"
"I do. And I'll cover it if you don't have enough," he said.
Slumping a little, she agreed.
"It's—what, six now? Let's go out at seven."
She nodded and pulled a tube of birthmark concealer from her violin case.
An hour later saw them borrowing Thomas's Taurus, and off they went. "Do you know this area very well?" he asked, and she nodded.
"Where do you want to go?"
"Uhh…" Someplace semi-cheap but clean. "Denny's?"
"Turn right here," she said, and he had to stop short to make the turn.
"Little warning next time?" he asked sarcastically.
"Sorry," she said sincerely.
"I was kidding," he told her.
"Oh. . . sorry," she said.
"Geez, stop apologizing."
"Sorry."
"Just stop," he said.
She looked subdued. "Left," she said quietly.
Did his opinion matter that much to her?
The Denny's came up on the right and he turned in and parked.
They got out of the car and made their way past a black family and a group of teenagers and then past a throng of middle-school students clustered around the claw machines in the entrance.
When he held open the inner door for her, he noticed that her hands were shaking slightly, but he chalked it up to hunger and exhaustion and ushered her in.
The waiter sat them at a booth in the corner and Reanna sat with her back to the restaurant; small wonder, when he thought about how many people had turned around upon seeing her face and hands. Her hair concealed her face from the other patrons and people stopped staring after a few seconds.
"So," he said conversationally. "What're you getting?"
She opened her menu and looked it over. "Fries and water," she said, citing what looked to be the cheapest two things on the menu.
"That cannot be it," he said firmly.
"I'm trying to save my money," she said defensively.
"If it bothers you that much, I'll pay," he offered.
"No, I—"
He lifted up his menu and used it as a partition between them. "Pick something," he told her.
When the waiter came back, Reanna ordered one of the Scrambles and water and he ordered a burger.
After the waiter had left, they lapsed into silence until something caught Reanna's attention.
"Look, it's Reanna!" A cuban girl drawled and popped her head out from around the booth partition. "Where ya been?"
"Um, hi Renè," Reanna said quietly.
"Hey, who's your— My god, what happened to your face?" In an instant the girl was out of her seat and next to Reanna, an arm around her shoulders. "Are you okay?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Was it this guy?" Renè turned to glare at Chris, and two more heads looked over the partition.
"No, he's . . ." Reanna went on to explain—an edited version, of course—why she was with Chris while he fumed about Renè's accusation. The angry faces on the other side of the booth wall eventually relaxed, and eventually, Renè asked, "So, you gonna introduce me?"
"Okay. . . Chris, this is Renè, one of my classmates. . . ."
"We're friends," Renè said firmly.
So Reanna did have more friends than she let on.
"This is Chris," Reanna said after a second.
"Oi! We wanna meet this guy, too!" the two teenagers whose heads were hovering over the edge of the booth chorused.
"John and Kay," Renè supplied for the pudgy boy with glasses and the girl who vaguely resembled a shih-tzu.
"Ah." Chris extended a hand to each, and then the waiter for Renè's table came with their food.
"C'mon, Renè, we gotta clear this stuff."
Renè retreated to her table, and Chris peered over the section. On their table was a map of Georgia and dozens of little plastic figurines that were scattered in what he vaguely recognized as a pattern that was nowhere near random.
"This is—"
"Risk," Reanna said. Chris was startled to realize that she'd moved around the table to sit next to him and was now on her knees on the plastic seat. "You already took over Asia?" she asked John. "Stupid move."
"Huh?"
"You'll see," she informed him.
Sure enough, after Chris and Reanna's food had come, there was a whoop from Renè's table and fervent cursing from John.
"You owe me twenty bucks, lardass! I told you, Asia is crap!" Renè enthused.
Apparently John paid because there was no more noise from the other table from then on until the three left, waving goodbyes to Reanna and a flirtatious "Call me!" from Kay to Chris.
During that time, Reanna remained on Chris's side of the table, and she stayed there until they left. She looked happier than she'd seemed in a while, but he didn't bother to ask why. A little satisfied, even. He paid for the meal and Reanna left the tip, and then they left.
When he turned the car on, Chris realized that a gas stop was in order. When they stopped, Reanna ran inside while he pumped gas, explaining that she needed some gum, and he watched through the window as she went straight to the counter, talked agreeably to a teenager at the counter and then paid and came back to the car clutching a brown paper bag.
He watched her get in, noticing something shifty about her movements, and then ignored them from that point on, deciding that now wasn't the time to be paranoid.
He drove them back to the Fairesite in companionable silence, and Reanna almost immediately excused herself to the bunk above the cab and pulled the curtain.
Rustling noises told him that she'd emptied the paper bag, and he wondered what was in it before he decided that it was really none of his business and left the camper to see Saera.
§
Careful. Careful. Reanna unscrewed the bottle cap carefully, trying not to spill any or make much noise. Her hands shook a little as she raised the tiny bottle to her lips and drank, and then when the liquid hit her system, she relaxed a little and knocked back another of the little bottles. Then another, and another and another. All she wanted to do was forget. All she wanted to do was be numb.
More of the precious liquid, and more and more until she ran out, resorting to sucking the last drops from each bottle. She still needed more if she wanted to forget, but she couldn't get any more.
A rush hit her system, increasing the effects of the liquor and making her wish she hadn't eaten anything.
Just before she drifted into dreamless sleep, she had the sense to shove the bottles to the far side of the mattress, into the small space between bed and bulkhead.
There; it was hidden.
She closed her eyes.
§
Sunlight streamed into Chris's eyes and he groaned and rolled over.
A groan from the other side of his door made him a little more aware, and a rummaging through his bathroom cabinet made him bolt upright.
He stumbled out of his room, bleary-eyed, to be confronted by nothing more than a sick-looking Reanna holding an open bottle of Ibuprofen and her hand in front of her mouth. She swallowed, and he blinked. "Are you okay?"
"Headache."
He turned around to go back to bed when his alarm clock went off and he remembered that he had an appointment at the school. Speaking of school. . . .
"Don't you have school today?" he asked Reanna, who was brushing her teeth vigorously in the bathroom.
She finished up with her teeth and nodded. "It doesn't start for another two hours. I'll take the bus."
"I'll take you," he said, shaking his head. "Where is it?"
"Rochester High—it's on—"
"Atlantic and Rock Mountain," he interrupted her. "That's where I have to go. So we'll probably see each other at some point during the day."
"Okay," she admitted. "But I won't be in Madame Renault's room until like one-thirty, so it'll be a while."
"Oh," he said, feeling a little disappointed. "I'll be teaching in Mrs. Brimmer's class all day."
"Oh. . . ."
"But we can still eat lunch together. Do they allow that?"
"Tell you what," Reanna said, perking up. "We're generally allowed to eat with a teacher if we have something we need to discuss with them. Renault is usually cool about that, so I can get you from Renault's class at like twelve, and then we'll go to Renault's so she can interrogate you."
"Fine with me."
She disappeared back into the bathroom and he went to go change in the sanctity of his room. Before he closed the door he sniffed the air suspiciously, but the whiff of vodka had vanished. He shrugged and headed for his dresser.
After a ten-minute inner debate over what to wear, he settled on his nice swordsman's shirt, jeans and boots. He pulled them on and then left his room in search of coffee and to wait for Reanna to vacate the bathroom.
Two cups of Folgers later, he was humming the theme song and still waiting for Reanna to come out.
"You dead in there?" he called, knocking on the door.
"No. . . ."
"Then what're you doing?"
"Concealer."
Duh.
She came out a few minutes later, and he could barely see her bruises. Most of her skin was concealed by a forest green turtleneck that looked a little too short for her, but he didn't say anything and neither did she.
It took him all of five minutes to get ready, and by that time Reanna had gotten her shoes on and was stuffing two notebooks into her bag and zipping up her violin case.
He put his own shoes on, grabbed his flute case and Thomas's car keys, reconsidered, and grabbed another cup of coffee for the car. "Want any?" he asked, but she shook her head.
"I don't drink coffee, but thanks."
"M'kay. Let's go."
§
A classroom full of adolescent woodwind-players stared at him, and he stared right back.
How long had it been since he'd had to face a class? Probably at least three years—since his senior year of college, probably.
He'd thought he was teaching high-school age children, not junior high!
"So, Mr. Banyon." The teacher watched him from the other side of your desk. "Let's break the ice with a question, shall we?"
"Sure," he answered not-quite smoothly. Why was being here bothering him?
"Alright… Why don't you tell us something useful about yourself. Say. . . . what would you do for a Klondike Bar?"
The kids giggled and he found himself smiling. "Well, I guess I might fight Yuri of Adria for one. He fights dirty and doesn't call blows. And he bites."
More giggles, and the teacher stood up from behind her desk. "Well, then. I'm sure the children have a lot of questions about what it's like to be a professional musician, so I'll let you get to it, then." She retreated behind her desk, leaving him to face the horde alone.
"Okay. . . . who has questions?"
Multiple hands shot up into the air, and he picked an innocent-looking redhead. "Yes, Miss—"
"Anne," she replied blushing. "Why did you want to travel instead of playing with an orchestra?"
"There are a lot of people vying for an orchestra seat, but there are never enough seats to accommodate them. I liked playing for happy people and I liked traveling, so I jumped on the Faire bandwagon and haven't left since."
"What about money? Does it pay well?" a kid with a completely shaved head asked. Chris wondered if that would have been allowed when he was in middle school.
"It pays decently," he answered truthfully. "Sometimes I have to fight to supplement my income, but other than that I get along fairly well."
"Were you the guymy brotherarrested yesterday at Rana Wor's house? He said it was prolly you."
The rest of the children hushed.
"Reanna Wyr?"Chris asked, hoping that the boy had pronounced his version of the name correctly.
"Reanna Wyr, that's it," the boy said distastefully, not stopping for breath. "It was on the news last night andmy brother said the guy they arrested was with the Renaissance Festival and since you're a flautist with the Renaissance Festival, we figure you gotta be him. Are ya?"
No. Oh, no no no. It was on the news that I'm a flautist with the Faire? God, Maggie and Willy are gonna have my ass...
"Richard!" Brimmer admonished. "It's very rude to ask something like that." She paused, then eyed Chris uneasily. "Were you?"
"It was a misunderstanding between myself, Reanna, and the police. If you'd like to speak to your school's security guard, he seems to already be aware of the situation," he explained smoothly.
Indeed, when the security guard had escorted him to the room that morning, he'd mentioned to Chris that he sympathized with the musician and had expressed anger at Reanna's father. "I just can't believe it of Steven. We went to high school together, drank sometimes. What turns a man bad? What makes him lay a hand on his kid? I got kids, and I'd never, ever raise my hand to do more than spank 'em. If only I'd known this was goin' on. . . ."
Mrs. Brimmer jerked him back to the present. "I'll be sure to do that, Mr. Banyon. In the meantime, why don't you show the children some of the songs you play at the Renaissance Faire?"
She watched him like a hawk for first few songs he'd chosen, but the stirrings of an idea prompted him to see what he could do about it.
He started with "Sidhe Beg, Sidhe Mor," segued into "Johnny Jump Up," then played "Greensleeves," all the while focusing on just how much he wanted her to relax and trust him and regret that she'd had suspicions about him.
Eventually she relaxed, and he breathed a sigh of relief. At least that was settled.
By the time the class was over, he'd successfully taught one group of students a simple reel, another a jig, two flautist girls a ballad, and the rest of the children had expressed interest in learning the lyrics to "Donald, Where's Your Trousers" and "Fairy Story," so he'd taught them that.
The next group of children filed in and set up their instruments while he suppressed a groan.
These kids were an actual orchestra, all twenty of them comprised of string-players only. And he had no idea how to teach a bunch of strings something that he only knew to play on a woodwind.
Great.
§
"Geez, did you hear about her house?"
"Yeah, did you know her dad's been beating her?"
"Did you know I heard that he killed her mom?"
"Did you hear?"
"Did you hear?"
"Did you hear?"
Reanna cast a sideways glance at Mr. Mulling's desk. The old man was nodding off over their tests; there would be no help from him. She tried to ignore the whispers and rumors, but there were too many of them. Just when she thought she was going to scream right in the middle of third period Algebra II, Renè poked her.
"Hey, you okay?"
"I—uh—" she couldn't think of anything to say, so Renè said it for her.
"Hey, everyone!"
"Renè, what are you doing?" Reanna hissed as heads turned their way.
"Saving your ass," Renè said smugly.
"Reanna is not sleeping with her daddy. Yeah, she was smacked around a bit, but that's all. You can all shut the fuck up right now or you can keep spreading rumors that ain't true. But if y'all decide to keep 'em up, I'll kick your ass."
Antonio popped his head up off the desk where he'd been sleeping behind Renè. "Me too," he grumbled. "You all're making too much noise, and you're being bitches." He dropped his head back to the desk with a thud.
People started whispering, and Reanna didn't dare look anywhere else but at her desk. She could feel their eyes staring at her from all angles and was just glad that she'd chosen a seat at the front of the room. Suddenly a paper ball hit her in the side of the head and dropped into her lap. She picked it up to throw it back in the general direction it had come from when she noticed that there was writing on it. When she unfolded it, a huge, block-letter "Sorry!" confronted her, surrounded by hearts.
She looked back and saw Jeffrey Davies waving at her. Sorry, he mouthed. Other students either mimicked him, grinned nervously, or wouldn't look at her at all.
When the bell rang at the end of the period, she was the first out of the room, Renè on her heels.
By the time she made it to the bathroom, she was holding in tears.
"Hey! Hey!" Renè grabbed her before she could lock herself inside a stall.
"Are you okay?"
"I liked it so much better when they forgot I existed," Reanna gasped, shaking. "Now they all stare constantly and I think I'm going to go crazy before lunch."
"Calm down," Renè urged, ushering her into the handicapped stall as the bell rang.
"Sit." Renè pushed her down onto the floor, and Reanna had less than a second to shove her books under her as she sank.
"Now. We're going to sit here."
Reanna felt dubious. "Um, are we allowed?"
Renè laughed. "No, that's why we're here. Everyone else is in class and no-one will bother us. I wanna talk to you."
"About?"
"You need to relax. This will all go away in about a week; the rumors never last too long."
"A week?" Reanna asked, panicked. "I'm about to go crazy by next period and you want me to wait a week?"
"Be happy you aren't pregnant. Remember Lindsay Harris?"
"No. . ."
"Pregnant last year, hasn't been seen since last June?"
"No. . ."
"Geez, you really are out of the loop."
Reanna just shrugged.
"Let's just say I think that's why she left. The rumors were flying from November to July. You really didn't hear about that?"
"No one ever told me anything last year," Reanna complained.
"No one remembered you existed last year," Renè reminded her.
And that was just the way I wanted it, she remembered. That's the way it's been, up until now. I wonder. . . could it have been that Bardic magic thing Saera was talking about?
As Reanna slowly gained some confidence back through the next hour, she felt a lot better. When the bell for lunch finally rang, she thanked Renè and went to find Chris.
Just like they'd planned, she found him in Brimmer's room quietly taking apart his flute.
"Hey, ready to go?"
"Yup."
He grabbed a nice leather jacket that she hadn't noticed before and slung it over his shoulder before following her out of the room.
The cafeteria lines weren't as crowded as they normally were, and Reanna was puzzled before she remembered that Tuesdays were the pizza lunch special days for the Seniors and Juniors.
Chris followed her obediently into the line nearest the door. "What do they have for lunch here?"
"Chicken patties. . . crap pizza. . . sandwiches. . . sometimes salads or mozzarella sticks."
"Mmm, I think I'll stick with the salad, if they have it." He apparently changed his mind when he saw the wilted lettuce and meat that looked like it had come from a mutated chicken.
He finally selected something; she got a sandwich and they moved to the head of the line. She punched in her PIN on a small machine with a keypad and the lunch lady grunted. "Three twenty."
Reanna handed her money, got back change and then moved aside for Chris. He seemed unsure of what to do before she asked him, "Did the office give you a code?"
"Code? Oh."
He punched in 77543 and was rewarded with a beep. "Try again," the lunch lady urged.
The code 77534 got him his chicken patty and a soda and an exit from the cafeteria.
She led him to Madame Renault's room; the Frenchwoman was nowhere in sight upon their entrance, but a plink from the piano alerted Reanna to her presence.
"Bonjour, Madame," Reanna called once Madame Renault sat up.
"Bonjour, Reanna! Qui est votre ami bel?"
Who is my what friend? "Madame, I don't speak French very well," Reanna said as she and Chris found seats near her violin case.
"Oh. Je suis désolé. J'oublie, parfois," she muttered. "You are Monsieur Banyon?" she addressed Chris.
"Um, yeah," he said around a mouthful of patty.
"Reanna 'as mentioned you before. I wanted to thank you for the good you have done 'er."
The girl in question blushed. "Madame. . ."
"Nonsense! You 'ave been playing with so much more emotion than usual and much of your music 'as been 'appy instead of sad." She paused for a moment. "I like seeing you 'appy."
"Ah—thank you, Madame."
A quiet comment from Chris startled her. "Seems like more people than just me like seeing you happy."
Reanna felt flustered for some reason at his comment but then regained her composure. "I guess so," she answered noncommittally.
He turned around and looked at her; swallowed. "I think you knew they cared more than you let on."
Did I really know that they cared?
She thought back to other times in the school year; when she'd fallen down in gym class and a boy had helped her up and asked nothing for it; a time where she'd fallen far behind on her homework through a little fault of her own and three of her teachers had given unasked-for extensions on the due dates; the time when she'd fallen short of money when buying food for herself and her father and the cashier had covered the difference. All the Are you okays that had gone answered with a scowl and a low, growled, I'm fine until they no-one asked anymore.
All times when someone people had helped her; she'd thanked them for it but had gone on thinking the world an unkind place.
Perhaps she had been a little too hasty in placing her views upon everyone and everything.
When the bell rang and Chris went back to Brimmer and she stayed in the room cleaning up and setting up for Renault's advanced orchestra class, she felt full of some strange emotion she couldn't describe. Her classmates came in; none of them said anything about the incident yesterday.
News travels fast.
§
They met outside the front doors an hour after school had ended.
"What took you so long?" Chris asked, looking only slightly stressed. "I was worried."
Reanna hefted the strap to her violin case higher on her shoulder. "Sorry. The principal wanted to talk to me and had the Dean and the GC there, so things got a little annoying."
He nodded, pulled her backpack onto his shoulder and started for the parking lot.
"Chris?" Reanna asked, and he looked down at her.
"What?"
"Why'd you take my bag?"
"Why not?" he pointed out reasonably. "You've got enough to carry."
She looked down at her shoes. I really shouldn't be suspicious of everything he does. . . .
"Sorry," she mumbled.
"For?"
"Uh," she shrugged. "You know."
He nodded. "K."
They went back to the Faire.
§
"Here. S'not pure, but i's the best I got."
Paul forked over the eighty dollars, and the dealer handed him a small plastic vial.
Incredulously, "This is it?"
"Whaddya want from me? S'harder to get. G's just got busted and he was my main supply, dickweed."
Paul set his chin and pocketed the drug. A cop rolled by and the dealer vanished, leaving him alone on the sidewalk. The officer inside glared at Paul, and then the car turned a corner and he was alone again. In a moment, he wished the cop had stuck around.
Out of what Paul had thought was a shadow in a doorway he came. "They've got me—they're inside and they've got me and oh my god help me!"
Paul clutched his little bag of snow and watched the dirty, unshaven man stumble toward him. Seventeen he may have been, but stupid he was not. Five years on the street had taught Paul Lynch him to keep himself—and his snow—as far away from freaks like this guy as possible.
"Please, I need help. You gotta help me!" The guy made a grab for him and Paul dodged away, holding his precious packet to his chest.
"Hey, get the fuck away from me, man!"
"Please—it's—it's inside my head and it keeps telling me to do terrible, terrible things! You gotta make it stop!" He grabbed at the teenager again and this time managed to snag a handful of his ratty windbreaker.
"Hey—hey!" Paul shrieked as something black and oily seeped from the man's hand onto his jacket and ran like water up his shoulder. The part of his arm under the jacket felt both terribly cold and hot at the same time and followed the course of the oily stuff up his arm.
"What is this shit?" he wrenched free of the dirty man and tried to swipe the stuff off his shoulder with his free hand, but the blackness leeched on and now both hands were numb as well as one arm entirely. Paul watched in horror as the stuff crept up his arms and hands, leaving behind the awful, aching feeling of not being there. As it ran down his body and slowly up his neck, he watched as the look on the strange man's face turned to one of both horror and disgust, and when the stuff trickled upwards into Paul's eyes, he went blind.
Everything was dark and everything was cold and the only sound was an ugly hissing in his ears. He listened, eager to hear anything to assure him that this was just a bad batch of snow, but nothing came, and the hissing just got louder.
Nothing happened and reality and logic just slipped away.
When it told him to move his arms and legs, he didn't care.
When it told him to follow the dirty man, he obeyed.
When it told him to kill, Joe D.'s screams didn't even penetrate his dreamlike haze.