WE DO NOT OWN THE BREAKFAST CLUB. SHOUTOUT TO POPPY471.
Sunday. April 7, 1984. Standish Family Home. Clarendon Hills, Illinois.
(Claire's POV)
Luke retreated to his room after his emotionally wrenching interview with that awful woman. He said he just wanted to lie down for a while and rest. Not long after that, my phone rang. My personal phone hadn't rung since I "broke up" with the popular girls. Who could be calling me?
To my surprise, it was Allison.
"Is this OK?" she asked, after identifying herself.
"Is what OK?"
"Calling you. I found your number in the book."
"Of course it's OK. Mother doesn't like anyone calling after ten at night, but sure, you can call me. Why wouldn't it be OK?"
"I've never had a friend to call before." It made me squirm a bit, hearing her say that. Allison had a disconcerting way of stating truths.
"Well, now you do! What's up?"
"This is an experiment."
"An experiment?" Allison had the strangest ideas, but usually they ended up making sense. I was intrigued. "What kind of experiment?"
"To call a friend because I'm lonely. People do it in movies. I wanted to know if it helped."
"Oh." That made sense in an Allison way. "Did it help?"
"Yes."
"Listen, " I said. "We should get together today. I think Luke wants to be alone right now, so we could have some girl time."
"Girl time?"
"Yeah, we can listen to music and paint our nails and talk without the guys around." I was really excited by the idea. I hadn't had any girl talk for weeks.
"Well, I don't have any fingernails really, I bite them, and I don't think you would like Bauhaus. But we could get some ice cream downtown. At Sweeney's."
We agreed to meet at three at Hitch Park.
I asked my father to drop me at the corner of Elm and Vance Street, one block from the park. I didn't think he would like Allison's appearance. Best that he not see her.
Allison was sitting across from the fountain as we planned. She rose and when I gave her a hug, she said, "Why are you hugging me?"
"It's what friends do, hug each other. Don't you like it?"
She seemed to consider this seriously. "Yes, I do," was her final conclusion.
"Well, let's go to Sweeney's."
We decided to share a banana split and sat at one of the tables in the back of the store.
"How is Luke doing?" Allison asked as she dipped her spoon into the whipped cream.
"He gets mad a lot. Not at me, but it is a little scary sometimes. And he hates his mother so much." I paused to sample the butter pecan ice cream. "I think he feels hurt, really hurt, but he never says so."
"Bender gets angry, too. He's so tough all the time, but it must hurt, having abusive parents. It hurts me, to be ignored all the time."
"It's not nice being used as a pawn, with my parents, but Daddy at least cares. He totally doesn't understand, but he does care."
Hanging out with Allison wasn't at all like hanging out with the popular girls. I'd never spoken so frankly with anyone but the Breakfast Club. I found it was a relief, to have someone to truly confide in and trust.
"You know, I'd like to give Luke a gift. You're an artist. What do you think he would like?" I asked Allison.
"He might like some water colors. You can buy them at the Artist's Guild, over on Elm Street. You need special paper and brushes for that, though."
"What kind of paper? And special brushes?" This sounded complicated. "Could you help me?"
"Sure, we can walk over after this."
I emerged from the art supply store with a paper bag full of goodies for Luke. Allison and I meandered over to the corner where my father was to pick me up at six.
My father was right on time. I gave Allison a parting hug and got in the BMW.
"Who was that?" my father asked sharply.
Oh, I had forgotten. I knew he wouldn't like Allison's appearance, and that was all he cared about, appearances. As he got into gear and pulled away from the curb, even worse, Bender walked up to Allison and greeted her with a long kiss. My father saw all this.
"That's my friend Allison. She's an artist." I hoped being an artist might soften his judgments.
"Claire Standish, who is that man? What are you doing with scum like that?"
"He's not scum! He's a good person. Better than any of my popular friends."
"Claire, are you doing drugs?"
I was shocked. "Of course not! Why would you think that?"
"Those two are riff-raff of the worst kind. He is obviously a hooligan and criminal. She looks no better. I will not have my daughter seen with the likes of them."
"You don't even know them. How do you know whether they are good people or not?"
"I know scum when I see it."
I folded my arms and refused to look at him again. "They are not scum," I said resentfully. It was a silent ride home.
WILL OLD MAN STANDISH EVER COME AROUND? REVIEWS NEEDED AND APPRECIATED.
