Title: Seventeen
Author: ChaseII
Story Rating: T (overall content / language)
Disclaimer: The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, et. al. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made. (Applies to all chapters!)
A/N: Unbeta'd -- all mistakes are mine!
(Written for Brandywine's Hiatus Challenge Post)
Opening line prompt: It consumes me, burning
Word prompt: languid, prayers, watercolor
Summary: What if Ryan's wish to be 'seventeen' in The Gamble hadn't been made nonsensical by the OC's junior year redo? What if it had resonance from another place and time?
Seventeen
Part 2 of 4
1998
Ryan's in the shadows again today. It's the third day in a row he's avoided me, and I can't say that I blame him. I set out to find him, pretty sure I know where he'll be.
He still likes the cubbyhole between the stacks and the wall, where I found him the first day we met. He doesn't fit there quite so well these days – he's still fairly short for a ten-year-old, but he's more solid than before. I spot his hair in the shadows, streaked corn silk blond from the California sunshine. His face is hidden from view.
"Ryan?" I whisper, feeling a little uneasy.
He refuses to look up, but he answers, his voice laden with accusation. "I trusted you."
"I'm sorry, Ryan. I thought I was doing the right thing." I sink down to the floor, pressing my back against the wall.
"Might for right?" he snorts, still not looking up at me.
I'm reminded of our most recent rounds of discussions, centering on King Arthur and his knights. Ryan's fascination with Camelot and chivalry has been bordering on obsessive. He's read through all the Arthurian books in his grade bracket – actually, through almost all the children's and even the young adult books on the subject. He's even tried reading some adult fiction, plowing through the dictionary for words he's not familiar with.
"I just wanted to help you, sweetie," I plead, frustrated that Child Services again did nothing to help this child, even though I begged them to look below the surface this time. To look past the cover stories of a self-obsessed alcoholic and her too-protective son.
He rakes his hands through his hair, keeping his face firmly out of sight. "You just made it worse. Don't you get that?"
I swallow, guilt weighing heavily on my shoulders. I get it.
Damn it to hell. I finally get it.
He's never going to tell the truth about what goes on inside their home. And she's never going to change.
Neither one of them will ever testify against the assholes that make their lives a living hell. She won't because she's too insecure to live without a man, and too selfish to care that the men she chooses are destroying her family from the inside out.
He won't because he still hopes he can save her, or at least protect her. He's terrified that telling the truth about their life will mean he'll be taken away, and that she'll be left defenseless.
And as long as there are a thousand other cases vying for their attention, Child Services will direct their limited resources somewhere where they have some scintilla of hope their actions will have an impact.
"What can I do, Ryan? How can I make it better?"
He lifts his head, and I see his right eye is swollen, and his cheek is a mottled purple and yellow. I feel like throwing up, knowing I'm probably responsible for the damage I can see. I wonder how many more bruises are hidden away, out of sight, that I'm responsible for, too.
"There's nothing you can do. There's nothing anyone can do," he says bitterly. "Until I'm bigger. Until might does make right."
"When you're old?" I offer softly, knowing he'll understand.
He's no longer seven, but we still play the game. It's changed a little over the years – we've added and subtracted, but it's still rooted in his early fantasy. I think of it as our secret code for hope.
He rolls his eyes, smirking glumly, "Yeah. When I'm seventeen."
2000
Ryan's actually smiling, and I realize how rarely I see that anymore. My husband Sam finally convinced the boy to take me up on my invitation to come over for steaks on the grill. It's been a hard sell – even though heaven knows he's earned it.
I can't count the stacks of books he's shelved for us, or the times he's set up the chairs for my reading circles, or the patient way he helps Enrico and Bobby sound out words.
I know he uses the library as his safe place. The bigger boys don't bother him there – they're far too 'cool' to darken a library door. He escapes there on the bad days, too. When his mother's flavor of the month is on a rampage, or when he's too bruised or battered to show his face at school.
On the worst days, the police and/or Child Services might show up at the library, asking questions. I still try talking to the new caseworkers – the ones that aren't bored or jaded by repeated failures, but it seems no one ever listens very long. Dawn sobers up, swears she's not going back to Sid or Snake or Tattoo Turko, and the authorities wipe their hands and put another notation in their files. They don't see the new bruises that arrive after they've gone. The ones that are visible, or the ones that Ryan hides inside.
But this isn't one of the bad days. It's a good day – a day for celebrating. I've been trying to get Sam and Ryan together for years, but between Sam's near-phobia with respect to spending time with children, and Ryan's distinct aversion to men in general, I've never been able to pull it off.
It wouldn't have worked this time, either, but for the fact that Sam knew how much their meeting meant to me. I could barely contain myself as I heard my child-wary husband charm Ryan into accepting our invitation. Now, I'm enjoying watching the two of them together.
Sam's showing Ryan the blueprints he's working on, spreading them across our dining room table. "See, right there. The center's entrance is going to have eight arches."
Ryan's eyes are shining as he compares the drawings to the scale models on the other end of the table. He starts firing questions at Sam that obviously surprise my husband. Sam answers each query, his own enthusiasm growing by the minute.
"Wait right there," Sam coaches, holding up one finger as he backs away. He passes me at the door, whispering in my ear, "This kid asks better questions than most of the interns on our staff."
"Told you," I whisper back, inordinately pleased that my husband's so impressed.
Soon, the two of them have half his architectural reference books spread out across the dining room table, talking about styles and periods and functionality versus fashion and design elements.
Sam's regaling Ryan with stories of his best friend Smith Reynolds, and how the two of them worked together bringing roads and community centers to rural Appalachia. How he's involved with Architects for Humanity, and the projects he's working on right now.
Ryan's eyes are fairly dancing, and by the time we settle in for steaks, he's even laughing. He and Sam make plans to take a walking tour of Chino, with Sam pointing out the various building of architectural significance in town.
A lot of people would laugh at the thought of any building in Chino having architectural significance, but Sam's taught me to see distinctions where I would have said none existed. He's taught me that this town of dairy farmers and middle class families has much to offer if I'm willing to look beneath its surface. He says Chino's more than the sum of its three penal institutions and seventy plus thousand people.
He admits that the town has its faults – but then he asks what city doesn't? Granted, the underbelly of this town – like countless others – can be rough and unforgiving, but in the very center of even the worst of the poverty and grit, Sam swears there are diamonds waiting to be discovered.
That's what I love about Sam. It's how he convinced me to come here with him in the first place. His visions of what could be.
Instead of aging slums and parking lots, he sees fresh-faced apartment buildings and civic centers with fountains and parks. Sam sees cities and counties in transformation.
Like Sam, I have visions, too. Instead of hopeless cycles of poverty and failure, I see kids and communities soaring far beyond their wildest expectations. I see countless possibilities opening to them through the power and magic of books. I see lives in transformation.
"Honey?" Sam whispers, sliding a hand around my waist as I rinse dishes in the kitchen.
"He's my diamond," I say softly, watching Ryan in the dining room studying the blueprints, his tongue running across his lips as he concentrates.
Sam squeezes me close to him, nuzzling my neck as he whispers back, "Yeah. About that -- hoped maybe we could share…"
2001
I hear loud voices coming from the back of the stacks, and head in that direction. I find Ryan glaring at his older brother, his eyes steely.
"Give it back, Trey," he snarls, holding out his hand for Trey to return a book the older boy must have taken from the book cart Ryan's using for shelving.
Trey smirks, "Or what, you little bitch? You'll take away my library card?"
"Just give it back. Now." Ryan's words suddenly grow ice cold.
"Boys," I interject, not wanting this to get out of hand. I've seen the two of them mixing it up pretty good the last couple of days, but up until now they've kept it outside. I don't know what's going on, but I know Ryan's tells, and that icy voice is one of them.
Trey turns on me, and I notice his lip is split and he has a cut over his left eye. He growls, "Stay the fuck out of this, bitch. This is between Ry and me."
"Don't talk to her like that," Ryan warns, his hands clinching into fists as he takes a step toward the older boy.
Trey snorts, holding up the book he's clutching so that he can see the title, "Watercolors, bro? Learning about stupid watercolor pictures for your girlfriend T? Or maybe you got another girlfriend? Got the hots for an older woman, Ry? Think maybe you can score with her?" He jerks his head pointedly toward me.
"That's enough!" My tone is sharp enough that both boys look up. "Trey, give me the book." I hold out my hand, and lock onto his eyes.
I have to admit, I'm a little surprised when he grudgingly hands the volume over.
"God, Ry, since when did you start letting a librarian fight your fights? You're fucking pathetic!" Trey sneers, even though he doesn't look at Ryan.
"Shut up, and get out of here," Ryan warns, his voice breaking through the staring match I realize I'm waging with his brother.
Trey turns to Ryan and smirks, "Fine, LB. I'm going. But just so you know? That new dress shirt Dawn's live-in bought you last week for the fuckin' school pictures? Too fucking bad you got all that grease on it, bro. Take it from me, Ry – Striker's not gonna' like how you take care of your shit."
The color has drained out of Ryan's face. He closes his eyes, "Shit, Trey. He's gonna'…" His words stop mid-sentence.
Trey steps up to him, scowling, "Yeah. You got it, Ry. Your ass is busted, bitch. You ever mess with my stuff again – get me in trouble with that asshole again – and I promise you, it's gonna' be a whole lot worse. You'll be wishing for another round with Striker."
Trey spins on his heel and strides away, flinging an extended middle finger back toward both of us in a parting gesture.
I turn back to Ryan. "What was that all about?" I ask, alarmed.
Ryan glares up at me, furious – so angry that he's shaking.
He shocks me by striking out, swinging one arm violently across the top of book cart, knocking the volumes resting there into the floor. Not satisfied, he kicks at the books that land in front of him, sending two of them spiraling across the aisle.
His voice is filled with animosity as he hisses, "If I ever need your help, I'll ask for it!"
Stunned, I can only stand mutely, staring as he stalks angrily out of the library.
----------------------------------
I pull into my driveway four hours later, still upset, when I see Ryan's bike lying on my lawn. He's sitting on my front step, his head buried on top of his knees.
He looks up as I approach, his expression wary.
"Hey," I try, figuring it's a safe opening.
"I'm sorry," he offers softly.
"I was just trying to help," I feel compelled to explain. "You know that, right?"
He nods contritely, "Yes, ma'am."
'Ma'am' isn't a word he uses very often when he's talking to me. It's another tell. He only uses it when he's dealing with authority figures, or when he's feeling particularly penitent and wants to make amends.
I sit down on the step beside him, feeling a little guilty myself. Not for what I did, but for what I'm about to do.
"So, are you going to tell me what that was all about today?" I ask gently.
He shakes his head, "It was nothing."
"It didn't sound like 'nothing'" I press, wondering if I'm wrong about how far he's willing to go to make up for his behavior.
He rolls his eyes unhappily, but still makes himself answer, "Trey thinks I broke his sunglasses. Striker gave him some stupid Ray-Bans or something. They weren't even cool, but I guess they cost a lot. Striker flipped out, and Trey's been raging ever since. Guess he thinks he's even now."
This much I know about Ryan Atwood. The kid doesn't shirk responsibility for things he does wrong. He's far more likely to accept blame for things that aren't his fault.
"You didn't break the sunglasses," I state, certain that I'm right.
Ryan shrugs, "Doesn't seem to matter."
I see the troubled look that flashes through his eyes, and conclude, "But you know who did, don't you?"
He looks genuinely surprised. "How did you know?"
I smile sadly. I'm not going to explain to him how much his eyes tell about what he's thinking. I know it's selfish, but I don't want to lose that window. It's far too precious.
I counter by asking a question of my own. "Who was it?"
He frowns, "You're asking who let Trey pay for something he didn't do?"
Nodding, I wonder if he'll tell me.
He stares down at the sidewalk for a long moment, rubbing one palm uneasily across his denimed thigh. I barely hear him as he softly whispers, "Dawn."
I think it's the first time I've ever heard him refer to her as anything but 'Mom'.
"Come with me," I say, my voice as steady as I can make it.
He looks up, puzzled. "Where?"
I put my arm around his shoulders, "We're going to buy a shirt."
His eyes widen, "Why?"
"Because I want one of your school pictures. Because you volunteer your time helping me at the library. Because you entertain Sam on Saturday afternoons while I meet with my writer's group."
I don't tell him its because I can't stand the thought of some asshole beating the crap out of him, and my not being able to do anything to stop it.
I don't tell him that it's because I love him.
"She won't buy the pictures," he finally says. "They cost too much."
"Bring them to me, then," I say. "Sam and I will buy them."
"A new shirt won't change things," he tries to tell me. "Trey's not gonna' stop until he thinks he's even."
I shake my head, "Did you try telling him the truth?"
"That Dawn lied to Striker?"
I swallow the bile that rises in my throat, as I think about a mother intentionally selling out an innocent child. Even when that child is Trey.
"Did you?" I press.
He shakes his head 'no'.
"Why not?" I realize my voice has sharpened, and I cringe as Ryan drops his head instinctively.
"Ryan?" I reach out to cup his neck, waiting until he raises his face. His eyes are liquid, threatening to overrun. I think they must mirror my own.
His voice is barely audible as he replies, "I never want Trey to know she'd do that to him."
-------------------------------
Ryan finally lets me buy the shirt, but insists I keep it safely stashed away in the library, so Trey won't find it and ruin it, too.
When he doesn't stop by to get it before picture day, I worry. I see Theresa the following day and ask her where he is. She tells me that he had a bike accident. That he broke his nose and his left arm. That he's staying at home for a few days.
We both know she's lying. We both know why.
That night, Sam goes with me to Ryan's house. Striker and Dawn come out onto the porch, claiming Ryan's not at home. My husband has a conversation with Striker that ends with Sam getting his face bloodied and then landing flat on his ass in the scraggly lawn. While Dawn postures and swears she knows nothing about how Ryan was injured, I dial 911.
The upside? Sam doesn't hesitate to press charges and Striker's serving time in jail.
The downside? The police come, and Child Services come, but in the end Ryan's still with Dawn, and Dawn's still an unholy mess.
Ryan avoids Sam and I for weeks, finally showing up one Saturday with little league photos. The picture must have been taken just after his cast came off. His left arm is pale in the photo. His nose is not the perfect shape it used to be, either. It doesn't matter – he's still one damned good looking kid.
He's pitching this year, he tells us. Things are better at home. Dawn's working again. Trey's gone a lot these days. Theresa's talked him into helping out with the summer drama program, building sets.
As he mounts his bike, he suddenly turns back to us, resting one tennis shoe on the sidewalk for balance.
"Thanks," he says, a world of meaning in that single word. He flicks his eyebrows, and pushes off before we can reply.
We watch him as he pedals out of sight.
----------------------------
The summer passes. We catch most of Ryan's games – he's got a wicked fastball, and unlike the majority of the league's pitchers, he's got an impressive batting average, too.
We're at one of those games when Ryan introduces us to Rick.
"So, you're the set designer," I say. Ryan's been talking about the Texan for the last month.
The man has an easy smile, and his voice is accented with a thick, southern drawl. "That'd be me. Although I have to tell you, this guy here did a good bit of the design work. I'm more into the construction end of things."
He squeezes Ryan's shoulder fondly, causing the boy to smile up at him.
Ryan nods toward Sam, "Mr. Hart's the real designer. I learned everything I know from him."
Sam puffs up with pride before he warns Rick, "Word to the wise, my friend. This kid's a real quick study. He's gonna' be going places – I'm guessing we'll both be working for him someday."
Rick's laugh is genuine, "Someday? You haven't been down to the theater, have you? I'm working for him right now!"
Rolling his eyes, Ryan snorts, "Yeah, sure."
I wink at Ryan, "Just promise me this – when Sam's working for you, make sure he gets at least a month's vacation, okay?"
Ryan laughs, dropping his head as his laughter dissolves into a classic Ryan smirk. Looking up at us through his bangs, he promises dryly, "I'll be sure to have my HR people look into it."
"Look into what?" Dawn asks, sidling up beside Rick possessively. Her perfume is flowery, and a little overwhelming, making me back up a step.
I take in her appearance from my new vantage point, noting that she's dressed in jeans and a deep v-neck cotton pullover, with her hair pulled up off her neck and clipped in the back. For once, her make-up is nearly subtle, and her smile seems rather sweet.
"Hey, baby," she greets her son. "Sorry I'm late, but Gibson let me work a little overtime, and I didn't think you'd mind. How'd you do?"
Ryan's smile offers forgiveness for being tardy. I expect he's thrilled she shows up at all – it's only the second time I've seen her at one of his games all summer.
"He struck out nine guys, and only gave up two hits," beams Rick, but it's clear from Dawn's reaction that those statistics are meaningless to her.
"We won, Mom," Ryan offers. "I did okay."
"Better than okay, Mrs. Atwood," I insist. "Ace here is a superstar."
I see Rick's fingers close over her hand, as Dawn glows. "He's my good boy, aren't you Ry? He ain't nothing like his brother."
She's oblivious to the silence her words engender, as she prattles on, "I guess you know Trey's serving time in juvie right now. Honestly, I don't know what gets into that boy sometimes. I mean, I do my very best to raise them both right, and I get this one who listens to me," she nods toward Ryan, "and one I just can't do nothin' with. A real bad seed, like his daddy."
Sam's fingers tighten over mine, silently begging me not to say something we'll all regret.
Ryan's smile disappears, "Trey's made some mistakes, but he's not a 'bad seed'. Trey's your son, too, Mom."
Dawn's eyes widen, and her face turns a little red. "Sure, baby. I didn't mean nothing, Ry, I swear. I just get nervous sometimes, and say stuff I don't really mean. It's gonna' be okay – Trey'll learn his lesson in juvie, and things'll be different when he comes home. You'll see."
She smiles hopefully at Ryan, who does his best to muster an answering smile.
"Sure, Mom," he forgives again. "Things will be different when Trey comes home."
I notice Rick's hand rubbing soothingly over Ryan's upper arm, and Ryan's half-step back toward the Texan. It's a good sign – Ryan doesn't trust many people.
We all stand there awkwardly for a moment before Dawn speaks again, this time to Rick. Her voice is sparkly again, as though the conversation about Trey never happened.
She gushes, "What are we standing around here waiting for? It's high time we celebrate our superstar's performance, isn't it?" She looks across at us, "You guys wanna' come with us to Western Steer? They got good beef tips there, don't they, Ry?"
Ryan merely nods, obviously uncomfortable. I expect he's contemplating an entire dinner filled with awkward moments.
"Thanks, really, but Sam and I are meeting some friends for dinner," I lie, knowing I've done the right thing when I see Ryan's shoulders relax.
A few minutes later, as the trio head off toward Rick's truck, Sam and I compare notes. We both like Rick – he seems genuinely nice. Dawn's still the antithesis of an ideal mother, but at least she's sober and she seems to be making some effort to pull her act together.
"It might just work out for him this time," Sam offers, his voice cautiously optimistic.
I close my eyes, trying to visualize a future where Dawn stays sober. Where she doesn't disappoint her younger son.
"Honey?" Sam squeezes my hand.
"I hope so," I say.
And I do.
Hope.
tbc
A/N 2: Reviews appreciated!
