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.
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' had meaning from another place and time?
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Seventeen
Part 3 of 4
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2002
Ryan's got new heroes these days. He's taken with Atticus Finch from 'To Kill a Mockingbird', and after we watch 'Inherit the Wind' on video, he spends hours reading about Clarence Darrow and the Scopes Monkey trial. I ask him if he wants to be a lawyer when he grows up, and he glares at me, saying not if the court-appointed lawyers Trey's had are any indication of what most lawyers are really like.
He says he wants to be an architect. Sam's ecstatic.
Sam and Ryan pour over building designs, debating whether I.M. Pie's modern steel and glass pyramid-shaped entry to the Louvre is an eyesore or pure genius, they discuss Gaudi's La Sagrada Familia, marveling at the man's unique style, they use Sam's 3-D programs to explore structures like the Parthenon Temple, the Temple of Amun, Karnak, Notre Dame Cathedral, and the Colesseum.
They talk about building projects close to home, too. They don't limit their discussions to the civic center, inner-city restoration, and public parks that Sam's been working with. They talk about some of the large architectural firms in the surrounding area, reviewing the projects they are most closely associated with and discussing which design elements they like and which ones don't work for them.
Predictably, Sam can't keep from telling stories about his pal Smith Reynolds, who's just finished a major project in Africa with Architects for Humanity, and who's now working hard to secure funding for an even bigger project in South America. Smith's doing the type of work that Sam dreams about, and Sam's enthusiasm is not lost on Ryan.
I'm touched as I watch the two of them huddled together over books, or plans, or the computer. When Ryan's not challenging Sam, or asking questions, he's listening raptly. They belong together, I think selfishly, wishing for the thousandth time that Ryan were ours. Thinking how he's everything we could have ever wished for, had Sam and I been able to have a son.
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Ryan's love for books is unabated – when he reads through 'Fahrenheit 451' for a school assignment, he asks me a thousand questions about censorship and book bans. The subject disturbs him deeply, as he equates intolerant attitudes toward books with the narrow-minded judgments he sees people make about those unlike themselves.
I'm reminded uncomfortably of how many people tell me I should steer clear of Ryan and his family – that they're 'no good'. That I'm a fool to waste my time with a kid who is doomed by circumstances to fail. It breaks my heart to hear first-hand the prejudice he faces, based on nothing more than the accident of birth.
But Ryan's angry – not defeated. His resilience continues to astound me. Still, when I delve deeper, he sloughs off further discussions, redirecting our conversations to areas that are not as sensitive. Hoping I'm not making a mistake, I pull back, and we don't discuss the matter further.
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He reads Lance Armstrong's book, and he and Sam add cycling to their ever-growing list of preferred sports. They patiently explain the ins and outs of cycling to me when I join one of their lengthy cycling-viewing vigils, but the only thing I find interesting is the biker's shorts which makes Ryan blush and Sam guffaw. I tell them I'm still trying to figure out soccer, and that I'll pay more attention to cycling if and when Ryan takes it up, too. For right now, his baseball, football, and soccer are as much as I can keep straight, and I've still got a way to go with soccer.
Personally, I far prefer Ryan's continued foray into the realm of fantasy, and love when he and I are discussing Tolkien or Greek mythology or even Harry Potter. I push him to read The Little Prince, which he does to humor me. He even brings me a rough sketch of a sheep muzzle, and says I need to stop worrying about a boxed sheep and some stupid rose.
I don't tell him I think of him as my fox, waiting to be tamed – in danger from the hunters if he is. I don't admit I worry far more about my fox than any 'stupid' rose.
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Things are still working out between Dawn and Rick, and Ryan's laughing a lot more often. It's not that he hasn't had some issues – most of them related in some form or fashion to Theresa. He's even been suspended from school a couple of times for fighting with Eddie on school grounds. I see Theresa playing one of them against the other, and then feigning surprise when fists fly between them.
He works so hard to please her – taking a role in the school play, working evenings at one of the local dairies to earn enough money to take her to some big dance… But it's not enough to keep her from making out with Eddie in plain view of Ryan and half the school. Ryan says nothing, but it seems they're in a kind of holding pattern these days. Not really dating, but more than simply friends.
I hear some of the middle school girls talking as they 'study' in the library after school. More than a few seem to have their eyes on Ryan, and from the pieces of their conversation I've caught, I gather the kid's not too shy about taking them up on what's being offered. I find it reassuring that while some of these girls are disturbingly open about 'hooking up', Ryan doesn't say a word.
I make Sam speak with Ryan about safety, but the boy says he has it covered. I shudder to think that might be some sort of pun. Still, good to know that Rick or Trey must be watching out for him – I'm 99 certain Dawn isn't.
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Ryan's not playing baseball this summer. Rick offers him a gopher job on his construction crew. Judging from the upper body and arm muscles the kid develops over the summer, I'm guessing that Rick's letting Ryan do more than carry messages and water. And this new, improved Ryan? Theresa had better stop jerking him around, because the boy's going to have even more of those other girls vying for his attention.
It's the end of August when Sam comes home late from a business dinner, guiding a staggering Ryan through the door. The boy smells like stale cigarette smoke and warm beer.
Sam looks at me, shaking his head as he scowls.
Ryan's not scowling. He's giggling.
"You need a beer," Ryan says to me, weaving a little as he points in my direction. "Everybody needs another beer," he sing-songs.
He's drunk, which surprises me. That is, I know the other boys he hangs out with drink, but I've never seen Ryan with any type of alcohol. And I've certainly never seen him drunk before.
"I think you need water," I say, knowing he's probably dehydrated.
Sam has to grab him as he flings an arm up into the air, trying to point toward me and throwing himself off balance in the process. His hand slides down the side of Sam's face as he hiccups, "No water. More beer."
Sam takes Ryan's hand, and removes it from his face. He maneuvers Ryan to the kitchen table, and deposits him in a chair – one of the two with arms. Ryan slides down, like his bones are made of something pliable, until he's partially collapsed on top the table.
I watch Sam dig a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his jacket pocket and toss them on the counter. It's not the first pack we've taken away from Ryan – sadly, I'm almost certain that it won't be the last.
"What on earth?" I ask under my breath when Sam turns back to me.
"Found him staggering down Chino Avenue, waving a bottle of beer in one hand. Luckily, when I pulled over, he agreed to crawl – and I do mean 'crawl' – into the car. I promised him we'd find some more beer, but I figured we'd sort that out when we got home. Home being here, and not his house. Not until we find out what's going on." Sam's eyeing Ryan, to make sure he doesn't slide under the table.
I ask softly, so Ryan doesn't hear, "Do you think we should call his mother?"
Sam snorts, "Do you think she even knows he's gone?"
Maybe. But I doubt very much she cares.
"He's fourteen!" I snap, wanting desperately for Dawn to be someone she isn't. I decide to hold off calling for the moment, until we get some more information.
Looking across at Ryan, I hear him softly humming some tune I can't make out, an occasional word finding its way into the mix. All the while he manages to keep one side of his face pressed flatly against the table, a pleasantly soused expression on the side that's still in view. It's going to be some time before he's making much sense, I think.
I'm pissed as hell that this kid can even get beer, but I guess I should be grateful. I'm sure that gang he hangs out with could have given him something far, far worse. Beer we can deal with.
"He's fourteen, Sam!" I repeat angrily, as though Sam didn't hear me the first time.
Sam just shakes his head, "He's wasted, is what he is."
As though on cue, Ryan rouses from his little song-fest, his voice turning a little angry, "Look, Mr. H – where's the fuckin' beer you promised?"
Sam, who has an old-school aversion to the 'f-word', admonishes gently, "Ryan, please don't say 'fucking'."
"Fuck." Ryan smirks happily.
"Ryan! I asked you not to use that word."
"No you didn't." Ryan's smirk deepens, "Fuck's not a partipis… parsip… participle." He seems self-satisfied that he gets the word out.
I'm surprised he remembers what a participle is through his alcoholic fog. But then, this kid's memory is nearly always fucking scary, I think, with silent apologies to Sam.
By this time, I've found our multi-vitamin supply, and I give a tablet to Ryan with his water. He glares at me a little, but swallows the pill, gulping down half the glass of water. He makes an awful face, and sets the glass down heavily, sloshing some of its contents on the table as his hand shakes.
"Shit," he mutters, rubbing at the water with one hand. He pulls at his hoodie, like he's going to use its tail as a mop, but I toss him a dishtowel instead.
As he determinedly swipes at the water, he manages to knock the glass over. Sam springs into action, catching the glass before it rolls off the table and shatters on the tile.
Ryan's eyes grow wide and he freezes. It breaks my heart as I realize he's probably wondering if someone's going to strike him. I dig out more dishtowels, and sop up the streaming water.
As I'm working, I speak to Ryan, "Honey, it's okay. It was an accident, that's all."
I pat his shoulder, and run my hand through his hair, glad to feel his body relax. 'Collapse' might be the better word.
I look at Sam, who gets a plastic glass with more water. He sets it down in front of Ryan, "Here, Ace, you can't hurt this one."
Ryan raises his head, and looks up at Sam, "You promised beer."
Sam squeezes his shoulder, coaxing, "Water first, okay?"
Eyeing the new water as though it's his sworn enemy, Ryan sighs. "'Kay. But then beer."
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Sam walks Ryan around the house, hoping the fresh air will help sober him up, but judging from my husband's face when they stumble back inside I don't think Sam's anxious to repeat the exercise.
"Tough trip, hon?" I ask under my breath.
Sam groans as he deposits Ryan back into his chair. "I swear, he's solid muscle. Do you know how heavy that much muscle feels when it goes slack? I thought I was gonna' lose him in your flower bed out back."
Ryan stirred, "I tole you I had ta' pee. I jus lost my balance…"
I wrinkle up my face as I mouth over Ryan's head, "In my flowerbed?"
Sam whispers, "I wouldn't suggest using the asters for your indoor arrangements."
Another tall glass of water later, Sam helps Ryan make his way to and from the bathroom. It's an improvement, I think, over my flowerbed.
The boy falls back in his chair, pouting when he sees another full glass of water sitting in front of him.
"No coffee?" he asks sullenly.
"Nope. No caffeine. It's a diuretic, and you're already dehydrated. And before you ask, no pain killers, either. Aspirin can upset your stomach, and Tylenol could interact with the alcohol in your system and make your liver explode. We'll deal with any headaches in the morning. For now? Best thing to do is drink water. The vitamin I gave you might help replenish some vitamin B, but other than that? Water."
He frowns, and I realize I've given him far more information than he wanted. However, he grudgingly picks up the glass, and drinks.
I suspect that his state of intoxication has knocked some of his normal filters out of commission.
Hoping that I'm right, I ask, "Did something happen, honey? Why were you drinking?"
Ryan rolls his eyes. "Dawn threw 'm out. No warning, no expla.. explain… expla-nae-tion, nothin'. Just packed his stuff in boxes, and set 'em out ona porch."
He takes a gulp of water before adding scornfully, "Oh, wait – she lef 'm a note."
I shake my head, sighing, "Trey? She threw Trey out?" It's not like it hasn't happened before, but maybe this seems worse to him somehow. Maybe it's how cold it is. How impersonal.
He wrinkles his eyebrows, grimacing at me like I'm lost out in left field somewhere.
He snorts, "Trey? Nah… he moved out las' month. Said he wasn't comin' back."
He seems to recall something, and laughs wryly to himself. Looking up at us, he smirks, "You know sumthin' funny?"
He motions us closer, as though he's about to confide some important secret. When we edge nearer, he says darkly, "Trey tole me she wuz cheatin' this summer, but I tole 'm he wuz fulla shit. I said she'd ne'r cheat on Rick. Stupid, huh?"
I gasp as what he's saying hits me. "Rick? Your mean your mom threw Rick out?"
He grimaces, dropping his face into his hands.
"Ryan? Was it Rick?" Sam sounds as surprised as me.
Ryan nods, but doesn't raise his head.
"Did she tell you why?" I'm still stunned.
He looks up at me as he clutches the plastic glass with a death-grip. "Said there was some new guy name a' AJ. She says he's 'exciting', whatever thaz supposed to mean."
Sam places his hands on Ryan's shoulders, kneading them gently. "I'm sorry, son. I know how much you like Rick."
"He wanted us to go with him to Austin," Ryan volunteers longingly, taking me by surprise. Somehow, I never imagine Ryan leaving here. Leaving us.
"She could still change her mind," I offer, even though something inside whispers that she won't.
"Uh-uh. Not gonna' hap'n," Ryan slurs. "Guess Trey's right. Rick's jus' too normal for Dawn."
Sam sighs, squeezing the boy's shoulders sympathetically.
Ryan's eyes are filled with sorrow as he tilts his head back toward Sam and says softly, "I liked normal."
"Oh, honey," I soothe, kneeling down beside him, folding him into my arms. He allows me to hold him cradled against my shoulder for a couple of minutes before he stirs.
"Gonna' be sick," he warns, just in time for me to move out of the way before he throws up on my tile.
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Sam helps Ryan get ready for bed while I call Dawn, but get no answer. I look at the number Ryan's just offered up for Trey, wondering if I can be civil on the phone.
I quickly gather that Trey's not exactly happy to hear from me, either.
"So you've got Ryan?" he repeats, managing to sound both angry and wary at once.
It's all I can do not to tear into the young man, demanding an explanation for Ryan's state of intoxication when Sam found him, but I know that would be counterproductive right now.
"Do you know if your mom's looking for him?" I ask quietly.
Trey laughs harshly, "Hardly. She kicked his ass out for the night – seems her golden boy asked one too many wrong questions."
The resentment in his voice is evident, but there's a hint of sadness there, too.
"Look, Trey, we'll keep him here tonight if that's okay," I offer, although what I mean is that we're keeping him whether it's okay with Trey or not.
"Sure. You keep him tonight. No room for him here, anyway," Trey agrees more readily than I'd anticipated. He's suddenly all attitude, and I distinctly hear some girl giggling in the background. Trey obviously has other things on his mind than Ryan's welfare.
"Fine. We'll call tomorrow," I promise, wondering if it would make any difference to Trey if I never called. I'm ready to hang up when Trey speaks.
"Mrs. Hart?" The attitude has disappeared.
"Yes, Trey?" I work to keep my voice even.
He hesitates, and I think maybe he's changed his mind, whatever he was going to say.
"Trey?" I prompt.
I hear him clear his throat, "Look, I'm glad Ry's got you guys to take care of him tonight. Honestly. But you know? All that stuff you fill him up with? It's just gonna' mean more disappointment for him down the road. 'Cause all that stuff about college? That talk about being an architect? That's a fuckin' fantasy. You gotta' stop loading him down with all that shit."
The concern in his voice is real, even through the bitterness that permeates his words. I close my eyes, my heart breaking.
"Don't, Trey," I plead. "Don't let Ryan stop believing in his dreams."
Trey's tone is unyielding as he responds, "Someone's got to teach him all those fucking dreams aren't ever coming true. If you're not gonna' do it, I will."
The line goes dead before I can respond.
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Ryan's in bed, his eyes nearly closed when I walk in to check on him. Sam has the night light on, and I see he's left a plastic bucket by the bed, just in case. He's adjusting the covers when I move into the room.
"Night, Ace," he whispers, moving aside for me.
I sit on the bed, brushing back Ryan's hair as he nuzzles his head into the pillow.
I lean forward, and kiss his temple. "Sleep well, honey," I say softly.
He mumbles something that might have been 'goodnight', but his eyelids close and he says nothing more.
"I love you, Ryan" I whisper, my fingers tracing across his cheek after I give the covers one last tug.
He says nothing.
He's asleep.
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I watch the shapes that slither across the bedroom wall, formed by moonlight filtering through the live oak sentinel just outside our window. It seems right, somehow, that there are shadows while Trey's words haunt me.
I lie awake, as fear wraps its bony fingers around my heart and squeezes.
In the darkness, I offer prayers to a still and distant God.
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tbc
A/N: Reviews greatly appreciated...
