You know, I scedule myself all this time to study and do homework, and instead, I end up doing this. I think my plans to drop out and join the circus may become a necessity rather than just a plan...
Oh well, enjoy!
Music: look on the bright side is suicide, lost eyesight I'm on your side
Ryan dropped onto the bed with a groan, staring up at the blank ceiling.
His conversation with Marissa – about the status of their relationship – had lasted a long time and he was no clearer on where they stood. No clearer on where they stood and definitely angrier and more frustrated. She kept giving him annoying non-answers like I think time apart will do us good and I need to think and there's so much going on right now, we should focus on ourselves.
What the fuck did that mean?
He needed a smoke.
After his 'conversation', he'd searched the party for Taylor to see if he could bum another cigarette off her, but she was nowhere to be found. Go figure – the one time the girl was actually useful, and she's not around.
He didn't bother undressing, he just closed his eyes and fell asleep.
"So they think my mother killed herself?"
Sandy's office was dirty.
Well, not dirty dirty, but messy dirty – papers piled everywhere, empty Styrofoam coffee cups. Plus, the old, tacky, obviously 70's furniture didn't help. Bright sunlight filtered through faux-wood blinds, illuminating his desk in horizontal strips of light.
The man sighed, looking hassled. "They didn't think that, until McMahon suggested it."
"Why would she kill herself? She loved herself too much."
She couldn't believe it, but she had no choice – she was staring at the damn paperwork. They thought her mother committed suicide.
"McMahon doesn't believe it," Sandy ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "But he's saying it, and the insurance company isn't arguing."
"So they don't have to pay her life insurance," she finished, feeling the hollow in her chest get bigger. Sandy didn't say anything. "Will you excuse me? I have homework."
She picked up her bag and left his office – stopping by the bathroom to throw up her lunch on her way out.
"Don't take this the wrong way," he sat down next to her, trying to act casual. She looked over at him with blank eyes and waited for him to continue. "But you look kind of thin."
She didn't say anything for a while, and he resisted the urge to run. Girls normally didn't... appreciate having their weight commented on, but Sandy had mentioned last night that his client was looking rather gaunt. Of course, Seth had ducked out of the room, muttering something about homework, so it fell – once again – to him to investigate.
"I think that's the first time anyone's said that to me." She actually sounded amused and her lips curled up in a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. Her gaze fixed on something across the room.
"Yeah, well… I just wanted to make sure you were… you know, eating enough."
He watched her eyes come back into focus and she finally looked at him. Then she gave an abrupt, startled laugh before answering. "I'm eating fine. It's the keeping it down part that's eluding me."
He sighed, feeling the annoyance – he didn't feel like dealing with some poor rich girl's bulimia. "Look, I know with your mom dying, you probably feel like that's the only thing you can control…" Another sharp laugh cut off his PSA speech, and he stopped mid-sentence.
"You think I'm doing it on purpose? Throwing up sucks. It hurts, it makes your breath smell, and it ruins your teeth." He didn't know what to say to that, besides suggest she may be pregnant, but he had the feeling that wouldn't go over well. "Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine." She smiled at him, plastic again, and stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Before she walked away, she turned to face him. "Please don't tell Sandy any of that. I didn't even mean to tell you."
He could only nod as she walked away.
"You take the dirty dishes, you put 'em in this pan, and viola."
She cringed inwardly as the man butchered the French word, but nodded like she was paying rapt attention. Like all of this wasn't incredibly stupid and obvious. She was dying to make some bitchy comment.
But she'd rather not get fired on her first day.
"Alright, you have any questions, ask Sheila." Her new boss jerked his head toward the grey-haired woman behind the register.
"Thank you." The man grunted a response and headed into the back again.
She sighed and looked at the pan, the messy table in front of her, then down at herself.
She was wearing a fucking apron.
But she needed the money, so she started to pile the dirty dishes into the pan and ignored the fact that she was working in a restaurant. And not even as a waitress. She was a fucking busboy. Or busgirl. Was that the term? She didn't know – or care. All she knew was she had to clean up after people.
At least she wasn't in Newport.
That would take humiliation to a whole new level.
No, she'd gone far out of her way to find this place – on the outskirts of town, down past the numbered streets. No self-respecting social elite would come to this place, or anywhere near it.
With her first load of dishes, she headed back to the kitchens to dump them, getting a leer from the dishwasher for her troubles. Ew. She had no interest in some lowlife who used way too much gel in his hair and wore multiple chains around his neck. Plus, he needed to be told that he couldn't pull off a wife beater.
She wasn't actually sure anyone could pull off a wife beater.
He debated all through the rest of the day whether to tell Sandy or not.
On one hand, the girl had some sort of problem. Whether it was bulimia and she was just lying – or in denial – or she was sick – or pregnant – the girl needed help.
On the other hand, he'd promised not to tell. He knew that was stupid – to ignore someone in trouble for a promise – but he'd been lied to so many times… Promises meant something. Or they did to him.
He'd give it a week.
If she didn't look better – if the dullness in her eyes didn't go away – after a week, he'd tell Sandy. He'd keep his word for a week.
And when dinner came, he was infinitely grateful for his decision, because Kirsten suggested inviting Taylor over. The last thing he needed was Sandy – or Kirsten, for that matter – saying something.
Sandy came back into the kitchen after calling her with a worried look on his face.
"She's not coming?" Kirsten questioned as she sifted through menus.
"She didn't answer."
Ryan sighed – he knew what he'd be doing after dinner. Especially because Sandy was giving him a look and Seth was staring intently at the kitchen floor, like it was suddenly very interesting.
Ok, if she hated people before, she despised them now.
Human kind could all go to hell and burn, for all she cared.
Seven hours of cleaning up dirty dishes and half-eaten food, with that stupid dishwasher making inappropriate comments every time she went into the back room and customers having endless complaints.
One woman asked her why her burger was raw – like she was the stupid chef or something.
Two teenagers sent back their meals four times – she wasn't even their waitress.
A baby fucking threw up on her.
But she was home now, and she was really looking forward to a hot shower. And maybe she'd help herself to one of her mother's bottles of wine. Screw school tomorrow.
She got out of her car, and look who was on her front porch.
Fucking Atwood.
He was sitting there, waiting for her.
She was thankful she'd taken her apron and nametag off already.
"What are you doing here?" She sighed, in no mood to be polite.
He stood as she walked past him, digging through her purse to get her house keys out. "Checking up on you." He wasn't even pretending to have a real reason.
"I don't need a fucking babysitter," she grumbled, finally getting the door open and heading inside.
He followed.
"You smell like vomit."
If she weren't so tired and pissed off, she would've laughed at the bored observation. He pushed his hands into his pockets and stood in her kitchen as she dropped her bag on the counter.
"That's great. Did you come here just to tell me that?"
"Look, if you have a problem, we can help-"
"What is it with you people?" she interrupted, putting her fingertips to her forehead. "I don't need your help. I don't need to be saved. I just need a shower and possibly a large amount of alcohol."
She grabbed her purse off the counter and left the kitchen.
She needed a shower.
He would've left, if it hadn't been for her last comment.
His mother, Marissa, Kirsten, hell even Taylor's mother – the last thing this girl needed was a large amount of alcohol.
"Stop following me," she hissed as he leaned against the doorframe of what was obviously her room. It was so… library-like. He was used to Marissa and Summer's rooms – with bright pink and stuffed toys everywhere.
"Look, I didn't tell Sandy, but I kind of have this thing called a conscience, so I can't just leave."
She ignored him and moved about her room – pulling clothes out of her dresser and obviously getting ready for a shower. It was only then that he realized she had her hair up in a ponytail, which he'd never seen before. And he would've written it off as nothing – girls were confusing like that – if it hadn't been for the glint that caught his eye.
It came from her purse; a nametag.
She noticed too late when he moved into her room and picked it up – along with the apron also spilling out of her purse.
"Hey!"
"What the hell?"
"God, invasion of privacy much?" She snatched the apron and nametag back from him, not meeting his eyes.
"You're a waitress?" He wasn't sure if he was supposed to laugh or not. Taylor Townsend was a waitress?
"Just leave me alone."
And there was the guilt. She'd whispered it – she wasn't angry anymore.
"Just… why?"
It made no sense. Taylor was loaded – look at this house. She didn't need the money, and he couldn't see her lowering herself to waitressing just for kicks. So why?
He expected her to yell at him again, or threaten to call the police. Instead her shoulders dropped and she turned to him, eyes still on the floor.
"Let me take a shower first. Then I'll explain." She moved off toward the door, but paused. "You know, since you won't leave."
She left the room and he smiled. At least the real Taylor was in there, somewhere, if her last comment was any indication.
That had to mean she was ok, right?
The water was only warm now; she could feel it getting cooler and cooler by the second.
She was procrastinating, she knew.
But once her shower was done, she'd have to go talk to him.
Well, she could go in there and tell him to get the hell out, but she wasn't sure that would work and she wasn't sure she wanted him to leave.
She didn't need a friend. She didn't need help. She didn't need pity.
But maybe she needed someone to listen to her. Maybe she needed someone to help sort out her problems. Maybe she needed someone to tell her that her life didn't completely suck. To tell her that her life wasn't pointless.
To tell her that maybe – maybe – it was still worth living.
Because she wasn't so sure anymore.
review