"John?"
An urgently tiny voice roused him. He'd been on the brink of falling back asleep after processing the really good dream he'd woken up from only a few minutes ago. Dammit, there went that. Once Dustin was up there was no stopping him. John groaned heavily, rolling to his side, curling farther into his thick, checkered cover.
"Jo-o-hn!" Dustin blared like an alarm clock. "Wake up!"
He flinched, his eyes barely halfway open. There was sunlight through the bleariness, warm and radiant. It poured through the blinds, and annoying as fuck, illuminating the rich grey of his bedspread, falling onto the beige carpet in perfect, slim rectangles. He couldn't measure time by the position of the sun but it was clearly too early in the morning for this shit.
He'd had such a nice dream too, it'd been a drastic change from all his nightmares. It was about Claire, his fingers through her sunset hair splayed across his sheets, her perfect posture coming undone... He'd caught her eye in the lunchroom a few times since his first day.
She wasn't actually hard to find—just follow the trail of the future MLB athletes and runway models, and there she was—in her own hierarchy of school politics and money trees. It only lasted a few seconds, an electric current sweeping through him, but he knew Claire wouldn't get up. And there was no way he'd ever think to go over there. He knew better. But… the fact that she held his gaze every time said something, right?
The bed shifted, dipping somewhere behind him. "Get up!"
John mushed the pillow over his head. "Go away, Dustin."
The bed rocked, Dustin probably bouncing on it. How and why did little kids have so much energy in the morning? "John!"
"No."
Little hands gripped John's shoulder over the cover, trying to shake him. "But Santa ate the cookies! He's here! We need to see him!"
"He's not here anymore." John brushed him off, hiking the material higher until he was completely immersed. "Gimme two more hours."
"No, now-w!" Dustin tried pulling the covers but John held onto it. "Let's go!"
"I don't wanna."
"Jo-o-hn!" Dustin whined. "Please?"
"No."
"But John! The presents'll get cold! We have to go now-w!"
"They won't get cold, Dustin. Go open them without me."
"But! But, John!" Dustin stammered. "You have presents, too!"
His eyes opened, greeted by grey lighting. He was pretty sure there'd been no presents addressed to him. Then again, he hadn't bothered checking when he helped Sandra arrange them under the blue, gold, and white themed fir—all different shapes and sizes for Dustin.
John lifted the pillow off, peering over his shoulder, meeting Dustin's eager eyes. "He did?"
Dustin's head bobbed vigorously. He used both grubby hands to demonstrate the size. "Yeah! It's this tall!"
"That's pretty tall."
"Yeah! What do you think it is?"
"I don't know—"
"Hey, Johnny-boy…" Sandra yawned, rubbing her eyes, balancing herself on the threshold of his wide-open door. "Why don't you go downstairs and find out?"
Dustin grabbed John's limp arm in both hands. "Yeah! Let's go-o!"
"God, it's too early in the morning for this." Sandra muttered, her voice dripping with sleep.
Dustin descended off the bed, making a dash for Sandra. Tugging on her tightly knobbed satin robe, he propelled her towards the stairs. "Mommy, letsgoletsgoletsgo."
She yawned again, letting herself be pulled. "Okay, okay, slow down, Dustin." She flicked her wrist, trying to wave at John or command him or something like that. It was too disoriented to tell. "Put on a shirt and meet us downstairs."
He did, and in about five minutes, Sandra was examining his hazardously wrapped box, her still sleep-ridden eyes stuck between wonder and confusion. She shook it lightly, the contents jingling.
"Don't shake it so much!"
She jumped at his outburst. "Sorry! … What is it, though? It sounds fragile..."
"Just open it."
"Okay, okay! Geez! What's up with you this morning?" Her lips twisted, slinking further in the loveseat. "I know it's early but it's Christmas! You're supposed to be happy."
"I hate—" John made sure Dustin wasn't paying attention, whispering, "—Christmas, for reasons you can guess."
Sandra's lips parted, then closed; her mouth opting for a softer approach that reached her eyes. "You really didn't have to get me anything, John."
"I didn't." He waved her off, reaching for the hot chocolate Sandra made that he'd set by his side. "I made it."
He swallowed the scalding sugary content but his throat still dried as Sandra peeled the shimmering red wrapping, having uncharacteristic second thoughts about this gift. Maybe this was a stupid idea but it was too late now; she was cutting the taped box with her pinky nail, opening the flaps. Sandra gingerly lifted the vase out, prying the nest of bubble wrapping away.
Her mouth curved into a small smile, the kind of smile she gave to Dustin whenever he handed her another stick figure, out-of-the-lines colored drawing. She twirled it in her hands, studying the funky, geometric patterns with inquiring eyes that Dustin clearly got from her.
"It's beautiful!" She cooed. "I love it."
It'd been a project for Ceramics they could take home once they finished. John's actually ended up being one of the best in all of Mr. Ryan's classes and he wanted to keep all the best projects as examples for next year. But John wouldn't hand it over. And he wanted to say he thought of her while making it, because he had no money for some expensive gift like getting her the Gucci watch she desperately wanted, and that he was good at building, and that it was least he could do after everything she continued to do for him.
John let the compliment roll off his shoulders. "Since Michael's always giving ya flowers, I decided you should have a place to put 'em, ya know?"
Sandra ignored the comment. "Did you paint it, too?"
"I got a friend to do it."
"He's very talented." She murmured.
"She."
"She's very talented. You both are."
"I guessed she was decent." John picked a fuzz from his fleece pajama pants, twirling the remaining drops of hot chocolate in the cup. "She doesn't ever let me see her stuff but she's always at it, without fail. Rain or shine."
"Aw, you big baby." She cooed in a mocking tone. John shot her a glare. "C'mon, John. It's not a matter of guessing, it's trust. You clearly trust her on a certain level because you let her paint this."
"I'm just not good at painting." He said, and it was the truth.
"Well, I'm sure you didn't bother making a back-up in case it flopped." She countered. "Did you?"
His lip twitched, caught. He set the cup down, adjusting his position by scooting farther back to the couch, and watched and Dustin. The little one was still tearing through his mountain of gifts like a paper shredder. He'd gotten mostly toy cars, more coloring books, and puzzles. A lot of puzzles. Besides watching Winnie the Pooh on repeat, Dustin loved putting puzzles together—didn't matter what kind and how many pieces. John wasn't much of a puzzle guy, but he shared the same love for assembling and building and fixing. He couldn't keep his own life together but for a few minutes or just a few hours he could divert his attention and make himself believe he could.
"Here, your turn." Sandra threw a package at John. He caught it before it landed on his outstretched legs.
It was a small box, wrapped flawlessly in an icy blue, snowmen pattern. Lightweight. His name was written in Sandra's fancy cursive on the plain to and from sticker with a sleigh bell at the top. To John, from Santa. He rolled his eyes but his heart still raced. All he could think of was a Marlboro box in disguise. It's the only gift his father had ever given him. John swallowed thickly.
"What's in it?"
She set the vase on the floor, by the side of the loveseat, tucking her feet under her thighs. "Open it and find out."
John ripped the tape from the corners, pulling out the box inside, his nerves flying throughout his body. It turned out to be a leather wallet. The tag had been removed. He couldn't tell if it was a big named brand, and he didn't care. He'd picked up his current wallet in a parking lot when he was twelve. He even had the persons' ID—Manuel Santiago—tucked in one of the pockets, only using it to get into nightclubs with his old pals.
"But I already got a wallet." John said, confused, holding the new one up.
Sandra rested her head on her arms, about ready to fall asleep right there. "I've seen it. I figured you could use a new one, preferably one that's not falling apart—and without all those photos."
John frowned sideways. "What's so wrong with 'em?"
"Do I really have to spell it out for you?" She replied irritably. "Yeah, it'll make you look cool to the guys but no girl will ever take you seriously, or even date you, with that in your wallet."
"You're acting like I got nudies, Sandra." He said flatly. "They're harmless."
"That's not my point, stop trying to deflect."
"Sandra." His brows flattened, tilting his head to the side. "You really think a kid like me's gonna grow up believing in love and relationships? Be realistic."
"It's a very normal teenage thing to want, John." She said. "You're not exempt from it and getting to experience it because of Johnathon."
John scoffed. "It's not for me. I already know."
"You really think so?"
He kept his eyes on Dustin, who was playing with one of the cars already. "Yeah, 'cause why have one when you can get many? I'm only seventeen. I'm too young to be tied down to just one chick."
"Okay, I'll give you that last part. I had a lot of boyfriends when I was your age… God, I miss those times. It's so hard to date at this age…" She trailed off, shaking herself out of dream land. "I'm just saying. You really should do yourself the favor and get rid of them before a girl you actually like sees them."
"I'll think about it." He said briskly, flicking his hair out of his face.
"Hey, what about that girl?" She asked abruptly, sitting straight as a rod, her hands clutching her calves. "I'm sure she wouldn't like the idea."
"Which one of the many girls?" He asked rhetorically. "I can assure ya, they're fine with it. None of 'em bother to go through my personal belongings, anyway."
"I'm talking about the redhead from the office that was checking you out when I gave Dustin to you."
John's jaw nearly dropped once he processed the sentence. "You... did that on purpose."
"Of course I did." She answered like he should've known. "I told you, John, you're gonna need all the help you can get if you're really considering getting with a girl like that."
"Hey, I never said I wanted her."
She wagged her finger. "Please. It was all over your face, kiddo. Besides, if there's one thing girls know well it's each other. So, what's her name?"
John gave a side-ways glare at her smug grin. "Claire."
"Claire?" Sandra reiterated. "That's such a sophisticated name, I'm jealous. I'll never forgive my parents for sticking me with Sandra Dewitt Bender."
"You're right. Sandra-Dee's a lot better."
"Shut up! They're both awful!"
John chuckled. "Don't be jealous. Claire's a fat girl's name."
"Oh. My. God." Her jaw slacked. "Please, please, please tell me you didn't actually say that to her!"
"Unfortunately for me, I haven't gotten the luxury of talking to her." He smirked, watching her face continue to deteriorate. "But what about it? You think she'd get mad if I did?"
Sandra blinked. "Duh! And if she doesn't slap you for it, I will!"
"Mommymommymommy!" Dustin screeched like he saw a cockroach, pushing a still wrapped box in between John and Sandra. John didn't remember this box from last night. "It's alive!"
The box was wrapped in an obnoxious Santa's elves pattern. Holes were poked on the sides, like whatever was inside needed air. But didn't see anything moving inside.
Sandra smiled. "Take the ribbon off, Dustin. It's for both of you."
Dustin tried untying it but he didn't know how. He didn't even knew how to tie his own shoes yet. John leaned over, guiding his little fingers through the knot. Dustin took the top off but held onto it for too long. John caught a flash of black as it hopped out and hauled for the fir. He pulled his lips, hiding his smile.
Dustin placed the top down, staring down into the box. "It's empty!"
Sandra giggled. "Turn around."
He whirled. "I don't see!"
John crawled towards the back of the fir, where he'd seen the kitten duck and hide for. And hiding behind an unopened box leaning against the wall was a pair of round, yellow eyes staring at him frighteningly.
He reached out slowly, trying to hook his index finger in the frilly, blue ribbon around its neck. "C'mon. It's okay."
The kitten sniffed, giving John enough time to slip his finger in the ribbon. He gently pulled it towards him, close enough to place his other hand under its belly. It purred. God, it was so tiny, couldn't be any bigger than table grapes. It fit in his palm perfectly. It must be a few months old.
Its coat was mostly black though its belly was white. The white stretched down to its little paws, and up to the chest. The area around his nose also white, along with a stripe down the crevice. John wasn't sure of the breed yet.
Dustin stared at it. "Who is that kitty?"
John held it—him—up, close to Dustin's face. "Yours."
Dustin's jaw dropped like a cartoon characters. "Mine?"
"Yeah." He smiled. "It's Flower."
Dustin cooed, grabbing Flower in his small hands and hugging him to his chest. "Flower!"
Flower curled into Dustin immediately, purring like a machine. John watched fondly, Dustin repeating Flower's name like a prayer.
"And that big box is for you, big kid." Sandra's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. She pointed at the box in emphasis. "I asked Santa to wrap it nicely just for you."
He reached for it but the box weighed. "What is it?"
Sandra frowned. "If I tell you it won't be a surprise…"
John rolled his eyes, cupping both sides of the long, rectangular box. He set it on his lap, the weight of it pressed down on his thighs. He couldn't figure out what exactly could weigh this much. Once the gift wrapping was off, it revealed a plain, brown box with the top taped down. He struggled removing the tape. Girls had it so easy with their long-ass nails. He missed his switchblade. He'd thought about buying a new one, but he didn't have a reason now. He only had one before because he felt safe with it. It especially came in handy when he and his boys were on someone else's turf.
When he finally got enough of it off, John ripped open a piece. The color of whatever it was poked through. Squinting, he saw a glint of silver. Six, vertical strings.
"Holy shit!" He exclaimed, ripping a chunk that took most of the top apart.
"I'll let that one slide today."
John lifted the guitar by the neck. A Fender Stratocaster, with the same pure white finish as the one Jimi Hendrix played before he burned it. The headstock wasn't upside down so it couldn't be the exact one he had. Still, that didn't matter. It was a guitar. And it was his.
John was at a loss for words. His lips moved but words wouldn't come out. Nothing could properly convey what he felt. "I dunno how to thank you, Sandra."
"Don't." Sandra shrugged. "I didn't buy it, it was my dad's. He was a collector of all sorts of things—guy things like cars, and watches, and so much music equipment. I had most of it from his will, but most of it's gone by now. Except that. It was his favorite, I couldn't do it." She sighed. "I think I should've held onto the car, though. That would've been a way better gift for a kid like you."
John shook his head, placing the body of the guitar on his thighs. "I don't care about that."
"You would, if you knew it was a 50's Rolls Royce." She stated. "All black exterior, a white and champagne interior, barely twenty-k miles on it. I don't know much about cars but it was pretty beautiful."
John whistled. "And you sold that?"
"It helped a lot. It paid for the divorce papers and I had some left over to put in money for this place." Sandra sighed, staring at the guitar wistfully. "I never saw my dad use the car, but the guitar? ... I can't think of a time where I didn't see him with it. He was a song writer, too, you know? Always playing, always thinking of a new piece. My parents used to sing Johnathon and me to sleep. I couldn't sell that and I'm glad I held onto it. I was gonna give it to Dustin when he got older, but I think it's meant to be yours."
John watched Dustin and Flower, hoping to fight off the bitter pressure welling behind his eyes. Dustin had dumped one of the boxes full of puzzle pieces on the rug. On his hands and knees, he was at it, trying to stick the pieces together. Flower was hanging out on top of his back, pawing at a curl of Dustin's hair.
The strings were thick under the pads of his fingers. He tried to imagine the feeling his grandpa felt when playing this. Grandpa Donovan died before John got to meet him.
"You don't think he'd mind me having it?" He managed to say, but in a small voice that couldn't be his.
"You're family." She responded. "What better place to keep it in?"
John practiced wherever.
At home. During school. While babysitting. When the nightmares were so bad he couldn't go back to sleep.
Those nights he'd sit on the front porch and play. He had to stop the night time playing eventually. It bothered some of the neighbor's. That's when Flower came in. He made a space for himself on John's bed when he wasn't sleeping in Dustin's. For now, Flower was able to keep the nightmares at bay.
There was so much he wanted to learn, so many songs he wanted to play, so many things he wanted to do. Maybe he'd get good enough to be able to create his own music, like his grandfather. Sandra had dug up a shoebox filled to the brim with Grandpa Donovan's stuff—binders full of music sheets and notebooks tacked with scribble-scrabbles of incoherence. If he got good enough, John might even be able to start a band someday. Wasn't this how most rock stars started out? As nothing, just like him? Just looking for a way out? Just wanting to be heard and recognized?
Until then, John practiced even as his fingers bled onto the strings. Brian noticed one day, looking up from his studying of trigonometry, offering him advice on how to clean his fingers and to remove the stains. The next day, Allison pulled out a guitar pick from her bag. John wasn't sure how she got her hands on it and didn't ask. It was a little worn but he still used it. And if his playing during lunch bothered either of them they never said anything.
John hadn't gotten much better two weeks. The most he knew how to play was a few chords. He wasn't entirely sure if the tuning was right. He tried fixing it but it didn't sound right no matter how many times he adjusted the turners. Seeking help from the music teacher crossed his mind, but with how he barely paid attention to them in class? It was pointless. He was better off learning on his own.
Fixing the top most turner, John strummed to the rhythm of the song. He was trying to learn "Love Me Madly" by The Doors. 50's and 60's rock seemed easy. He'd soon move onto AC/DC and even Scorpions when he felt confident.
"I like that song."
"No shit?" John halted, looking over his shoulder. Allison's head was down, the way it always was. "I didn't think you'd be into The Doors."
"You never asked."
He licked his lips. "Are you?"
"No." She said. "I just like that song."
"Then, what're you into?"
Allison shrugged one shoulder. "I dunno. Anything."
"I, uh..." Brian started shyly before John could retort. "I love Jim Morrison's poetry. I think it's great work."
"Well, that's unexpected." John commented offhandedly.
"What do you mean?"
John lifted his back off the edge of the table and slung the guitar over his shoulder and put the pick in his breast pocket. He meet Brian's puzzled expression.
"You just don't look like the type." He responded, indicating to his bright green ski vest and highwaters. How many pairs of highwaters does one kid have?
"Neither do you." Brian countered, then amiably flushed. "Well, I mean you do. You look like the person who'd be, uh, into The Doors and that kind of music. I just, uh, I thought you didn't like to read…"
"I don't."
"Well, what do you do?"
"Selective reading."
Brian paused. "That's not any different, Bender."
"Sure is! I only read when it pertains to my interests—which I don't have many of. Like right now—" John picked up the Intro to Guitar book he actually rented from the public library. "—I'm reading shit about music to get better. Can you believe what the world's come to?"
"I do that!" Allison interjected.
"Oh, c'mon, Al." John's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Every time I see ya, your nose's in a book or something. Some of 'em aren't even for class. You got a lotta interests."
"Just because I'm looking doesn't mean I'm seeing, John."
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"'Looking' and 'seeing' aren't the same." Allison responded coolly. "They're mutually exclusive."
Brain shot John a confused look, head titled like a puppy that couldn't understand the source of the sound.
John's own brows knitted in equal confusion. His mouth searched for the right words. "You mean to tell me that every time we're here you just stare at the page?"
Allison shrugged. "Sometimes."
Only Allison could go from being a cool girl one second, then just as easily morph back to her typical weird girl self the next. They were an odd functioning unit, if they really even functioned at all. Brian was the awkward yet smart one, John was the egotistical yet practical one, but John couldn't figure out what her role in the group was—being 'the cool yet weird girl' didn't cut it. Maybe Allison's just meant to be indescribable.
"Are we, uh, are we that bad of company?" Brian asked when John couldn't think of anything to say.
Allison shook her head. "I just don't really know what to say sometimes."
"You can say whatever you want." Brian offered, smiling kindly. "It's what friends do. We talk about, uh, whatever."
"Preferably not physics. Or math. Or anything related to school." John added, lacing his fingers together like a student ready to learn. "I'd like to be part of the conversation."
"I think you'd put yourself in the middle of any sort of conversation… Even if it was school-related."
John frowned. "Well, I can't say you're wrong about that. So, did you dildo's hear about the richie party going on this weekend?"
"Um... Are you talking about Cheryl's After New Years' party?"
"Sure, whatever the chick's name is, people can't keep their mouths shut about it." John replied. "She throws one every year, they say. It's supposed to get pretty wild."
"I've heard." Brian said but shook his head. "But I can't go."
"Why not?"
"My mom." was his only answer.
"C'mon, Big-Bri! I'll sneak ya out." He made the motions of his plan with his hands. "We'll put coupla' pillows under your blanket, fix a string to the knob, so every time she opens the door, the thing'll move like you're rolling over."
Brian followed all his movements with weary eyes. "I don't think I wanna know how many times you've done something like this..."
"It's fool proof, Brian. Idiot proof, even. I'll have ya back in bed by two."
"Sorry, Bender." He said, smiling sadly. "I'm still passing."
"You can't seriously let me go alone, Brian!" John flailed his arms. "You're gonna leave me all alone with the hyenas!"
Brian turned the page of his Anatomy textbook, done with the conversation. "I know you can handle it."
John huffed, letting the air out through his nose like a bull ready to charge. "What about you? Allison?"
Allison's silence and refusal to look up was his answer. He'd have to go alone. What kind of friends were they, letting him wander into unknown territory on his own?
Richies had no clue how to party. John already knew that from those times he'd been with Dennis and his guys. All they did was sit out in their backyards and deal, while the guests were in another dimension. Why did he even bother coming to this one, knowing exactly that?
This was his second solo act in two weeks. Richies seemed to throw parties every weekend. Every fucking weekend. What the fuck did their parents do that they'd leave so often? Was this all coordinated?
The music pounding throughout the house was some new wave bullshit that made New Order sound like God's work. The food was garbage, lobbed all across the downstairs hardwood floor, along with crushed cans and someone's vomit. The crowd was too drunk, or too high—or worse, both—to walk properly; lots of plastic red cups being refilled, zigzagging, bumping, shoving. Almost like a mosh-pit except without the actual fun of being in one. And the host of this party—that fucking senior named Stubby—was nowhere to be found.
So, this is officially how all richies got down to business. All of them, suffocating in sweat and colorful vomit like a bunch of abandoned animals.
John's brows rose scornfully, catching the silhouettes of a couple making out on the stairway. It looked more like cats licking each other's faces than actual tonguing. They almost fell had the guy not caught the railing at the last second. It would've been a sight to see, but alas.
The sound his boots made as they crushed the remains of the shattered vase was so nice. Ever since being shipped to Shermer, he had to trade combat boots for Vans. His previous boots were old, he'd put them through hell and a back and they'd been starting to give out about a year ago. But he never had cash to buy a new pair and he'd never let Jeremiah buy him another. But he'd saved up enough cash through babysitting and bought himself new ones. It was like coming home.
John recognized no one he cared to associate with; not even Dennis and his wannabe thugs were here—not that he actually wanted to speak to them ever again either. Those guys only came to these parties to deal out whatever Dennis concocted. And the more John circled downstairs, the more going back to Sandra's seemed like a plausible idea. Getting shit-faced was out of the question.
But then, he smelled it; the familiar, earthy-murky scent of someone blazing it, the smell drifting into the house through the screened window. His throat was on fire all of a sudden, a burning thirst. God. He hadn't smoked in almost three months—not that he was counting. He'd been so good at steering clear of it since that Saturday, because...
What if Sandra found out? What would she do? Kick him out? John wasn't ready for that, not when he was just getting adapted. The anxiety over the possibilities overrode his aching until right now.
Now, he wanted it, needed it—the way a kid needed candy and would throw a temper tantrum if they didn't get it. John reasoned that he'd only take a hit or two, no big deal. It was just enough to get a glaze, take him away from this three-story congested house of comb-backed hair, and noisy neon colors, and Lacoste shirts.
Steeling himself, John rounded the corner towards the kitchen, heading for the backyard. He was just about to pass the staircase when he was shoved. His anger would've exploded if it hadn't been a girl that bumped into him. If that girl hadn't been Claire. She'd been trying to walk down the stairs, using the wall to keep herself steady but somehow slipped.
His hands immediately reached out, keeping her from falling headfirst to the ground. She doubled over on his forearms, gripping them with equal quickness. Her hands were like iron and sweaty. John thought her nails would tear through his clothing and pierce his skin. Not that he'd actually mind, just not here.
"Sorry!" Claire slurred, trying to stand straight. She was far up enough that he could see her flushed face and runny mascara. "I didn't think you'd—I..."
She hiccupped, and he braced himself. Her retching rang above the music.
This wasn't how he envisioned their first conversation; not at some lame party, with her sitting in a decaying mess of tears and runny mascara on the bathroom floor, completely shit-faced and whining about her so called 'problems'. And him, trying to salvage his boots before the leather decompressed because it'd taken him almost an hour before a bathroom vacated.
"And… And you know what Anne did?" Claire sniffed.
"What?" John asked, careful not to scrub too hard with the rag. He didn't actually want to know, but he needed to keep her talking. If Sullivan and his hammered episodes taught John anything, it was to keep a drunk awake. "What did Anne do to you now?"
"She came Wednesday... wearing the same Ralph Lauren dress I did last week!" Claire bawled, wiping her face furiously with the other rag he'd found, smearing her mascara across her pink cheeks and delicate nose. "She said the shoulder pads were ugly, and the lace... the lace reminded her of grandma's clothes. How could she say it was ugly and then try to... try to wear it just like me, you know?"
John turned on the faucet, dampening the rag. "She could've been lying before."
"I know! She's such a little liar... She does it all the time... I just don't understand." Claire sniffed, trying to pat her eyelids the way a girl would when she was trying not to mess up her makeup, except Claire missed completely. "She's… She's always trying to copy me. Ever since third grade... She just can't stand how popular I am! I can't... I can't help it if everybody loves me!"
John wasn't sure why but he found her declaration hilarious, but he did and chuckled.
"It's not funny." She said miserably, on the verge of more tears. "She even tried dying her hair. Red."
"Oh, yeah?" John licked his lips, filling another of the mouthwash cups to the brim.
She nodded. "But she can't get my color. It's natural."
He'd briefly dabbled in the thought, in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep, wondering if the curtains matched the drapes. Now he knew. He passed the cup down to Claire.
"I don't think... my other friends like me very—" She squinted, her entire face pinching and folding, trying to focus but it was hard. "But you… already gave me… like four." She tried to hold up four fingers but only managed two.
"Two." He corrected.
"No, five. I want more wine!"
"Drink it." John said, trying not to sigh. Why was taking care of a drunk person almost like taking care of a child? At least he liked looking after Dustin. "It's mixed with tequila."
"Ooh! Yay!" Her trembling hands took the cup. Her movements were quick for a drunk and she tried to jerk her head back and take it like a shot.
"Slowly!" He hissed, lunging for the cup, but his hand found its way to the nape of sweaty neck and tilted her head forward before she could smack it against the wall. "I don't need you to pass out, Claire!"
She blinked deliberately, squinting her swollen eyes again, forehead puckering. "You have pretty eyes."
He was taken aback, at a loss for words. "You think I have pretty eyes?"
Claire nodded, a playful smile tugging her lips. "I think I know you. You're that guy... from that morning... with the button-nosed baby. And I see you at lunch, staring at me... It's so cute! My friends talk about you all the time!"
John kept one hand on her sweaty neck, and opened up the cabinet again with the other. This bathroom was relatively small and normally he'd complain about why, but for right now, he was thankfully. But there were no medication in this case, not that it was a good idea to give it to her now anyway. "What do they say about me?"
"They think you're really hot..." She giggled. "Not, like, as hot as Fredrick, or Owen, or Andrew, or Stubby... But somewhere in there!"
What he really wanted to know was what she thought of him. Her opinion was the only one that mattered. But he wouldn't ask that, not yet. He wanted her to be sober.
John carefully placed her head on the ivory wall and stood up, opening the mirror on top of the sink. Nothing. No Advil, no Tylenol, not even Band-Aids. She was going to wake up with a nasty hangover tomorrow.
"Hey, do you have a girlfriend?" She swallowed loudly. "'cause Jennifer was thinking about talking to you sometime. I think she wants to ask you out! She's so... She's so bold like that."
"I'm not interested in Jennifer." He didn't even know who she was, honestly.
"Aw, that's too bad!" Claire said. "Not even friends? Like, would you... would you be her friend?"
"Nah."
"What about me?" She asked, his blood temperature dropping. "Can we be friends?"
"Sure." John knew better than to think anything of it. Come Monday, she wouldn't speak to him. She wouldn't remember anything about the puking, about the bathroom, about him. But he wanted to be humored, just for one night. "You alone? Did you come alone?"
"No." Claire responded slowly. "I came with Jennifer."
"Where is she?"
"I dunno…" He slipped off his other boot, wiping it down the way he had with the first one. "She disappeared… to find Anne… We're all friends, you know? We do everything together!"
"Yeah, I got that. What about the others?"
"Well, Morgan is… is still in London." Claire replied. "And… And we left Patricia at Owen's. You know, her parents don't know they're still… like, together-together so we help her sneak around."
He scoffed. "Guess you richie queenies aren't so pristine after all."
It was abruptly silent, besides the music hammering outside the door. John pivoted. Thankfully, Claire was still awake, blinking like she was just waking up from a nap, trying to make sense of her surroundings. He passed her another cup of water and Claire didn't complain this time.
He figured his boots were clean enough. He discarded the rag in the garbage. Not like this guy would care, he could buy thousands more. The foul stench was gone, along with the contents she'd dumped. He couldn't tell what she'd eaten but it looked pretty nasty.
John caught movement from his peripheral as he was wiping it off the water residue. Claire was trying to get up, her arms wobbling as one hand clutched the edge of the porcelain tub and the other gripping the bar of the towel rack. He managed to catch her before she fell.
"Fuck, Claire! Stop trying to get up!" He seethed, gently placing her on the toilet seat. Her slender body against his felt so nice.
"I have to… to find them…" She mumbled against his neck. On any other day, he'd probably love her hot breath against him, just not like this. "Jennifer… Can't do anything without… me."
"We'll go find them, just let me finish." He said. "Deal?"
She nodded vigorously. "Okay!"
John refilled the very last cup, handing it to her again. She sipped it. He perched on the edge of the sink, slipping his boots back on, debating whether to tie the thin laces.
"Hey, what's your name?" She asked, watching him.
"What's yours?"
Claire giggled like he told the funniest joke. "You already know mine, silly!"
John shrugged, tying a double knot. "I wanna hear it from you."
"But I asked you first!"
He licked the inside corner of his mouth, placing the finished foot down and pulling the other up. "John."
"Yeah?" She smiled. "That's my great… great… grandpa's name. He served in… in the army, I think. We all have family names. I'm Claire!"
His smile was pinched, and he found it pretty easy to not say the comment he'd said to Sandra. "Well, Claire, I think it's time to get you home."
"But why?" She whined like a child, trying to pull away from his hand on her arm. "I'm having so much fun!"
John sighed as he slung her arm across his shoulders. "Totally."
Claire drove a fucking Trans Am. A black one. And, of course, finding her car in the near-pitch black thickness of the night took forever. This guy's parents apparently didn't believe in lamps in their front yard.
Fucking rich people.
They finally found her car, towards the very back of the line of cars, only for Claire to realize she didn't have her fucking keys. Her stupid green Esprit tote ended up wedged under the couch, between dust and food pieces and dog shit. Just great.
But at least now things were okay. He couldn't find any of her supposed friends at the party, though. Claire's descriptions hasn't exactly been the best.
She'd rested her head on the passenger window, groaning occasionally. "God, I feel so sick."
"Sucks." He said.
She took a quick sip from the bottled water he'd taken from Stubby's kitchen right after the bathroom fiasco. All that time he'd spent searching hadn't been entirely wasted—though it'd been a hell of a lot more of a hassle than he expected, having to make sure Claire didn't wander off while trying to search for the elusive garment.
"My head's starting to hurt. Ugh. I can't believe I tried to get wasted." She rubbed her forehead, sighing.
"Any particular reason why?"
"I dunno. Pressure, I guess?" She sighed again, frustrated. "Look, I'm actually not really comfortable discussing this. I mean, it's already enough that I'm letting a total stranger take me home."
"Fine by me. Don't talk."
A dense silence hung between them. John hated it. He was so used to making people talk, makingconversation out of something random, and usually demeaning. But he was just a little tongue-tied. He didn't want to screw up this rare opportunity. His hand clicked on the buttons of the radio, changing the station around until he found one he liked. A rock station. Lynyrd Skynrd's "Free Bird" started playing.
Claire didn't protest, which he found interesting. Didn't richies only listen to that new wave bullshit from the party, and that sugary-sweet, mainstream pop, and the occasional []?
"Everyone else did it." Claire confessed suddenly, in a small voice. "So why couldn't I?"
"That makes you a follower." John said.
"I guess so." She admitted, with a twist of her lip. "It's… It's not fun watching your friends and everyone else have a good time while you're on the outside. Like, it makes you feel kind of alone, just sitting there on the couch while everything happens around you. You know what I mean?"
John pressed his lips, hating how much he related. "We do uncharacteristic things sometimes."
"Oh, yeah?" Claire took her head off the window, leaning her full, slender weight against the recliner. It was set back into a position that wasn't all the way back but not entirely upright. "What about you? Have you done anything tonight that's 'uncharacteristic' of you?"
"Well…" He drawled. "For one, I don't particularly take care of drunk girls."
"Aww!" She cooed, pulling his cheek. "Look at you being all chivalrous."
He swat her hand away, cheek flaming, and she giggled at his antics. "And, second, I don't drive a girl I barely know to her house without some kind of invitation."
Her smile slipped. "What?" John merely made an expressive face and Claire's nose crinkled, understanding immediately. "You mean, you sleep with girls you barely know?"
"That a problem to you?"
"I'm not sure, but aren't you…" She blinked, trying to process the idea. "Aren't you worried you'll contract something by sleeping with a complete stranger? I mean, don't you wanna be established and not have to worry?"
John scoffed. "Being established don't mean shit. Cheating is a thing, could happen at any time. And I'm protected."
Claire nodded, though John was sure she didn't grasp the idea. "I see. I don't think I could ever do that."
"Why not? It's real easy." John said, gripping the wheel in one hand and demonstrating with the other. "Doesn't take much. Take a few hits, knock back a coupla' cans, and you'll see. Sex is better when you're far gone, anyway."
"Is that all you burners do?" She asked, curiosity laced with skepticism. "Get high? Have sex all the time? And those heavy metal vomit parties? Is it really that enjoyable?"
His fingers clutched the steering wheel, knuckles beginning to turn white. He could feel the muscle in his cheek spasm. He hated being called that. Burner.
"I could ask you the same thing, ya know."
"What're you talking about?" Her voice rose, a defensive reflex. "I don't do anything."
"Spare me, Claire."
"I don't understand."
"Well, let me paint ya a picture: When you see all your friends buying new cars, you'll trade this in without batting an eye." He lightly tapped the steering wheel for emphasis, then pointed. "And those nice shoes you got on? You won't wear 'em ever again. They'll be outta 'style' by next week—"
"I think that's enough." She said gravelly.
But he continued. "Hey, and those diamonds? I like them, I bet they're real diamonds. Your daddy buy them for you? For Christmas?"
Her expression hardened at the mention of her father. "Shut up."
"Yeah, he did. They'll have a permanent home in your jewelry box when Anne or Patricia or whichever one of your friends says you can't wear 'em anymore."
"Stop it."
"So, now, I gotta ask you: is that all you richies do?" He reiterated. "Just throw away your parents' hard earned money because it's suddenly not good enough for ya anymore? And your little friends? You enjoy the drama and the backstabbing? Or do you just enjoy feeling sorry for yourself?"
"Shut. Up." A warning.
He did, his stomach twisting and clenching painfully. Sandra would be so disappointed in him. He was pissed at himself. He'd lost control, just as easily as jerking this car into a tree would be. Was this how his father felt? Did he always feel that powerful, for those white hot minutes?
God, he hated himself for even thinking that. John wanted to bang his head against the steering wheel. Shame washed over him like a tidal wave. How could he have done this, her eyes wet with tears she refused to let go of? And what scared him the most was how easy it'd been. John didn't want to picture how easy the rest could come along.
Claire burped, quickly slapping her hand over her mouth. He pulled himself out of his pity and pulled over, careful not to jerk it too much, and she flung the door open as John set the car in park.
Despite everything, he scooted closer, reaching out and rubbing the small of her back as Claire puked her guts out on the empty street, onto the curb leading to someone's front lawn. She trembled and shook, but it was from the cold and the rolls of nausea coursing through. He'd offer to hold her hair back but he wasn't sure if that was crossing a line.
It felt like an eternity before she stopped, coughing roughly to clear her throat, and looked over her shoulder. Her delicate profile was withering. "This is so embarrassing…"
"This is child's play, Cherry, believe me." Claire's eyes widened and she hurled over again. "A burner like me's seen so much worse."
When she finally finished, Claire tried to sit up, almost leaning completely into him, so close that her soft, strawberry-scented hair tickled his nose. She didn't say anything about the proximity, the complete lack of personal space, or where his hand was, which was now resting on her hip. He would've really liked this had she not reeked of the party.
"You said you didn't—" She hiccupped. "—take care of drunk girls..."
"Oh, I don't, but I got an old man who loved knocking back a beer or two during the day."
Shit. He didn't know why he said that. It was something John hadn't even told Brian or Allison about. And another uncomfortable silence fell between them, almost like Claire was trying to process what he'd just said the same way he was trying to figure out why he'd even let it slip.
"Can you check the console?" She asked quietly, guiding his hand off. "I have mouth wash and napkins in there."
John couldn't help but ask as he sat back and popped it open, "Huh. You come prepared. You do this often?"
"If it's not 'cause of my friends, it's 'cause of my parents." was the only thing she said.
She left his mind to ponder, keeping her back to John. She gargled and spit it on the curb. Wiping her mouth clean, she settled back into the seat, closing the door, and picked up the half-drunk bottle she'd been working on. John took it as a sign that it was safe, shifting the gear back to drive.
There was something on the tip of his tongue he wanted to say. His heart was hammering, her destination getting closer with each left turn and yielding lights at the intersection. He just couldn't work up the courage. The sound of water slushing and Claire drinking the bottle in large gulps was also distracting.
"You gotta slow down." He said.
"I'll be fine." Claire said sharply.
John shrugged. "Don't say I didn't warn ya when I gotta pull over for you again."
She was quiet. Def Leppards "Photograph" started playing. He loved that song, and now he hated it because from here on out it would probably be associated with Claire and tonight.
"I… I'm sorry for the comment earlier." She said thinly. "I shouldn't have said that."
He swallowed, almost slamming down on the brake instead of lightly pressing for the coming stop sign. His jaw tightened, and he could not believe the shit that was about to come out of his mouth. Again. He must've inhaled too much of the weed earlier, that was the only logical explanation for why he was acting this way.
"I'm sorry, too." He finally said.
"That sounded like it was hard for you to admit."
"You've got no idea." He muttered at her light, clearly humored tone. "Only ever done it twice my whole life."
"Wow." She marveled. "Whoever that person is and I must be pretty special."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
She giggled, a honey sound he wanted to hear more of. She tapped lightly on the window. "My house is this one."
Of course he shouldn't be surprised that Claire's was the fanciest on the block. Honestly, it was a lot nicer than Stubby's—and with lights situated on the driveway path, illuminating the blanket of melting snow covering the grass. The titled driveway curved into a three story house with symmetrical proportions and steep roofs. Old style, yet weirdly modern.
"This isn't a house…" John trailed off, counting all the windows, and taking in the animal-shaped shrubs as he maneuvered towards the garage. "This is a palace."
"Really?" Claire smiled faintly, twisting her body in a way that made her skirt ride up. She was wearing those shear pantyhose—he thought—that made her legs shimmer like she'd sprinkled some glitter on them. "I don't think it's that big. Morgan's is so much bigger, and prettier. She even has an indoor pool with a Jacuzzi."
He didn't say anything, didn't know what to say without coming across as a bitter asshole—which he was trying not to be right now. But, fucking rich people. They had it so good.
Claire pressed on her purse and the garage door lifted, the lights inside automatically turning on. He was surprised at how messy and cluttered it was. And, still, no other car.
John was acutely aware how Claire hadn't taken her eyes off him, studying him methodically as he parked the car and killed the engine. He jingled the keys in front of her, her loop strewn with keychains and friendship bracelets that she's tied instead of keeping them on her wrist. Claire snatched it with a roll of her eyes.
"You know, I've been trying to find you forever." She said, twirling the loop around her finger. "Was that your mom at the office?"
John couldn't get his cluttered mind under control. The things Claire had told him were too much to take in for one night. She'd talked about him to her friends. They knew about him. One of them was even resolved on finding a moment during the day to speak to him—to probably fuck, which he wouldn't mind at all considering it's been a while since he'd last gotten laid. And he wasn't a stranger to girls finding him attractive or wanting to get to know him on a more than friendly basis, but... He didn't know why things with Claire were so different. He wanted to do things differently with her.
"Nah, she's my aunt. Sandra." He said wobbly, clearing his throat, and hoping Claire hadn't caught it.
"Is she a model? She's so tall."
"Nursing assistant." He clarified. "She's trying out for the director spot."
Claire nodded understandingly. "So, the kid is your cousin?"
"Yeah, Dustin. He's two. I babysit him."
Her eyes sparked with curiosity. "Really?"
He couldn't believe this was actually happening. John recovered from the momentary surprise, hoping that his mouth hadn't stayed open for too long. Why did Sandra have to be right? Claire was eating this shit up like caviar and John didn't even have to lie. At all.
"Her schedule's kinda fucked up and doesn't let her get a babysitter in time… So I offered." John shrugged nonchalantly. "It's the least I could do. And it's kinda my thing now."
"I see…" Claire shifted in her seat. "That's really nice of you. I don't think a lot of guys would do that. And a lot of people—not just guys—would've left me there at the party." She smiled brightly. "So, thanks for taking me home."
His lip curved. "You're welcome."
He thought she'd get out of the car. The garage door was still wide open, and the cold was beginning to seep in. But Claire stayed in place. She didn't bother fixing her dress either, manicured fingers curling and uncurling the hem. She squeezed her thighs together, catching his gaze.
"How come you were at the party?" She asked, gnawing on her bottom lip. "I've never seen you at them before and… I think I'd remember if you were there."
"I've been to a lotta them."
"Really?"
"Yeah, heard about 'em in school." John crossed his arms, resting comfortably against the recliner. "But everyone says the same shit, about how crazy and wild they are, especially this fucking Stubby-guy's parties. Figured I should come check it out."
She smiled coyly. "Were you impressed?"
"Fuck no! Where I come from that kinda shit's considered a funeral, Claire. I'll take you to a realparty sometime."
Claire seemed to brighten, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, and shifting again. "Where do you come from? You are from Illinois, right?"
He almost hesitated. What bits had she heard about him? "Lyons."
"Ooh." She let out. "My father goes there almost every day."
He lifted a brow. "What for? That's an hour away on a good day."
"His job." Claire shrugged, clearly not wanting to dive into it. "He's stationed here, but if they call him to another district, he goes, doesn't matter what time and no questions asked."
John nodded curtly, eyes roaming the enclosed space to find the door leading to her house. "Your dad in now?"
Claire tilted her head, letting it settle on the headrest. The fluorescent's highlighted her pale, unmarked neck. "Just me."
"Wait. You're all alone?" His eyes nearly bulged. "In this place? Often? ... And you don't throw any of these disaster parties?!"
Claire giggled. "I could never do that to him. It's one of his house rules, actually. I can do almost anything I want just as long as the house remains in one piece. But I never tell my friends."
He didn't understand. "Why not?"
Claire winced. "I'm scared they'll invite people over without asking. They've done it before—not with me, but to each other. They laugh it off like it's no big deal, but it would be a big deal. To me."
"Seems like you need new friends, Cherry."
Claire made a sound, something between a snort and a laugh. "I've heard that before. My father tells me the same thing."
"Well, the guy's not wrong."
More silence. He should really get out of the car now. Claire still didn't go, didn't make any movement other than continuously biting her lip. Like she was nervous.
"Do you, um…" She started quietly. "Do you wanna come inside? You could stay the night."
He felt lightheaded, like the way he'd felt when he took a hit for the first time; that soaring beyond the clouds feeling. "And... Do what?"
"I dunno. Things?" She said innocently, though the implication was there, and giggled nervously. "Or we could just sleep—like, really, just sleep."
He almost rolled his eyes, but there was nothing really funny about how uncomfortable his jeans were and how difficult it was to move. "But you don't want to, and neither do I."
"Nope." Claire bit her lip, shaking her head. "Maybe I'm still a little bit tipsy. I'm usually not so… forward."
"And here I thought you were totally disgusted by my comment earlier."
"Well, I was... But I didn't get it then, you know? I guess I kind of do now, since I know of you, so, it's okay in my book." She waved her hand, still nervous. "Sorry, I'm rambling."
John took in the sight of her; the way she was looking at him under hooded eyes, her flushed cheeks, and how she'd rearranged her position so many times that now he had a clear view of the suspenders clipped to the black lace trim of her thigh-highs—not pantyhose, but it didn't matter because he'd rip them apart either way—and a clear shot of her striped underwear on the curve of her hip. She was so fucking pretty and irresistible. The worst part was, she knew it.
He was hooked from all this proximity, and harmless touches, and actually talking to her. A taste of her would send him into an oblivion he didn't know if he could pull himself out of. He didn't do girlfriends, but it's what he wanted from her.
And there was also the matter of her current state. She wouldn't remember any of this. Not tomorrow. Not Monday. Probably not ever.
John ripped his gaze away, pulling on his jeans. "I don't think it's a good idea."
"Why not?" She sounded disappointed. "You don't want to?"
"Believe me, I'd really love nothing more than to throw you on a couch and fuck you until you scream, but I can't." He shook his head. "It's just not a good idea right now."
"I'm sorry." Her face crumpled and she pulled the lock on the door. "I shouldn't have brought this up. My friends warned me you might have something going on with that girl."
He whirled, tugging on her arm to sit her back down. "What? You mean Allison?" Claire shrugged, I guess. "No! No, God, no. Allison's a friend, a good friend—I'm serious about that but we've got no relations of any kind."
Claire blinked. "Oh."
John groaned, releasing her. "Claire, it's not that I don't wanna, I'm just not the guy that takes advantage of drunk chicks… And I also don't got any rubbers on me. I wasn't planning on getting laid tonight."
"I am not that drunk!" She exclaimed childishly. "I'm just... a little intoxicated still. And you wouldn't have to worry, I'm on the pill."
He side-eyed her. "Didn't you pay any attention in health class? The pill's not a hundred percent effective."
"Neither is a condom." She stepped out.
"But if we got both then that's good."
"You're giving this way too much thought." She slammed the door.
His brow furrowed firmly, and he shoved his own door open. "What's your problem now? If you got it that bad, why don't you call your boyfriend?
"What're you talking about?" Claire's eyes narrowed over the roof of the car. "My ex broke up with me in the summer. I thought everybody knew this."
"Clearly not me." He said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Was it that Tommy guy?"
Claire's jaw clinched, looking away. "Yes, but I'd rather not talk about him."
"Fine." He rolled his eyes. "What about that other guy? Andrew? I see you with him sometimes."
"Andy!?" Her guard disintegrated and a huge grin spread across her face. "No way! I mean, I've known him since we were in diapers, and we went on one date back in the eighth grade 'cause our friends thought we'd be so good together, but I don't like him."
"Ah."
Her eyes softened. "I'm only interested in you."
He couldn't help but snort, though she'd been nothing except perfectly honest since he'd dropped her from cracking her skull open. "The fact that I'm novelty's got nothing to do with it, right?"
"Well... A little." Claire admitted slowly, ambling away towards the door to her house. "But it's not a bad thing. Different can be good. But, really, you should at least come inside until I call a cab."
He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, the cold tingling his fingers. His mind was still in disarray. Going into that house was dangerous—not for her, but for him. "I don't need one."
Claire peered over her shoulder, cracking the door open. "How're you getting home?"
He lifted a shoulder. "Walking."
"Oh." She blinked. "Do you live by here?"
"No, by Chandler."
Her blank expression molded into shock. "You're joking!"
John looked around. "Am I laughing?"
She gave a curt wave of her hand, like ending an argument. "No, John, I can't let you do that. That's like thirty miles away!"
"Yeah, so?" He said flatly, turning on his heel. "I like to walk. It's fine."
"Can I please call you a cab?" She called out behind him. "Please? C'mon, I can't let you go like that."
A fit of laugher overtook him, one he felt deep within his gut. He was so loud, it reverberated through the garage. He could feel Claire's suspicion stare beating down at his back.
"What's so funny? I'm being serious."
John cleared his throat, twisting his torso to face her. "You're just being weirdly nice. After everything I did."
Claire huffed, crossing her arms. "It's not weird! I can be nice if people let me."
John scoffed. "Well, don't worry about it, Cherry. I can take care of myself."
She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. "Boys."
