Chapter 10 - Bad Manners
As per Jonathan's advice, George was very careful about how he responded to Shawn's poor manners. There were times when it was difficult to hold his tongue—the boy's conduct could be appalling, particularly at mealtimes—but George always remained silent in the wake of their visits to the hospital. George remembered how painful it had been to watch Lillian suffer; Shawn required extra patience in these moments, and today was no exception. George allowed Shawn to storm into the house alone and slam the door behind himself. He would give him space now, and if Shawn hadn't cooled off by dinnertime, George would say something, gently.
But Shawn never came down for dinner. George debated with himself about whether to try to force Shawn to come down, but he settled for knocking on the closed door, softly saying, "You'd be welcome to come down and eat," and, when he didn't hear anything, heading back downstairs to eat alone, like he had been doing for decades before Shawn had come to live with him.
When the sun set and George had still heard nothing from upstairs, George debated, again, whether he should go to check in on his young charge. While he knew the situation was taking its toll on the boy, they visited with Jonathan daily, and on the days when Shawn came home with a poor disposition, it was usually fleeting. There had even been a couple of times when he had been willing to talk about what he was feeling, if nothing else over poetry.
Little Cory had been walked, but not fed dinner. George sighed and took care of it for Shawn. He had to admit, he was enjoying this time. George had been unsure what to expect, housing a teenager, but he had always found his work with students to be rewarding; knowing that Shawn was developing a deeper trust of George yielded a new level of satisfaction.
When George had satisfied himself with a hot cup of tea and a few chapters of his book, he tidied the few items he'd left out in his living room and padded up the stairs to his bedroom. He passed by Shawn's room—the light was off.
George frowned. The light was off.
He went to knock on the door. "Shawn?"
No reply.
"Shawn," he said, a little louder.
Still nothing.
Slowly, George turned the doorknob, opened the door, and switched on the light.
The room was empty.
The flood of emotions took George by surprise. The worry packed the greatest immediate punch; the anger felt the hottest; fear felt the sharpest. But what cut deepest was the feeling of betrayal. George had just been reflecting on the trust he shared with the boy. Meanwhile, Shawn hadn't even so much as left a note; he'd galavanted into the night without a thought to how it would affect anyone else. Even more, it was over an hour past Shawn's curfew.
George called the Matthews first, but as he'd suspected, they hadn't seen Shawn—if Shawn had only been going to visit Cory, he would have asked permission, knowing he would never be denied. He called the hospital, but they hadn't seen him. He even tried the building manager for the apartment building where Jonathan had lived, but he knew Shawn as well, and he had nothing to report.
George was getting ready to call the police when he heard a shuffling in his backyard.
He frowned, lowered the phone, and stepped outside.
It was Shawn. Trying to climb the tree behind his house.
George cleared his throat and crossed his arms. Shawn almost jumped out of his skin, leaping back from the tree, then looking sheepishly down at his feet. George beckoned with one finger, and Shawn, to his credit, hung his head and followed George into the house.
George had held his tongue for far too long. As soon as the door was closed behind Shawn, he laid into him. "Mr. Hunter, what were you thinking?"
"No, man, you've got it all wrong! I actually did the right thing!"
"And how, pray tell, is that?"
"I came back. I didn't drink, I didn't commit any crimes, I didn't do anything wrong!"
George nearly blew his top at that. He began counting on his fingers. "You snuck out. You ran away. You didn't leave so much as a note to let me know where you were going. And need I remind you of your curfew?"
"Would it kill you to cut me a little slack just once? I know you're Mr. Feeny and all, but do you gotta jump on my back for every little thing?"
George couldn't hold it in any longer. He was going to say something he would regret, or prescribe a punishment that Jon wouldn't let him uphold. He held up a hand and spoke much more quietly than he wanted to, though probably still more loudly than Shawn wanted to hear. "Not another word, Mr. Hunter. Now, I want you to calmly and quietly proceed to your room and remain there for the rest of the night."
"Fine. That's what I wanted anyway." Shawn turned on his heel and went to the fridge.
George cleared his throat. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Just getting something to eat. Is that a crime now?"
"I said directly to your room."
Shawn's voice caught, and he turned to stare incredulously at George. "You're seriously not going to let me eat."
"You can thank your lucky stars you aren't being raised under my father's roof."
"Is that supposed to scare me?"
George could feel his jaw tightening. "Your room. Now."
"You can't tell me what to do."
"I can put you on restriction for the rest of the week."
"You're not Jon."
The words hung in the air. George had had hundreds of students over the years question his authority, but for some reason, in this moment, he had no words.
Finally, Shawn threw up his hands. "My room. Fine." He stormed up the stairs, leaving George feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him.
Shawn flicked on the lights to his room and slammed the door shut behind himself. He couldn't believe Feeny had just sent him to bed without dinner. He was pretty sure no one had used that punishment since, like, 1950.
Well, joke's on Feeny. Shawn was used to hunger—where he came from, going to bed without dinner wasn't even a punishment. It was just life. In sixth grades, he used to skate by on nothing but school lunches. And he was fine. Missing one meal? That wasn't even enough to make him feel the hunger pangs.
His stomach growled at him, betraying him. He could deny it all he wanted, but damn if it didn't hurt.
Damn Jon, with his cushy apartment and soft beds and full pantry and refrigerator. Shawn wasn't used to hunger anymore. He suspected his pain tolerance had hit rock bottom, too. He'd gone soft.
What's more, he was sure Feeny knew he was soft. Counted on it. He meant for this to hurt. He wanted Shawn to be in pain, as if he weren't already going through enough.
Jon never used pain as a punishment. He could be a hard ass sometimes, but he never would have hurt Shawn.
Shawn should have just gone into the liquor store.
He'd already snuck out through the window once tonight; once more would be easy. Feeny would probably be busy cooking up some horrible punishment for the next day, or maybe he was busy making plans to get rid of Shawn. He might not even care if Shawn took off again.
At least, that's what he told himself. It almost hurt when Shawn made it out without being caught again. Feeny really didn't care.
Shawn would go back to that liquor store, but in the meantime, he needed to get something to eat. He could buy something, but it seemed like a waste of money when he could just get Cory to grab him something. He'd climbed into Cory's bedroom window about a million times; Cory wouldn't sell him out.
Climbing up the tree using the branches that held the treehouse was so much easier than trying to climb up to the second floor of Feeny's house. Cory's window was half open; Shawn slid it up the rest of the way and crawled in.
Cory groaned and rolled over. "There's blankets in the closet and room on the floor," he mumbled.
"No, no, I'm not here to sleep. I just need a favor."
A slight pause, then Cory rolled back over, flicked on his lamp, and pushed back the covers, sitting up. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, I just need something to eat. Did you guys have leftovers at dinner?"
"Uh . . . yeah. But what happened, you couldn't eat with Feeny?"
"Ah, well, you know Feeny." Shawn wasn't planning on having to explain himself; he spun a story quickly. "He makes, like, disgusting mash and flavorless dry meatloaf and stuff. I just got sick of it."
"Oh. Sorry, man. You know, you can always come over for dinner."
"Ah, I . . . didn't want to impose."
Cory glanced over at the clock.
Shawn grimaced. It was after one now. "Uh. Sorry."
Cory sighed. "I'll be right back," he said, and he left Shawn alone in his room.
Shawn glanced out of the window back at Feeny's house. Shawn's window was open, but other than that, there was no sign that Shawn had even been there or that Feeny noticed he was gone.
A few minutes later, Cory came back with a plate full of cold lasagna and a cup of water. Shawn didn't care that the food was cold; he made quick work of it and handed the plate and cup back to Cory, who simply set them on his nightstand and went back to bed.
Maybe this was for the best. Shawn was tired; he didn't want to try to sneak back into Feeny's house. He didn't even really feel like drinking anymore. Another night, maybe.
Shawn went into Cory's closet to grab a blanket and curled up on the floor by his bed. He knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep anyway. He figured he might as well not-sleep in a house with people who cared about him.