CLAIREVEMBER 2024
Day 11 - guilty

"So you gonna tell me how you walked away from cheerleader tryouts with a black eye or what?" said Chris.

Claire didn't respond. She just kept looking out the Wrangler's window at the passing storefronts and trees.

"I see. Guess I'm gonna have to start taking away privileges, starting with Friday nights out with your friends."

"Whatever," Claire said. She turned up the radio so Whitney Houston's new cover of that old Dolly Parton song filled the silence..

Chris snapped off the radio. "Dammit, Claire, this is serious. If something's going on, I need to know."

"You're not Mom or Dad, so what do you care?"

"You're right: I'm not. But I am your legal guardian, and I love you and I don't want the state to take you away from me and put you in a foster home with strangers who might not even live around here. So tell me: what the hell happened?"

"I heard Tara Kendall tell the others on the squad that I was 'too mopey' to be a good cheerleader because my parents just died, and me being there would just make everyone else too sad to cheer, so I punched her in the face," she snapped. "Then her boyfriend grabbed me and I punched him too, so he punched me back. Are you happy now?"

Chris slammed the brakes. The car behind him honked and shot past him, its middle-aged driver throwing him the finger. He didn't give a shit, though. Tears had flooded her face, making the deep purple bruise that had swallowed her eye glimmer like onyx.

"What?" was all he could say.

"I hit someone. I started a fight. Guilty as charged. So ground me already," Claire sobbed.

Chris said nothing. He simply tapped the gas and thought as they drove home.

As soon as he parked, Claire grabbed her bookbag and dashed into the house. He found her in her room upstairs, lying on her bed.

"Go away," she said without looking at him.

"I want to show you something," he said. "Come on."

He was in the kitchen when he heard her traipse down the stairs. By the time she entered the kitchen, he had pushed open the sliding glass door. He gestured for her to follow him into the yard.

When they reached the middle, Chris turned so he faced her and backed away. He squared himself and raised his fists.

She stuffed her hands in her oversized, blue Broncos hoodie. "What're you doing?" she asked.

"I'm going to teach you how to defend yourself," he said.

"I just got into a fight at school, and you're going to show me how to fight better?"

"Defending yourself isn't 'fighting better.' It's taking control of a situation so you walk away unharmed. You know you shouldn't go around starting fights, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Don't do it again. Now, fists up."

When he and Claire finished, they were both soaked with sweat and smiling. After they cleaned up, they found Tara Kendall's number in the phone book and gave her parents a call. They were none too pleased to find out what Tara had said about a 13-year-old girl whose parents had died just last winter. Claire agreed to apologize if Tara agreed to apologize too, which she did.

Then it came out that the boyfriend 14-year-old Tara had brought to try-outs was none other than David Hollins, a guy who'd graduated a year before Chris. Tara had met him while picking up pizza at Sam's Pizzeria with some friends. He'd been standing right outside, taking a smoke break. Chris wasn't sure, but he hung up the phone with the strong impression that Tara's parents would be having a very serious talk with her about the importance of sticking to boys her own age.

The conversation had made both Chris and Claire hungry, so he told her to pick out a movie or two for them to watch that night while he ran out and got them an extra-large pepperoni pizza, which he pretended to order over the phone. He drove past their usual pizza place, Fox's Pizza, and headed for the next town over. There, he parked in front of Sam's Pizzeria.

The place was empty, save for its red chairs and tables. No telltale signs of security cameras, either. He walked up to the equally red counter. A guy in a red Sam's Pizzeria shirt came out of the back, and immediately he knew it was David Hollins. He'd let his dark hair grow out, and he'd let a matching mustache come in, but the same carefree ignorance danced in his blue eyes.

"Hey Dave," said Chris, smiling.

"Oh hey," the guy responded. "I know you. Arklay High, right? German with Mr. Schneider?"

"Yep!"

"You're Chris…Redford?"

"Redfield."

"That's right. Chris Redfield, junior varsity. How ya been, man?"

"Oh, I've been great." Chris leaned against the counter, his free fist jammed in his brown bomber jacket pocket. "They got you working all by your lonesome tonight?"

David Hollins shrugged. "Not many people eat out on Tuesdays. So what can I do ya for?"

"Well, actually, I came to talk to you."

The guy cocked an eyebrow. "Me?"

"Yeah, you. See, I got a little sister, Claire. Maybe you remember me talking about her. 'Ich habe eine Schwester.' It's the only thing I remember besides 'Ja' and 'Nein.'"

Dave nodded. "Sounds familiar."

Chris nodded with him. "Yeah. Well, she went out for cheerleading today."

Panic flickered in David Hollins's eyes like a dying lightbulb.

"She didn't make the cut, unfortunately," Chris went on. "One of the cheerleaders told her she was too sad over our parents dying to be a good cheerleader and she'd make all the other cheerleaders sad, so Claire decked her in the face. And that's when you stepped in."

Dave's face had gone as white as the wad of powdered dough on the expansive prep table behind him. He swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down like one of those drinking birds in the top hats.

He said, "I don't know what you're –"

Chris slammed his fist right in the guy's nose. He reeled back, blood leaking from one nostril. By the time he recovered, Chris was behind the counter and had grasped him by his shirt collar and dragged him onto the prep table. Dough blossomed under his ass like a fat flower.

"Don't fucking lie to me, Dave," said Chris.

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry," he pleaded as he began to cry. "Just please don't hurt me–"

Seeing Dave's face soaked with tears reminded Chris of Claire sitting in the Wrangler, crying her eyes out as her blackened one sparkled like a gemstone. Chris slugged Dave again, then let go. Bawling, he slid to the floor. Blood flowed freely from his bruised nose now, dripping like syrup on the floor.

Chris kneeled by the guy, grabbed his collar again, and jerked him forward so their eyes met. Dave tried to back away but only knocked into the prep table.

"Listen to me very carefully, Dave," Chris said. "If you ever lay so much as a finger on my sister, or any kid, ever again, I'm gonna come back here, or find you in whatever hole you've crawled into, and I'm gonna bury you. Understand?"

Dave was blubbering too hard to answer, so he just nodded.

"Good." Chris stood. "Glad we had this talk."

He lifted one boot and delivered a well-aimed kick to Dave's balls. He screamed and promptly vomited so hard it streaked like lightning across the floor.

"Fucking creep," Chris said as he left David Hollins there to clean up his own mess.

He used Sam's phone to call Fox's and order the extra-large pepperoni pizza. By the time he got home, Claire was in her pajamas.

"Finally!" she said as she followed him into the kitchen. "I was starting to worry that something bad had happened. What took so long?"

"Fox's had a line," said Chris. "It went almost out the door."

"On a Tuesday?"

Chris shrugged. "Must be their lucky night."