Claire's Song (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

CLAIRE

            I thought about going to Jamie's grave, but I just couldn't bring myself to sit there today. The Georgia heat is way too oppressive for October and after the crap that happened this morning, I just wanted to go home. Mom is working late, but to her credit, she did leave me a note telling me where to find my dinner with several smiley faces. Dad is out of town on business, but is due home any day. I'm ready to see him again, ready for a break from the awkward silences that fill the house when it's just Mom and me. She wants me to follow in her footsteps and be a perky, spirited cheerleader, the Homecoming Queen, you name it, anything but the sad, pitiful girl I am now.

When she starts up on that, all I have to do is point at myself. I look nothing like a cheerleader. I have a severe shoulder length bob, made even more rocker/emo/goth/whatever you want to call it by the fact that I'm naturally raven haired, even though Lindy swears I dye it. I wear skinny jeans with flannel shirts, cardigans, and Converses. Oh, and there's that part that I'm the total outcast at our school, following closely behind Ryder Andrews. Jamie used to think my mom's hopes were hilarious and he even put my name on the ballot for our tenth grade Homecoming Court. I didn't win. Obviously.

            I lie back on my pillows and close my eyes. Jamie swims behind my eyelids and I let myself go there, even though I shouldn't. It makes it harder. It makes me angrier at him, at everything.

           
Taking Back Sunday's "You're So Last Summer" plays softly in the background as Jamie lies back on my pillows, watching me carefully through hooded eyes. I sit cross-legged on the bed, my gaze darting around nervously. He hasn't been smiling as much, hasn't been caring about music or concerts like he used to. Maybe he's just sick or tired. Or both.

            "Jamie, you know I love you, right?" I begin, nerves all tangled up in my throat.

            Jamie gives me a tiny smile, not even the dimpled one I'd grown accustomed to, "Yeah, I know. You shouldn't, but I know you do."

            "Why shouldn't I? You're perfect, Jamie. You love me too, right? I mean, we’ve been friends for what, three years? I think I've earned that," I smile and tap his elbow where his shirt sleeves are rolled.

            His eyes shutter closed and I watch his thick lashes fan out across his pale complexion. He looks dead. Defeated.

            Jamie takes a deep breath and reaches a hand out and holds mine, "I love you, Claire. You're my best friend, and I know what you're trying to get at."

            "You haven't been yourself, Jamie. You sure you're okay?" I interrupt, squeezing his hand. His warmth flows through me, trickling into my heart. I loved Jamie more than he knew. I wanted to be more than just his friend, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it or do anything about it. I was scared of losing him.

            "There are just some things better left unsaid. I'll be fine in a day or two," he answers, but his voice is gravelly and cracks at the end. My heart rips in two because Jamie Morgan is never like this. He's always been the sun in my dark sky. He lights up my world; meeting him freshman year completely changed everything.

            "Jamie," I whisper, softly letting go of his hand and crawling up to where he lay. I curl up on his chest, just like I always do, his heart beating steady, steady beneath his favorite plaid shirt. My hand grabs his and I place it over his heart, our breathing even. The Christmas lights up a month too late and the flickering candles cast Jamie's face in an otherworldly aura. He's too beautiful to be real. My hands itch to run over the planes of his face, to kiss his slightly crooked nose. But instead they remain still.

            Jamie's other hand comes around and tangles in my hair. "I like your hair long. Looks hot," he laughs, but the sound is rusty and not easy like it used to be.

            "You're finally giving into my wily feminine charms, I see?" I try to joke, desperate to give him another chance to laugh, another chance for the sound to be normal, not to send chills straight to my heart.

            "I gave into them a long time ago," I feel him smile slowly against my hair and then he kisses the top of my head.  Butterflies flutter through my chest, I freeze. I want to question him, to ask him what he means, but I am paralyzed by the fear of the sun leaving my sky.

            "Hardy har-har," I smile.

            "Don't ever let guys treat you like dirt, okay, Claire? Because you deserve a guy who thinks you’re everything, who worships the ground you walk on," he whispers.

            "You'll always be there to beat them up if they try to screw me over," I continue, the sinking feeling in my stomach both confusing and nerve-wracking at the same time.

            Jamie shifts and I dare to look up at him, the look on his face is the most serious he's ever been. "I won't always be around, Claire. I should've backed off a long time ago."

            I can feel my face scrunch up in confusion, "Jamie, you're not making any sense. Why would you ever say you wouldn't be around?" I want to tell him he’s my everything, that his words split my beating heart in two.

            At hearing my reply, pain, real, raw pain flashes across those brown eyes that always had light in them. "You're making this hard."

            "What, Jamie? We're best friends. You can't break up with a friend. Did I do something?" I sit up, my throat constricting, my heart beating rapidly, the world entirely too loud in my ears.

            His hand comes to my cheek, so soft that I want to melt into his touch. I feel alive when he touches me, something I wish I had the nerve to tell him. "Nothing. Nothing, Claire. Never mind. You didn't do anything wrong. You never do. I just want you to be happy that's all."

            "I'm happy here with you, but you're freaking me out. Is everything really okay?" I reach a hand out and run it through that thick messy head of hair. He has perfectly coiffed black hair that every guy at our school is jealous of. He grabs my hand, our gazes connecting, the electricity dancing between us, filling up all the space in my room. Could he see everything in my eyes? Could he see how plainly I loved him, truly loved him? Could he see that it went beyond what friends felt?

            "This is really selfish of me, but I've always wanted to try something…" his voice trails off as he runs his hand over my cheek again, gently cupping my face.

            "Anything," I whisper. Jamie holds that kind of power over me. He always had.

            "Let me kiss you. Just once."

            My eyes widen, my thoughts bouncing around wildly in my head, matching the speed of my heart. I find myself nodding, my arms wrapping around his neck as he moves closer.

            His lips move softly against mine. It is everything I thought it would be. It’s perfect. He’s perfect. Then all too soon, he pulls back and gives me a sad look, "I had to know what I’d be missing out on. We could've been something, I think." He shakes his head, as if to sort his jumbled thoughts, while my breath is coming in way too fast, my heart feeling way too frantic. "I mean, I don't know. I'm messing it all up. I just wanted to kiss you and it was the best kiss I've ever had.” He pauses once more, as if there’s more to say, but instead, he says simply, “Look, I gotta get home. I love you, Claire, okay?" And he's up off the bed in one fluid movement, his tall frame dominating my room.

            "I don't think you should go. Or at least you shouldn't be alone. I got a bad feeling about it, Jamie. Stay over again," I beg, moving onto my knees. He stayed over plenty of nights when my parents were gone. Nothing ever happened, but those were the best moments of my life.

            He shakes his head before I can even continue, which is so unlike him. Jamie knows I am always ready with an argument, but he cuts me off. "I'm fine. I promise." But he refuses to look at me. Even as he pulls me in the tightest hug he can manage, he doesn't meet my eyes. Then he grabs my face in his hands and kisses my forehead and nose. "I love you, always," he calls.

            "I love you!" I yell after him, scurrying off the bed, trying to catch him. The door shuts and I even run outside into the cool January night, but he's gone. Gone.

            Tears are pouring down my face as I turn over onto my pillow. Every night and every morning after that, I would sniff my pillow, because for the longest time it still smelled of Jamie. But then after a while, it faded. I sniff it again, only to smell the scent of my shampoo. Anger and hurt build within my chest as I think about him, about our last night, and I wonder if there will ever be anything that makes the pain go away.

RYDER

            I'll have to wear long sleeves for a while, but it’s not the first time. Weirdly enough there is something good in my life. I’ve written a couple of songs that I think are show-worthy and even made a few calls, although nothing’s set in stone. The goal is to book a gig by Christmas or New Year’s. The thought excites me.

 I look around my dingy room with the dark spots on the carpet, the water stained walls and ceiling. My meager belongings are in a few Bacardi boxes by the window. It's hard to imagine that this would be my life. Back in ninth grade, I would've never dreamed this would be how I'd end up. I was the king of the school, on my way to the top. I had the hot girlfriend, the exceptional athletic dominance, and my folks were rich. We were rolling in a nice mansion with people to actually cut our grass for us. My Dad stayed gone all the time, but it was okay because we were living it up. Mom seemed halfway normal then, not all the way, but at least not drugged out of her mind. She always was a little on the neurotic side.

            Then one day I came home to find the house packed up and my mother drunk, crying over a box of pictures. Dad left us for some young secretary he'd been having an affair with all along and he expected us to get out within the week. I haven't seen or heard from my father since. The child support check he sends pays for Shelly’s addictions. I don’t call her Mom anymore. Not with those hollowed out cheeks and lifeless eyes. Not to mention that greasy, piece of crap beanpole of a boyfriend that’s always hanging around. He’s constantly going through my stuff looking for something new to pawn. Always looking for the next hit.

            But it wasn’t just the fact that I had fallen from grace, or the fact that I live with crack heads in a nasty trailer that sent me over the edge into pariah territory, the same place Claire Watkins hovered and finally landed when Jamie died. Like her social demise, Lindy Baker also caused mine. A mistake that I will always regret, always hate myself for.

            I play Unwritten Law's "Seeing Red" as loud as it will go on the tiny speaker in the corner of my room. Claire keeps coming back to me and I feel like a total pansy. There are a million girls in our school and then there's Claire. Those sad eyes, that fragile way she carries herself buries itself into my memory and it makes me think crazy shit. She makes me want to get to know her, to make her smile, but I haven't been that guy in a while. Maybe part of it is the fact that Claire doesn't look at me like I have every STD in the book or like I’m some pervert who takes advantage of girls and puts roofies in their drinks. I'm neither of those things, but Lindy makes sure everyone thinks that I am.  Instead, Claire studies me with curiosity instead of open disgust. She even tried to talk to me in the hallway. All I know is I can't let her get to me. I've got a limited amount of time left here and I can't spend it falling for her.

CHAPTER FOUR

CLAIRE

The first thing I do when I wake up is check Jamie’s Facebook page, even though I know I shouldn’t. It’s been a while and I need to feel like he’s here, like he’s real. No one has taken the trouble to disable his page and I find myself thankful for that. I look through all the pictures of us, all the fake smiles he pasted on that handsome face, hiding all the hurt beneath that façade. I try not to get on Facebook often, mostly because of Lindy and her group. After Jamie killed himself, she posted all kinds of nasty things on my wall, along with her minions. They posted things like “It’s all your fault. Wish you were dead instead.” Or even better “Why don’t you hang yourself now that you're only friend is dead?” Those were arrows through my already sensitive heart, carelessly reopening a fresh wound. There was a time in my life when I thought about doing it, too. I really did.

            Black Flies by Ben Howard comes on my chill playlist, the lyrics encapsulating everything I’m feeling. The words bring chills to my arms, each and every hair standing on end. Things feel different today, finite, even. The laptop taunts me from the corner and I know better. I know I know better. Checking Jamie’s page is unhealthy and it isn’t like he’s going to post from the dead, but every once in awhile it's a way for me to pretend that he isn’t really gone, that he’s just out of town, at a concert or something crazy, something so perfectly Jamie.

            Slowly, I open the laptop and log onto Facebook. The mouse hovers over Jamie's name and I click it before I return to my senses. Jamie's final choice of a profile picture stares back at me, the picture of the two of us last Halloween, only months ago. It's the same Halloween picture I have framed on my dresser, the one I look at each and every day. That's the photo that he chose to immortalize himself with as he left his world. It feels as though someone has struck me in the gut, knocked me down, down, down.