Tags: cigarettes and chocolate milk, evi and liz are so cute, fangirling means srs bsns

Chapter 4

Now I got scars like the number of the stars

Behind the chunky black frames of her glasses, her eyes were just as open and trusting as he remembered them. He always envied her that – wondered what it was like to not immediately expect the worst of people.
She was staring at him, waiting for him to say something. To open up and spill his life all over the table over a lousy cup of coffee. He hadn’t really meant to offer up any sort of an opening – he figured she’d let it drop. He should have known better – chicks love a sob story and his story was pretty fucked up and should come with a complimentary box of tissues.
He tapped a nervous beat on the table, trying to figure out what to say. He opted for stalling. “You’ve got all night, huh?”
“Yep.” She propped her elbows on the table and leaned her chin against her clasped hands, waiting. He took a deep, steadying breath, looked down at the table, gathering his thoughts, and … picked up another sugar packet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shoulders slump in defeat.
“Sorry,” he mumbled as he stirred in the sugar the drink didn’t need. “I just …”
“Don’t like to talk?”
“Pretty much.” He gave a tired grin, aimlessly running his index finger through some sugar that had spilled on the table. She took a sip of her tea and he swore he could hear her breathing. The place wasn’t quiet. People were talking. Glasses were clanging as the waitress cleared the table next to them. Canned jazz played in the background through the sound system. But none of that seemed to matter – somehow, all of that faded into the background and the only things that existed at that moment were him, Kathy, and the silence that hung between them.
The room was growing warm as more people piled in and Jack started to roll up the sleeves of his jacket, trying to get comfortable. The next act was coming on in roughly ten minutes, a singer with a CD under her belt and a semi-successful single that was used on an episode of some sappy medical TV show. So she actually had people coming just to see her perform.
Kathy suddenly gasped as he started to fold up the cuff of the right sleeve and he froze, unsure of what to do or why she made the sound.
“Let me see,” she said, making a beckoning motion.
“Huh?”
“Your arm. Let me see.” She was reaching across the tiny table now and he had to fight the urge to back away from her. As it was, she came dangerously close to knocking over both their mugs. His shirt was still dripping from the first dousing and he really didn’t want a round two.
She rolled her eyes when he still didn’t respond. “Your tattoo, silly.” He wrinkled his brow – did she really just call him ‘silly’? He was beginning to remember just how weird she could be.
Sighing, he pushed the sleeve up to his elbow and laid his arm across the table – figuring giving in was easier than being stubborn. She ran her fingers lightly over the word inked on the underside of his forearm.
“Spares,” she said, “you guys really went through with it, then?”
He shrugged. “Sorta.”
“Sorta?” she repeated, arching an eyebrow.
“There’s a band called The Spares, but I’m not member anymore,” he admitted.
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? That band was you – you were that band.” He had to bite back a grin at how furious she looked.
“Things change.”
“How? That’s a pretty big change.”
“It’s a -” he started and she groaned.
“Long story?” she finished for him, shaking her head.
“Yeah,” he said.
He wondered if she realized she still had her hand on his arm. Her thumb moved slightly, brushing over his skin, and she suddenly stilled. Shit, he thought. He’d forgotten all about them. The scars. From the look on her face, he could tell she’d forgotten, too.

XxXxXxXxXx

Jack swung his legs back and forth as he sat on the stool in the art room. He was hunched over his battered sketchbook, pen in hand, an intense look on his face, not even realizing the cuff of his long sleeve t-shirt was now smudged with black ink. He was painstakingly drawing a logo for his band – it was one of at least a hundred that filled the pages, each one slightly different than the one that came before it. It was a bitch getting the ‘S’ just right. The last one looked too Star Wars and the one before that was crooked as hell.
Steve took his usual seat next to him and Jack grunted a hello at him. Leaning over Jack’s shoulder, Steve let out a low whistle. “Not bad, Mercer. We should get shirts made or something. That would be wicked.”
Jack rolled his eyes. Steve started saying “Wicked” the other day for no apparent reason and it was getting on Jack’s nerves. He thought it made him somehow sound cool and popular, but it really just made him sound like a giant dork. At least he finally stopped declaring everything “Saaaweeet”. That was just fucking embarrassing.
The bell rang and a second or two later their teacher hustled in, slightly out of breath, late as usual. Truth be told, Mrs. Sapphire was Jack’s favorite teacher. He loved how she was kind of flaky sometimes but really with-it other times. She always wore long, flowy dresses that made him think of the music Evelyn liked, the stuff from the Sixties. And she kind of reminded him of Evelyn because she talked to her students like they were equals – like she was one of them. He appreciated that. It bugged him when adults assumed being thirteen meant you were stupid and naïve. He had a feeling he knew more about the real world than most of the morons running the school.
“Today we’re going to start working in pairs,” Mrs. Sapphire announced from the front of the class. Steve nudged Jack’s arm and Jack nodded. Partners. Done. Simple.
“Boy-girl pairs,” she added and the class groaned. “Oh, it’ll be fun,” she chided, motioning for everyone to get up and move around, changing tables.
Standing up, Jack scanned the room, trying to figure out who he should try to team up with. He really hated working with other people, especially if it was something like art. Art was like music, it just sort of … well, appeared. Formed out of nothing. It wasn’t like that was something to collaborate on. But it might not be completely pointless. His gaze landed on Ashley Parker and he figured it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot.
Lately, he’d been noticing Ashley more and more often. There was just something about her. She smiled all the time. And tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder when she talked. And she was always talking. He had no idea about what, but other girls were always surrounding her, hanging on every word. And guys, too. Guys like … crap, he thought to himself as someone got to Ashley before he got the nerve to walk over to her. Chase Roberts. She looked up at the guy and smiled, her perfect teeth flashing white against her pink lip gloss. Of course she was smiling – Chase was the quarterback of the football team – sure it was middle school, but football was football – and he got straight A’s and probably cured cancer in his free time. The dude was perfect and there was no way Jack “First-Class Fuck-Up” Mercer could compete with that.
He dropped back down into his seat, rejected. He barely noticed when someone sat on the stool next to him until they tapped him on his arm. Glancing over, he was met with the partner he should have automatically assumed he’d wind up with in the first place.
“Hey, Kath,” he said halfheartedly. She gave a goofy little wave and smiled her metal smile at him.
“Partners?” she asked and he shrugged.
“Sure.” He forced a grin. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t Ashley.
Everyone settled into their new seats and Mrs. Sapphire went behind her desk and grabbed a large canvas she had propped against the wall. She held it up for everyone to see. At first glance, it looked like the worlds ugliest flower – like someone flung garbage at the canvas, trying to see what would stick. But Jack looked closer and realized it was actually layer upon layer of things – not just paint, but paper, beads, wires, all kinds of stuff – all stuck together to form the flower. It was pretty damn cool.
“We’re going work in mixed media. You can use whatever you want to create your painting.” She pointed to the tables lining the wall under the window. Beyond the usual painting supplies, she had boxes laid out that were overflowing with junk. “The catch is that you guys need to work together to make it a painting that is meaningful to both of you.”
Jack looked over at Steve. He looked miserable. He was stuck with Stephanie who talked a hundred miles an hour and drew unicorns and rainbows on everything. He could already see it – unicorns and rainbows meet Magic the Gathering and Pokemon. Yeah, that was going to be one wicked painting.
“Paint,” Kathy said, poking him in the arm with her pencil.
“Huh?”
She had her blank, pristine sketch book page out in front of her, probably ready to jot down notes and graph out the whole project. She tapped her chin with her pencil. “We should probably pick out paint first then go from there. Like, you get your favorite colors and I’ll get mine.”
“Sure, whatever.”

XxXxXxXxXx

“No,” Jack said, staring at the cup full of paint in her hand.
“But …” she started to protest and he shook his head.
“No way.” He took the paint and sat it carefully on the table, like it was a bomb ready to go off.
She put her hands on her hips and blew a puff of air through her pursed lips. He’d never seen her get angry before. “Collaboration means --”
Putting his hands up, he cut her off. “Don’t quote the dictionary at me. I know what friggin’ collaboration means. I’m not stupid.”
She paled a little at his comment. “I – I didn’t say you were stupid, Jack.”
“I know you didn’t say I was stupid.”
“No, you’re just stubborn,” she finished with a triumphant smile.
Sighing, he picked up the paint and glared at it. “Pink?”
“I didn’t complain that you chose black.”
“Black is awesome. Pink is …”
“What?”
“Pink.”
She had a couple of other things on the table and he made a move to grab them and see what else she’d gathered. Riffling through the boxes, he’d found sheet music, old magazines, copper wire, and broken glass. He’d already started to imagine the really cool guitar he could make out of the stuff. A really cool black guitar. His plan didn’t include anything pink or … “Is that glitter?” he asked, his mouth hanging open.
“Maybe,” she said as she took a step back.
“No fuckin’ way.”
“Jack,” Kathy whispered harshly. Mrs. Sapphire cleared her throat and Jack mumbled an apology.
“Fine, I’ll put the paint back.” She reached out to take the cup, only he wouldn’t let go.
“We’ll use the pink.”
“No, Jack, I’ll put it back.” She tugged on the cup, her pull surprisingly strong, only he was holding fast, too.
“Let go,” he said under his breath, not really wanting to cause a scene. Steve was looking at them, cracking up. Jack spared him a glance. Like, the guy had room to talk. His canvas already consisted of a bright yellow sun with a happy face and Stephanie was gluing purple feathers to something that could either be a pony or a really ugly dog.
Kathy narrowed her eyes at him, the light from the windows glinting off her glasses and he gave a final tug on the cup. Only problem was, she chose that exact moment to let go.
It wasn’t like his life passed before his eyes or anything dramatic like that. It wasn’t the most catastrophic thing that had ever happened to him. Well, at least it wasn’t until he slipped in the paint and fell on his ass in the little bit that hadn’t managed to find it’s way down the front of his shirt and all over his jeans. And when Kathy accidentally knocked over the jar of glitter onto him, at that point, it didn’t even matter. The fact that she somehow managed to get doused in the paint as well didn’t even provide a small measure of comfort. Nope, it was just the way his life worked.
Cup full of paint filled to the brim? Check. Brightest shade of pink you could possibly imagine? Check. Dumped down the front of him, ruining a favorite t-shirt and his best pair of sneakers? Check. Every eye in the class on him, including Ashley Parker’s? Check and double check.
Mrs. Sapphire walked over to them. Jack was still on the floor. He figured it was just safer to stay there. “Jack,” his teacher said steadily, though he could tell she was trying not to laugh. “Perhaps you and Kathy should go clean up at the sinks.” She nodded toward the back of the room where there were a couple of large sinks that they used to clean up their brushes and things at the end of class.
Skeptically, he glanced down at his once-white t-shirt. If you squinted, you could still make out Kurt Cobain, but just barely. Yeah, the sinks would help a whole hell of a lot.
“Sure. Whatever.” He hoisted himself up off the floor, waving off Kathy’s offer of help. God only knows what else she’d dump on him if she came closer.

XxXxXxXxXx

He left pink sneaker prints across the floor as he made his way to the back of the classroom. Kathy followed close behind, apologizing every two or three steps. He’d stopped telling her it was okay after the fifth “I’m sorry”.
The water was cold and came out of the faucet much faster than he expected it to. He jumped back a little, stepping on Kathy’s foot in the process. “Ow,” she said, hopping a little on one foot.
“Sorry,” he said halfheartedly, taking the bar of industrial strength soap and trying in vain to get the paint of his hands. It was everywhere.
Kathy reached over grabbed his arm, pushing his sleeve up. “Here, let me help,” she said, pulling his arm under the water, running the soap over it. He was so stunned for a moment that he totally forgot that he didn’t like people to touch him, especially not his arms. He always wore long sleeves – always. No one seemed to notice. Well, Evelyn noticed, but she knew the reason why.
Kathy’s hand stilled under the water and she was looking down, her eyes growing large behind her glasses. “Jack,” she whispered and he yanked his arm out of her grasp, pushing his sleeve back down, not even caring that he got it dripping wet. “Jack,” she repeated and he could see that look in her eyes that he hated – pity.
“Just leave it alone.” It came out more harshly than he intended and he heard her breath hitch in surprise. “Kathy, what I meant was …” he hesitated, not sure what to say. “Look, it’s nothing.”
She nodded mutely and he sighed, running his fingers through his hair. She looked like she was going to cry – over him and his stupid scars. It made him damn uncomfortable, more than any amount of glitter and paint ever could.
Growing tired of standing there in awkward silence and becoming acutely aware of just how much of a mess the two of them managed to make, Jack uttered a phrase that he never in a million years imagined himself saying. “Uh, Mrs. Sapphire, can me and Kathy go to the principal’s office?”

XxXxXxXxXx

The paper towels crinkled as he shifted in his seat. The secretary looked over at him, like she was ready to pounce if he leaned back and got paint on her precious chair. He’d laughed when she suggested to Principal Clark that they make him and Kathy sit on paper towels while they waited for someone to bring them a change of clothes. He should have realized she wasn’t joking.
Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Kathy looked equally as uncomfortable. She laced her fingers in her lap and gave a weary sigh. Every time Principal Clark came into the waiting room, he gave a little chuckle. Jack rolled his eyes at him and fought the urge to flip the guy the bird. They didn’t exactly have a warm relationship.
The intercom on the secretary’s desk chirped and she answered it, talking in hushed tones like she was protecting government secrets or something. She got up from her desk and headed for the closed door behind her, but not before shooting a warning glance at the two of them.
The door close behind her and Jack leaned forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the chair. “Man, I’m tempted to go sit in her chair and leave a big pink butt print on her seat.”
Kathy let out a startled yelp, and covered her mouth to hide her giggles. “Jack, you can’t do that.”
He shrugged.
She stopped laughing and the room got quiet again. “How did it happen, Jack?” she asked so softly that he thought he’d imagined it.
“What?”
She tilted her head and gave a small smile that looked a little sad. “You know.”
Hanging his head, he stared at the floor, his fingers digging into the seat cushion as the memories played out before him. Memories he dealt with every night. Memories with pain and blood and broken glass. Memories that eventually led him to Evelyn but made him walk through fire and hell first.
And then he thought of Kathy and her crooked glasses, her ridiculous dog and all the little things about her – her schedule that she had laminated, the books she always had with her at lunch, the fact that he knew she wrote poetry and kept it hidden in her notebook so that no one would see it and make fun of her. She didn’t want to hear about his life, what he went through. Stuff like that didn’t happen in worlds with white picket fences and perfect grades and braces and dogs with bows in their hair.
She was still looking at him – he could tell even though his gaze was still glued to the floor. Maybe he could admit it. No one at school knew, not even Steve. He liked that idea – clean slate. But sometimes he ached to talk about it, needed someone to know why he sometimes fell asleep in math class, and why he felt weird in the gym locker room, and why he sometimes spent more time in detention than he spent out of it. Sometimes he thought it would be good for someone besides Evelyn to know why he was such a screw-up.
“My foster father,” he said quietly, looking up and meeting her gaze. She didn’t say anything, simply reached over, placing her hand over his and giving it a gentle squeeze.

XxXxXxXxXx

Kathy’s mom was the first to arrive and she was nothing like Jack imagined her. Where her daughter was frizzy and frazzled and awkward, Mrs. Price was polished and put together. She scowled at Kathy as she walked through the door. She had a bag in her hand that she impatiently thrust at her daughter. Kathy took it and thanked her.
“We’re going to discuss this when you get home,” Mrs. Price assured her in a clipped tone. She gave him a dirty look and then was out the door so fast Jack was certain he’d imagined her.
“Um…” he started, but before he could finish, his worst nightmare stepped through the door.
“Ma called me,” Bobby said with a smirk as the door swung shut behind him. Jack sighed and slouched in his chair, hoping he could disappear.
“Man.” Bobby looked him up and down and Jack swore he could hear the wheels turning. “‘Jackie needs a change of clothes’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. Did a fucking fairy princess explode all over you?”
Glaring at his older brother, Jack held out his hand for the bag of clothes Bobby brought with him. “Here ya go, Jackiepoo. I tried to find the most embarrassing outfit you had, but it all looks like gay shit to me, so I gave up.”
Opening the bag, Jack pulled out jeans, old sneakers and … “Your hockey jersey?”
“Figured no one would give you shit for the rest of the day if you had that on.” No, Jack thought to himself, they’d give him shit for the rest of his life if he wore it.
“No way, man.”
“Fine. Have it your way. Splattered in paint. I don’t give a fuck either way.”
“Bobby Mercer,” Principal Clark called out from the doorway of his office. “I thought I heard your cheerful voice out here.”
“Principal Clark, long time no tire-slash. Did ya miss me?” Bobby grinned as he walked over and shook the man’s hand.
“Like the plague, Bobby, like the plague.”
Jack slouched down further in his chair. Great, just fucking great. It was going to be a long day.

XxXxXxXxXx

“We should have skipped that day,” Kathy said with a laugh, picking up her chai and blowing on it even though it had to have cooled off ages ago.
“Yeah,” Jack said, nodding his head. “We should’ve. Of course, I had that feeling every day at school. ‘Man, shoulda skipped today.’ You’d be surprised how often that thought won out.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Somehow I doubt I’d be that surprised.”
A couple of minutes passed and she tilted her head at him, an inquisitive look on her face. “Did it work?”
“Did what work?”
“Did the tattoo erase what happened?”
He swallowed heavily, a little taken aback by her bluntness. Most girls wouldn’t be so direct; but then again, it wasn’t like Kathy was ever like most girls. He thought about it for a moment – really thought about it. “Maybe,” he said. “I guess.”
“Scars fade?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, leaning forward in his seat, his gaze meeting hers. “Bitch of it is, there are always news ones to replace them.”


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