10
This Isn’t About Me
~Claire~
Another month passes by with the same routine, only broken up by dates with Noah. It seems that we are together every moment that we aren’t occupied by school, band practice, or my lessons with Signora Gelardi, who has been even more abrupt with me and tries to extend my hours with her.
Thanksgiving weekend is the longest timespan I spend away from Noah, and I am miserable. Dad and I were invited upstate to a senator’s home. Mayor Couer and his family were invited also. This gives me an opportunity to talk to Troy, something neither Dad nor Noah can prevent. I need to help Chelsea.
I am over the rape thing. Well, not over it. But now that I know what Chelsea is going through and what must be going through Troy’s mind, I want to be supportive to my one-time friend. I need to know what he thinks about the situation, if his parents know, if he plans to do anything. I need to know that I at least tried to convince Troy to do the right thing.
Maybe I’m a sucker, but Chelsea’s declaration of no one wanting her really got to me. I know what that feels like—my own mother didn’t even want me. Therefore, I need to make this okay for her. I need Troy to be at her side, for her and their baby. I need to give Chelsea a reason to want her baby and find happiness with her new direction in life.
Once dinner is finished and the guests depart the formal dining room to gather in the formal living room, I pull Troy away, and we head toward the back of the house where I know from being here before that there is another less formal living room.
I sit on one of the worn-in chairs, and Troy plops down on the couch. Nervous to have this conversation with him, nervous to be alone with him, even when my father is only a few rooms away, I unconsciously start playing with the edge of my dress, raveling the edge around my fingers one by one. My hands can never stop moving when I’m anxious. I wonder if this is a trait I get from my mother.
“How have you been?” Troy breaks the uncomfortable silence.
I glance up at him before looking back down at my hand’s activities. I can’t look at him while we have this conversation. “Fine. Good.” A smile involuntarily springs up at thinking about Noah. “Better than ever,” I sigh out.
Troy nods out of my periphery. “I’m glad.” He doesn’t sound glad.
I glance at him again, and he catches my eye.
“Really, I am.” He reclines back, his large body sinking into the cushions, his eyes never leaving mine. “I really am sorry … for pushing you. I was a mess that day. And—”
“Please stop,” I beg. “I don’t want to talk about that.” My hands have frozen in their twining. I make a conscious effort to remain still and calm, although my heart is racing. “Troy, I want to talk about Chelsea, not us.”
“Why do you care about her?” He looks at me incredulously.
“Because I know.” I see the shock on his face before he hides it behind a scowl. He looks toward the doorway as I continue. “I know she’s pregnant. And that it’s yours. Well, I guess it could be someone else’s, but she’s claiming it’s yours.”
Troy is still looking at the doorway. I see him swallow hard. Then he whispers, “Why would she tell you that?”
I laugh, but it’s not a humorous one. “It’s not like she came over and informed me. I caught her throwing up in the bathroom. She wasn’t happy at being seen like that, especially by me. She went ballistic on me, spewing all the hate she feels toward me. And she told me what was going on. How she told you, and all you did was walk away. That’s not fair to her, Troy.” He’s now looking at me, and I stare into his eyes as I tell him, “She’s scared. Angry. She needs help. If there is a chance you are the … father, then you need to help her, be there for her. I know what it’s like not to be wanted. Don’t do that to her, to the baby. She needs support from wherever she can get it.”
“Will you forgive me if I help her?”
I stand up in indignation. “For God’s sake, Troy, this isn’t about me!” I’m trying to keep my voice down. “You messed up. You both have. Take responsibility for your actions. Talk to her. Can you imagine how scared she is right now? She’s seventeen and pregnant. Is she going to keep the baby? What if she aborts; do you think she wants that on her conscience? Do you want that on yours? How are her parents going to feel about this? And all the gossip that’s going to occur at school; can you imagine the field day this is going to be? Chelsea thrives on popularity; how is this going to affect that for her?”
“Why are you so worried about her? I am—was—your best friend. How do you think my parents are going to respond? My dad is the goddamn mayor, and his son knocked up a girl. I’ve already been in a shitload of trouble. My dad has been taking me to recruiters to ship my ass away from here.” He nods his head when he sees the shock on my face. “Yeah, consider me gone the minute that diploma touches my hand. Marine Corp, babe. I’ll be gone for months to MCRD then to MCT. So, yeah …”
He sits up again and runs his hands over his face, continuing, “I don’t know what to do for Chelsea. I mean, you know how she is. And then we were sleeping together behind Nikki’s back. Nikki’s a nice girl, but not the forever kind. Neither is Chelsea, for that matter. We were having fun, trying to see how long we could go before Nikki caught us. I can’t be stuck with a person like that. If I help Chelsea, then I’m practically claiming the kid is mine. What if it’s not?”
“Then you get a paternity test once the baby is born,” I counter. “It’s not rocket science, Troy.”
“Claire, are you in here?” My dad steps through the doorway and freezes when he sees me with Troy. “What are you guys doing in here? Claire, you okay?”
“Yeah, Dad. Just talking,” I answer with a warm smile as Mayor Couer and his wife follow in behind my dad.
Mrs. Couer starts gushing that we must be friends again. It’s understandable to everyone that she’s had a bit to drink.
“Come on, Claire. Senator McFee is asking if you would sing for us tonight.” This is Dad trying to keep up appearances in front of others while getting me away from Troy.
I nod and stand up. Troy stands up, too, and when we walk around the couch to join our parents, I tell him, “Please, do the right thing. Talk to her.”
He meets my eyes for a second before looking away, a tick working in his jaw.
~Noah~
“Oh. My. God. Noah, you are killing me with this teenage angst shit you got going on. It’s been three days. Just three days. Get over it already. God, you’re like this sappy, in love, little—”
An empty can of some motor fluid hits Kyle upside the head.
“Shut up.” I tune a string on my guitar and start off where I left off, working on the duet for Claire.
Yeah, it has been three days since I last saw Claire, knowing she was off to spend Thanksgiving weekend at some senator’s house … with Troy. Of course I know her dad will never leave her alone with him, but still. What if Troy sneaks into her bedroom? What if he comes up with some elaborate ruse to drive away with her? What if he touches her again? Finishes what he started?
I know she’s concerned over the Chelsea being pregnant thing. Why? I have no clue. The girl hates her. But that’s Claire, always thinking about others. Damn, I don’t deserve her. Regardless, Claire already told me that she plans to talk to Troy. I argued that it isn’t any of her business—really, I didn’t want her anywhere near him and will say anything to get my way—which led to our first serious argument. And that was right before she left. So now I’m freaking out because I haven’t heard from her since. No phone calls. No texts. Nothing.
What if she breaks up with me, and all for a stupid argument that has nothing to do with us? My chest hurts just thinking about it, and I can’t help rubbing the spot now, losing where I am in the song. Claire has become my whole world in the month and a half we have been together. Jesus, has it only been that long? This is unhealthy.
My phone rings, and I hurriedly pull it from my pocket, hoping it’s finally Claire. No such luck.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Noah,” my mother greets in her monotone voice.
“Yeah, you missed that, Mom. It was yesterday.”
“Yesterday, I was in conferences all day, so I’m telling you now.”
I ignore her excuses. “Where’s Dad?”
“Probably buried in five-foot stacks of books. He says to tell you Happy Thanksgiving. He’s always busy. You know how he is. But he did say that he is going to try to visit for Christmas. You know I don’t celebrate, so I’m going to stick around here. There is this—”
“I gotta go, Mom. Thanks for calling.” I hang up before she can get another word in. I hate listening to her go on and on about her research when she doesn’t listen to one damn thing that goes on in my life. I would love to ask her about her work, but only if she took the time to ask me about my life.
I strum the guitar as I think more on my parents. Dinners at our house are the two of them talking about work and me remaining silent. It’s like I don’t even exist for them. Dad has never taken me camping or fishing or hunting—not unless it was for pure survival, which the guides did most of the work—or sports events. He takes me to libraries. My earliest memories are of sitting in a stuffy, old library, playing under the table, using books as blocks, stacking them up to build my own world. When I got older—I’m talking eight to nine years old—Dad would have me read out loud while he worked: Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Greek, Greek, Greek. Mom was never around; only home for dinner before she would lock herself away in her home office.
I know my parents love each other. They have camaraderie, a kinship in shared interests, thoughts, and theories. I think they are more friends than anything else. I’m not sure. I see my parents kiss each other on the cheek, sit close together, but never more than that. Mostly they talk and talk and talk.
And people wonder why I don’t follow in their footsteps.
I block out thoughts of my parents and start humming the tune to the song, trying to find something that matches the chords. Kyle is working on the drums, following my lead without me even realizing it. I have been so lost in my own thoughts that I forgot he was here.
Cyn is staying with her family this weekend. We have no gig until next week, so she’s taking some time away, which works for me because I really need to get some new songs written.
My phone rings again, and I look down from the weight bench I’m straddling to see that it’s Claire. Finally.
“Claire.” Her name comes out with the relief I feel.
She is quiet for a minute before she says, “I’m sorry … for the fight.”
I glance up at Kyle who is watching me too avidly. I mumble for Claire to hold on then go outside, closing the door securely so Kyle can’t eavesdrop. Then I make my way over to Abby’s play set and settle on a swing as I tell her, “It wasn’t a fight. Just a disagreement. It happens.” I downplay the whole thing. I don’t want her to know how freaked out I have been over this. “How has your weekend been?”
“Miserable. Dad’s been watching me like a hawk; the wives have been drunk or dragging me along for Black Friday shopping; the men boast about their achievements; and I’ve spent most of my time listening to the senator’s fifteen-year-old daughter go on about her friends, her boyfriend, makeup, clothes—you name it. She never stops talking.” Claire giggles, and it brings a smile to my face. “What have you been doing?”
“Missing you,” I admit, rocking to-and-fro on the swing. “Katy made her mac and cheese again as a side for Thanksgiving.” I hear her hum her approval and promise her, “I made sure she saved some for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Besides that, I’ve been playing with my guitar, and not getting any rest from Kyle. Oh, and Abby drew my portrait last night. Do I really have one ear bigger than the other?” This gets more than a giggle from Claire.
“No, I think your ears are proportional.”
“I thought so, too, but Abby insists one is twice the size as the other.” My face hurts from the grin I’m wearing.
We go on to talk about other things, most importantly that she will be back tomorrow. We make plans to hang out at her house. One thing we don’t mention is Troy. I don’t think either one of us wants to take the chance of getting into another argument about him. Though it is killing me not to ask how she is handling spending the weekend with him.
After we say goodnight, I head into the house.
“Want some?” my uncle Mark asks when I walk in through the kitchen door. He is making himself a turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce on top.
“Sure,” I say, making my way over. I’m an eighteen-year-old male; we can always eat.
We prepare our snacks without talking, something we both have in common. Abby is singing along to some cartoon in the background. Katy is taking a nap. This whole weekend has been quiet. It’s nice.
“Did your dad call?” Uncle Mark asks as he starts putting the cold items back in the fridge.
“No, Mom.”
Mark grimaces. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.” And just like that, conversation is over. We sit down at the table, eat our sandwiches, and then we clean up.
In my bedroom, I lie out on my bed and pull out the notebook I keep all my lyrics in, staring up at the ceiling while I try to think of the words I want to use for the duet.
I want the song to tell Claire how I feel, to express what she means to me. However, I can’t find the words. I know what I want her to say and feel, but that’s presumptuous, isn’t it? Why is this so hard? Why am I second-guessing myself?
I turn the page of the unfinished song to the next clean sheet of paper. I need to write a song about something that’s not us. Maybe I will take a page out of her book and write about some movie or TV show we watched together. No, that’s so immature.
Then I have it.
The conversation we had about music, about singing to a crowd. I know how we both feel about it, and I can make it a duet where we are arguing the points of our discussion.
With that decided, my thoughts start to flow on the paper, adrenaline pumping at the idea. I overlap the chorus so that we are both singing, but not the same thing, only keywords being sung together. Now I have no more trepidation over sharing this with Claire.
I finish the song’s lyrics in about twenty minutes then go on to the next page. The song opens a floodgate in my mind, and now I have all these other ideas in my head.
I end up writing until I fall asleep, sometime in the early morning hours.