Free Claire's Song by Ashley King Page B

tattoo and I know whose initials those are. Why did I have to say something about it though? To show her that I actually notice the little things?  At the time I was pissed off that Mrs. Weathersby led me away from Claire, but looking back at it now, I'm glad. I was getting mushy or whatever, telling her she's pretty and it was only bound to get crazier. When I turned back around, she was clutching that bloody tissue in her hands looking like her heart was breaking into a million pieces. Did I really matter to her? It's hard to believe that I matter to anyone.
                "How are you feeling?" Mrs. Weathersby asks as she kneels in front of me.
                "I've been worse. Where's Claire?" It comes out of my mouth without thinking.
                My teacher looks at me and smiles. "She's in class, Ryder. Where you should've been today. Now, Mr. Clark is coming in here and we've got to talk about these gashes."
                My hand presses to my face, my head. It's covered in the painful beginnings of crusty scars. Now that the buzz is gone I can feel the pull with each movement of my face.
                "Ow," I wince.
                "Ryder?" Mr. Clark walks into the room. He's dressed in khakis, a dress shirt and a tie. I don't want to talk to this guy with his nice haircut and his pretentious nasally voice. I look to Mrs. Weathersby. She gives me the slightest nod with a stern look. I'm starting to think she's the second person to see through the walls I've built up around myself.
                "Yeah?" I answer.
                "I'm Mr. Clark. We've never met," he extends a hand out to me. I stare at it for a minute, until Mrs. Weathersby clears her throat. I take the man's hand and shake it.
                Mrs. Weathersby starts talking, telling him about her visit, that Claire somehow followed her out there. I can't help but smile at that. Claire is a feisty little thing. Then the conversation gets real. She starts telling him about the ill repair of the trailer, how I was drunk and my mom home. It hurt to hear her describe my mom as a druggie, but I know it's true. It's just hard to imagine that she's the same woman who took me to get ice cream on Sundays. Dad really did a number on both of us, I guess.
                Mr. Clark nods and then we move into the discussion of my cuts. A social worker comes in, we re-hash the story. They take pictures of my face; the nurse comes in and examines me. She cleans up the cuts and it's seriously one of the worst pains you can ever face, salt in the wound and all that. Colorful words fly from my mouth, only to have the women cluck their tongues at me. The social worker, Mrs. James, takes all the adults outside and they have some kind of serious conversation, judging by their faces when they come back inside.
                "Do you have someone you can stay with tonight?" Mrs. James asks. She's an older woman, with graying hair and glasses. There's something grandmotherly about her and it's oddly comforting.
                I rub the back of my neck. "Not really," I scoff.  I haven’t had friends since ninth grade. Claire's the closest thing I've got and I go out of my way to screw that up, to push her away.
                Mrs. Weathersby's looking at me like she's going to cry. She looks at everyone in the room. "Well, he can't go back there," she snaps.
                "He won't. We'll find somewhere for him," Mrs. James assures her.
                "Actually, you know what," an idea strikes. "If someone will get my car for me, I know a place." More like my car. But they don't need to know that. I really don't want to get stuck in some sort of shelter or foster care over night or for however long this will take. The way everyone's looking I know it's going down and I know I won't be going back home. "And what about my stuff?" I ask. I'm