The Breakfast Club - Monday Morning

Chapter 18

 "Where have you been?" Claire demanded the next day.

John huffed and shrugged while lighting a cigarette, leaning against the wall of the maintenance shed. His hands were busy with his cigarette and lighter, hands that were usually busy holding her.

He took a drag, eyes hidden behind his shades, so dark she couldn't see much of anything past them. "I was sick."

"Really?"

He scowled. "What, are you my mother now? Yes, I was sick."

She hesitated at the anger in his tone. "You could have called me." She struggled to keep her voice even, to not sound accusatory. "I was worried about you." She studied him more closely now, wishing he would take off the dark glasses so she could see his eyes. Hair was falling into his face too, but it didn't completely cover the dark purple peeking from under his left shade.

"Oh my God," Claire breathed as she reached out to pull off his glasses. Faster than she'd ever seen him move, his hand was around her wrist, pushing her away.

"Don't touch it," he growled.

"But your eye -."

"- is fine. Nothing is wrong with my eye."

"Did your dad -."

"Nothing's wrong, alright?" he burst out. "You don't always need to have your fucking hands on me."

For a few seconds, she was too shocked to move. She simply stood there, empty, her discarded hand hovering between them. But then her body had to breathe again, and forced her back into motion. Slowly, she pulled her hand back, pressing it safely into her chest. She knew she was gaping at him like he'd slapped her, but she couldn't stop, had to dig her fingernails painfully into her sternum to remind herself she was still here, this was really happening. He really just told her to keep his hands off of him.

He looked at her, and though it was hard to tell through the shades, she thought for a moment he looked sorry. Like he might say something to take back the words, or even reach out to her.

But he didn't. Instead he looked away and took a long drag from his cigarette. The silence stretched into awkwardness as she pressed her hands into her chest. As though she could keep her heart from shattering. Why was he acting like this? Was he pushing her away because he was embarrassed his dad hit him? But somehow she knew the black eye and his anger at her weren't related.

"Look, it's no big deal," he insisted out of the blue. As though her silence ate away at him more than her words. "Sometimes Pops sobers up on Sundays. And when he's sober, he remembers every little thing Mom and I did to piss him off during the week." He glanced at Claire, but she kept quiet, knowing he'd stop talking if she didn't. "I'm used to it, okay? I know what I need to do to play him, it was just bad luck this time that he managed to land a punch. At least it wasn't my mom."

He looked irritated when she visibly gasped and flinched, so she dropped her gaze to the ground. But it was too late. He was done talking. Getting intimate with his cigarette again. The distance between them seemed like a living, tangible thing now.

"Is your mom okay?" she asked, hoping to drag him back to her.

"Yes." Silence.

She nodded in relief, but he wasn't watching her. "Is that why you stayed home from school? Because of the black eye?"