Someone Else's Fairytale

Twelve: Chris

It took me a moment to process what Beth had just said. Chris was paroled? He was out of jail? A shiver went through me. Calm, I told myself. Who cares? It's not like he's going to bother you now.

“Okay. Thanks. For telling me.”

More fidgeting. Beth ran her fingers through her hair and flipped it back from her face. “Lillian told me someone vandalized your house and your car.”

“Lillian?”

“Vanderholt.”

“You talk to her?”

“She called to say she'd seen you.”

“She did?” Why? That wasn't a good idea.

“You know how to get a restraining order?”

“Against Jason's fans?”

“I don't know that it was Jason's fans. Chris has been cruising your mother's house. Maybe he found yours. He still blames you, you know, for ruining his life. Dad's got him at his house right now. I talked him into taking away the car, but I don't know how strict Dad is about that.”

My head spun as I processed this. He'd hit my mother's house? I'd assumed her broken windows had to do with her e-Harmony habit, or the fact that she lived in not the greatest neighborhood.

But Beth saw the stricken look on my face and picked up her purse. “I can't help you any more with this, okay? Don't tell anyone I came here. Please. My family's been through enough...” She gave me another nervous glance. “I know that sounds selfish.”

“I won't tell.”

“I'd better go.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and clip-clopped her way out of the restaurant without a backwards glance.

Those were more words than I'd ever exchanged with her in my entire life.

***

The next day was the beginning of Labor Day Weekend, which meant the District Court was closed. According to their website, that was where I ought to go to pick up information on how to file a restraining order.

Skype rang while I surfed. I right clicked the icon and shut it off. Then I went into the program's settings, and switched it so that it wouldn't be on every time I booted up my computer. I needed to not give Jason so much attention. As nice as he was, he wasn't that good of a friend.

***

First thing Tuesday morning, I was at the District Court, with its arching, blue roof high overhead. The day was overcast, so the broad expanse of concrete in front of the doors wasn't quite frying pan hot. As soon as I stepped in the glass doors, I had to go through security, just like I was getting on an airplane. I put my purse on the conveyor and took off my shoes. I still set off the alarm so I had to take off my belt and my earrings too. That thing was sensitive.

It took me five minutes to dress myself again on the other side. “Where do I go to find out about restraining orders?” I asked the uniformed guard.

“How to file one?”

“Yeah.”

“I think you talk to the clerk.” He pointed across the rotunda to a low doorway.

“Thanks,” I said. The front lobby of the court had a ceiling clear up at the top of the building, which drew the eye up and up. Curved staircases invited people to climb them towards whatever lofty things happened in the chambers there.

The way to the clerk's office felt like going down a little rabbit burrow. I joined a line of people wearing polo shirts with law firm logos on the breast and waited for a clerk. They were all behind glass windows, like bank tellers. When I finally got one, I told him what I wanted. He scratched his nose, handed me a stapled packet, and said, “You need anything else?”