Keeping the Bad Boy

Chapter 8

I can barely keep my bike balanced on the way home. I wish Ryder were here for me to talk to, that would make it easier. Just to have someone to talk too would be cool. My step dad is useless and I wouldn't even tell my own mom about this. I haven't had a crush since I don't know when and I haven't even wanted one. I don't have time to care for anyone but Ryder and I.

When I was 13, Ryder started smoking pot. I just tried my best to function around it, I mean what else would I do? I was only 13. he was 17. He would turn his music up so loud and when my parents tried to talk to him, he would never answer. He would scream. A lot. Sometimes he would throw things. He punched me and broke my nose when I was 15. Then, when he was 21 and I was 17, he cut himself. He made a long gash on his right forearm that almost caused him to bleed to death. He said that the high was no longer enough. He wanted to vanish. To fly. I came home one day and it was quiet...too quiet. I tossed my stuff down and ran upstairs, calling his name. I threw open Ryder's door and there he lay on his bed in a puddle of blood, staring blank faced at the ceiling, his eyes closed and a content little smile covering his face. I shake him and shout his name. His eyes flutter but do not open. I try to move him, but he is too heavy. I scream and reach for Ryder's cell phone on his nightstand, beside the knife that our father gave him when he was 6-the one he cut himself with. When the paramedics arrive, they tell me that if they had arrived a mere five minutes later, Ryder would've died. Now, he is completely sober and is reminded everyday of that horrific moment due to the long, jagged scar running from his wrist to his elbow. The skin there is softer, lighter in color, and more raised up than the rest of his skin. He's more alert and jumpy due to his past. But then again, I don't have any room to talk. I flinch when touched by even the gentlest hand. I shrink away from hugs. We're all works in progress.

Anyway, when I get home, I park my bike and walk to the front door, fishing around in my pocket for my keys. The door swings open, revealing a tall slender man wearing a faded blue t-shirt and black jeans. His black hair is messy and his eyes are evidence of his sleepless nights. His eyes are darker than usual. They are normally a milk chocolate color, but now I can't tell where his pupils end and his irises begin. He steps out of the doorway and wraps his strong arms around me. He traces a star between my shoulder blades as our mother used to do and whispers in my ear, "Reach for the stars, and if you're too short, jump. If you miss...I'll be here to catch you. Always and forever." A tear comes to my eyes as the old saying plays through my head in my mother's voice. My embrace on Ryder tightens as I fight the tears. He only hugs me and tells me these things when he can sense that something is off. "Always and forever," I whisper back, my voice cracking. He pulls away from me and smiles. "What's up man?" I shrug, "I don't know, this chick at school just kinda..." "Just took your breath away?" he asks, his smile widening, his eyebrows rising. I sigh. "Yeah," I say, pushing past him, into the house, "I guess you could say that. She seems cool, but it seems that I hurt everyone I get close to besides you and I still hurt you when-" "That," he says, pointing his finger at me, "was not your fault for the last time. What's her name?" He follows me into the kitchen and opens the sleek, stainless steel refrigerator to retrieve an apple. "I don't remember. Actually, I don't think she ever even told me her name." Ryder nods and hops up to sit on the counter. "I see. Well, you need to get mystery girl's name." I watch him as he thoughtfully chews on the cold green apple. "Or, better yet, have an actual conversation with her. It'd do you good to talk to some other human beings every once in a while." When I roll my eyes he adds, "Hey, I'm not the one that told you not to trust other people!" "Nope, that was Dad," I say, looking at the floor. Ryder throws the apple and it hits me on the top of the head...really hard. I jerk my head up. "What?" I ask, a lot harsher than intended. My tone doesn't faze Ryder, he's used to it. "Dad was an asshole. Besides, when did you start taking his advice?" I shrug. "You don't seem to know much these days Sam. Just talk to her. Okay?" he says, sliding off the granite counter top. "Okay. Why are you here anyway? Not that I don't enjoy your company but fall break isn't for, like, what, a month?" He nods and smiles, "Yep. But, my friend, our authority figures thought it would be a good idea for me to pay you a visit while you're going through these 'hard times.'" He put little air quotes around "hard times" with his fingers. "And by hard times, I'm guessing they mean the fact that you got held back...again. They told me to come and help you find some friends, but it seems like you're easing yourself out of the loner bubble all by yourself," he said, walking into the living room, gesturing for me to follow. "How come they never did anything like this to you? You were a loner too," I say as he flops gracefully into the leather recliner and turns on the TV. "I still am a loner. And don't really know buddy. They figured I could help myself I guess." "You helped yourself right into the ICU," I reply, sitting down on the couch. "They didn't want to make that mistake again, I guess." Over the past year, I've realized that no matter how much I bring up his trip to the ICU, the huge scar on his arm, or our past with our real parents, he has never told me to stop talking about any of it. I once asked why he had never told me to just shut up and he said that our past is what makes us who we are and he isn't ashamed of who he is. He said, if anything, he is proud of who he is today and that he understands in order to be where he is today, he had to some pretty bad things. I stare blankly at the TV screen, drowning in my own thoughts. Suddenly, Ryder is at my side, snapping his fingers in my face. I blink and turn my head to look at him. "I don't know about you sometimes, man. You're here one second and gone the next," he says softly and runs a hand through his dark hair that we share. He sighs and squeezes the bridge of his nose directly between his closed eyes. "Sam, you need to talk to me, man. You keep everything inside yourself. I can't be here all the time Sam. You need to find somebody you can trust and confide in them too. Not just me, okay?" When I don't respond, he claps. He has this huge, booming clap that overpowers all. I don't know how he does it. "Hey!" he shouts, his face suddenly very stern. "Samuel, I swear-" "Ryder don't-" "Sorry, I know you don't like it when I call you that, but...I'm just frustrated Sam." Only my mother had called me Samuel. She said she had named me Samuel and not Sam so, therefore, she would call me Samuel. Ryder used to call me Samuel until she died, then he quit. "Frustrated with what exactly? You know, you're not exactly an open book either Ryder," I say, folding my hands in my lap. Ryder makes a low sound in his throat and leans back. "Sam, it just bothers me that I don't know how to help you anymore. You were so simple when you were younger and now, I just don't know," he said, looking at me from the corner of his eye. I stand and walk to the base of the stairs, "Ryder, did you ever think that maybe I don't want help?"