Mean Boy: Bad Boy Romance

by Amy Faye

  "Then listen to me when I talk, yeah?"

  "Sorry to have stepped on your toes, jeez. Ain't gotta make a big thing about it."

  Chris thought about that for a second. "Yeah. Sorry about that, you're right I guess. On edge."

  "So if you weren't, you know, then—"

  "I told you. Nothing. Watching the kid. Making sure he was being taken care of."

  Jim shrugged. "Yeah, I guess I get that."

  "I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to be doing for him. The teacher seems to be skiddish as hell about it. I guess, her age, no husband, no kids, she's got something going on there."

  "Well, hell. No husband, and now she's watching a kid?"

  "I don't know how else I ought to be dealing with it," Chris answered. "There ain't a place for him here."

  "You know Sarah could talk to you about it. I don't think she's got any clients."

  Chris's lips pinched together. "Yeah, I don't know. Why not. She's as much help as you are. You want to go fetch her, I'll keep watch. Ain't nobody coming in anyways."

  "Yeah."

  The big guy stood up and walked away. A minute later, a woman who looked better than many her age walks up. It sets Chris on edge whenever she's around, and she seems to know it. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that she liked it.

  "You called?"

  "Just here to chat, if you got some action goin' on…"

  "Don't worry about it, Chris, darling."

  Chris shut his eyes for a moment to gather his calm. "You know I hate it when you call me that."

  "I do it because you like it so much."

  "I don't like it."

  The smile on her face is lazy like afternoon sex. "Sure you don't. What did you want to talk about?"

  Jim leans back against the bar. "He's figuring maybe you have some advice about the Pearson boy."

  "Didn't they find his parents—"

  "Sure they did," Chris finished the thought before she could say it. "Which is part of the problem."

  "I don't know if I follow."

  "I owe them, from before I started staying upstairs, so I figure, the least I can do is make sure the kid gets into good hands."

  "The very least," Sarah responded. The look on her face is a surprising one, more negative than Chris had expected by a long way.

  "What crawled up your ass?"

  "You're just going to leave him, just like that?"

  "Who said anything about that?"

  The look on her face said that she still didn't like something about it.

  "I don't know your story, Chris Broadmoor, but I know the look of a man who lost folks. Maybe twelve, thirteen you can act tough and let it go. Kid that age, he needs parents. Both of 'em."

  Chris's shoulders rose up around his ears. "Yeah, I know."

  "So don't try to pawn this kid off on somebody."

  He looked down at the bar, took another drink of his water. She was right, he knew. As much as he wasn't the right person for the job, someone had to do it. And he had no right to walk away, right person or no.

  Seventeen

  Marie Bainbridge had nights, in school, when she'd had to stay up late under candlelight, reading. Nights where she'd spent her days working on sewing projects and found herself working with only an hour or so more to go.

  That hour would turn into two hours, and two hours would turn into three, and finally when she went to bed, she would have a couple of short, fitful hours of sleep before the household rose around her and insisted that no matter how much trouble she'd caused for herself, she couldn't just lay around through the whole morning.

  Last night was the first time that she'd been unable to get a single wink of sleep, and it was dragging on her now. A pitcher of hot tea was cooling on the table.

  She had the idea only a couple of days before, and it had taken all of this time for anything to come of it. Part of her thought that maybe it was unfair. Unfair to Chris, who even now sat on the roof of the schoolhouse, working on his repairs. Another day, perhaps two, he said. If they were lucky, that was. If they weren't lucky, it could be a week.

  The bar was no place for children, though. So she sat in Owen's restaurant at a table with a half-dozen children circled around her, and she moved on. They were learning the letter 'M' today.

  It was a good letter. Owen 'M,' for example. Mr. M, who owned the restaurant where they all sat. There was a great big 'M' on the sign outside to show them. 'M'arie, as well. There were a lot of good uses for the letter. The children paid rapt attention.

  There were more uses for 'M' than names, of course. Lots of good words, as well. Magic, for one. Mail. Music. Manage was a bit too complex for some of the younger ones. Others came to mind and were immediately stifled before she could embarrass herself.

  Marriage. Motherhood. Woman.

  She could feel her mind slipping from the teaching. She let her eyes drift around the circle of pupils. Her eyes rested on one longer than the others. The other student who had gotten just as little sleep as she had. Jamie rubbed his eyes in exhaustion, but to his credit he tried his best to pay attention.

  He looked better than she'd expected him to, now that he had other children around. Their energy was probably what was keeping him going. Having them around made it easier, she guessed, because unlike her, they weren't constantly worrying and fussing. They weren't there staring at him, like any second he was going to break out in tears and tell her all about how worried he was.

  It wasn't that he wasn't upset, because he was. But he hid it. he wanted to hide it, whether Chris was there or not. The nightmares told her all that she needed to know about how he was feeling, but if he wanted to talk about it, he made a very impressive show of pretending not to.

  But she knew. She knew, deep down. How was she supposed to laugh and joke and play around with a boy whose parents had just died? All she could think was what it would have been like, to be him. To have to accept something so horrible. Maybe it would have been a different story if they just hadn't come home.

  If it were her, she could have easily pretended that they were alive, that they were just taking their time. After a few months, after a few years, maybe something had happened. But of course, there was a good explanation. Eventually, they'd telegram to come along and join them and she'd be reunited.

  Jamie didn't have that luxury. He knew they were dead, and they weren't going to be coming back. Not ever. No telegrams, no hope that one day things would turn themselves around.

  If that were her, if those were her parents on the back of some stranger's horse… how was she supposed to joke and laugh and smile while such a sweet little boy was practically dying in front of her?

  It wasn't hard to notice that it was having an effect on him, though, too. Even only a short night, humorless as it had been, must have been hell. He looked like a shell of a boy until she'd managed to get the others gathered around.

  He was exhausted, anyone could see that, but there was something else, too, something that sleep couldn't replace. If she didn't know better, she'd call it a sense that, somehow, he could keep going. And there was no replacing that, no matter how hard she tried.

  The door behind her opened, the sound of footsteps on the floor drawing her attention. How long had she been sitting there, lost in her own head? She didn't know. The children were talking amongst themselves, the older ones who already pretty much knew the lesson making sure that the younger ones were making their letters correctly. Exactly the way that she would have liked.

  Marie turned. There he was, right by the door. The look on his face wasn't pleased, but he didn't look despondent, either.

  "Is something wrong?"

  He walked over slow. "Is now a bad time?"

  "Not particularly," she answered. She kept her voice low, to avoid letting the children hear. There was nothing wrong with them hearing, per se, but it was a private conversation between adults, and some part of her wanted to keep it that way. Because it was him.

&n
bsp; "I have to call it a day and get ready for work. If you want, you could move back into the schoolhouse tomorrow. There's work yet to be done, but you can't see the sky no more."

  "That's great news. I'll tell the kids right away."

  "Yeah, I'd thought you might feel that way. I'm glad to have been help."

  "Is there anything you wanted as payment? I don't have much money, but—"

  His jaw flexed and tightened. "No, thank you," he growled. But the way that his eyes darted down for a moment…

  Her cheeks flushed. "Well, thank you again. I'll see you tomorrow, maybe? Or this evening, perhaps we'll come in for supper again? You needn't pay for us, of course."

  "If you'd like," he said, his voice coming out strained and tight. "That would be just fine."

  Marie smiled. She shouldn't have, not with the way he was obviously thinking about her. It might come off as a sort of invitation. But she smiled nonetheless. She couldn't stop smiling, not even when he turned and headed out the door.

  Eighteen

  Chris took in a deep breath and looked out at the work he'd been doing. Only a little while left before work, and he was already tired from a day's labor. Unpaid labor, too, which he couldn't begin to explain.

  Upon a time, he'd never have done it. He was paid for his work, and if he wasn't being paid then there was no reason to be doing the job. That was a dangerous road to go down. Once you start thinking like that, then there's really no reason to spend any time on anything that you don't like doing, or work.

  The work you will do, well, it ain't framin' timbers. Because that takes a lot of time, and pays only moderate-well. No, if the only thing that matters is the money, then you do jobs that pay big and take no effort, and it doesn't take long before you start figuring that the only thing standing between you and a big pay-day is the law.

  That wasn't who he was any more. Certainly wasn't who he wanted to be. But he felt the disconnect in every part of his body, down to his bones. What had happened to him? Who even was he any more? The door behind him opened and he moved to step out of the way of whoever stepped through.

  There wasn't anyone there. Not immediately, anyways. Not obviously. Until he looked down. A little boy stepped through without saying anything.

  "Jamie. Hey, kid. Y'alright?"

  He shrugged.

  "What's the problem? Your friends not any fun?"

  "I'm fine," was his response. But Chris didn't particularly buy it. He knelt down and leaned in.

  "Come on. You wanna see what I've been workin' on? Maybe that'll cheer you up."

  His eyes light up halfway, like he's interested but none of it much matters to him any more. It's a feeling that Chris doesn't need to have explained to him.

  He took Jamie's hand gently and started walking. The boy followed without any hesitation. He seemed as interested as anything, but like doing the actual walking was just too much work. It made Chris's head hurt. There was too much going on that reminded him of things he'd hoped not to be reminded of.

  "You know," he said after a long time. "I know it's tough."

  "I'm fine," Jamie answered, like he was following a script.

  "Good. I'm glad you're fine, man, because when I lost my parents—I don't know, man. I about lost it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I was about your age, I guess. A little older, you're, what, ten now?"

  "Nine and a half."

  "Close, then. I was thirteen, and they went in the night. Got sick, and then it turned bad and fast."

  The boy was quiet as they walked through the middle of town.

  "Man, I was broke up about it for so long. I used to wake up and think, maybe today they'll, I dunno… wake up. Think better of it. I got sent off to live with…" Trying to explain any of it to a nine-and-a-half year old suddenly seemed impossible. "I got sent off to live with other kids whose parents had moved on, like. So you figure we all kinda had a thing in common, right?"

  Jamie nodded as they walked, not really answering. The way his body slumped as it walked, he didn't have the gumption, and Chris couldn't blame him.

  "No, that ain't how it went. Ten boys, three of 'em my very own brothers, and not a lick of sympathy in the bunch. Everyone wanted to pick a fight with everyone, like the winner got their parents back. My brother was older. Tried to keep me safe. I tell you, I can't stand being treated like that. Like he thought I couldn't take it." Chris stopped a minute and knelt down by Jamie.

  "So I won't do that to you, you got it? I know you're tough, and I know you can deal with whatever you got to deal with. You don't need my help, and I know it. But, if you ever want anything from me, I won't say no, and I won't laugh. There ain't nothing funny about it, aight?"

  Jamie nodded, but this time it wasn't going to be enough.

  "I need to know you understand, Jamie. Just tell me you'll call after me if you run into any trouble, and we'll be on the way."

  "I know it's fine. Miss Bainbridge told me she'd help if I had any trouble, too."

  Chris couldn't keep the smile off his face so he stood back up. Just across the street was the schoolhouse.

  "Sure, she did. She's good people. You might find, though, that there's gon' come a time when you have a problem you don't want to talk to a girl about. And when that time comes, you can come to me." Chris gestured up the ladder. "You go ahead, and I'll be right behind you. Take your time, yeah?"

  Jamie nodded tiredly, and then he mustered up his energy and set one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, and eased his way up. He was only nine and a half, sure. But he'd lived on a ranch his whole life, so it wasn't hard to imagine that he'd spent plenty of time on ladders. The comfortable way he went up like it was second nature was enough to tell Chris that he had.

  Once he'd followed the kid up, he walked over across the gently sloping roof to where the hole had been.

  "You ever seen a building going up, Jamie?"

  He shook his head.

  "They're a bit like you, in a way. You got bones, right? Hold you up, make you move around. And when they break, it hurts like hell, let me tell you."

  The boy nodded. "Yeah, I know, I think."

  "Well, buildings are the same way. They got bones—the rafters, you seen 'em, I know—and frames, and then everything around them, what you see, is like skin over that. But if the skeleton goes, the skin goes, and the skeleton right there"—He pointed at the patched-over spot—"had gone bad."

  "What happened to make it bad?"

  "Probably just age, or a little spot that didn't get tarred over, and that made for a leak. Then the timber gets water in it, and it starts to rot out."

  "Yeah," the boy said, like he knew what Chris was talking about.

  He took a step to look closer and all of a sudden a sick feeling ran through Chris's stomach. If he took one more step—

  His hand shot out and grabbed Jamie's wrist. The boy froze, and then real slow, turned. "What's wrong?"

  "Stop there," Chris said. He tried to keep his voice even and calm, even as his heart was thumping at a thousand miles an hour. "No further."

  "I know," he answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Or you'd fall through, right?"

  Chris let out a breath. "Yeah. Just be careful, alright?"

  What was it about this kid that had him so on-edge? He should have seen that the boy wasn't moving any further. But that hadn't stopped him panicking. And there was nothing that he could do to explain why he'd done it.

  Nineteen

  Marie rubbed her eyes and poured herself another cup of coffee. She was a tea drinker, usually. Coffee left her feeling on-edge, and she usually didn't like it.

  That said, if she was going to be up another late night, then certain sacrifices had to be made, and her preference for tea over coffee was the first to go. She looked out the window and fought the desire to lay her head down.

  If she went through the night, then it would be easier than if she let herself think that she might be able
to get a good night's sleep, and then couldn't. It was going to be hard, but she needed to be there when Jamie's nightmares started.

  Besides that, she'd brought with her a veritable treasure trove of books when she came out from New Orleans, and she had barely touched them since she got into town. So much had been going on, and she'd nearly forgotten about them.

  She opened the book to the ribbon bookmark. None of it seemed the least bit familiar. Naturally; she hadn't read the book in almost four months. With a gentle feeling of resignation, she turned back to the front of the book and started again. If she was lucky, she might be able to make a few chapters' headway before Jamie's nightmares overtook him.

  The sound of the clock in the front hall finally pulled Marie out of the trance of reading. It tolled out twelve times, in total, and then went silent. She looked down at the page. She'd passed where the marker had started some time ago, though she couldn't say if it had been minutes or an hour. Time had slipped completely from her mind.

  She turned around and stood up. Fatigue hit her suddenly and swiftly, as if she'd been avoiding it successfully up to that point by keeping busy. She dared to risk opening the door, and peering inside.

  The light from her lamp, no doubt running low on oil after the hours of reading she'd done, spilled into the room, just enough to see inside. Jamie lay there, as still as a stone. Her heart started to pound hard in her chest. Was something wrong? Was he still breathing?

  She stilled herself as much as possible, watching and waiting for some sign that would tell her. The more she remained still, the better she could see, the better she could make out the minute movements of a person in sleep.

  Curled softly around a pillow, she could see his back rise gently, just enough to allow the tiniest amount of air in, it seemed. Then, slowly and rhythmically, he let it out again. No sound penetrated the room, but he was fine.

  Her heart, though—it thumped in the teacher's ears, so deafeningly loud that if she hadn't known better, she would have thought it might wake the boy up from his slumber, like the story by Poe. The idea itself was nonsense. If anything, the thing to wake him would be the light from the candle.