Dedicated to Samsam_Maynard for winning the Beckett Award in the one-shot competition.

Chapter 22: Swinging with the Enemy

Since I cut Emma and Luke off, I realized that I really have no friends. Sure, there were those people that you talk to at school if no one else is around, like they're better-than-acquaintances-but-less-than-friends, but I had no one to actually hang out with. I still sat with the same people, aside from Luke, who sat with his other friends. Emma and I just didn't make eye contact; or rather I just avoided it. She made a few attempts to apologize, but I told her that I just needed time to think about it and let it sink in.

I spent my weekends and free nights (which was basically every night because I really had no life) either alone, texting Ian, or lounging around with my dad. Tonight, Ian said he was going "out," but I suspected that he was staying in because little Ian was getting lonely without some action. So I spent the night with Dad watching reruns of Full House.

"Uh...Charlotte?"

I looked up from watching the ceremony of Stephanie and Harry's wedding. "Yeah?"

He nodded towards the table where my feet were perched. "Either our coffee table is possessed or someone's trying to call or text you."

I laughed and glanced at my phone vibrating and shaking the table in tiny trembles. Flashing on the dimly lit screen (I liked to conserve my battery) was a picture of Tyler in poor quality. It was slightly blurry because his hand was moving in to cover his face. Getting that picture almost cost me my life. Apparently Tyler didn't like his picture taken. Ever.

"Aren't you going to answer that?"

"Uh...yeah." I picked up the phone and held it to my ear. "Hello?"

"Charlotte?" His voice was strained and slightly husky.

"Yeah, that's who you called."

"Can...I was wondering if you wanted to talk?"

"You...you want to talk?" I've never heard of a guy who just wanted to talk over the phone. It was usually them asking if I wanted to hang out and then we would. Texting, Facebooking, actually any kind of social interaction that involved typing was usual, too. But verbally over a device that wasn't webcam? Now that was nearly obsolete for people our age.

"I...sorry," he mumbled. "I knew this was a stupid idea. It's just that you said that I could call whenever I needed to talk—" He was babbling now, I could tell.

"Tyler, that offer still stands. What's wrong?"

"Well...it's just that...you know how I told you that my mom left me?"

I nodded, but then realized that he couldn't see me.

"Charlotte? Are you still there?"

"Oh, sorry! Yeah, you told me."

"She...she didn't leave us willingly," he said softly.

"Did your dad scare her off?" I returned in an equally soft voice. I felt like I was walking on eggshells.

"I guess you could say that."

"Tyler, why are you calling me instead of your mom? Don't you have her number?"

"No..."

"I bet we could get a hold of it. I'm sure she's in the phonebook—"

"Charlotte, they don't have a number for heaven!" he interrupted. His voice was quiet, yet powerful all at the same time. I wasn't sure if it was the tone he used to silent me or if it was the news he brought.

It took a moment for me to register that his mom wasn't here on Earth, but under it. But when it clicked, I opened my mouth to console him, but no words came out. It was like my lips were stuck in the position of an 'o' and the only sound that came out was inaudible. What was one to say when an unexpected bomb like that was dropped? I was never good in awkward/sad situations like this. I never know the right things to say or do.

So I finally settled on the generic, "I'm sorry."

And he said the usual, "It's not your fault."

I knew it wasn't, but I also knew he wanted someone to blame. But I suppose his father's at fault for that. So far, I was getting that Tyler's father wasn't exactly parent-of-the-year. He didn't seem like the dad who would take his kid out fishing or play catch. He didn't seem like the dad who would joke around with you or watch TV with you. In other words, he wasn't my dad.

But then again, my dad was one of a kind.

And then it dawned on me. "Tyler...your dad didn't, you know, kill her, did he?"

"No," he assured me quickly.

"Look, I'd rather not talk about this over the phone. It seems a bit insensitive to your mom. Do you want to meet somewhere?"

"I'm not sure if that's a good idea..."

"You need to let off steam, Tyler. You shouldn't keep all these emotions pent up."

"Yeah, but I'm afraid I'll take it out on you. And I'm not keen on getting arrested again. Especially for hitting a girl."

"You won't hurt me, Tyler," I said confidently. I don't think he had it in him to hit me. I just couldn't believe it. I knew inside that brittle exterior was a soft heart. Or maybe the big romanticist in me was coming out.

"Don't sound so sure about that," he laughed humorlessly. "You have too much faith in me."

"You just don't have enough faith in yourself."

There was another silence.

"Springfield Park in ten minutes?" he suggested.

"Sure."

The line went dead.

"Are you going out?" Dad asked, his eyes still trained on the screen.

"Do you mind?" I realized that I should've asked his permission before I made plans. I also should've gone to another room to talk about the death of Tyler's mom. Asking if his dad killed his mom might've raised some flags with my father, that is, if he was paying attention. I'm sure he did at first, but he was just like a squirrel or a dog—he had a short attention span.

"No! Not at all. You go out and have fun. Do you need any money?" He rushed out excitedly, only glancing at me quickly before looking at the TV again.

I narrowed my eyes. "You've never been this eager for me to go out... What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just think you need to get some fresh air."

"Dad..."

"Alright, you got me. I'm sick of you, kiddo. When's the last time you've had social interaction with someone your age?"
"Like five seconds ago."
"Charlotte."

"Fine, I'll go!"

"Whoa, hey. You're the one who wanted to go in the first place. Don't make going out seem like a chore. Which boy are you going to see?"

"Tyler."

"Is he the farmer one?"

"Uh, yeah. That's him."

You see, my dad wouldn't exactly approve of me hanging around a bad boy type figure, so I had to tell a little white lie about Tyler. He was the only one I really had to make up a story about. It wasn't really necessary for any of the other ones, except maybe for Ian. But the Jameson's were too well known, which would only lead to suspicion, causing my lie about Tyler to be exposed. He's already met Beckett, Alec, and Luke—but they had talents, at least, the first two did. I wonder how they had time to work on their hobbies and sleep with girls.

"Well have fun. Try not to get run over by a tractor." He winked.

"No promises..."

Nine and a half minutes later, I was pulling into the parking lot of Springfield Park. I saw Tyler's deathtrap sitting in one of the spots. I felt a little guilty to keep him waiting, but it's not like I could've driven any faster. I was already going ten over the speed limit. I'm surprised the cops didn't catch me.

Tyler was sitting at one of the old picnic tables that are too rickety to even seem safe to be near. You could see some nails sticking out the side and the wood was so deteriorated in some spots you could see through the other side. I'm pretty sure that there were blobs of old gum stuck on the underbelly of the table also. Piles of leaves were scattered every five feet or so, waiting for the leaves on the trees to join them, making the silence sort of eerie.

Tyler didn't look any different from his usual self, other than the fact that he was less groomed. His eyes were red and swollen. It was evident that he had been crying. I felt a pang of sadness for him. Unless you looked closely to his facial expressions, you would think that it was nonchalant, but I knew better. It wasn't his'screw the world' face, it was his 'hold me, I'm broken' one. I didn't see I much of the second one, but I knew it existed. I knew he was capable of being vulnerable. And I was touched that he showed me that side because I don't think he showed it to many people.

I sat next to him, smiling. "Hey, Tyler."

He did that half-smile thing, but I didn't quite reach his eyes. I didn't expect it to. "Hi."

"So how are you?" After saying that, I wanted to slap myself. I knew how he felt.

"Pretty crappy. You?"

I liked how honest he was. He said what was on his mind and he didn't care who got offended by it. He didn't say anything to just please people. I wish I could work like that, but my brain doesn't work that way. I'm a natural people pleaser—err—not literally of course.

I shrugged. "I've been better."

"Thanks for coming. You must think I'm some kind of bad luck magnet.

"It's got to go somewhere," I said, trying to make light of the conversation.

He scoffed. "You're welcome."

"You know my dad thinks you're a hick, right?"

He looked at me incredulously. "What? Why would you tell him that?"

I'm not sure if I should've given him the ego boost of me wanting to hang out with him. Sure, it would make his mood slightly better, but his head would swell to the size of Mt. Rushmore. "I thought it would be funny?"

"Geez, Char. Do I look like a redneck to you?"

"I never said you were redneck. I said you were a farmer."

"All the same to me," he muttered.

"Oh, don't be so whiny."

"As long as you're not a weenie."

"You're mature."

"Ah, so you finally noticed."

"Shut up, Tyler."

I don't know if I was doing a good job cheering him up because, well, quite frankly, if I was in his position, I wouldn't even let myself be cheered up. I'd feel obligated to be sad, you know?

The stillness was thick in the air. No words were exchanged. Springfield Park wasn't the most popular park in Addison, so there was no screaming in hearing distance. It was abandoned. We were the only ones here, giving the desolated place some company. I looked over at Tyler, his features illuminated by the moonlight.

"I was seven when she did it." His low voice was bursting with emotion. It made me want to cry.

"Did what?"

He ignored me and continued on with his story, like I hadn't interrupted. I think his mind was set in the past—eleven years ago. It was like his body was here, but he wasn't. There was a distanced look in his eyes. He needed to get it out, to talk about it with someone. And I could do that. I could listen to him.

"November 15, 2001. I had just gotten home from school. I was in first grade, back when everyone was actually excited to be there. Mom had made me get a haircut earlier that week; told me it was necessary. I was wearing a blue sweatshirt with a tiny, pencil-sized hole in the right pocket. As soon as I walked through the door, Mom had this weird expression on her face, almost surprised in a way. She immediately gave me a hug, the lingering scent of kitchen smoke in her clothes. It was longer than her usual ones. Then she tucked a ten-dollar bill in my pocket and told me that we needed bread and milk from the store. She said she was going to make French toast for dinner, my absolute favorite food at the time.

We usually get groceries at Mike's, the convenience store two blocks away from my house. I bought the groceries, but stopped on the way to pick up a penny. It was shiny, brand new. It was tails side up, and the kids at school told me that it was always bad luck, but even at that age I knew that we needed the money. I knew that I wasn't like all the other kids. I knew that I would have to work for what I wanted. I slid it into my left pocket.

I ran home, knowing that the sooner I got there, the sooner French toast could be in my mouth. I threw open the door rushing inside and screaming, 'Mama! They didn't have the dollar kind, but I got the next best! I think it'll still work...'

I heard a gasping noise coming from her bedroom. I ran in there, thinking there might've been a robber. I had my hands folded into fists, just in case I needed to protect her. I got there too late. She was standing on top of a folding chair with a piece of rope tied around her neck. She must've used the entire roll of duct tape to tape it to the ceiling. It held her though, too well, actually. She was a tiny woman, my mother.

The last thing she saw was me with my wide-eyed scared face. She mouthed the words 'I love you' before jumping. I heard the suffocation almost immediately. There was nothing I could do to stop her. I was only seven at the time, completely oblivious to what suicide was. It was scary. All I could see were the whites of her eyes and her face getting redder. She made a gasping sound, for air probably.

I ran over to her, every part of my body trembling in fear. 'Mommy,' I screamed. 'You have to make me French toast. Wake up.'

We learned about calling 911 earlier that day, so that's what I did. I dialed the number quickly, my fingers fumbling clumsily as I pressed the white buttons through the blurry tears. I told them what I knew and what my address was. The operator was a lady with a clear voice. She was trying to comfort and calm me down, but I was in hysterics.

I had always been somewhat of a depressing kid, so I knew that the chances of my mother being alive were slim. I went over to her, placing a kiss on her forehead and both of her cheeks. I held her petite hand, I found a piece of white paper not far to from where she had fallen. My mom had always wanted to be an author, but didn't have the ambition for it, but she did teach me how to read. I was always advanced for my age.

One said: Addison City Water Bill–five hundred dollars.

Another: Chase Credit Card—twelve thousand dollars and fifty three cents.

All the other ones were similar to those. At the time, I didn't know what they meant. But now, now I know. The stress of all the bills must've gotten to her. And my dad and his drug, alcohol, and gambling addictions certainly didn't help either.

I went to the kitchen to get a dishrag, as there was a puddle of liquid around her that needed to be cleaned up. She always liked a well-kept home. I noticed a plate of French toast sitting on the counter with an index card folded in half, written in her neatest handwriting: For Tyler, my baby.

I carried them with me to her room, grabbing a fork and a bottle of maple syrup on the way. I cleaned up the pee, washed my hands, and ate my food, waiting for the police to get here. I was hoping that they wouldn't contact my father about this. He would find some way to blame it all on me.

When they finally got here, I bet they found it weird that I was calmly eating my snack, looking at my mother like she was a cartoon on a television show. But the truth was, I ran out of tears. Maple syrup, French toast, and tears don't mix. I don't recommend it.

But in the end, there was a robber. It was her. She robbed me of having a mom to raise me."

The solemn expression, the horror, made my heart crumble into pieces. It was like someone had taken a mortar and pestle to my heart and forced me to watch as my family was being hurt. I had never experienced anything like this firsthand, and just hearing about it made it so much more real to me. Tyler had always had a rough life and I felt the need to make things better for him. He was so much more than a pretty face and a battled scarred, yet beautiful, body. He was a survivor, of a hard life. He was brave and strong and everything I could hope to be.

I didn't have the words to describe the emotions I was feeling right now. My eyes were threatening to go all Niagara Falls, so I did the only thing that felt right at that moment.

I hugged him tightly. I was pouring all of my love into him. It took a moment for him to hug me back, but he did. It wasn't one of those grope hugs, lover hugs, or even a friendship hug. It was needy hug, from one broken child to another.