Catching Ryan

Ryan Jeffries stared blankly at the clock on the wall above the desk in front of him, his fingers absently twirling a pen in between them. Guarded brown eyes watched as the second hand reached the twelve and started ticking its way back around the clock. Another minute past; another minute spent wasting his time. Across from him, the reception desk to Lamano High School sat, strewn with papers and pens—most likely slews of cell phone referrals. Sitting at her computer behind the desk, typing away and waiting for the dismissal bell to ring so she could go home to her hoard of drooling toddlers, sat Ashley Greene. Mrs. Greene had been the office secretary for Lamano since she’d graduated from it thirty-five years ago. Rumors speculated that she’d been planning on going to college to become some big, corporate businesswoman but had gotten knocked up by her high school boyfriend and been tied forever to Lame-o Lamano, as the town was nicknamed.

Beside her computer sat a single plastic drawer. A piece of masking tape proclaimed it the confiscated cell phone box. It was so full Ryan doubted they could open it, but that was no surprise. Ninety-five percent of the kids in this school didn’t give a damn if they were breaking school policy by spending half a class period texting back and forth about who the school’s latest slut was, or which kids were the targets of the week for the bunch of inconsiderate, self-centered sycophants who called themselves a football team. They didn’t care if they lost their phone for a day, because when they lost the electronic, they’d just start passing notes like they were still in middle school. It was pathetic to Ryan how dedicated they all were to passing around nasty rumors about classmates who were just like them. In Lamano, you could be the “It” Girl one moment, and public enemy number one the next. All you had to make was a single mistake. One strike, and you were out. You didn’t get another chance.

“Ryan,” said the gruff, irritated, smoke-damaged voice of Principal Felton. Ryan lazily turned his head to face the man, a bored expression dominating his features. Felton glared at him, hooking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate him to come inside his office.

“Get in here, Jeffries,” he snapped.

Rolling his eyes, Ryan stood, shouldered his school bag, and ambled past him into the office. John Felton was a bitter man. Like Mrs. Greene, he’d been working for the school since he graduated from it years ago. It wasn’t uncommon for people who graduated from Lamano to remain working there years and years later. Very few people who lived in Lamano ever left, and those who did were the best of them. Lamano was a town of dead-beats and drug addicts; lazy, welfare freeloaders who were going nowhere fast. Felton and Greene were only two examples, Ryan’s father another. Donovan Jeffries was already seated in one of the cheap, uncomfortable plastic chairs in front of Felton’s desk. Ryan took a seat beside him, dropping his bag on the floor and slouching down with an animated sigh. His father didn’t bother to look at him, sitting up to look at Felton.

“Can we hurry this up? I’ve got work to do.” Donovan’s voice sounded as bored and irritated as his son looked. Ryan wanted to snort at his words. Yeah, right. That man’s idea of work was liquoring up, picking up a prostitute off the corner downtown, and spending the day proving he was exactly the man Ryan’s mother said he was before she packed her shit and got the hell out of dodge. Ryan may have only been six years old at the time, but he’d been old enough to wish his mother had taken him with her when she went.

“Mr. Jeffries, you should take this much more seriously. This is the fourth fight he’s been in since he started at this school and it’s only been two months! I have reason to believe it’s something at home causing this reckless behavior. Perhaps if you paid your son more attention, Mr. Jeffries, he wouldn’t be coming to school looking to pound on any kid who looks at him the wrong way,” Felton replied.

Something in the older man’s voice must have rubbed Donovan the wrong way, and the man sat straighter in his chair, his muscles tensing with his anger. Ryan flinched away unconsciously, the reminder of his father’s volatile temper causing a bad reaction. Felton didn’t miss the movement, and Ryan grit his teeth at the flash of pity that went through his wide blue eyes. He didn’t want pity, especially not from John Felton.

“Don’t you dare tell me how to raise my son, John. I raised him to fight his own battles, so I don’t see an issue with a couple of fist fights. Tell me what his punishment is and stop wasting my time,” Donovan snapped. The venom in his voice made Ryan flinch once more, memories flashing behind his eyes before he cut them off and buried them. He focused his gaze on a picture of Felton and his son, Max. Max Felton had been one of the few people to leave Lamano after graduation. He’d never come back. Ryan guessed he’d settled some place far, far away, built a family, and tried to forget ever living here. He wished he could do the same.

“Calm your temper, Donovan,” Felton snapped back, his eyes like steel as they met Donovan’s hateful glare. The fifty-something man’s eyes softened slightly when they met Ryan’s, but he was clearly still angry. Ryan had just beaten the captain of the lacrosse team to a pulp for a harassing a freshman.

“Ryan, you’re suspended for a week. I don’t want to see you set foot on this property until next Monday morning. Are we clear?” he growled. Ryan gave him a stiff nod in reply. Felton sighed, and then jerked his chin at the door. “Go.”

Almost instantaneously, his father stood up from his chair and stomped from the room. A student entering the office gave the man a wide birth, easily sensing the anger in his demeanor and wishing to avoid it. Ryan stood much slower, knowing his father didn’t give two shits what he spent his time doing so long as it didn’t affect him. He wasn’t in any hurry to leave, so he took his time picking up his bag and heading for the door. Just as he reached it and was about to step out, Felton spoke up.

“You’ve got to stop this, Ryan. Getting into fights and making bad decisions isn’t going to help you. Maybe if you told someone what’s really going on with you, things would get better,” he said. His voice was soft, coaxing. Ryan recognized the tone. It was the same one his probation officer had used to try and get him to open up about his home life. It hadn’t worked for him, and it wouldn’t work for Felton. Ryan had no interest in pushing his problems on anyone else. They were his problems. He’d handle them himself, like he always did.

Ryan didn’t turn around to look at his principal when he spoke. “There’s nothing going on, Felton,” he said. “My life is none of your business.”

He didn’t give the man a chance to reply before he walked out the door, ignoring Mrs. Greene’s saddened eyes following him as he stalked out the school’s front doors and into the parking lot. It was late September, so the air was just about perfect. Not too cold, not too warm—it was Ryan’s favorite weather, the medium between the heat of summer and the chill of fall. He slowed down once his feet were planted on the asphalt of the student parking lot, letting some of the tension flow from his body. His broad shoulders drooped slightly, and he ran a stressed hand through his mess of tousled, golden brown hair. There weren’t many cars in the student lot, and what cars there were all looked ready to fall apart. Lamano was a very poor town, so not many families could afford them. The kids that did have them either got them from a family member, or got a job and worked nonstop until they could afford it. Most of the kids carpooled with those who had cars, and the rest got to school in various different ways. Some walked, some biked, and others rode the bus. They didn’t really have far to go, as the entire town was built around the high school.

Ryan took a moment to let the sunlight warm his skin before he slipped his shades over his eyes, and crossed the lot to his car. He was one of the kids who’d worked for the car he had. He’d gotten a job the day he was able, and had been working for Daryl Martins down at the local auto-body shop ever since. The man had hired him despite the fact that Ryan hadn’t known the first thing about fixing a car, and taught him everything he knew. Now Ryan could remove, dismantle, fix, reassemble, and reinstall a motor in under four hours. Daryl paid him as much as he could, and had been more of a father to him than Donovan Jeffries had ever been and would ever be.

Ryan’s car was one he’d bought as a piece of run-down scrap metal from Old Man Kent out on his dairy farm south of town. It had been his car for nearly fifty years before he lost his sight in his right eye and was left unable to drive her. He’d been hesitant to sell it because it was his first and only car, but when Ryan promised to bring her around to see him, he’d relented and sold it to him for a little over eight hundred bucks. The car hadn’t been worth more than three hundred in the state it was in then, but Ryan had known the old man needed the money. He couldn’t get around like he used to, which left him unable to care for his farm as tenaciously as before, and that meant money was scarce for him. So Ryan had paid nearly three times what it was worth, and then spent another two thousand fixing it up and getting it running. It didn’t bother him, however, and he drove regularly out to the old man’s farm to visit him and let him see his car—with his good eye, at least.

It was an old muscle car, a 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 429. When Ryan had bought it, it hadn’t run, was missing several parts, had a grimy red paintjob, a rusted frame, and a broken heater and stereo system. After Ryan was done with it, it had purred like a kitten, had a strong, unblemished frame, all its parts, a sleek, black and white paintjob, and all working systems. He’d even added in a phone jack, so he could blast his music without damaging the radio. To most people today, it was still a hunk of junk and completely old news, but to Ryan, it was the first thing he’d had in a long time that he was proud of. The work on it was the first thing he’d done since his childhood that he’d done just for himself. It was his most prized possession.

Arriving next to it, Ryan pulled his keys out of his back pocket and slid them into the lock, turning until he heard the latch click and then sliding his fingers beneath the handle and opening the door. He leaned inside, tossing his backpack into the passenger seat before plopping himself down in the driver’s seat. Grabbing the door handle, he pulled it shut with a bang, slipped the key in the ignition, and started the vehicle. He grinned when the car rumbled to life, enjoying the smooth purr of engine as he put it in drive, and left the school in his rear-view mirror.