Page 112 of Paint the Town, Dove
At that point I’d asked Ryden how his mother had developed such an intense attachment to this asshole who was a disgusting waste of space, straight-from-hell human being. I didn’t know how people could develop feelings tocretinslike that (I learned that word from Emory who learned that word from the fan-fic she read. It was a good word), and I was still confused.
But then again, I looked at my life, who Sinead and Flack were, why I’d still choose to go home even though I’d found shelter inRyden – not like Clara would care if I slept under his bed or not. But maybe he was right.
Maybe I was so used to my own suffering I couldn’t see it in anyone else.
I was wrong. But I couldn’t admit it. So I used anger as a weapon. And my knight was Ryden.
No one was touching him again.
***
Things were fine for a while.
Me, Emory and Ryden spent our summer bathing in sunlight by the manhole near the ice cream shop. I smoked weed for the first time, Ryden didn’t dare try it. Emory was the one who supplied it from her ‘contact.’
“Who is he?” I’d asked, spitting out the taste of skunk.
“Who?” She exhaled so beautifully, it looked like clouds and vapour dancing across her lips.
“Your contact,” I air quoted.
“Just some guy I’m seeing.”
“Give Scarlett the scoop or she’ll never stop asking,” Ryden said, strumming a tune on his guitar.
Emory shrugged. “It’s really not that serious, but he gives me free joints and I get to share the love with you guys!”
“I don’t much enjoy the weed,” I narrowed my eyes, battling theauraof the wind.
“The weed!” Emory and Ryden burst out laughing. “THE WEED!”
“I think I peed my pants,” Emory cackled, “oh, my gosh,I peed–the weed– I am such a songwriter,” she lookedat Ryden, “careful, I’m coming for your job.”
He held up his hands. “Why don’t we work on something together?”
“In her state?” I laid down on the grass, looking up at the sky. “You’d be better off asking a bowl of slime.”
“Hey!” She laid down beside me, head on my shoulder, as we listened to Ryden’s melody.
I’d heard the same song a million times, but he always stopped about halfway. Said he couldn’t finish it, didn’t know how.
I hoped with everything that one day, he would finish the song he’d been so desperate to write.
I hoped that one day, I’d be there to hear him perform it.
[She did.]
***
It was rounding the end of August and I wanted to go back-to-school shopping with Ryden since Emory was out of town with her foster parents and well… Sinead and Flack left me a half broken pencil and some duct tape.
“Not even an eraser?” I’d called into their bedroom, just to disrupt their sanctuary.
“Can it, Vi! I’m sleeping!” I think that was Flack talking, but some weeks I’d go days without hearing their voices. Sinead’s got hoarser, sounded a bit more like Flack by the minute.
“Enjoy your nap!” I called back, slamming the front door as loud as possible.
It was raining and I loved it. The birds hid in their little nests high up in the trees. I had this urge to sit in the wet grass and listen to them talking to each other.It would be way more fun with Ryden, though.
