Chapter Text
It was the first warm day of spring and half of Cory’s neighborhood had swarmed to a local park. Kids screeched on the swings and tussled on the basketball court, punks skated up and down curbs and ramps, old people played tennis. Cory, with new rollerblades, and Shawn, with Cory’s old ones, circled the crowds on the sidewalks, taking it all in.
“This is the life, Shawnie,” Cory smiled, skidding to a stop on a corner. He held his hands out for balance. He was covered head to toe in protective gear, and a jacket zipped all the way to his throat even though it wasn’t that cold. “No parents. No Feeny. No Turner. Just you and me and the sun and the wind.”
Shawn brought his feet to a T to stabilize himself and ran a hand through his hair. Ahead of them, he spotted a pair of girls sitting close together on top of a picnic table, giggling and gossiping. “And these women ,” he said. Cory followed his gaze.
One of the girls, with a red crop top and dark braids hanging over her shoulders, flashed them a smile. Shawn turned his head so she wouldn’t see him dissolve into giggles.
“Hey, Cor?” He pointed fifteen or twenty feet up the path. “Bet I can hop up on that curb?”
“Not a bet I’d be willing to take, but--”
He was off already, flying down the sidewalk, smooth, rhythmic. The wind on his face. He was close to the curb. Just line up with the curb and lift his feet and--
He overshot his leap and landed in the grass on his butt, hands flying behind him. The girls on the picnic table exploded with laughter.
Cory rolled up to the curb and leaned over him. “You okay?”
Shawn stood up cautiously. “Yeah,” he said. He took a deep breath and assessed himself. Both palms were scraped up. He wiggled his fingers and pain shot through his right hand. “Do I have grass stains all over my butt?” He gingerly wiped his hands on his jeans.
“Um…” Cory looked. “More…more mud than grass, actually.”
“Forget it,” he scowled. “Let’s just go.”
“We still getting slushies on the way home?” Cory asked hopefully.
Shawn had to smile at his earnestness. “Of course.”
They changed back into sneakers, skates slung over their shoulders, and stopped at the corner store for slushies, chips, candy, and a VHS of Don’t Look Under the Bed Part 7.
Back at the Matthews’ place, Shawn cleaned up his scraped hands and arms and threw his grass-stained clothes in the washer, borrowing a pair of Eric’s sweats in the meantime. When Amy asked if he was okay, because something must be wrong if he was voluntarily doing laundry, he assured her nothing but his ego was hurt.
But later that night, knee-to-knee at the dinner table with his too quiet dad, he noticed he couldn’t hold his fork without shooting pain in his fingers and down his wrist. He went to take another bite of Hamburger Helper and dropped his fork, wincing.
Chet looked up. “What’s the matter, Butterfingers?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Jammed a couple fingers skating earlier. But I’m fine.”
Chet paused and looked down at Shawn’s hand. “Can ya move ‘em?” Shawn opened and closed his fist and rolled his wrist. It sent shooting pain all the way to his elbow. Chet grunted. “Ain’t broken if ya can still move it,” he said. He returned to his dinner.
Shawn awkwardly picked up his fork again between his thumb and pointer finger, other fingers splayed out to the side. “Yeah, yeah, no big deal.”
In Turner’s class Monday morning, Shawn slunk into his seat behind Cory and rested his head on his desk. A quick nap, maybe some tape or some ice on his hand, and he’d make it through the day. That’s all he had to do. Survive one class at a time, one day a time.
“Good morning!" Turner boomed. "Matthews! Hunter!”
“I didn’t even do anything!” Cory whined.
“Not yet.” Turner shrugged. He perched on the corner of his desk and opened his book. “Who can tell me about chapter five?”
Cory swiveled around. “Who cares?” he whispered.
Shawn yawned and started to rest his head on his hand, then flinched and pulled his hand back.
“Woah!” Cory’s eyes widened.
“What?”
“What do you mean what? Shawn, your fingers look like little smokies!”
Shawn looked down at his hand resting delicately on the edge of his notebook. His pinky finger was purple and doubled in size. “Just the one,” he whispered. “It’s okay if I don’t move it.”
“It’s your right hand, Shawn. How do you do anything without your hand?” Cory gasped. “What if it falls off?”
“Whoo-hoo!” Turner whistled. “Back row! Eyeballs up here.” He pointed to a writing prompt scrawled across the blackboard. “Pencils should be moving, folks.”
Cory reluctantly picked up a pen. Shawn’s head returned to his desk, left arm covering his face, injured hand resting limply in his lap. He closed his eyes.
“Look alive, Hunter!” Shawn didn’t move. “Hey!” He tapped on the desk. Shawn grunted. He heard movement as Turner knelt next to him. “Shawn?” he whispered. His tone softened. “You alright?”
“His fingers look like little smokies!” Cory blurted out.
“What?” Turner’s brow furrowed.
“Yeah, he fell skating and now his fingers look like hot dogs.”
“It ain’t broken,” Shawn mumbled into his sleeve.
Turner put a hand on his shoulder. “Lemme see your hand, Shawn.”
Shawn lifted his head slightly and put his hand on the desk.
“See!” Cory demanded.
“Shut up for a minute.” Turner gestured to the door. “Hunter, com’ere.”
Slowly, Shawn followed into the hall, slouching low in his jacket.
Turner leaned against the wall and studied Shawn for a long minute. “Man,” he shook his head. “you look like hell.”
“Thought teachers weren’t supposed to curse.”
“You gonna tell on me?” Turner laughed. “You gonna tell me I’m wrong? You look like you haven’t slept in a month. Now let me get a good look at that hand that you’re so sure isn’t broken.”
Shawn jerked back as soon as Turner touched his wrist.
“Jeez! Matthews said little smokies, but that pinkie looks like a bratwurst. What’d you do?”
“Skating,” Shawn mumbled, cradling his throbbing wrist with the opposite hand.
“Showing off for a pretty girl?” To Shawn’s open mouthed silence, he replied, “Least it wasn’t your gourd. I’ve got eighteen stitches under all this hair for a chick who blocked my number after the second date." He shook his head. "Your parents know about this?”
Shawn nodded. “My dad said Saturday it wasn’t broken.”
“Well, now it’s Monday, and it sure looks broken to me. And I don’t like the way you’re babyin’ that wrist, either. C’mon, go to the clinic and have ‘em call your dad to take you to the ER.”
“Can’t,” Shawn whispered.
“Why not?”
Shawn looked at his feet. “Mom took the car.”
“We’ll call your mom then.”
“Can’t do that, either.”
Turner groaned. “Hunter, I get wanting to be macho, but there’s a difference between being tough and being stupid.”
“No!” Shawn said. “I can’t call my mom because I don’t know where she is.”
“You don’t? Why not?”
“I don’t know!” he snapped. “She and my dad argued all weekend, and she took off yesterday to clear her head.”
“Yesterday? When’s she coming back?”
“I dunno. But she’ll be back. She always comes back in a day or two like nothing ever happened.”
“And your dad?”
“Between jobs. Again…So he’s probably drinking and staring out the window like a lost puppy dog, waiting for my mom to come back.”
“Jesus.” Turner ground his teeth. He glanced into the classroom, then sighed and turned back to Shawn. “Be honest, how much sleep you’d get last night?”
His dad had kept him up until midnight, reliving every misstep and harsh word that’d led to Virna storming out again. When he'd finally laid down, his wrist hurt too much to find a comfortable position. Around 3am he’d stumbled into the tiny bathroom in search of some pain killers, but found none, and settled for resting a bag of frozen vegetables on the back of his hand instead. “Not much,” he admitted.
“You eaten today?”
Shawn shook his head. Turner felt his jacket pockets and handed Shawn a squished granola bar. “Not the freshest, but better than nothing.”
“Thanks,” Shawn whispered.
“Alright, let’s get back to class. I’ll rustle up your dad’s number and see if he’ll let me give ya a ride to the hospital.”
“You…you’d do that?”
“Sure,” he said. “If your hand’s gonna fall off, I’ll make sure it’s because you wrote so much in English class.”