The Next Saturday - John Bender

4.

Laura flipped over on her stomach, fiddling with the chipped paint on her fingernails in between trying to tuck a problematic strand of hair behind her ears.

Bender found that the more he looked at her, the more fascinated he found himself. She was attractive, sure, but she didn't seem to fit the mold that most other girls tried so hard to squeeze themselves into.

She wore a simple pair of jeans and a fitted tank-top that hugged her where it mattered, but it was covered by a large, baggy, seemingly worn-out flannel. Her hair hung loose except for two strands loosely tied back to stop them falling in her face, and instead of hiding her freckles, it seemed like she was proud of them. 

How had he not noticed her before now?

He also had not noticed that she'd been staring back at him over her nose, perfectly aware that he'd been looking her over.

"Hey perv," she jabbed, "go grab a book for me, anything you want."

That snapped him out of it.

"Fine," he said - he had to get up anyway to throw away his McDonald's trash, "but no complaining about what I grab. You said anything. And I'm not a perv."

Laura watched him rise and grab his trash, sauntering over to the trashcan and disposing of his various wrappers and used napkins. She noticed him swaying - though it was more like stumbling at this point - no doubt beginning to feel the full force of everything he'd subjected himself to within the past hour. 

That McDonalds probably wasn't helping, but at least he'd had something to eat. 

Let's hope he can keep it down.

She sat up, swinging her legs over the table just as Bender caught himself against a bookshelf, patting it before he continued on. 

He was not feeling great, he decided. Not that she had to know that. He did his best to stand up straight and walk steadily, unaware of how hard he was failing.

Eventually, he decided that this was far enough and reached onto the nearest shelf to grab a book. Now to make it back. His thoughts were fuzzy, he realized, and he wasn't entirely sure which table he had come from.

He spun around to begin the journey back, but his feet refused to work the way they were supposed to and he found himself tumbling, face first, to the floor. Instead, though, he fell into something much softer.

Laura pushed him back up to his feet before hooking her arm around his waist and guiding him to the nearest armchair, ignoring his slurred protests.

"I'm fine," he muttered.

"I know," she lied.

He stared up at her concerned face as it spun slightly above him. He registered the book being gently coaxed out of his grasp. He messed up. Big time. He'd been trying to show off and he'd only made himself look stupid. Everybody was right about him. He was a failure.

She'd tried to help him down the stairs, she'd stopped Vernon from tearing him a new one, and she'd given him food all within the five hours they'd been in the same room. Really, within the hour or two it had been since he'd messed himself up. He wasn't used to this. It made him nervous. Uncomfortable. Vulnerable. He hated feeling vulnerable.

"I don't need your help," he whispered, causing her to strain to hear him.

She leaned in a little closer to hear him better, "Hmm?"

"I DON'T. NEED. YOUR HELP." he shouted suddenly, causing her to back up in shock, "I've gotten by without help from Vernon, or anybody else in this hell-hole, or my mom or dad. I haven't had help from ANYBODY and I've been fine and then you come in here with your - with your smiles and y-your niceness 'oh here Bender, take this cherry pie, oh come have this sandwich with all these onions' I bet you don't even care if there's onions on your fuckin burger. You probably love 'em."

He rose up, unsteadily to take a few steps in her direction, where she stood, unmoving, to face him. 

"Well I don't want it," he continued quietly now, darkly, attempting to shake her, "So you can just leave me the hell alone."

He stared down at her, still trying to scare her at least a little. She remained in her position, only glancing back at the door once to be sure Vernon had not heard the outburst.

Slowly, without a word, and always keeping her eyes on his, she reached out to place a hand on his elbow, pushing slightly, to ease him back down into the chair.

"Alright, John," she said quietly, calmly, "Alright. I believe you."

She wasn't going to argue with him while he was in this state. Really, she wasn't sure it was her place to argue with him at all. Still, after all he'd said, she began to wonder. What on earth had this boy been put through?

Once he was back down, she pulled the sleeve of her flannel over her hand and reached for his face, pausing in concern when he flinched at the motion, before dabbing away at the pair of tears that had fallen during his rant without his knowledge or consent.

Angry outbursts sure had a way of helping you sober up, he discovered. He thought for a moment about shoving her hands away, ashamed of her pity towards him. More than that though, he liked the way it felt when she touched him. She was tender and unafraid and steady.

Even Claire had hesitated when she would kiss him or hold his hand.

"Most people call me Bender," he informed her after a minute of silence.

She flicked her eyes at him before pulling up her own chair, "Do you want me to?"

"No," he answered immediately, "Sorry about...that...I shouldn't have yelled at you."

She shrugged, giving him a small, reassuring smile, "It's okay. I'm sure you had your reasons."

"You could say that," he mumbled, watching her pick up the book he'd picked out.

"John," she began.

"Hmm," he replied, still a little disoriented, but thrilled with the way his name sounded on her lips.

She grinned, "I know I said I wouldn't complain, but can I ask you something?"

"Yeah."

"You know this is a Dictionary, right?"