I am Clara

Homeless

 I wasn't startled by Andrews' impatient honking. I had heard his junk of a truck a mile away. Still, I took my time coming to a stand. Snatching my bag, I squinted my way towards the rusty pick-up. The sun was too bright for this headache. Andrews opened his mouth to greet me with usual cheesy joke, but upon seeing my face, he winced. He shot me a look that clearly read, "You look like shit". Although he watched me strangely, he didn't pester me with questions, for which I was immensely thankful.

     Slumped in the passenger seat, house finally out of sight, I tried to relax to Andrews' poor choice of country music. I worked to slow my breathing and shut my eyes to ease the ache in my skull. As much as I tried to relax, my train of thought unceasingly found its way back to Mimpi. If she showed up in my room, or wherever I ended up that night, she'd be in for a major fit. That is also assuming I survived the time between our next meeting.

     "Clara?" Andrews finally asked, features furrowed with concern.

     "What?"

    "You're crying," he pointed out.

    I brought a hand to my cheek, and sure enough it was wet. Damn it. I told myself that I wouldn't.

    "Good observation," I bit, aggressively wiping the tear off my face.

    "Are you okay?"

    "No." I said honestly, making it clear in my tone that he was not to ask any questions about it.

     I just needed a few minutes to think. I waited two horrible songs, before speaking. "Do you have an extra pair of glasses?" I asked.

    Why was this town always sunny? I didn't want that a chirping, thirty-degree, beautiful day. I wanted one rainy day. Was that too much to ask for?

     "Huh?" was his brilliant response. Followed by a very unattractive frown.

     "Glasses," I repeated, squeezing my temples. "I need glasses, this headache is killing me."

    "Oh ok." Nervously he reached for the glove compartment.

     He took out a pair of bright red sunglasses, colour a shade lighter than his truck. Despite their horrendous look, I was thankful for them. Though it would have been a lot less awkward, had he simply told me where they were. We could have avoided his sweaty, shaking hands from touching my lap. But he was trying to help so I refrained from complaining.

    "Thank you," I said.

    "If the headache is that bad you should get it checked."

     "That's not why I was crying, dim wit." Ah, dim wit probably not the best term to call your helping friend.

     "Sorry—" I started immediately, but Andrews smirked as though the insult had reassured him.

     Uneasily, I played with the hem of my shirt. I really didn't want to ask what I was about to ask, but after thinking things over it seemed to be my only option.

     "Is the room above your garage still empty?" I forced out in a single breath.

     Andrews' brother Dylan had built it a couple years back. Not quite ready to move out, but still wanting independence.

     "Yes..." he hesitated, frowning apprehensively. "Why?" was what he had really wanted to ask.

     "Do you think your parents would let me stay there?" I asked. "I'd pay rent, of course," I added even though I had no clue how I'd do so.

    "Clara, what's going on?"

     "My mother kicked me out."

    He took his eyes off the road to study me briefly, as if to make sure I wasn't pulling his leg. "You're kidding, right?" he asked incredulously.