Chapter Text
For what was hopefully the last time, Courfeyrac found himself spending a Saturday afternoon suffering through the indignity of school shopping with his mother at a discount department store in what the locals referred to as ‘the dirt mall.’ They’d opened the day with an hour long fight in the shoe section-she wanted to get him ‘a sharp looking pair of sneakers’ and Courfeyrac wanted skater shoes. Eventually they’d compromised on a black pair of Converse knockoffs.
Now she was piling dorky looking outfit after dorky looking outfit into the carriage, occasionally stopping to smooth down his hair and trying to needle him into letting her cut it.
He needed a sanity break. Courfeyrac ditched her while she was searching through a rack of clearance pants and went for a stroll down a nearby aisle of hygiene products.
This was not how he wanted to spend one of the last days of summer. Especially not the last summer before his first day of high school. Still, it had to be done. Maybe next year she’d just give him the money and he could do the school shopping on his own.
Courfeyrac spent a fair few minutes looking between body sprays and colognes, trying to figure out what the hell the difference was, and if he was expected to wear something like that now that he was a high school kid. He figured he must. Some of the guys at his school had already been wearing that stuff last year, as eighth graders. He blindly grabbed a can of Axe and went to ask his mother if they could buy it.
He didn’t find her in the clothing aisles or by the dressing rooms. Figuring she must have gone on to actual school supplies, like notebooks, he started towards the back of the store where the seasonal merchandise was kept. He didn’t find her there either.
Courfeyrac was about to go to customer service to have her paged when he finally found his mother in one of the food aisles. It looked like she’d been stocking up on peanut butter and Capri Sun (great, another year of bag lunches). Courfeyrac went to get her attention, then stopped in his tracks when he noticed she was talking to somebody.
It was one of his classmates, one of the weird kids who always sat in the back of the room, and smoked behind the dumpsters during lunch, and got into fights and got detention at least once a week. Courfeyrac ran over to put himself between the weirdo and his mother, who was chatting his ear off as though he were a normal kid and not an obvious sketchy freak.
“Sweetie, there you are!” she exclaimed. “I was just talking to one of your friends.”
“He’s not my friend,” Courfeyrac blurted out before he thought better of it. To his surprise, the kid actually looked a little hurt by it, though he might have imagined the frown. It was gone so quickly, replaced almost immediately by an insolent smirk.
“Sorry ma’am, I didn’t mean to mislead you. We don’t hang out or anything. But Courf invited me to his last couple of birthday parties. That’s why I looked familiar to you.”
His mother put her hands on her hips. “Courfeyrac, is there a reason you’re not friends with Grantaire? I happen to know his mother, Lucette. I think the two of you should start hanging out. That is what you kids still call it, right?”
“Mom,” Courfeyrac snapped, mortified. “I’m fourteen. You are not allowed to set up playdates for me anymore.”
“Okay, mister big strong adult. What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Oh, uh…” Courfeyrac tried to hide the body spray behind his back. He wasn’t entirely sure about his choice, but he figured he’d done something wrong because Grantaire had burst into loud guffaws.
“Axe! Really? Oh man, I didn’t realize you were such a tool, Courfeyrac.”
“Shut up!”
“Boys!” Bridget snatched the can away from her son and gave it a disdainful look. “I think you’re still a bit young for this. But if you want to start wearing cologne or something like that we can have your father take you out and pick something out. Okay precious?”
“Mom,” Courfeyrac groaned. Of course she had to smother him and treat him like a five year old in front of one of the most disreputable kids in his grade. “Can we just get out of here?”
“I don’t think so, mister man. You’ve got a pile of new clothes to try on. Oh, Grantaire, sweetheart! How long are you going to be around today? After we finish with our shopping, I usually take my boy out to Brigham’s for lunch. You’re welcome to come with us.”
Grantaire took a moment to answer, expression conflicted. He looked first at Bridget, who was smiling at him cheerfully, and then at Courfeyrac, who was thinking ‘no-no-no-get the fuck away from my mom-no’ as hard as he could on the off-chance he’d developed telepathy and the kid would pick up on it. “I-I’d like to, but um…I’m a little low on funds at the moment.”
“Oh, that’s not an issue sweetheart. I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t going to pay. Come to lunch with us, really. It’ll be fine. I won’t make you wait for Courfeyrac to try on all his new clothes though. You shouldn’t have to suffer through that with me. Here.” She reached into her purse and took out a five dollar bill. “Why don’t you run down to the arcade and then meet us at the restaurant in a half hour? That should be enough time, right Courfeyrac?”
“But Mom, he said he didn’t want to go.”
“Well maybe he wouldn’t have if you weren’t glaring at him, dear.” She smiled sweetly, then shooed Grantaire off in the direction of the arcade. Looking like he wasn’t quite sure what had just happened, Grantaire shuffled off.
Bridget started singing under her breath as she pushed her full carriage towards the dressing rooms. Courfeyrac skulked after her with his head down. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“What, invited a poor starving boy out for a free meal? Sweetie, you should have seen the way he was eyeing the cracker sandwiches over there when I happened by.”
“He was probably going to steal them. Mom, he’s one of the weird kids. I wouldn’t be surprised if he steals. He smokes, and he talks back to teachers, and he dresses like a weirdo too. He’s a total freak. If anyone sees me having lunch with him-”
“If you keep going on like that then you can sit in the car while Grantaire and I have lunch. I told you dear, I know his mother, and I know of his father. You should…have some compassion for him and his sister. If he’s a little rough around the edges, the poor dear has a reason.”
Courfeyrac fumed at the injustice of it all. “If I smoked and talked back to teachers and got detention you’d lose it on me!”
“Does it tell you something that his parents don’t?” Bridget asked pointedly. “Your father and I correct your behavior because we care about you, sweetheart. Now here, try this shirt on. I think you’ll look handsome in it.”
Courfeyrac looked down at the striped, button downed shirt and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “If I shut up about Grantaire, can we not buy clothes that will get me beat up at school?”
“If you agree to be kind to Grantaire, I’ll let you get those ugly, expensive shoes you wanted.”
“Deal.”
Grantaire was waiting for them on a mall bench outside the restaurant. Even though he was clearly there under Bridget’s instructions, he still looked surprised to see them. Courfeyrac started in surprise when the weird kid smiled shyly at his mother and shuffled after her into the restaurant.
They got a booth together, and Bridget quickly started supplying chit chat, as usual giving no appreciation for her son’s desire to appear cool in front of one of his classmates (even one he didn’t really like). She ruffled Courfeyrac’s hair, seeking Grantaire’s opinion on the possibility of a pre-school haircut.
“Mom, quit it! Besides, what do you think he’s going to say? I don’t think he even brushes his rat’s nest.”
Grantaire frowned. “When I can find the brush I do.” He self-consciously touched his uneven black tangles, and Bridget whapped her son’s arm.
“You know sweetheart, you are right about something. Both of you boys could use haircuts. Grantaire dear, your hair is a bit long too. School starts on Wednesday…oh! Why don’t we go get haircuts together Tuesday night? I could take you out for lunch again too.”
“I…I couldn’t really, um…” Grantaire dropped his head and mumbled something inaudible.
“Too much,” Bridget said to herself with a nod. “Maybe some other time. So, what are you guys going to get? I was thinking we could split some mozzarella sticks for an appetizer, and this fish sandwich looks like it has my name on it.”
“I dunno. A burger, I guess,” Courfeyrac said with a shrug. “Are we getting ice cream too?”
“Sure. Get whatever you want. Do you want any other appetizers sweetie?”
Courfeyrac stared at his mother, not sure she was in her right mind. She never let him get whatever he wanted at restaurants, even cheap little places like Brighams. She usually asked him if he thought she was made of money when he tried to get a sundae out of her.
Then Grantaire quietly tried to order a side dish instead of a meal and Courfeyrac understood. She was trying to encourage their reluctant guest to get whatever he wanted too, not what he felt was most polite. She must have thought he really was starving or something.
Bridget was able to goad Grantaire into getting a burger and fries as well, and even though he tried to insist he wasn’t really that hungry, and a side order of fries would have been fine, he devoured everything that was put in front of him. He was actually really rude about it too. He chewed with his mouth open, and leaned his elbows on the table, and sat hunched over so that you couldn’t see his eyes. It made it difficult to have a conversation with him.
Not that Courfeyrac really wanted to talk to the guy, but it was still weird.
Grantaire looked a little less defensive by the time their ice creams arrived (Bridget had let him order one of the fancy ones that came with a heap of toppings and Courfeyrac felt a stab of injustice when he had to get a regular two scoop hot fudge that was three dollars cheaper). He ignored Courfeyrac though, in favor of telling his mother jokes and smiling stupidly at her.
Bridget returned his smiles with an indulgent, motherly look that Courfeyrac hadn’t gotten out of her on a regular basis since elementary school (unless he was sick).
They left the restaurant together. Grantaire insisted on helping Bridget carry the shopping bags out to the car, and not wanting to be outdone by some sketchy looking weirdo, Courfeyrac took the rest of the bags and his mother’s purse. She grinned broadly at both of them. “I’m going to have to invite you out with us more, Grantaire. You’re shaming my son into being a regular gentleman.”
“It’s the least I can do. You bought me lunch,” Grantaire muttered, face going red.
They loaded the bags into the trunk, then Grantaire awkwardly shuffled off to the side with his hands in his pockets. “Well, thanks for everything. That was really fun.”
“Sweetheart, how are you getting home?” Bridget asked.
Grantaire shrugged. “Bus?”
“Are you sure? Because that sounded like a question to me.”
“Uh…well, actually I was probably going to walk. But it’s fine. I don’t live far away or anything.”
“Grantaire, get in the car.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Courfeyrac got into the front seat and buckled in without comment. He expected Grantaire to have to give his mother directions, but she started driving for Grantaire’s house on her own. He remembered her saying that she knew his mother though, so maybe she’d given the woman a ride before or something.
It occurred to Courfeyrac that they weren’t heading for a particularly nice part of town. Courfeyrac’s family wasn’t rich by any stretch of the imagination, but they made enough to live comfortably and their house was in a decent neighborhood. It looked like Grantaire lived on one of the streets Courfeyrac wasn’t allowed to go down by himself after dark.
Bridget pulled the car up to a rundown looking brick building. There was no front yard to speak of, the sidewalk simply ended and the building’s foundation began. One of the windows on the first floor was boarded up and there was an ominous looking No Trespassing sign taped to it.
Grantaire jumped out of the backseat and ran over to Bridget’s window. “Thanks for everything. Hey Courf, I’ll see you at school on Wednesday.”
“Yeah,” Courfeyrac said hesitantly. “See you.” He watched Grantaire run into the building, wondering why he felt so uncomfortable when he looked at the place.
Bridget let out a deep sigh before pulling the car back onto the road. “Sweetheart, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here. I think it’s horrible that Grantaire smokes, and that he gets into trouble at school, and all the rest of that. But sometimes when people act out like that, they’re not really bad people. They’re just lost and they’re crying out for help. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that boy that a little care and a good friend couldn’t fix. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”
Slowly, Courfeyrac nodded. “Yeah. Um, you said you know his mom. What’s she like?”
“Lucette?” Bridget sighed again and shook her head. “She’s actually a lovely woman. She and Grantaire have the same eyes, all big and blue and pretty like that. But the poor thing’s…sick, I suppose. Yes, that’s the word for it. She’s sick.”
“Sick? How? Does she have cancer or something?”
“No, sweetheart, not like that. She’s not well…mentally.”
“So she’s a nutjob?” Courfeyrac asked.
Bridget pressed her lips together. “Please don’t say it like that. Courfeyrac, hon, Lucette’s been in and out of the hospital for her problems since before her children were born. She gets confused, and then she tries to hurt herself and, well, it’s all a big mess. That little boy has probably seen some things that no child should ever have to see. Just…try to have compassion for them, alright sweetheart?”
Courfeyrac nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be nicer to Grantaire, I promise.”
“Thanks honey.”
When they got home Courfeyrac carried all the bags into the house. He supposed Grantaire really had shamed him into being a better son. When he set them on the kitchen table something fell out of the top of one of them. Courfeyrac bent over and picked up the five dollar bill his mother had given Grantaire for the arcade.
“Uh…Mom?”
Bridget frowned and returned the money to her purse. She didn’t say anything about it, so Courfeyrac didn’t either.
That night, when he looked into his dresser mirror and tried desperately to think of a ploy to keep his hair from being cut into some kind of wiener style that his mother would call “sharp”, his thoughts turned back to his damaged classmate. Courfeyrac was by no means an unpopular kid at his middle school, but he had hopes for high school. He wanted to run with a better crowd, have a hot girlfriend (or two, or three), maybe join some clubs and run for class office. He wanted to be cool.
And now he was going to have to stick up for one of the most unpopular kids in his class, because otherwise he wasn’t going to be able to live with himself.
Courfeyrac studied his appearance again and imagined himself with half as much hair, combed and gelled to match the tastes of a different generation (Bridget’s generation, to be specific). Scowling, he crossed the room and collapsed onto his bed.
School hadn’t even started yet, and his mother was already ruining his reputation.