At lunch, I can feel my friends’ unasked questions hovering in the air.  I refuse to acknowledge them.  Instead, I just lay with my head on the table.  My headache is back in full force, and I don’t feel like eating.  I just want to sleep.  That’s all I want.  I’m reminded of one of those “teenager post” things—Lotto sent one to me because he said it “described my life.”  I believe it was something along the lines of “Sleep is my drug.  My bed is my dealer.  My alarm is the cops.  School is the jail.”  I know I should be working on my plan to save Lucy, but my mind is way too fogged right now.
I trudge to sixth period in a daze.  I don’t even notice I’m asleep until the teacher barks out, “Mitchell! That’s the third time in two weeks! Detention!” I groan and lay my head back down on my desk as Ms. Akkeldean writes out my pink detention slip.  A few kids snicker but I ignore them, instead scanning the small square paper: detention’s till four o’clock in Mr. LaScala’s room.  Mr. L was this ancient old man who also happened to be my seventh period teacher.  Super.
Since my nap was interrupted in sixth period, I sleep through seventh.  It’s not like Mr. LaScala notices.  Then in eighth period Courtney keeps trying to pass me notes, and I keep not reading them.  Finally the last bell rings and I schlepp to my locker.  I receive the usual “location” text from Lotto, but I reply in the negative, citing my detention.  He replies, “screw you,” so I know he’s not mad.
I meander back to Mr. L.’s room to discover something that’s never happened to me before: I am the only one in detention. 
Sliding into my seat after sticking the slip on Mr. LaScala’s desk, I run my fingers through my hair.  Well, this is new.  Normally there’s another person to mess around and get in even more trouble with.  I’m wondering if there’s any way I can beg outta this on account of how there’s no other people here, but then Mr. L. hobbles into the room.  He gives it a scan as if it’s packed full of students, then creaks into his chair.  It takes him a few tries to pick my pink slip off his desk, and then another minute or two to find his glasses so he can read it.  “Sleeping in class again, I see, Mr. Mitchell.”
I nod, tipping my entire desk-and-chair-thing backwards.
He looks around again, his long wrinkly neck reminding me of a tortoise.  “It would appear you are the only student to receive detention on this day.”
Again, I nod.  Mr. LaScala has a habit of stating the obvious.
My detention moderator busies himself with some paperwork, and I think he’s going to leave me alone for the duration of our time together, so I lay my head back down.  In about twenty minutes, however, he speaks again. 
“I’m mildly disappointed in you.”
“Why’s that, sir?” I ask in my most false-polite voice.
“You seem to be getting in a large number of fights.”
Why should that bother him?? I shrug.
“I just think that perhaps this generation need not go around fulfilling the stereotypes with which they are branded.”
I c*** an eyebrow, which by no means is encouragement to continue.  However, he takes it as such.
“If you strut around in hats and tight jeans, with long hair and shoes that look like they’ve been in a blender,” I tuck my Etnies under the desk.  Those shoes have been with me through thick and thin, and I’m not about to abandon them just cuz they’re a little beat up.  “Then adults will expect you to get detention and get in fights.  When you do so, it makes us believe we were right all along.  Maybe, just maybe, you may want to try and prove that you are more than your image suggests, is all I’m saying.”
There’s not really anything I can do about it.  I lay my head back down. 
The streets I skate on the route home are so familiar, I don’t even have to pay attention to anything.  Then again, maybe I should’ve been paying attention.  Because there is, once again, a foot stretched out in front of me.  But unlike yesterday, I neglect to see this one, so I hit it head-on (or nose-on, as it were).  While my board hits the foot and stops dead, my body continues forward at full speed.  At least I break my fall with my arm, not my face.  However, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m being surrounded by hostile bodies.  I try to count how many there are, but they all look the same.
Jocks, obviously.  All of them laughing.
Brad is the only one I know by name, but I recognize several others.  He advances as I climb to my feet.  “Lo, fa**ot,” he says with a sadistic grin, and that’s when I know he plans to make me hurt.
“Lo, d**k,” I return, my tone not betraying my growing sense of nervousness.  Maybe I can get away somehow? I take an experimental step backwards and bump into a solid lump of testosterone.  It growls, and I freeze.  They’ve got me surrounded.  How did this happen? How could I have ridden right into their trap? Usually I’m so much more observant, vigilant…the jocks all begin taking menacing steps towards me.  I think there’s maybe ten of them.
I’m screwed.
I’m a good fighter.  Not to ‘toot my own horn’ or whatever, but I’m the best in our grade, maybe even the whole school.  I’m quick, I’m strong, and I’ve got zero fat on me—possibly the only advantage to having a wasted guardian who rarely buys enough food for everyone to get their fill, and I’d rather go hungry than make Lucy.  Anyway, I could easily take Brad one-on-one.  I could take him and any one of his friends together.  Him and two friends.  Even him and three or four, if I’m having a good day.  But against odds of ten to one? I’ve got no chance.
They’ll beat me up just because I’m a skater and they don’t like me.  That’s enough of a reason.  I can’t really blame them—if I was with a big group of friends and a lone jock was making his way in our general direction, then hell yeah we’d beat him up! But something about this doesn’t feel random…
Right now, I have two choices: just take it, and hope they cut the beating short (cuz honestly, it’s no fun whaling on someone if you don’t get a reaction), or I can fight back.  That would involve me being hurt more in the process, and I’d still lose, but at least I could preserve just a sliver of dignity.  And maybe damage a few faces while I’m at it.
My choice is made for me.  The lump I backed into and another guy I think might be in my geometry class have each latched onto one of my arms.  A third goes behind me and grabs my shoulders in a death grip.  No fighting back now.
The other six continue their slow walk towards me.  Brad doesn’t stop until his chest is inches from mine, which in guy terms is WAY TOO EFFING CLOSE.  And then he spits in my face.
Have you ever had someone spit in your face? Probably not.  Try when you can’t even wipe it off.  It’s not so much that it’s gross—trust me, I’m a fifteen-year-old guy.  I’ve experienced much grosser.  It’s the fact that it’s just so degrading is what’s bothering me.
I stare Brad down, daring him to hit me (it’s a guy thing, ok? I couldn’t help it).  Bad idea.  Because, being a fellow teenage dude, Brad recognizes the challenge.  And boy does he rise to it.
The first punch breaks my nose.  I bottle my scream and focus all my energy on keeping my gaze full of hostility and directed at Brad.  He winds up a second time, and of course I assume he’s going to hit me again, and I even brace for the impact.  But it doesn’t come.  Instead, the guy puts his hand on my shoulder.
Uh…what?
He’s maybe about a foot away now.  None of his goons look surprised, which confirms my suspicions that it’s scripted.
“Look, skater,” he says, which translates as “this is serious business stuff here” (people coming from different social categories never address each other by their title.  If they do, it’s like saying “Bro.  We need to set aside the old antipathy for a little, cuz there’s serious stuff going down right now and we need to work as equals.  Temporarily.), but um…I was being restrained by three beefy guys and my face was bleeding all over.   Not exactly how you’d treat a business partner, right? Right.  So what the hell does Brad think he’s doing?
“I’m failing physics.”
Well, there’s a surprise, I thought.  You’re so stupid you could throw a rock at the ground and miss.  “Uh…ok.”
“I can’t fail any more classes or I’m off the football team.”
“Ok…” And you’re telling me this because…?
“I hear you’re sneaky, skater.  You do stuff without being noticed.  Real slick.  That true?”
I try to put my hands in my pockets. Fail.  I cough a little, which sprays some blood onto Brad’s face.  He doesn’t seem to notice. “Uh.  I guess.”
“So I need you to do something for me.”
Fun fact: I don’t take instruction well.  “And what makes you think I will?”
In answer, he backhands me across the face.  To enforce his point, he punches me again in the broken nose, and also hits my black eye.  A low moan escapes my mouth; it’s a sign of weakness and I hate myself for it.
“Because I say so, skater.” He spits the word “skater” like an insult.  Which, in his book, it probably is.  This is a pretty lopsided business deal.  “Let’s not forget who’s in control here.”
I look at the ground.  Submission.
Brad smirks, recognizing he’s beaten me.  “I need you to do one simple thing for me, skater.  Change my physics grade.  That’s it.  You know where Mr. LaScala’s room is?” I grunt in affirmation without looking up.  “Change my grade.  That’s all.  It’s a fifty-two right now,” Christ, I knew he was stupid, but I didn’t know he was THAT stupid, “and you just need to change the five to an eight, and then all this will be over.  He’s like a hundred years old; he won’t notice anything.  If you don’t, I will make your life hell.” He enunciates the last six words, as if I couldn’t understand perfectly well already.  “You have one week. Got it?” I grunt in affirmation once more.  “Good boy.”  And then the dick pats my head like I’m a dog.
His goons release me, and Brad’s little pat turns into a shove, and again I’m sent sprawling on the sidewalk.  “One week.  Don’t forget.”
I stay down until he and his cronies clear out, then climb to my feet.  My face is pain words cannot describe.
Have you ever been so depressed you can’t do anything? That’s how I feel.  I had NEVER, not once in my life up to this point, not been able to skate.
But I find myself unable to do it now.
It’s not the physical act that’s impossible for me, but just that my mental state is destroyed.  So I drag myself back to the house, wondering how the hell my life had gotten to this point, and how the hell I’d fix it.

A small blessing is that no one is in the house when I arrive.  I wash off my face a little, then take a shower and put on old sweats and a ratty t-shirt.  I feel like a little kid whose puppy just died, even though my life doesn’t suck that much more than it did a couple hours ago.  And right now I’m feeling so down that I take ice cream out of the freezer (super convenient, actually, that we even have ice cream.  Usually the freezer’s empty) and sit on the floor and eat it right out of the carton as tears stream down my face.  That’s how pathetic I am, how small I feel.
I can’t do this.  Any of it.  I can’t change Brad’s grade.  I’ll get caught and expelled.  I can’t integrate my school.  I can’t save my baby sister.  I can’t even save myself.
I take a deep breath.  Maybe I could just do one thing at a time.  Mentally, I organize the things I have to do in order of precedence.
1) get Lucy out
2) change Brad’s grade
3) get myself out
4) fix my local society
I’m not sure when I decided that I was going to do number four.  Sometime between Brad beating me up and me getting home, I guess.  Mr. LaScala’s remarks must have sunk into my subconscious or something.  But whatever, now I’m set on doing it, so I’m gonna have to do it.
Since number two needs to be done within a week, that means so does number one.  Groaning out loud, I pick myself up off the floor.  I have no idea how to start, so I decide to make myself more educated about the outside world, as if that might somehow help.  So I plop down on the old couch in the living room and flip on the news.  Maybe there’ll miraculously be something on about where you can safely stow your eleven-year-old sister.
Television bores me, not gonna lie.  I feel like the longer I stare at a screen, the smaller my brain gets.  Still half-watching the news just in case something magical does pop up, I pick up a newspaper from the coffee table and scan the pages.  Newspapers bore me too, as a general rule.  And then I read something that catches my eye.  And then I keep reading.  And then I shut the TV off.  And then I almost fall off the couch.
It’s perfect.  It’s EXACTLY what I need.
It’s too good to be true.
It’s a writing contest.  First through fifth graders.  Lucy’s in fifth grade.  There’s one winner in each grade.  The winners receive a thousand dollar cash prize…and a full paid admission to an exclusive language arts boarding school in Boston.  No restrictions on length, can either be typed or handwritten, as long as it’s legible, and no specific format.  “Deadline tomorrow,” the paper says.  “Be sure to send in your entry or drop it off at 261 Baker Street.”  Tomorrow, I thought.  Ok. I have time. 
And then my heart breaks.
The newspaper’s from two days ago.
I missed the deadline.
I stare at the paper even as tears cloud my vision again.  I cannot believe it.  It cannot be true.  It’s not fair.  In fact, it’s the most ridiculously unfair thing I’ve ever heard of.
No, I think.
No.
I will not accept this.
Full of newfound determination, I sprint into Lucy’s room, nearly hyperventilating.  The notebook is sitting right on her dresser, and I snatch it up, flipping through the pages once more, though I can barely see.  Then I sprint back to the front door, shove the notebook that contains all my hope into my backpack, and grab my board.  I fly through the streets like a madman, not caring that I’ve never even been to Baker Street.  I’m confident I’ll find it. 
Sure enough, fifteen minutes later I’m marching into the lobby of 261 Baker Street, board in hand and business face in place.  The receptionist looks up, startled, supposedly, to find a disheveled teenager who looks like he was just on the worse end of a fight (because he was) striding toward her.
She pushes her wire-rimmed glasses up her bony nose with her bony hand.  “Hello, young man, may I help you?” That’s adult for “what are you doing in my lobby get out you piece of adolescent filth”. 
“I need to submit an entry to that writing contest thing.”
“I’m sorry, but the contest ended yesterday.”
By this time I’ve reached her desk, and now I set my board down and place both of my hands on the edge of the pristine wood.  “You do not understand.  I. Need. To. Submit. This.  Entry.”
She shakes her head, but before she can tell me to get out, I start talking again.  “Nononoplease.  Please.  This means everything to me.”
The bony receptionist eyes me.  “Surely you’re too old for the contest anyway.”
Shaking my head, I say, “It’s my sister’s.  The story.  Please.  Please, you don’t understand.  At least let the judge read it.  Please.  I am begging you.”
Maybe it’s my desperate tone, or my bedraggled look, or maybe I’m just bothering her, but no matter the impetus, she sighs.  “Hold on one moment please.”
I nod, barely containing my grin.  I can hold on for as many moments as she wants.
The lady-who-is-quite-possibly-an-angel presses a button on her intercom.  “Mr. Burnes? Yes, sorry to interrupt, but there is a young man at the front desk who insists you must read his sister’s entry.  Yes, I told him.  Yes, yes.  Alright.  Thank you, sir.”
She looks back at me.  “Mr. Burnes has agreed to consider the entry after his meeting.  He shall send for you when he’s ready.  You may wait here.” She nods to a few contemporary-looking chairs circled around a metal and glass table in the lobby.
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
I don’t even mind that I have to wait for almost two hours.  Pulling out Lucy’s notebook, I just hold it in my lap and rock back and forth.  At long long last, a man emerges from an elevator wearing a pressed suit and an annoyed expression.  Jumping to my feet, I clutch the notebook to my chest as he approaches.  After giving me a once-over, he says, “Well, follow me to my office, I suppose.”
The office in question is on the fourth floor and is easily twice the size of the bedroom I share with my two brothers and three times as nice.  I sit in the chair he indicates.  With a sigh, Mr. Burnes lowers himself into the plush leather chair on the opposite side of his large desk.  As he introduces himself, I can’t help thinking about how the desk is like society.  He and I are clearly in very different social classes, and society does not want us to interact.  The desk is solid.  I cannot go through it.  I am not meant to befriend this man, not even to make his acquaintance.  Can’t go through it, so I gotta go around it.
“I understand you have a late entry you wish me to consider.”
“Yes, sir, please.”
He sighs again, the gray hairs of his moustache moving slightly.  “Why could you not submit the writing yesterday?”
“I just read about the contest today.”
“Oh really? Then how is your entry ready?”
“My sister’s been writing it for a long time, and when I saw the ad for your contest I thought that it’s a really great opportunity, and she’s a really good writer, and…”
“And?” he prompts.
“And, it’s just, it’d be…I mean, she really wants to go to the boarding school.” Not a lie.  I mean, I’ve never asked Lucy if she wants to go, but I’m sure she’d prefer it to living here.  Who wouldn’t?
“How old is your sister, if I may ask?”
“Eleven.”
“What is her name?”
“Lucy, sir.”
“And what is your name, young man?”
“Tyler.  Tyler Mitchell.”
Mr. Burnes places the tips of all his fingers together and peers over them at me.  “Well, Mr. Mitchell, it seems like this is extremely important to you.” I nod.  “So I’ll agree to include your sister’s entry in the contest—“ I leap out of my seat and almost hug him, but of course there’s a catch, there’s always a catch.  “IF you will agree to be my, well…indentured servant, if you will.  Just for a week.  And in that time, I want no new signs to appear on your body that you have been in a fight.  In seven days, the results of the contest are due, and if, in that time, you manage to do this, then your sister’s submission will have a fair chance.”
That’s a weird request.  What’s his business if I get in fights or not? But at this point, I honestly couldn’t care less.  “I, yeah, of course, yeah, thank you, oh my god, thank you so much.”
Mr. Burnes smiles.  “My goal in life is to improve as many children’s lives as possible, Tyler.” I flinch involuntarily.  Adults using my first name is something I’ve never completely been able stomach; it sets me on edge.  The motion does not escape notice of Mr. Burnes, but he ignores it and continues his soliloquy.  “Hopefully, this experience will benefit the both of us.  You, in that it will provide a positive environment in which you may spend your time instead of being tempted to participate in activities which are decadent to body and soul.  And as for me, well, Tyler” *insert Tyler flinching* “I believe that children see things differently than adults.  They see things…raw.  Unblemished by bias.  Hopefully, I can learn a little bit about the world from your perspective, and use what I learn to make the world, or maybe just your world, a little better.”
I thank the man once more and we shake hands and I give him the notebook and assure him I’ll be here at four o’clock sharp the next afternoon and almost forget my backpack because YESYESYES LUCY MIGHT GET OUT YES.
By the time I make it home, dinner has already been eaten and my uncle intoxicated.  The man is standing in the middle of the kitchen, drinking and singing, but not hurting anybody, so I pay him no heed and head straight for Lucy’s room.
She’s sitting on her bed reading; I sit next to her and put my arm around her small shoulders.  “Hey, Lu.”
“Hey, Ty.” She rests her head on my shoulder and closes her book.
“How you doin’?”
“I’m fine.  I missed you.”
I kiss the top of her head.  “Missed you too, baby girl.  How was school today? Any tests?”
“Spelling.”
“Was it hard?”
“Not really.”
“Prob’ly just cuz you’re so smart.” She giggles.  “Listen, Lucy, there’s something I wanna talk to you about…it’s this thing.  This—d’you like living here?” I abruptly decide on a different approach.
Lucy shifts and hesitates.  “Well…I like you.  And Cal and Jamie.  But not…the rest of it.” I know “the rest of it” is Uncle Richard and Mason being drunk and all the fighting and the not always having enough food and the never having enough money.  Slowly, I nod. 
“If you could live somewhere else, would you?”
She looks up at me sharply.  “Why?”
I’m not about to keep stuff from my little sister, so I tell her straight up.  “I entered you in this contest thing.  This writing contest.  And if you win, then you’d get to go live in Boston at this cool academy place and they’d teach you how to write really well.  Would you wanna go?”
Lucy wraps her skinny little arms around my waist.  “You can’t skateboard to Boston,” she whispers into my shirt.
I’ll be honest, that chokes me up.  “I know,” I whisper back.  “But it’d be so much better than here.  You’re so much better than here.  I don’t want you to become another ‘victim of circumstance.’” I don’t promise her that I’ll visit as much as I can, because as much as I can is never, and we both know it.
She doesn’t ask what writing of hers I entered, and she doesn’t mention the missing notebook.  Lucy’s a smart girl who can put two and two together.  She doesn’t get mad at me for looking at her private stuff.  She just clings to me tighter and whispers “I’ll go.”
 

“Humans lack good mirrors.  It’s so hard for anyone to show us how we look, and so hard for us to show anyone how we feel.” –John Green

School the next day is jock-free, although Courtney does come back to me.  She spends all of third period passing me notes I don’t read, and at lunch she scoots her chair so close to mine she’s practically sitting on me.  Then she rattles on the whole time about how she doesn’t know who’s asking her to homecoming but she’s already bought a dress and it’s strapless and pink and black and silver and white and she has black shoes with five inch heels and she’ll just be devastated if no one asks her.
I have no intention of going to homecoming.  I’ve got much more important stuff to do, if you haven’t picked up on that yet.
Although she’s annoying, I gotta admit that Courtney intrigues me.  She’s something of an enigma.  In middle school, she was the queen bee.  She was “that girl,” the one that half the girls worshiped and the other half hated.  She “dated” all the middle-school jocks, and probably went further with them than I’ve ever gone with a girl.  And she threw that all away a few weeks into high school when she started liking me.  It’s something I’ll probably never understand.  The girls who like jocks hate her for betraying them, the girls who like skaters hated her before because that’s what people of different social classes do.  When she began obsessing over me, some of the skater girls continued to hate her, and some of them tried to accept her.  I’m not sure how that worked out…  I hope the girl has some friends, honestly I do.  Everyone deserves friends.  Even crazy girls who dress all slutty and stalk skaters.
School gets out at 3:30, and for the second day in a row I have to ditch my friends in order to make it back to Baker Street by four.  The guys give me crap but don’t ask about it.  Have I mentioned how much I love my friends?
The receptionist lady, bless her soul, greets me as I walk in.  “Hello, Mr. Mitchell.  Mr. Burnes requests that you ascend to his office.  Fourth floor, if you’ve forgotten.”
I thank her and head up.  As a last thought, just before the doors open to let me out on the fourth floor, I pull off my flat brim and stuff it into my backpack.
Mr. Burnes looks up from his laptop as I knock on the ajar door of his office.  A small smile touches his lips.  “Tyler.” I flinch.  “I’m very pleased to see you.  Come in.” I obey.  “Sit down, Tyler.” I flinch again and obey.  “I read your sister’s story today.  I must say, I’m awfully glad you’re sticking to our agreement, because I would hate for Lucy to be out of the running.  She has talent.” He eyes me, seeing if I have anything to say.  I don’t; the proud smile on my face says it all.  “Of course, I’m only one of three judges, and maybe I’m being prejudiced, because I feel this is very important to you, if not her, and it seems like you’ve got her best interests at heart.”
I nod.
“Forgive me, but I really would like to know…her story seems very specific, seems to capture the vicissitudes of life better than an eleven-year-old could come up with through imagination alone.  Is Lucy’s story based on real life?”
I stare at the wall behind his head for a while, avoiding eye contact and squirming a little.  I feel like that in itself is almost enough of an answer, but Mr. Burnes seems to want a spoken response, so at long last, I quietly say, “Yeah.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes.
“Then I’m terribly sorry about your parents, Tyler.”
I flinch.
I hope he doesn’t bring up my uncle.  After all, the abuse is all portrayed as fighting that medieval characters would actually engage in—jousting tournaments and the like.
I spend the next few hours doing menial tasks for Mr. Burnes like shredding papers and running down the block to get him a Caramel Macchiato from Starbucks.  He lets me keep the change.
Around seven he says I’m free to go, and he hopes he’ll see me again tomorrow.  I skate home in high spirits, taking the long way.

I tell Cal about my plan later that night, and he says nothing.  For a few minutes he just stares at his hands, and then he hugs me.  It’s a gruff hug, but my big bro isn’t too keen on showing affection, so I appreciate it.  After doing a little homework, I’m so exhausted that I figure I might as well go to sleep even though it’s not nine o’clock yet.  As I lay in bed, I feel a deep sense of inner peace and satisfaction that I haven’t felt in years.  I am saving Lucy, I think.  I am saving Lucy.

The following day, school passes much the same as the previous until eighth period.  It’s modern world, and we’re alphabetically assigned partners to discuss whatever we’re learning about.  I hate this class because we’re ALWAYS alphabetically assigned partners, which means I’m ALWAYS with Courtney, her last name being Michalak.  I swear she like pays the teacher to do it or something.  As usual, Mr. McDonald asks for a few groups to volunteer to work in the hall, and as usual Courtney raises her hand, and as usual he chooses her.  So, hefting my text book, I follow her into the hall, and she leads me as far away from the other groups as possible.
Sliding my back down the wall till I’m seated on the floor, I open the book to a random page and set in on the floor next to me, hoping Courtney will stay on the other side of the book.  She doesn’t, of course, stepping over me instead of taking like three steps to get around me, and giving me a nice glimpse up her skirt.  She sits next to me but of course we don’t do any modern world.  She does what she always does: talks about nothing.  Rambling on and on about her friends (I really am glad she has some.  She mentions a few names I recognize as skater chicks, so I mentally congratulate everyone on that.) and smoothies and this movie she saw last Friday and mostly homecoming, all the while pressing her hand into my leg.  It started at my knee and for about ten minutes has been sliding slowly upwards, until it gets dangerously close and at last I can’t take it anymore, so I stand up, saying I have to piss.
The nearest bathroom is a floor up, and I take my time getting there.  As I’m rounding the corner at the top of the stairs, I run into someone.  I mean, we literally run into each other.  I’m coming around the corner and can’t see and she’s holding a stack of books taller than herself so she can’t see each either.  The girl topples backwards, her stack of books falling around her.
“Ahh, sorry, I di—“ and then I see who it is.  “Tessa,” I say.
She looks up at me from the ground, wadding her over-long sleeves into her fists.  “Oh my god.  I always see you at the most embarrassing times.”
“Hey, don’t worry ‘bout it,” I say, kneeling next to her.  “My fault. What’re you doing with all these anyway?” I ask as I start to stack them back up.
“Getting them for Ms. Brown.”
I examine one of the covers.  “’To Kill a Mockingbird’? I think we just finished this in English.  Doesn’t Ms. Brown teach sophomores?”
She nods.
I whistle, impressed.  “In our little introduction, you failed to mention that you get good grades in sophomore classes.”
She shrugs.  “It’s not really important.  What’re you doing up here, anyway? Another headache?” she asks with a slight smirk. 
Giving a short laugh, I answer, “Nah.  Just avoiding my psycho modern world partner.  Here, lemme help you carry these back to Brown.”
Her hesitation is brief, and together we head down to the basement where Ms. Brown’s room is located.  I stop outside the door to her classroom and Tessa takes the books back.  Even though I oppose segregation, I can’t deny that it does go on, and for me to be seen by her whole class helping her would bring no joy to either of us.  I do still plan to do something about our messed up social classes, but that’s number four on my list, and I still haven’t gotten through number one.  Before Tessa turns away, we make brief eye contact.  “Thanks again for helping me,” she says. 
“Again, it was my pleasure.”
I trudge back up to where Courtney’s waiting.  “I missed you,” she gushes upon my arrival, and then starts talking about homecoming again.  I say nothing, just sit down and ignore her for the rest of the period.  My thoughts are elsewhere.

Today when I beg out of skating again, I get a few comments, but neither Lotto nor Nolan asks any outright questions, though I know it’s only a matter of time.  Putting that thought out of my head, I head down my now well-worn path to Baker Street.
Mr. Burnes starts out today by asking how I am.  It may have been the first time in years that someone other than a shrink has posed that question to me and meant it, and I haven’t seen one of those in ages.  “Ummm,” I say, because that’s just how eloquent of a kid I am.  “I’m fine, I guess.”
“If you say so.”  He matches up all his fingertips again and surveys me over them. 
“Um, sir?” I ask.  I don’t really like talking to adults, but this guy seems genuinely nice, so I figure might as well.
“Yes, Tyler?”
I flinch.  “I was just wondering who’s like, sponsoring the contest.  Like who’s paying the prizes and scholarships and stuff?”
“My company.”
“Uh, what exactly is your company?”
“Financial investing.”
“Oh.”  I have no idea what that is.  “Is it like an annual thing?”
“No, although I do hope it becomes one.  It was my niece who inspired me to start it, actually.  Your sister reminds me of her, as a matter of fact.  Very bright girl.  Her parents died just three years ago.  It was very hard on her, but she lives with me now, and seems to be doing better.  She loves to write.  Very bright girl.  So I decided I’d start this contest so that kids who don’t have enough money to get to where they dream of going in life can get there.”
I nod.
“What are you, Tyler, a junior?”
“Sophomore,” I answer with a flinch.
He nods slowly.  “She’s about your age, then.  Freshman.”
That concludes our little talk for today, and then I spend the next three hours doing much the same as I did yesterday.  The same process is repeated for the next two days.  On Saturday, I’m in Mr. Burnes office at ten am sharp, as requested.  Today, I have another question.
“Mr. Burnes?”
He smiles, which by now I know is a sign to go on.  “What if…have you…um.  Have you ever had to do something you know is wrong?”
“That’s a vague question, Tyler.”
I don’t really know how I can specify without making it obvious what I’m going to do on Monday, but I try my best.  “Like…something that would get you in trouble? And you don’t wanna do it but doing it’s better than dealing with the consequences of not doing it?”
He matches up his fingers and leans back in his chair, no longer smiling.  “It seems like you’ve got yourself a predicament, young man.”
I give a slight nod.
  “I have to admit, Tyler, I’ve grown to quite like you.  You seem like a hardworking, earnest boy, who is trying to help his sister.  I don’t want to see you get in trouble.”
Shoulda known some middle-aged dude wouldn’t have been able to help.  Looks like I’m on my own, as always.

“What up?”
“Hey, Nolan.  Uhh…listen.  I need your help with something.”
“What?”
“There’s just…this thing I gotta do.”
“Sounds ominous.” He laughs.
“You have seventh period study hall, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I need a diversion tomorrow.  Outside Mr. LaScala’s room.  During seventh period.”
I can hear the smile in my friend’s voice as he replies, “Mi cuate, you have come to the right place.  What kinda diversion we talkin’ here?”
“Anythin’ to get LaScala outta his room.”
“How long you need him out?”
“Not long.  Jus’ a minute or two.”
“I got you covered.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Of course.” He hesitates.  “You’re not gonna tell me what this is about, are you?”
I suck in a long breath and let it out.  “No.”
Nolan’s only quiet for a minute.  “I trust you, bro.  One diversion for Mr. L, Monday morning, coming right up.”
I thank him again.
“Me n Lotto’ve been missin’ you, man.  When can you skate again?”
“Soon, I hope.”
“Ayite, man.  Look, good luck…with whatever you’re doing.”
For the third time in as many minutes, I thank him.  Then we hang up and I head to Baker Street for another day of menial tasks and Macchiatos.  I gotta admit, the man’s growing on me, and apparently I on him.  As I work, he chats about his wife, his niece, his two sons, his job, the sports he follows and the teams he supports, what he wanted to be when he grew up when he was younger (an astronaut).  I mostly just nod, grateful for the white noise.  It helps sooth my nerves about what I’ve got to do tomorrow.

Breathe, I remind myself. 
Messing with a teacher’s grade book is an expellable offense.
Breathe.
Seventh period started ten minutes ago.  I want Nolan to get here already so I can get this over with, but at the same time I’m almost hoping he’ll bail.  I can’t even think about what would happen if I get myself expelled.  Mr. LaScala drones on but I’m too wired to concentrate.  Maybe something happened to Nolan and now—
CRASH.
All the heads in the classroom jerk up.
Mr. LaScala clears his throat.  “Just a locker closing, back to—“
CRASH.  Again.  Louder.
I hear a strangled cry from outside and know it’s Nolan.  As Mr. LaScala hurries as fast as his old-man legs will take him to the door, the rest of us crane our necks for a glimpse out of it.  I see Nolan, clutching his throat and crashing into lockers as hard as he can with his eyes all bugged out and this weird look on his face.  Mr. L finally makes it out the door and slams it behind him.  There’s a pause, and then every person is out of their seat, fighting for a view of what’s going on in the hallway.
Except me, of course.  I scramble over to the teacher’s desk and find the grade book sitting on top of his desk, open to our class.  How’s that for a gift from a god? Or a curse from the devil, depending on whether or not I get caught.  No one’s noticed; they’re all too fixated on the scene outside.  I flip back through the pages until I find Brad’s name on the second period page.  My hands are shaking so badly I can hardly hold my pencil, but I concentrate and manage to turn the five into an eight.  Fumbling with the book, I get it back to the page he left it open to, and quickly join the crowd pressed against the door.  Mr. LaScala holding Nolan to him from behind, trying to give him the Heimlich. 
I make a mental note to buy Nolan a lifetime supply of ice cream or strippers or something.  He deserves it.
My friend feigns hacking something up, and then he makes a big show of hugging Mr. LaScala, who points him in the direction of the nurse.  Mr. L. then hobbles back towards his classroom, and we all rush away from the door.  As I slide into my seat, my pulse is racing.  My heart feels like an abducted twelve-year-old girl, pounding as hard as it can on my chest, desperately trying to escape.  He’s going to figure it out, I know it.  He’ll find me out and I’ll get expelled and won’t be able to go to school anywhere and then I’ll never get out of this hell hole.
I’m fidgety for the rest of the period as we work on problems while Mr. L. sits at his desk, and then finally the bell rings.  Just as I’m about to bolt, Mr. LaScala raises his skeletal hand.  He says the ONE THING I’m hoping to all the gods of every religion EVER doesn’t come out of his mouth.
“Tyler Mitchell, if I could see you after class.”
My stomach drops through the floor.
While the rest of the class files out the door, I trudge toward the teacher’s desk.
“Sit, Mr. Mitchell.” He indicates the desk closest to his.  I lower myself into it.  Mr. LaScala wastes no time.
I received an anonymous note last week that you would be tampering with my gradebook sometime in the near future.”
I am silent, staring at the corner of his desk. 
“However, I saw the student who left it: Brad Runger.”
THAT.  BACK-STABBING.  BASTARD.
I shoulda known.
He pauses to see if I have anything to say.  I don’t.
“I assumed it was your own grade you’d be changing, though this made little sense to me, as you have a solid B in my class.  So every day I checked all the grades in my grade book.  I was beginning to think you weren’t going to do it, that the note had been a fake.  Just a prank on an old man.”
I still haven’t made eye contact.
“And then, today.  It would be your perfect opportunity, but your grade still was unchanged.  I checked my other classes, thinking perhaps you intended on helping out a friend.  Imagine my surprise when the changed grade was none other than Brad Runger’s.”
I burn with shame.  It’s as good as a confession.
I can almost see my world crashing down around me.
“It took me a few minutes to figure out what must have happened, but I think I got it.  I’ve been around this school, this town, a very long time.  You think I haven’t noticed the groups? The separation? On the contrary, it is painfully obvious to me.  All I have to do is look at the way Brad dresses and the way you dress, and immediately it is clear to me that the two of you cannot be friends.  Why, then, would you change his grade? Unless forced to.  Blackmailed.  Why, then, would he tip me off and risk an F in my class? For surely if I caught you, I would never allow the change to remain.  So he must want you to get caught.  To be expelled.  Do you have anything to say, Tyler? Is this correct?”
I just flinch.
“I’m not sure what to do.  On the one hand, of course I cannot tolerate tampering.  On the other, I cannot tolerate coercion and blackmail either.  On one foot, I have no proof of that.  On the other, I could have it looked into.  I’m sure there are plenty of witnesses.  The way I see it, I have two choices: catch you or not catch you.”
I jerk my head up.  I’d assumed I was caught…
Mr. LaScala’s eyes get all sad.  “I am not a young man, Mr. Mitchell.  My time left here on earth is extremely limited.  I…”  He puts his frail hands on his desk and leans forward, compelling me to meet his intense gaze at last.  “I am voting for the underdog, here, Tyler.  That’s you.  I’ve spoken to several of your teachers, and none of them expect you to even graduate, let alone actually succeed in life.  Remember what I talked to you about the other day? Fulfilling stereotypes? Brad is a whole new story.  Everyone knows he’ll get a football scholarship to some prestigious school and probably end up being a millionaire, and he’ll do it by doing exactly what he’s doing now—stepping on the smaller guy.  I WANT you to do well, Tyler.”
And that’s when I look away, because he’s going to give me the same old speech I’ve heard a dozen times—from my parents before they died, from various shrinks after, and from the principal a couple times after getting in fights.
But what he says next sounds nothing like what they’d said, and I meet his eyes once more.
“Oh, I don’t care how you do in school.  I couldn’t care less if you turn out to be a doctor or not.  To me, success cannot be measured by a number or a letter.  Neither can happiness.  And really, I think those two things are almost synonymous: success and happiness.  No, synonymous is the wrong word.  But I think that if you’re successful in what you do and enjoy doing it, then you’ll be happy.  And if you’re happy, that will lead to more success in your life.  They are linked.  So when I say I want you to do well, I’m not talking about grades.  I’m talking about happiness.  I’ve seen you ride away after school like that piece of wood between you and the ground is the only thing keeping you sane.  If skateboarding is what makes you happy, then Tyler, DO IT.  If kissing girls makes you happy, then Tyler, DO IT.  Call me crazy, but somehow I don’t think that getting in fights all the time and risking expulsion for the antagonist is what makes you happy.  Brad Runger does not want you to be happy.  He does not want you to succeed.  None of your teachers believe you can.  Aren’t you dying to prove them wrong?”
He leans back in his chair and begins writing me a pass, because I’m going to be late to modern world.  However, he never breaks eye contact, and keeps right on talking.
“As I mentioned before, I have little time left.  Forty years ago, when I was a strapping young man of thirty-six, I beat thyroid cancer.  A year ago, it came back in my bones.  The doctors gave me six months to live. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to have been given all these extra days.  But having a time limit set on my life really put things in perspective.  And I can honestly say that one of the most terrifying moments of my entire life was when I looked back and realized I had not truly lived.
“So I encourage you now, Tyler, to LIVE.  Do not do as I have done, letting things take their course.  I grew up here in Redfield, and though things were a bit different, the main feel of the town has not changed a bit.  There are still social classes among children, where social classes have no right to be.  I’ve lived here my entire life and never tried to do anything about it. I can tell you that I regret that more than anything. 
“I listened to a Tupac album once.  Two lines really stuck to me.  One was ‘Death is not the greatest loss in life.  The greatest loss is what dies inside while still alive.  Never surrender.’ The other was ‘I’m not saying I’m gonna change the world, but I can guarantee I will spark the mind that will.’  That’s what I’m going for, Tyler.  I wish I had done something significant, something to change the corrupted way things are, but since I failed to do so, I am hoping now that you can, in memory of me.”
He hands me the pass.  “Get to class, Tyler.”

Courtney follows me from eighth period to my locker, where Brad is loitering with three or four cronies.  We face off, his posse forming a defensive wall around him, and Courtney clinging to my arm.
Brad gives me a slow smile.  “Congratulations.  You did it.”
“Did what?” Courtney loudly whispers at me.  “What’s he—“
“Shut it, slut,” the dick snarls.  I feel bad.  Normally, the two of them would be in the same social class, him being a dick—I mean, jock—and her being a slut—I mean, cheerleader.  But since she’s devoted her life to following me around, she’s lost all her status among “that” crowd.  The crowd that is often referred to as the “popular” crowd at other schools, for no good reason—you know the types.  The big athletic guys and the anorexic fake blond chicks.  The one good thing about the student population in Redfield is that we realize that there is not just one set of popular people.  Because in other schools, those people often labeled as popular are just feared by their minions and openly hated by everyone else.  So here, there are no designated populars, because we acknowledge that each clique has some people who are liked better than others.
Anyway, Courtney shrinks back but doesn’t fully retreat.  She knows it’s her own doing that’s caused Brad and his people to hate her, and apparently she doesn’t care.  Props to her, I guess.
“So, did the ol’ geezer catch you?”
I know that Brad had friends/spies in my class, so I know he knows that I’d had to talk to Mr. L. after class.  And he knows I know.
“No,” I say.
He makes an exaggerated inquisitive face.  “Is that so?”
“Yeah.  I mean, he complained at me about not doing homework and sleeping again in class and stuff, but he didn’t mention the other thing.”
I can practically see the wheels in his head turning.  “Well, good,” he manages to come up with.  And then he swaggers away.
As soon as Brad and co. are out of sight, Courtney turns to me.  “I was going to ask what that was all about, but then I realized I don’t actually care.”
“Oh.”
“So some friends of mine are having this party on Saturday…”
“Can’t.  Sorry.”
She pouts, and the next several minutes are spent with her coming up with reasons why I should go to the party, and me telling her no.  Finally, I glance at my phone.  “Ah, crap.  I’m late.”
“Late for what?” Courtney starts to ask, but I’m already down the hall.
 

As I head over to Baker Street, Mr. LaScala’s words echo inside my head.  At first I think about how I can’t do what he wants until I save myself and Lucy, because those are higher priorities on the list.  Then I think about how I’d never really talked to Mr. L. before aside from giving the occasional answer in class and that random detention, and it was weird that he’d given me that talk, that mission.  Typical adult, he is, I figure.  Whenever something’s wrong with the world, they always blame the kids.  Our generation.  They must forget whose generation raised them.  They always want us to fix everything.  Whenever there’s a problem, it’s always oh, teach my kids how to do it, or train my kids for that.  Never is it oh please teach me, train me.  When the obesity rates in America were too high, the adults all said to make the kids healthier.  They made less of an effort to make themselves healthier.  Then I wondered if Mr. LaScala had ever gotten married and had kids, or if he was looking at me as a kind of surrogate grandson right now, and in his will he’d written “I leave you happiness, for the small exchange of changing the world.”

Mr. Burnes is awaiting my arrival with steepled fingers.
“Good afternoon, Tyler.”
I flinch/nod.  “And you, sir.”
“Please sit.”
Doing so, I wonder what this is about.  Mr. Burnes seems more formal than he’s been in days, and I’m hoping this has nothing to do with what happened at school.
“I’ve given this some thought, and I think that this arrangement has been beneficial for both of us.  I really appreciate the help, and you haven’t gotten in any fights, although that might be just coincidence.  Regardless, I was hoping you’d consider working here?”
“Working…like a job?” Didn’t see that one coming.
He looks bemused.  “Yes.  ‘Like’ a job.  Not every day, just three days a week.  Not as long as we’d previously been doing, either.  From four-thirty to six-thirty, I was thinking.  I couldn’t pay you a full salary, but ten dollars an hour.  What do you say?”
I do some quick mental math.  Ten dollars an hour, two hours a day, three days a week—that’s sixty dollars a week!  “Yes, absolutely, sir, that’d be incredible.” Plus I’ll have an hour and a half or so to skate after school those three days, and full-time all the other days, so the guys can get off my case.
Mr. Burnes smiles over his fingertips.  “Excellent.”  He leans back.  “Well then, now that that’s out of the way, how are you doing?”
“Good.  I mean, well.” My misuse of grammar irked Mr. Burnes.  “I am good.  I am doing well.  How are you, sir?”
He smiles at me.  “I am fantastic.  And I have news for you.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Your sister won.”
It doesn’t sink in.  Rather, it sort of bounces off.  “Sorry, what?”
“Lucy.  She won the writing contest.  She’ll be leaving for Boston on Wednesday.”
“Oh my god.  Thank you.  Thank you so much.” My breathing is all fast and the room starts spinning but I’m laughing and then suddenly there are tears in my eyes and Mr. Burnes comes around the desk and grips my shoulder as I repeat “She’s going.  She made it.  She won.  She’s going.” And he just smiles and says, “Yes, Tyler.”

I skate home on cloud nine.  I can’t believe it.  I actually did it.  I found a way to get Lucy out and I tried and it worked and now she’s free.  Almost.  Only a day and a half away.  I can’t believe it.
“Whadda you smilin’ at?” My uncle’s rough voice meets me at the door.
“What? Nothing,” I respond, still smiling.  I try to pass through the entryway peacefully but his hand latches onto my collar.  I set my board and backpack down just before he swings me around into the wall.
“I asked what you were smilin’ about, you cheeky little bastard!”
I exhale, smile long gone.  I know it’s better to hold my tongue.  But of course, this infuriates dear Uncle Richie, and he swipes the hand not pinning me against the wall across my face.  Though I feel his nails tear into my skin, I know he did no serious damage.
From the kitchen, I hear the sounds of three chairs scraping against the floor.  That’ll be Cal, to come help me, Lucy, wanting to come help me, and Jamie, stopping her.  Mason’s probably passed out somewhere, I think bitterly.  Sure enough, Cal appears at the kitchen door. 
“Uncle Rich,” he says, loud and clear, “let Tyler go.”
Of course Cal knows our uncle won’t listen, but he provides me with enough opportunity to drive a knee into Uncle’s thigh, just above his knee.  This causes him to sink to the floor with a grunt, and I step around him, collecting my things, and head to the kitchen.
Jamie’s kneeling on the floor next to Lucy’s chair, an arm stretched out to prevent her leaving and being harmed by Uncle Rich.  I clap him on the back, grateful, and he gives me a nod, standing.  I wrap my little sister in my arms.  “Hey, kiddo.”
“Hi,” she says.
“So listen,” I say, crouching down so our eyes are at the same level.  “I got some big news.”
Her eyes encourage me to go on, so I take a deep breath.  “You won…” I’m surprised at the catch in my voice.  After clearing my throat and swallowing hard, I continue.  “That writing contest I told you about.  Lucy, you…you won.”
A smile breaks out on her face.  “I did?”
“Yeah, baby girl.  You did.”
Jamie gives me a curious look from across the kitchen, but I ignore him for the time being.  I guess Cal didn’t tell anyone when I told him.  Lucy stares at me with her big eyes.  “So that means I’m leaving?”
I nod, though it’s almost painful.  “Yeah, Lu.  You’re leaving.”  She flings her little arms around my neck, and I tumble backwards onto the kitchen floor and hug her as hard as I can.  Jamie tosses me another queer look and then leaves, no doubt to go find Cal and ask him what’s going on.
Once Lucy and I get ourselves under control, I manage to tell her that she’s being picked up Wednesday morning before school (in a LIMO, which she’s never seen before, let alone ridden in) by school officials, and they’ll drive her to the airport and accompany her on the three hour flight to the Whitson Academy of Arts in Boston.  We spend a good hour sitting on the kitchen floor, some of it discussing the details of her departure, and some just in silence, soaking up each other’s presence.  The only thing that will be tricky about this whole endeavor will be getting Uncle Richie to sign her release forms, given that he’s her official guardian and everything.  But I’ve already planned out how I’m going to do it: I’ll just pretend they’re physics tests I failed and have to get signed.  I don’t worry about what will happen when he finds out Lucy’s in Boston.  It won’t matter.  She’ll be gone, and it’s not like he’ll care enough to even try to get her back.

“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.”
–Khalil Gibran

Tuesday is the first day I can skate with my friends again in what feels like forever.  Just the thought of it carries me through my day.  My friends are not oblivious to my mood—far from it, in fact.  Lotto slips in a comment about how maybe whatever mauled my face had happy juice on its claws, but I ignore him. 
I’m in such high spirits that I even slip Courtney a wink when I pass her between fifth and sixth period.  Of course, I regret that in eighth period when we’re isolated in the hallway again.  As usual, I slide to the floor and hope she’ll keep her distance, and as usual, she steps over me.  This time, though, she pulls a new move and actually falls on me—she pretends her foot slips out and sinks down.  Her right leg is between my legs and she’s straddling my right leg, hands against my chest.  She lets loose a breathless “oops” and flips her hair back over her shoulders.  I notice her skirt has ridden up, and I can clearly see her bright pink panties.  I also have a glorious view down her shirt.  Though it’s difficult, I force my gaze away as she begins to slide her hands slowly down my chest.  I can’t help that my body reacts the way it does, but Courtney feels it and gives me a sly grin.  She presses her chest into mine, and it takes every single ounce of my willpower not to reciprocate.  Instead of where they want to go, I force my hands to gently grip her upper arms and move her off of me.
Huffy, she pouts for the rest of the period.  I’m grateful for this; it gives me a chance to just lean my head back against the wall and bask in the success of finally saving my little sister.
After school, I fall back into my old routine.  My friends and I skate, get some drinks, loiter around, skate a little more.  I’m starting my new OFFICIAL job tomorrow; Mr. Burnes gave me today to help Lucy pack and see her off.  I haven’t told the guys about Lucy leaving and I don’t plan to.  They just don’t need to know.
My friends give me a little grief about where I’ve been for the past week but don’t push it, for which I’m grateful.  They can tell I’m in high spirits but again, don’t push for answers and reasons.  We all just skate.  When I head home around six, I feel invincible.
Of course, right when I get back to the house, someone just has to go and ruin my mood.  This time, it’s not my uncle—it’s Mason instead.  He went and puked all over the carpet, and no one was around to clean it up.  The place reeks so bad I almost throw up, too, when I walk through the door.  The culprit is passed out on the couch, a few empty cans of beer strewn along it.  I punch the TV off and begin the disgusting work.
Once I finish, I haul myself into the attic to dig up some old suitcases for Lucy.  I find three massive ones, and figure she’ll only need one or two—it’s not like she has that much stuff.  I lug the two nicer ones back down to discover Mason’s awake and drinking again, and Lucy has just been dropped off from her friend’s.  I stow the suitcases on the kitchen table and meet Lucy at the front door with a hug.  Her face is red and tear-streaked—she’d been crying.  I feel like a jerk, uprooting her like this to move to a different state away from all her friends.  But then I remember all the nights Uncle Rich had come home completely wasted and abusive, and what could’ve happened to Lucy if Cal, Jamie, or I hadn’t been there.
I help Lucy pack up all her clothes and books and the few other possessions she owns, even stripping the bed.  She’ll sleep with me tonight.  With a little squeezing, everything fits into one suitcase.  Then Lucy and I sit on her now-bare bed and talk about everything and anything, sobbing a little now and then.  For the majority of the good two hours we spend together, my arm is wrapped around her and her face is buried in my shoulder. 
Around nine o’clock I begin to get worried, because I need those signatures.  What if Uncle doesn’t come home tonight, as happens from time to time? What if he finally crashed, drunk driving? What if—
“WHAT DO I GOTTA DO TO GET SOME GODDAMN FOOD IN THIS GODDAMN HOUSE?!?”
I smile to myself, though of course nothing’s funny.  Planting a kiss on my little sister’s head, I command her, “stay,” and tramp out to the kitchen.
While I’m frying up some food for Uncle Dickhead, I bring up my “tests”.  “Hey, Uncle Rich?”
“The hell d’you want.”
“I failed a couple tests.  I need you to sign ‘em.”
He smirks and scratches his beer gut.  “Dumbass.”
I produce the release forms without further ado, and as I expected, he doesn’t so much as glance at them.  He just scrawls out his sloppy signature and complains about his empty stomach again.  Smiling again, I slip the papers into my waistband, figuring it’s the safest place to store them at the moment.  The motion does not escape my uncle.  “That how your homies taught you to pack your heat?” he asks with a sneer.  I ignore him, just go back to preparing his meal, but he’s not prepared to drop the issue; he keeps up a steady stream of comments about my friends, my morals, what I do with my freetime, etc.  They get gradually more offensive, until I finally slam his plate down in front of him with such force that some of the grease splashes off onto him. 
Of course, he’s gotta completely overreact: he jumps out of his chair, knocking it over backwards and shouting.  “LOOK WHAT YOU DID, YOU IDIOT! YOU BURNED ME, YOU LITTLE SONUVA B****!” I don’t point out he’s calling his own sister a b****—I’m a little preoccupied trying to fend off his punches.  Fortunately, he seems to be more wasted than usual, if that’s even possible.  Unfortunately, his aim is so off it’s almost back on, and he manages to land a solid hit to the side of my head that sends me flying back into the stove.  Me being stupid, I’d left it on. 
“S***—“ is all I manage before my entire left forearm comes in contact with the burning hot appliance.  Then it turns into a scream. And I crumple to the floor.  Call it divine intervention, my uncle decides not to pursue the fight.  I guess giving me third-degree burns is good enough for him.  While I lay on the floor, clutching my arm and moaning in agony, he polishes off the meal I made him, and then staggers from the room.  I think I’m going to explode from the pain I’m in, and I thank god that Lucy stayed in her room.  I don’t want one of her last memories of me to be this one.
Within minutes, I sink into unconsciousness.

“Tyler…c’mon, buddy…c’mon, Tyler…wake up…” Cal’s low voice eases me back into consciousness.  As I let out a soft groan, my right hand flickers to my left arm, but Cal’s hand intercepts mine.  “No, don’t…” his voice catches.  “Don’t touch it.”
“Wssmmmffg,” I slur.
“Sorry?”
“Wuhhtmmzzz.”
“One more time, lil’ bro?”
“Wha’time’s it?”
“Oh.  It’s almost eleven.  I got home an hour ago and you were out.  I tried to clean up your arm, but…”
“But what.”  My voice comes out flat and monotonous, almost disinterested.  At this point I realize what’s wrong—I cannot feel my left arm.  I can’t move it at all, and instead of the all-encompassing pain I should be experiencing, there’s just…nothing.
“It’s not lookin’ too good.” He sets my right hand down on the floor and places his hand on my right shoulder.  For the first time, I open my eyes.  Cal floats into view, all concerned.  In stark contrast to the pitch black around him, his face stands out, pale.  “I did what Google said—washed it, put Vaseline on it, and now you’re supposed to let it air out overnight and then wrap it tomorrow.  So…I guess we’ll just get you to bed then.”
“Lucy,” I remember.
“What? What about her?”
“Won.”
“Won what, Tyler?”
“Writing contest.”
“Wow, that’s great.  Ok, bed—“
“No, she won.  Goin’ to Boston.”
“What, when?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?!?”
“Stuff packed.  No sheets.  Sleeping with me.”  I reach into my waistband and pull out the papers.  They’re a little damp from sweat, but other than that they’re fine.  “Release forms.”
Cal rocks back onto his heels and cradles his head in his hands.  “Oh my god,” he moans.  But he hasn’t kept his sanity by letting every little thing that pops up set him back.  He pulls himself together.  “Ok.  Ok, cool.  Lucy moving states tomorrow.  Ok.  I’ll get you in bed first, and then get her.  Up we go.”  With that, he slides one arm under my shoulders and the other under my legs and hoists me into the air.  I almost black out again on the short trip from the kitchen into the bedroom, where he deposits me into his bed.  “I’ll take the top.  Hang on, I’ll get Lucy.  You stay put.”
Like I have a choice.
When my brother returns, he’s leading Lucy by the hand.  From the looks of her, she hasn’t slept a wink.  She begins climbing into bed next to me, but freezes when she catches sight of my arm.  “What happened?” she whispers in a horrified tone.
“Don’t worry about me, Lu.  I’ll be fine.” I stretch out my good arm and she curls against my right side.  “Get some sleep, baby girl.  You got yourself a big day tomorrow.”
“I know.  I love you, Tyler.”
“I love you, too, Lucy.”

The cruel morning dawns far too soon.  I have a momentary panic attack because I can’t feel either of my arms, but then I realize I can’t feel the right because Lucy cut off the circulation, is all.  Groggily, she opens her eyes.
“G’morning.”
“Morning.”
There’s an awful sense of finality to everything as we both climb out of bed and prepare for our days.  Cal’s in the kitchen cooking up breakfast, so Jamie has to help me dress.  He doesn’t ask about my arm, but he turns a light shade of green at the sight of it.  I know he knows his father did this. 
The arm in question is red and black and raw and slimy and revolting and I can’t stand to look at it for more than a couple seconds at a time while I wrap it.  I ignore the fact that I’ll never receive proper medical attention for this, because it would merit an explanation I don’t have, aside from the truth.  And the truth, obviously, is unacceptable; I can’t just go around telling authority figures that my legal guardian is an abusive addict who punched me into a stove.  No, that wouldn’t go over too well.  So I also disregard the knowledge that I may never have full or even partial use of this arm again.
Instead, I focus all my energy on Lucy.  I double- and triple-check that she has every single thing she’ll need.  I calm her nerves.  She calms mine.  I make sure she eats a big breakfast, and she does the same for me.  There’s no ‘school phone’ except for emergencies (which I think is dumb, because even though the older kids will have cell phones, there are hundreds of younger kids, too), but I promise I’ll write her as often as possible.  When the limo arrives, all too soon, to pick her up, I try not to completely lose it. 
It’s a near thing.
If you give someone a piece of your heart but then they leave, they take it with them, right? So does that hole left in your heart stay there forever?
And when I stand on the cracked driveway watching one of the only people I’ve ever cared about in my life be driven away, I know that the only good thing that will come of this arrangement is me finally being able to free myself from this awful place, now that one and two are checked off my list.
Of course, I have no idea how the hell I’m gonna do that, but I’ll take it one step at a time.
So I get on my board and I go to school.

“Jesus, man.”
“What?”
“We left you alone before, but this is different.  This is serious.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, Tyler.  It is.”
I shake my head.
Nolan and Lotto stand shoulder-to-shoulder, arms crossed, glaring at me.
“Ok, look.  We get that your uncle or your cousin or one of your brothers is like abusive or something.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Lotto cuts me off.  “Just shut up.  We know it, so don’t even try to think up an excuse.  It’s obvious.  We won’t say anything to anyone.  And we didn’t mention anything to you about it before because it seemed like you were handling your life.  Not handling your life WELL all the time, but still handling it.  But this…” he gestures at my arm.  “This is too far.”
And now I regret showing them a peak of my arm when they wouldn’t let up about why it was wrapped and what happened and blah blah blah.  Because they don’t seem intent on dropping it. 
“Seriously, man.  This is some deep s***.”  That was Lotto.  Such an impressive vocabulary at times.
Exasperated, I throw up my mobile arm.  “What d’you even wanna know?”
“Just an explanation would be nice.  We’ve been friends for how many years now?”
I shrug.  “Fine.  Whatever.  I walked into the stove.”
My friends give me such acerbated looks that I almost laugh.  Too bad there’s nothing funny about the situation. 
“People don’t just WALK INTO STOVES, Tyler.”
Again, my signature shrug.  “Well, I did.”
They lean back, agitated, but not far enough for me to escape the narrow alcove in which they’ve cornered me.  “Look…” Nolan starts, but I cut him off.
“No.  YOU look.  It’s my arm.  It has nothing to do with you.  I just burned it, that’s all.  It’s not a big deal.  Please, just drop it.”
I can tell it’s painful for them to do so, but they do.  That’s why I love them.  The bell rings, so the three of us bump fists and mumble “see you at lunch,” which is still two periods away.  The hours blur by like so many do, making a mockery of life.  The sun shines almost obnoxiously brightly through the window, as if to enforce that it’s out there and we’re locked up in here, and we have no way of reaching it.
After seventh period, I’m feeling wound up.  I’m happy about Lucy being in a better place, but I miss her already and I know the house will be a lot emptier without her.  I’m also freaking out about my arm.  I still can’t feel it, can’t move it, can’t anything.  I decide to take a few minutes off.  Like that day I first met Tessa, I slip out a little-used door and plop down into the grass in the exact same spot.
I lay back.  It feels like years ago that she crashed through those double doors.  Incredible, really, when I realize all that’s happened between then and now.  As I recall the conversation we had that day, I remember something with a jolt: today’s my birthday.
I sit up.  Huh.  I’m sixteen.
I guess I should do something, like tell my friends and get a cake and crap.  Not gonna lie, though, I’m not in the mood.  I lay back down, content to laze away the last forty-five minutes of school.  It’s my birthday, after all.  I figure I deserve it.
My phone buzzes right next to my face, scaring the pants off me.  I must’ve fallen asleep because it’s the location text: this parking lot a few blocks over.  I try to pick up my hat from where it’d fallen with my left arm, but that obviously doesn’t work.  Depressed now, I swipe up my hat in my functional hand and jam it onto my head, trudging back into school to retrieve my board from my locker.
I’m just about to head out again when a pair of double D’s pin me against the row of lockers.
“Tyler!” Courtney’s voice is all breathless.  “I was looking for you all day! Happy birthdayyyyy!!” She draws out the word in that annoying way only teenage girls can do.
“Thanks…”
Her face is right up in mine.  “Do you feel older?” She gives me a seductive once-over.  “You look older.” She winks and brushes her hand across my stomach, dangerously low.
I put my hand on her shoulder and detach her from me.  “Uh, thanks.  Listen, I gotta go…”
Hands on hips, she pouts.  “Will you be in eighth tomorrow? I missed you.”
“Um, probably.  Yeah. I dunno.  See ya.”
I weave out of the hallway and take to the streets, dodging joggers and bikers and cars and jerks.  When I’m on my board, that’s the only time I can really breathe.  I’m so…free.  I wish I could just skate forever, never have to go back to my house, just skate and skate and skate...
The words Mr. LaScala said to me keep bouncing around in my head.  “If skateboarding is what makes you happy, then Tyler, DO IT.”  The man was onto something.
I meet up with the guys and we mess around for forty-five minutes or so, while a couple skater chicks I’ve hung with a few times lounge around, smoking and watching us.  Needless to say, we enjoy the attention.  I beg out when I know I’ll have to leave or risk being late for Mr. Burnes.
The time I spend with him passes quickly; it’s repetitive work, but not in a bad way.  He thankfully doesn’t mention my arm.  We talk about nothing as I perform his menial tasks.  The only thing different about today is that this time, I leave with a crisp twenty dollar bill in my pocket.  Mr. Burnes had begun writing me a check, but then he asked if I even had a bank account, to which I replied truthfully: I had no freaking idea.  If I did, I thought to myself, it was probably empty.
I take my sweet time getting back to the house, knowing that if Uncle Rich is there, he’ll be pissed.  And sure enough, just as I open the door, he appears.  Just like clockwork.  He does the usual, yelling at first, then escalating.  It’s when I’m on the floor with his knees in my gut and his fists in my face that I realize something: I don’t have to take this.
It all falls into place at once.  I’ve never liked living here.  The only reason I stayed was for Lucy, and now she’s gone.  Safe.  So what’s holding me back?
Nothing.
I force my body to go limp, so my uncle quickly looses interest in his sick game.  As he stumbles off of me and back into the kitchen, I stand up and walk into my bedroom.  I dump most of the crap out of my backpack, leaving some school stuff, and fill it with a couple changes of clothes, my phone, and my phone charger.  This place is usually empty during the day; I can always come back if I need something.  All the money I have to my name is the twenty dollars in my pocket and a little loose change.
Imagine this: all your life you had to read a book every day.  Ever since you were a kid and learned how to read, you plugged through one novel between sun up and sun down.  But then one day, you had read all of the books in the world.  So what did you do now? You could do anything; you had freedom you’d never had before.  That one day, you just woke up and reached for a book that wasn’t there, and that had never happened before in your whole entire life, so at first you don’t know what to do. 
That’s how I feel now.  Suddenly…I’m free.
I don’t have to live this messed up life anymore.  I don’t have to put up with being beat up by my guardian on a near-daily basis.  I can leave.
Walking back downstairs, I feel incredibly calm.  In the kitchen, Mason and Uncle Rich are fighting about something, but it’s like I can’t even hear them.  I just open the fridge and take out an Arnold Palmer, I grab a slightly bruised apple off the counter and a granola bar from the cabinet.  Jamie asks me something but it’s like I’m deaf.  I just tread back to the front door, pick up my board, and leave.

I still kind of can’t believe it.  I can go anywhere, anywhere at all.  I don’t even have to go to school tomorrow; I could leave this town.  Just skate forever, like I wanted to earlier.  So that’s what I do for a while—I skate.  Up and down streets, through allies, parking lots, wherever.   
Around eleven I text Nolan and Lotto to see if they wanna tag.  They both reply in the affirmative, so I skate circles around our meeting place until midnight arrives.  I’m still so hyped over my new freedom that I feel invincible, so I suggest we tag somewhere challenging.  Nolan’s always up for an adventure and Lotto’s a little drunk, so they both agree readily.  We skate a few blocks with no destination, and then I come up with one.  Picking up our boards (the sound of skateboards is quite contrastful to the silence of the night.  It’s obnoxious.  People would know from a mile around where we are, and that’s not what we want.), we walk over to the Park. 
The Park is this massive area that some rich guy donated to Redfield.  Officially named the Johnson Harmony Recreational Park, it’s the nicest place in town.  There’s a bunch of fields where moms send their kids to play sports when they want them to stay out of trouble, a little artificial pond where grandpas take their grandkids to do some catch-and-release fishing, a small dog park, a band shell where choirs and school bands perform, and a shady pavilion where girl scouts have picnics. 
In other words, people like me never go there.
Surrounding the whole place is a stone wall, which is ten feet high on the side that borders the woods, tapers down to six feet on the two short sides, and drops to three feet on the other long side, the side open to traffic, with a nice wooden gate for an entrance. 
It’s untouched, but we’re about to fix that.
What with the Park being the classiest, cleanest space in our whole town, people like to keep it nice.  There are whole organizations of moms with too much time on their hands and kids trying to kiss up to society who dedicate their Saturday afternoons to picking up the trash, washing the wall, etc.
But that’s not a problem.  We have permanent paint. 
“Let’s hit it hard,” I say.  “We gotta go big, or it won’t be worth it.”
Nolan eyes me.  “You know I’m down.  But why you so up for this all of a sudden? I mentioned it a couple times and you always shot it down.”
I shrug.  “Guess I just never had the balls until now.”  But really, I just realized that I have absolutely nothing to lose.
Both of my friends clap me on the back.  “Atta boy,” Lotto says.  “Knew ya’d come around.”
We hop over the three-feet-tall section of the wall, and creep to the back of the Park and the highest part of the wall, avoiding the periodic street lamps that stud the ground.  Fanning out, Lotto takes the left section of the wall, I take the middle, and Nolan goes right.  I’m feeling so cocky that I don’t even suggest someone takes watch.  As I shake the spray cans Lotto provided, I wait for inspiration to strike me.  I’ve got a stretch of wall that’s ten feet high and over thirty feet long, and I intend to fill all of it.
The art (that’s how I think of graffiti—art.  And it is.  Do you think anyone could pick up a spray can and make something cool? Hell no.  Probably not even one in ten people could do it.  It takes skill.) sort of just flows from somewhere inside of me.  When I’m finished, it reads “SOCIETY BLOWS, BRAD RUNGER IS GAY, F*** YOU ALL, HAVE A NICE DAY.”
I love it.
I add some shading, background, little details. 
When I finish, I take a step back and admire my work with an enormous grin, then I survey the others’.  Lotto did a graphic illustration of a m/f/m threesome with the caption “f*** this,” (punny lil’ guy) and Nolan wrote THIS TOWN: “I have never known a more vulgar expression of betrayal and deceit.” –Lucien Bouchard.
Overall, I think it’s spectacular.

The glory of our success is fresh in the air as we settle down on the floor of Lotto’s room.  Nolan picks at a thread of carpet and begins to chuckle.
“What?” asks Lotto.
“How come we never did that before?”
Lotto and I shrug.
“That was INSANE,” Lotto says.  “WE’RE insane.  That was awesome.  Holy mother of guacamole, that was awesome.”
“I can’t wait until tomorrow,” I add with a grin.
Nolan and Lotto break into laughter.  “Tomorrow!” Lotto exclaims.  “Tomorrow.  I bet it’ll be all over the news.”
“But won’t they have to black part of it out? I mean, they can’t put swears in the papers, can they?” Nolan asks.
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“I bet they won’t show the ‘gay’, either.  It’s probably ‘politically incorrect’ or whatever.  Or Brad’s name.  Faggots.”
Dammit, I hadn’t thought of that.  I want the whole town to know that at least SOMEONE knows Brad’s a dick, and SOMEONE has the balls to admit it.  Of course, the graffiti’s anonymous, so that makes it a tid cowardly, but I decide right here and now that if the cops nab us (they probably will, come to think of it) then I’ll own up to the vandalism.  Every single word of it.
“I wish,” Lotto slurs, pulling me back into the present, “that people wouldn’t make such a big deal about words that’re jus’ words, you know? They’re just words.”
Nolan and I exchange a look.  Lotto’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he has a habit of making excellent points when he’s drunk.  Not smashed, but drunk enough that he won’t remember most of what he said or did.
“What would life be like, y’think, if the world was like that, Tyler?”
  I can’t even imagine it.  “Then I guess all this retarded s*** wouldn’t be so gay.”
Lotto plugs in his iPod and turns on some Radical Face.  I like music.  I like it a lot.  But I’ve never really had time to go looking for good stuff.  I usually just listen to whatever my friends play.  Lotto and Nolan are both into Radical Face; I never liked them much.  But right now, god, right now they’re speaking to me.  I lay back into the thick carpet.  The minutes blur together, and the songs wash over me like the ocean: soothing, constant yet different with every wave, calming, but some parts stinging in my cuts. 
A few lines in particular stand out to me: “And all the world is gray, as though you took the colors with you when you went and passed away.”  “If I could put it back, fill in all the cracks, nothing there I wouldn’t change.  But wishing never helps, wishing never helps, wishing never solved a thing.”  “All my nightmares escaped my head.  Bar the door, please don’t let them in.  You were never supposed to leave.  Now my head’s splitting at the seam and I don’t know if I can…”
That last one, especially, sticks in my head.  How it just trails off.  “And I don’t know if I can…” I can what?? I think the writers did that on purpose.  I think they knew that if they finished that statement with something specific then it would be less relatable.  Cuz people always try to relate song to themselves, you know? And this way, whoever’s listening to the song can fill it in with whatever’s relevant.  Concentrate, sleep, live.  Whatever matches their situation.  That was a crazy smart thing for them to do. 
“It’s late,” says Lotto after nine or ten songs.  “I mean, early.  I mean, I don’t know.  We have school in like three hours.  You guys should jus’ crash here.”
Not like I have anywhere better to be.  Even as I nod in acquiescence, I’m drifting off to sleep. 

A pancake to the face isn’t the best way to be woken up, but it’s not the worst, either.  Lotto’s mom continues to pelt the three of us with pancakes until we roll to our feet.  “It’s a beautiful day,” she scream-sings, “and you have to face it!”
Now usually, I don’t want to “face the day.” But today…today feels different.  I feel…good.
I feel good.
I have optimism.
My friends and I eat our pancakes in silence on the couch with no plates or syrup or anything, until Nolan remembers what we did last night, swears loudly, apologizes to Lotto’s mom (who doesn’t care anyway) and turns on the local news channel.  We watch a segment about a house fire a few blocks away, and then we see what we’ve been waiting for.
“Sometime between the last patrol last night, which was at ten o’clock, and the first patrol this morning, which was at five, someone broke into the Johnson Harmony Recreational Park and VANDALIZED the entire southern portion of the wall.  Authorities have analyzed the graffiti and are said to believe it was done by multiple persons, most likely three.  The vandalism includes a graphic illustration, vulgar language, derogatory terms, and a degrading personal message.  Due to the explicit nature of the defacement, the Johnson Harmony Recreational Park will be closed for an undetermined length of time while authorities work to apprehend the perpetrators.  All security cameras in the vicinity are being checked for suspicious activity.  If you or anyone you know has any information or possible leads on this crime, please contact us immediately at 1-555-8396.  Again, that’s 1-555-8396.  Now back to Jerry with that fire…”
“That wasn’t you, boys, was it?” Lotto’s mom calls from the kitchen. 
“Course not, Ma,” Lotto replies, and that’s that.
The three of us sink back into the couch.
“Well,” says Nolan.
“Well,” says I.
“That was pretty cool,” says Lotto.
“They didn’t show a picture,” I say, disappointment evident in my voice.
“Didn’t think they would,” Nolan replies, “but still.  That was kinda insane.  I mean, stuff we did was on the news.  And they haven’t even caught us.”
I’m tempted to add “yet,” and I would, but I’m just feeling too optimistic, so instead I say, “Yeah, they haven’t even caught us.  ‘Checking the security cameras.’ What bullshit,” even though I actually have no idea whether or not there are security cameras in the Park.  There very well might be. 
But, to quote my boy Eminem, “I give as much of a flying f*** as that Superman dude.”

“Fancy meeting you here.”  Courtney’s voice is breathless, as though she saw me walk through the school doors, sprinted around a corner, and then ran back around the corner just so she could “bump” into me and send all her books sprawling.
“Yeah.”
“Did you see that thing on the news?”
“Oh, yeah, that thing? With that guy? At that place?”
She gives me a playful shove.  “You know what I mean.  That vandalism thing.”
“Oh, that.  Nope, musta missed it.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No, you come on,” I say, but not in a mean way.  Almost in a…dare I say…flirty way?
Courtney lights up.  “So maybe,” she says, hooking her pinky through my belt loop, “if you’re not doing anything after school…”
“I was plannin’ on skatin’, actually.”
“Oh.”
And for some reason, seeing her face fall like that, like it must every time I turn her down even though I’ve never noticed until now, strikes a chord in me.  It makes me think of Lucy, and how I’d feel if she thought she was in love with someone, but that guy wouldn’t even give her the time of day.  I wonder if Courtney has a brother.  I realize that even though she talks at me nonstop, I know close to nothing about her.  Maybe, just maybe, there’s something underneath all that makeup.  Something worth digging out and getting acquainted with.  That’s what makes me say, “But, you know, sometimes girls watch us.  You could.  And then I guess we could maybe do something after…”
She squeals, and I immediately regret caving, but I’m not enough of a jerk to rescind my words.  “That sounds sooo great!! We can go to my place after! My mom’s outta town so we’ll have the place to ourselves!!”
“Yeah, ok.” I try to feign some semblance of enthusiasm.  For Lucy. 
During my study hall I write her a letter—Lucy, not Courtney. 
Dear Lucy  Hey Lu
I suck at this.
How’s school going? I miss you like crazy.  Stuff here’s fine, don’t worry bout me.  I hope your making lotsa friends.  I bet you are, your so friendly, everyone likes you.  You better write me back ASAP and tell me everything bout school n stuff.  I miss you.  I love you.  Tyler.

I tear the page out of my notebook and am folding it up when someone rips it out of my hand.  Brad.  He leers at me from his seat one row over, waving the paper, taunting me.  He reads it, and I feel myself turning red—not because I’m embarrassed, no.  It’s a letter to my little sister, what’s there to be embarrassed about? No, I’m PISSED.  I did everything Brad told me to do, and here he is, still being a dick.  He snickers as he reads it, then passes it to one of his friends, who laughs outright as he scans the page.  I glance at our studyhall monitor who sits, reading, oblivious as can be.
The guy passes it around, until eventually it gets passed back to Brad.  By this point, at least half of the male population of this class is laughing at me.  Then the loser takes it one step further—he pulls out a lighter. 
And he burns my letter.
Right there.
In studyhall.
Right there.
That bastard.
It’s not that I can’t write a new letter—I can, in probably less than a minute.  It’s that he just went and BURNED MY FREAKING LETTER.  Who does that?!   I’m tired of taking all this crap and feeling so defeated.  Life doesn’t have to be like this, I tell myself.  I remind myself what I did just not even twenty-four hours ago.  I stood up to my uncle.  I left.  And I graffitied the Park.  Unheard of.  I can stand up to some neighborhood bully.
My arm shoots out and grabs Brad’s collar, almost of its own volition.  Yanking him close, the whole room goes dead silent, so everyone can hear me say, “You. Me.  After school.  Behind the gym.  For the last time.”

“Ehmahgawd.  I heard you’re fighting Brad Runger after school today.  Are you seriously?!”
I grunt, which Courtney should, and does, interpret as a yes.  It’s eighth period, and she’s almost sitting on me in the hallway once again.
“He’s like huge though!”
I shrug.
“But whatever.  You can still beat him, even with your arm hurt and everything.”  She runs one hand behind my back and one down my injured arm, which is still wrapped and useless.  I scoot away from her a little and shrug again.  “So you’re still coming over after, right…?”
I groan to myself.  I’m sure the last thing I’ll want after getting in (and hopefully winning…) a fight is to go to Courtney’s house and have to fend her off the whole time.  I’ll most likely just want to skate and then go straight to sleep…
And then I realize I don’t really have a house anymore.
I guess it’s a good thing she invited me over after all.
When the final bell rings, Courtney walks with me to my locker.  I drop off my crap, shove my flatbrim on my head, and head outside.  She walks beside me, for once not saying anything, and I appreciate it.  It’s as if she knows that if she were ever to be quiet around me, now is the perfect time.  Nolan and Lotto jog up to us and fall into step without speaking.  When we arrive behind the gym, Brad’s already there with ten or so of his cronies, along with maybe twenty other people, supposedly anticipating a nice big fight.  If everything goes as planned, they’ll get it.
Since Brad looks like he’s getting a pep talk from his posse, I turn around to my friends.  Nolan and Lotto both give me a pat on the back and mumble something along the lines of “Knock him dead, dude,” and “Whip his ass, bro”.  Courtney squeezes my bicep and whispers “I know you can beat him.”  I turn back to face Brad, who’s still being prepped, and note the crowd of spectators forming around us.  Everyone loves a good fight.  Now, I’m not big on planning out my battles, but this is one that I think needs a little forethought.  My first priority is obvious: protect my arm.  I know I can beat Brad when we’re evenly matched, and he knows it too, so he must be planning to fight dirty.  Since this fight is so public, he can’t go so far as to pull a knife or anything, but he’ll definitely go for my arm.  I wouldn’t even put it past him to aim a couple shots below the belt.  Offense is the best defense, I remind myself.  I can do it.  I’ve beaten guys twice his size who are twice as skilled.  I just gotta have confidence.  That, and protect my arm of course. 
His cronies finally step back, so I step forward to meet him.  We don’t shake hands or anything, just glare at each other, till some kid in the crowd yells, “You gonna do this or what?” So I figure what the hell, and I take the first punch.
It connects.  Brad stumbles back, but he doesn’t fall.  Instead, he comes charging back at me, fakes a jab at my face, and goes for my weak arm.  The coward.  Of course that’s what I’m prepared for, so I dodge his blow and aim one at his face, which also connects.  This is a pretty one-sided fight so far, and the onlookers don’t like it at all—they’re silent.  My opponent slinks back a little, rubbing his jaw, and then comes at me again, and this time his attack is a little better.  So while the only thought in my head is “protect your arm protect your arm protect your arm” that bastard hits me in the face.  Now I hear a few jeers and whistles from the crowd.  Figures.  The fight continues a lot like that—him trying to get at my arm, failing, occasionally hitting me somewhere else, and me doing a lotta dodging and connecting a lot more hits, until finally I just decide to end it.  No use drawing this one out.  I let him land a punch to my gut but turn slightly with it so most of the impact is deflected, then turn around so it looks like I’m retreating a couple of steps to regroup, and then I use my ending-it move.  I step back so my heel hits him right where his ankle joins his leg, and while he’s doubling over in pain, I slam my elbow up into his face, then grab him by his shirt collar and throw him into the nearest wall.  Crumpling to the ground, Brad lets out a pathetic groan before he passes out, and I know he won’t pose a problem to me anymore.
It wasn’t a challenge at all.
I’m almost disappointed. 
I turn in disgust from this person, laying on the ground, defeated at last.  This person who for so many years has contributed to the hellishness of my life.  I used to hate him, but I can’t anymore.  He’s not worth it.
The skaters in the audience applaud.
“Let’s go,” I say to my friends.  And Courtney.
They all turn and follow in my wake, no one saying anything.  That is, until we get back around to the front of the building.  “Ehmahgawd!” Courtney squeals.  “You like destroyed him! That was sooo awesome!!”
Nolan and Lotto laugh.  “Sick, bro,” Nolan says.  “Real tight.”
“Yeah, dude,” Lotto agrees.  “We knew you could do it.  Oh, and the other guys bailed on skatin’ today, and I myself got some stuff to do, so I think we’re just gonna skip for today.  Now, if we ain’t mistaken…you got yo’self some plans tonight.  So we’ll leave you two, ah, to it.” He winks, and I flick him off.  He laughs.  Then he and Nolan prance off, leaving me to Courtney.
“Come on,” she says, tugging at my arm.  “I’m parked over here…”

Her house isn’t at all like I expected.  In fact, it’s not too far from my uncle’s place.  It isn’t small, but it’s not a mansion, which is what most people in her ex-social class live in.  I’m not stereotyping, it’s the truth: most of those bastards are filthy rich.  Not Courtney though—she lives in a blue split-level that doesn’t look that much bigger than my old place. 
By my hand, she pulls me inside.  After going down a few stairs, we pass through a small living room type deal, then through a kitchen, down a hallway, and through another door.  “This is my room,” she says, and pushes me into it.
Courtney’s bedroom, at least, matches her personality: it’s pink.  There’s not a lot of furniture, the walls are bare, the window looks like it’ll never open, and the floor is covered with an assortment of random objects and clothing.  Feels like home.  I seat myself in the only available chair, dropping my backpack at my feet and leaning my board against the nearest hot pink wall.
“Whaddaya wanna do?” I ask. 
Courtney perches on the edge of her bed.  “Whatever you want,” she says.  “We can watch a movie and order pizza, or…”
“Sounds like a party.”
She gives a happy little squeal and pulls me back out of her room and into a room that looks like a basement but is really above ground, so…she whips out her phone and orders a large half cheese half pepperoni pizza, then disappears for a moment.  When she returns, it’s with two Pepsis and a throw blanket in her hands.  “It gets cold in here,” she explains while searching for a movie.  “There’s Transformers, or Monty Python, or Captain America, or Mean Girls, or—“
I laugh.  “Mean Girls?”
Her draw drops.  “You’ve never seen it?!”
I shake my head and point to myself.  “Straight teenage guy.”
She shrieks.  “That doesn’t matter! It teaches life lessons! YOU HAVE TO SEE IT!!”
I guess that settles it.
Courtney and I lean back into the old leather couch as I watch Lindsey Lohan slowly turn into a raging hoe.  About around when Regina starts making out with Aaron while dressed as a Playboy bunny (and workin’ it, if I may say so), the pizza gets here.  Courtney scampers up and retrieves it before Regina can even get her tongue out of poor Aaron’s mouth.  Setting it down on the table, she settles back into the couch without even opening the box, at the same time pulling the blanket up around her waist.  “Drafty,” she says.  I nod.  Of course, once her legs are covered, I remember how nice they looked under those white shorts, and I have an urgent desire to see them again.  So while Janice plots how to destroy Regina, I brush my hand down and take hold of the blanket, pull it up just enough for me to see those nice long legs, then pull it over my own lower body. 
“Drafty,” I say.  She giggles. 
While the whole auditorium sings Jingle Bell Rock, Courtney sinks into me on the pretense of reaching for her Pepsi.  Oddly enough, I don’t mind.  I don’t push her away.  It’s kinda nice actually, I think.  It’s different here than it is at school—in the halls and during class she’s always desperate, always making bold moves.  But here…here, she’s hesitant.  I like that.  It actually makes me want her more.  Mr. LaScala’s voice echoes in my head: If kissing girls makes you happy, then Tyler, do it.  Goddammit, I think.  Damn this all.  Kissing girls DOES make me happy.  What am I waiting for?
Underneath the blanket, my hand finds hers.  She actually jerks a little in surprise, but recovers soon enough.  Her hand stays limp.  My thumb traces little circles around her palm, and then I weave my fingers through hers.  And then while Gretchen Wieners is finally snapping, I pull my hand out (since it’s my only functional one) and slide my arm over Courtney’s shoulders.  She gives a little gasp and turns her face to mine.  They’re about five inches apart.  I just smile at her, and then she looks back towards the screen, melting into my side. 
I think about her house, and how I expected it to be huge and fancy.  If I was wrong about that, what else could I wrongly assume about this girl? I decide right here and now that I am going to get to know Courtney. 
But I can’t just randomly start asking questions.  That’d be weird…and creepy…so I need a plan.  During the remainder of the movie, I eat four pieces of pizza and devise one.
I gotta admit, Mean Girls is a pretty great film.  I had no idea girls were so devious; the whole thing with the Cowtein Bars and the Burn Book and the three-way call attacks was pretty insane.  Honestly, I liked the movie.
After it finishes out, I nudge Courtney.  “Let’s go in your room,” I say.  “I wanna play a game.”

“It’s called ‘ask n’ strip’.”
She giggles.  “Sounds fun.  Rules?”
“I ask you a question, and then I take off a piece of clothing, ‘cept if you don’t answer, I don’t strip.  We take turns.”
A grin twists her mouth.  “You start.”
Sitting on the edge of her bed, I think for a minute.  What do I even wanna know about Courtney? Shoulda thought this through a little more…I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.  “What’s your favorite color?”  Not exactly deep and character-revealing, but we can work up to that. 
She purses her lips.  “That’s your question?  Pink.  Strip.” I kick off my shoes.  “What! Shoes aren’t clothes!”
“Sure they are.  Your turn.”
Pouting, she says, “Fine.  What’s your favorite color?”
“Nah, you can’t just ask my question back at me! C’mon, effort, Courtney, effort.”
“Ugh, fine.  Umm whadda you wanna be when you grow up?” She peels off her socks. 
Is it crazy that I can’t even remember the last time I considered that question? I’ve been so caught up in all this crap—the drinking, the fighting, the everything, that I haven’t had time to think about my own future.  I lean back.  “Oh my god.  I have no idea.  Um.  Maybe one of those guys…one of those guys that helps people? Like helps kids in bad situations? Or something.  Or a pro skater, maybe.  That’d be chill.  Yeah.”
Courtney smiles at me.  “I think it’s really sweet that you wanna help people.  Your turn.”
I take some time to think up a decent question, one that’ll tell me something about this girl.  “What’re you most afraid of?” I pop off my flat brim.  I have five left till I’m completely naked, and I’m not even sure if I wanna go that far yet.  I need to plan out my questions.
“Oblivion,” she replies without hesitation.
I arch an eyebrow.    
“Have you read The Fault in Our Stars by John Green?” she asks, which makes me laugh.  I don’t read for fun, and usually not even for school; I tell her so.  She frowns.  “Well you should.  John Green’s my favorite author.”  Pause.  Ok, Courtney’s already told me some important stuff about herself without even realizing it.  Up until about sixteen seconds ago, I pretty much thought she was just a dumb slut.  She sure acts like it.  But no, apparently she likes to read.  Now, in my personal experience, well-read people are interesting, or at least have the potential to be.  And the fact that Courtney has a favorite author means she’s read multiple authors, which makes her well-read in my view.  Unpause.  “And one book he wrote was called The Fault in Our Stars, which is obviously a play off that quote from Julius Caesar when Cassius is talking to Brutus, but whatever.  And there’s this one part where this totally gorgeous guy named Augustus Waters, who used to have cancer but then didn’t but then did again, gets asked what he’s afraid of, and he says “oblivion,” and it’s really beautiful, but then the narrator who’s this frump named Hazel goes and disses him, but like I don’t even care.  And normally I hate frumps, but I can’t hate Hazel, cuz she has cancer.  And you can’t hate people with cancer.  But yeah, so anyway, Augustus said he fears oblivion, and it made me realize that I totally do too, you know?  Like, I’m afraid that no one will remember me.  I’m afraid that when I die, people will just keep on living like nothing even happened, like I wasn’t even here, like I didn’t even matter.  And then they’ll forget me.  And nothing that I ever did or said will outlast me, and no one will care.  So, yeah.  I fear oblivion.”
Oh my god.  I had no idea that Courtney…Courtney…was capable of…that.
“Oh my god,” I say. 
She looks down, as if embarrassed.  “Um, yeah,” she says.  “So, I’ve been wondering.  What happened to your arm? Like, I get that it’s burned and all, but I kinda don’t believe you just walked into a stove.  What happened for real?” She takes off her sweatery thing.  She’s down to a shirt, probably a cami, a bra, panties, and shorts.  I’ve got my hoodie, socks, shirt, jeans, and boxers.  We’ve got the same number left.  How far do I wanna let this go?
Without looking at her, I answer, “My uncle pushed me.”
You know how sometimes, after people tell really big secrets for the first time, they say they feel relieved?
That’s not how I feel at all. 
Right away, I regret it.  I want to take it back.  But it’s too late.  Courtney covers her mouth.  “Oh…oh my…Tyler…I’m so sorry…I can’t…”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” I mumble, but she gets up and sits next to me, laying her hand gently on my burned arm and her head on my shoulder.  “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.  Then, after a minute, “It’s your turn.”
I take my time thinking.  “Why’d you switch groups?” I ask, then realize that’s ambiguous.  “Uh, I mean, why’d you leave all your old friends? Cuz I mean it’s cool that you like me and all, but I’ve kinda been a jerk to you, and if I were you I woulda given up and gone back to my old group of friends after a couple days, you know?”  I take off my socks.
Courtney tucks her feet underneath heselfr.  “I kinda realized that I didn’t like any of them at all.  I mean, we liked the same kind of stuff and dressed the same way and everything, but I just didn’t like them.  And I really liked you.  So I just like…stopped hanging out with them.  And at first, your type of girls all hated me, and it was just really upsetting.  I didn’t have anyone.  But then after a while the skatery girls started being nice…well, not nice really, but, um, friendly I guess.  Yeah.  They were friendly to me.  And it seriously made all the difference in the world.  Last week was the first time in FOREVER that I’ve gotten invited to a party.” 
I nod a few times.  “That makes sense. Ok, your turn.”
Without hesitation, she asks, “So is your uncle like…abusive then? Like…all the time?”
I lay back on her bed.  It’s softer than mine.  “Yeah.”  I’ve never talked about this to anyone before.  Ever.  The closest I’ve ever come is when my friends brought it up the other day.  I feel like since Courtney explained all her answers so well, I should go into more detail about mine.  It takes me a few tries, but I get the words out.  “My parents died six years ago.  Car crash.  So me n my brothers n my sister moved in with my uncle n cousin—we don’t have much family, and they’re the only ones that’d take us.  My uncle’s a drunk.  And when he’s all wasted, he can’t control himself, and just kinda…beats on everyone.   Mostly me.”
Courtney stands and pulls her shirt over her head.  Hot damn.  Then she sits back down on the bed, resting one of her hands on my burned arm.  “I’m so sorry,” she whispers again.  I think I see an honest-to-god tear forming in her eye.  “Your turn.”
“Uhh, best day/worst day?”
“That’s easy.  Worst day: when my dad left.  Best day: so far, it’s today.  Strip.”
“Um, can you help? I can’t really…” She helps me maneuver my hoodie over my head.  “Your turn.”
“Ok…if you had to be a teacher, what subject would you teach?”
Another thing I’ve never given a single thought to in my entire life.  “Uhhhh.  Maybe…science? Wait, no, I take that back.  I’d teach art.”
Courtney bursts into laughter.  “Art?! Do you even take an art class?”
“No.  But I like that you can never be wrong.”
Her laughter stops.  “Damn.  Fair enough.”  She stands up again, and I wonder why she has to stand up to take clothes off, but then she pulls her cami off, and all I can think about is how freaking huge her tits are. 
I sit up.  “Um, wow, ok.  Alright…when’d your dad leave?”
Sitting back down next to me, she answers, her voice soft.  “Two years ago.  He just…left.  Didn’t even say goodbye.  Didn’t take his stuff.  Just…didn’t come home from work one day.  My mom never talks about it.  It was a really, really hard time for me.  I tried to like talk to one of my friends about it, but she wouldn’t listen.  And that was around when I realized that I couldn’t stay ‘friends’ with any of those shallow backstabbers.” 
A small tear rolls down her cheek.  I slip my good arm around her waist and hug her to me, not because I pity her, not because she’s shirtless and I just wanna feel her boobs (although those two things help), but because I want to.  Courtney doesn’t cry, just sits there with her head on my shoulder and her hands hanging limp on the mattress.  After a couple minutes, she sniffs a little and pulls herself up, managing a weak smile.  “Strip.”
I chuckle.  “Can you help me again?”
Grinning, she pulls my shirt over my head. 
All of a sudden, I feel completely exhausted.  These past few days have taken the wind out of me, both mentally and physically.  “Courtney?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m tired.”
“Wanna go home?” She looks disappointed.
“No.”
“You can sleep here if you want.  My moms in Michigan or Minnesota or something for business till next week.”
“That’d be really cool.”
“Um…I guess the couch is like—“
“D’you trust me to sleep in the same bed as you?”
She looks a bit startled.  “What?”
“Do you trust me?”
“Oh, of course.  She smiles, but there’s no humor in her eyes.  “It’s me I don’t trust.”
I laugh once.  “I trust you.  Let’s go to sleep.”

When I wake up, I realize that I haven’t checked my phone in over twenty-four hours, so I do that.  It’s five forty?? I’m never awake this early.  I have three missed calls: two from Cal and one from Jamie.  The last call was around four yesterday afternoon, and at eleven last night Cal texted me “Call me.”  Sorry bro.  I reply “I’m fine.”  He responds right away with “Call me PLEASE.” But I really don’t want to.  I text back “Can’t right now sorry.  I’m fine don’t worry bout me.”  I hang onto my phone for a couple more minutes, but he doesn’t respond, so I stick it back into my hoodie pocket on the floor.  As I do, my hand brushes against something.  I pull it out; it’s the letter I rewrote to Lucy during lunch yesterday.
My phone buzzes, which wakes up Courtney.  “Sorry,” I whisper.  “Didn’t mean to wake you.  It’s not even six.  Go back to sleep-“ The end of my sentence stops abruptly, like I was supposed to say “baby” or something after it.  Weird. 
She doesn’t notice, just rubs her eyes.  “No, now that I’m up I’ll just…be up, I guess.”  Rolling outta bed, she yawns.  “I’m gonna shower real quick.”
“Ok, cool.  Hey, d’you have an envelope n’ a stamp I could borrow?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.  On the kitchen counter next to the phone.  Help yourself.”
“Thanks-“ My sentence does the awkward abrupt-ending thing again, and this time I think Courtney hears it.  It’s all good though, I’m too busy noticing her rack to notice her noticing my words.  As Courtney heads off to the bathroom, I shuffle into her kitchen, checking my phone again.  Cal said “You comin home bro?”  I type “no” and then turn the phone off and stuff it into my pocket. 
The envelopes and stamps are right where Courtney said they’d be.  I fold up my note and slide it in, lick the flap, and stick on the stamp.  Then I remember an important detail: the address.  I have no idea what it is.  With a sigh, I put the letter in my back pocket, resolving to ask Mr. Burnes when I’m with him later. 
When I’m back in Courtney’s room putting my shirt back on, I wonder if I smell bad, considering I haven’t showed in a couple days.  Then I realize I couldn’t care less, and slip into my hoodie and socks.  The bathroom door opens, and Courtney steps out in all her glory.  Bright pink short shorts, white tank top, the works.  I give her an appreciative once-over as she says, “I don’t think we have any good food here.  We could just stop at 7 11? There’s one on the way.”
“Sure,” I say.  “Sounds good.  Wanna walk?”
“Um, I guess.  I mean, I have a car we can take…”
“I jus’ prefer waklin’, if it’s ok with you.”
“Sure, yeah, of course.  We have tonsa time to kill anyway.”
I smile.  “Exactly.”
So the two of us set out, probably looking like an odd pair—she’s in her nice little get-up, and I’m dressed like I always am…well, like a delinquent, I guess.  Or so I’m told.  We meander our way through the streets, taking our time.  Courtney keeps up a constant flow of chatter, as she normally does.  I don’t really mind.  I’m still super effing happy and optimistic and everything.  We arrive at the 7 11 around a quarter to seven, and the guy working there looks surprised to see us.  I would be too.  “Breakfast’s on me,” I tell Courtney, figuring what the hell, I’m getting paid today.
With a couple of Slurpees and blueberry muffins, we head off to school.  It’s when I’m about two thirds done with my meal that something pops into my head.  “Courtney?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know how the hell I forgot this last night, but uh, can I ask you somethin’?”
“Only if you strip.” She winks.  “Just kidding.  Go for it.”
“Why d’you even like me?”
Right away, she does exactly what I’m hoping she won’t do, and just spouts a bunch of generic crap that everyone says when describing their crush. 
“Cut the crap.  Uh, that was kinda mean, sorry.  I just…can you be real? Like, just, explain more, please?”
“The first time I saw you with your sister.”
“What?”
“The first time I saw you with your sister.  It was the summer between eighth grade and freshman year.  I was walking home from my friend’s house, and I passed this park.  Your sister was playing on it, and you were sitting on a bench with your eyes closed, looking like you were just absorbing the sun and dreaming dreams for yourself.  Then she fell off the monkey bars and started crying, and right away, you were up.  Boom.  You ran over to her and like, cradled her in your arms, and I swear to god it was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”
By this point we’ve stopped walking.  We’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk, she staring off into the distance as if seeing the memory all over again, and I actually starting to tear up.  I remember that day.  Not well, but I do.  I miss Lucy like hell.
“Did you know Brad has a little sister?”  Courtney asks.  I shake my head.  “Well, he does, and she’s probably like the same age as yours.  I’ve been to his house a few times.  He treats her like…like…he’s just…ugh! He’s such a dick to her! He would’ve never done what you did.  And I knew right when I saw you comforting your sister that I wanted a guy who acts like you, not him, because even if Brad used to treat me right, he didn’t treat other people right, and that’s just…not ok.”
I start to walk again.  I don’t say anything back to Courtney, but my thoughts are moving a mile a minute.  Christ, am I glad I decided to get to know her.  It’s almost crazy, really, how I didn’t know anything important about her twenty-four hours ago, or even twelve.  It hits home right now that you can’t ever think you know someone if you’ve never talked to them, and I don’t mean just a “hey, how’s it goin” kinda talk.  I mean a heart-to-heart type deal, where you learn something about the person that’s not just superficial.  I vow that from this point on, I will never judge someone based solely off appearance, something they’ve done, or something that someone else tells me about that person. 
We’re among the first to arrive at school.  I spot a few skater girls milling around and steer Courtney towards them.  When she sees where we’re headed, she says, “Oh, no, that’s ok, you go ahead, I’ll just…”
“Nope.  They’re nice.  C’mon.”
The three girls stare a little as Courtney and I approach.  I don’t blame them.  “Hey, Tyler,” one of them, Jayde, I think, says.
“Hey.”  I give them one of those chin-jerks.  “You guys know Courtney?”
Two of them nod a couple times, and this girl that everyone just calls K (even though I’m pretty sure her name is Megan or Maggie or something) says, “Yeah, we’re in the same English.”   All three of them look confused. 
“Yeah, cool.  So I was just telling Courtney about that wicked sweet party DJ has every year.  Should be comin’ up, yeah?”  They nod.  One of them mumbles something about two or three weeks.  I think I recall that the third girl, Alex, asked Nolan to turnabout last year.  I recount a story about him getting hammered and throwing up on some jock dude, just to get the girls laughing and alleviate the awkward a bit.  “Hey, I gotta do some stuff, but uh, why don’t you ladies get to know each other a lil’ better? I’ll see ya ‘round.  Last night was fun, Courtney.”  Jayde’s jaw drops, K’s eyes pop outta her face, Alex swallows her gum, and Courtney turns a light shade of pink.  Way to make it awkward, Tyler.  “I mean, uh, yeah.  Um.  Ok, later.” 
As I head off to stash my board in my locker and find some of my guys, I brush past Courtney   “Make friends,” I whisper in her ear.
Commence number four on list of priorities.

“A ship is safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are for.” –William G.T. Shedd

By this point, my teachers have pretty much accepted the fact that they really shouldn’t expect me to participate in class.  So in second period English when Mr. Green calls on me, I’m taken aback to say the least. 
“Uhhh.  What was the question again?”  Lotto snickers at me. 
Mr. Green doesn’t seem at all perturbed.  “I stated that Pygmalion, the work of literature which we have been studying this past week, says that language is the primary barrier between social classes, and asked for your opinion.”
Without meaning to, I sorta just start spilling words.
“Uh, well, it depends what you mean by language.  Like language style? Or lack of communication? Cuz I don’t think it’s language style, though there’s a distinction fo’ sho’.  I think it’s more an effect than a cause, though.  Lack of communication, maybe.  But maybe it’s more education? Well, actually, what are we talkin’ about here? Like adult social classes or our-age ones? In adults, yeah, I think education is a big barrier.  Like it usually decides who gets the good jobs ‘n who gets the crappy ones.  I mean, educated guys can be lawyers and doctors and stuff, but uneducated guys usually end up puttin’ springs in pens or somethin’.  In teenagers and stuff though, no, I don’t think education’s got to do with anything.  I guess because you can’t really stereotype the learning capacity or aptitude or whatever for any certain group of people. Maybe money? Or is that just an effect too? It’s related to the job, obviously, but in kids, no, I don’t really think money’s it.  It could definitely add resentment between social classes, which would make this ‘barrier’ bigger, but it’s not the ‘primary barrier’.  At least, I don’t think.  And clothes would be a side effect too, and add to the barrier thing.  Yeah, there’s definitely a big difference in clothes.  So…maybe there are no barriers at all, besides the ones in our heads.  Maybe we just drift into groups based on common interests or who we feel comfortable around ‘n stuff like that, but then we freak out, cuz like, I dunno, people tend to do that, ‘n we end up acting like jerks to the other groups, which just creates a wall of like, resentment and hate and stuff like that.  And that whole lack of communication thing, yeah, that could come into play.  Cuz if you don’t understand the way a person is or what they enjoy ‘n stuff like that, you can’t really sympathize with them, can you? And there’s that whole saying, like ‘ignorance causes hate’ or somethin’ like that, and I think that’s pretty true here.  So I guess the Pig guy was right.  Language is the primary barrier between social classes.  Or a lack of language, I guess, really.”
Silence follows my spiel, and I don’t like it.  I’ve never been all that comfortable with silence, especially when it follows a long period of noise—i.e. the impromptu lecture I just gave.  I meet Mr. Green’s gaze, but I have to look away.  It’s like he’s got freaking laser eyes or something.  I stare at my desk until he speaks.  “That was very insightful, Tyler,” he says.  I flinch.  “So, class, does anyone have any thoughts on what Mr. Mitchell just said? Agree or disagree?”
I zone out again, since now everyone will pretty much just be restating stuff I just said, and go back to the doodle I was doodling.  Lotto nudges me.  “Dude,” he says.  “What the hell?”
“What?”
“Where’d that come from??”
“Where’d what come from?”
“That! All that…smart stuff.  The barrier stuff.”
“Oh.  I dunno.  It kinda just came out…”
“Dude.”
“Bro.”
“It was cool.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“You pay attention in this class?”
“No.”
“Me neither, ‘n I never coulda said what you did.”
“Oh.”
“You think about that stuff a lot?”
“Not really.  I mean, I guess I’ve wondered about it.  Haven’t you?”
“Wondered what?”
“I dunno.  Like, why me ‘n Brad even hate each other in the first place.”
“Oh…”
“Can you think of a reason?”
“Not really…I mean, he’s kinda a dick.”
“I’m friends with some dicks, but it’s cool, cuz they skate.”
“Huh.”
“Get what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“So d’you think I was right?”
“About what?”
“The whole language thing.  Like the not-enough-communication.”
“Oh, I dunno.  Maybe.  It makes sense.”
Sometimes I wonder what people think about all day. 

After second period, I figure it’s late enough in the day that everyone in my family should be at work or out getting smashed, so it’s safe to go back.  I snag my board and backpack and take the familiar route to the house where I endured so much torture.  The front door’s not locked; it never is.  I creep around inside for a minute just to be sure it’s empty, and once that’s verified, I raid the fridge.  I stuff myself with last night’s leftovers (I wonder in the back of my mind who made dinner—usually it was my job) and then fill my backpack with stuff that won’t go bad in a few days.  It feels kinda eerie, being back here by myself.  Then I park my stuff in my room—old room, I have to remind myself—and take a shower that probably lasts over a half hour.  It’s fuggin’ AWESOME. 
When I’m nice and clean, I feel rejuvenated, but there’s still something creepy about being alone here, so I put on some clean clothes and grab another change, and then I beat it. 
I get back to school about half way through my fourth-period studyhall, and instead of walking in and having to explain where I’ve been, I pace the halls for twenty minutes until the bell rings.  It’s oddly relaxing. 
I intercept Nolan on the way to lunch and am greeted with, “Did you bang Courtney last night?”
“Uhh no.  Why…?”
He shrugs.  “People were sayin’ you did.  I was jus’ wonderin’.”
“Huh.  Who’d you hear that from?”
“S, I think.”
“You mean K?”
“Oh, yeah, her.”
Figures.  I should’ve expected this, after what I said to Courtney this morning in front of those girls.  “Does Courtney know?”
He grins.  “Of course.  She’s helpin’ the rumor along.”  I laugh.  Ohhh Courtney.  For a moment I consider attempting to correct the rumor, but then I figure ah hell, let her have her fun.  “So…if you didn’t nail her, what did you guys do last night? Word on the street is you kids walked to school together this mornin’, real couple-like.”
I’m tempted to tell him we at least made out, cuz what kind of teenage guy goes to a girl’s house with no parental supervision, spends the night, and doesn’t make out with her?? Apparently, me.  Oh well.  “Uhh we kinda just hung out.  Watched a movie.  Had pizza.  Stuff like that.”  Because of the look Nolan’s giving me, I toss in, “She showed me her tits,” just so I don’t seem completely campey. 
Grinning, Nolan slaps me on the back.  “Atta boy, Mitchell, atta boy!”
During lunch, I do a scan for Brad.  Lotto notices.  “Lookin’ for Runger?” I nod.  “He didn’t show.  Face’s prob’ly too banged up.”
“Freakin’ pretty boy,” Nolan adds. 
The knowledge that Brad ditched today hammers home my victory.  I feel triumphant.  I like that now the entire school knows that he can’t take me one on one.  I’m still disappointed in the fight yesterday—not how I fought, but the easiness of it.  The lack of challenge.  No doubt Brad feels that too, and instead of disappointment, he’s ashamed of himself.  Well, good.  He should be. 
For once in modern world we aren’t working with our partners, so Courtney’s resigned to writing me notes the whole period.  I read a few of them.
After school when Nolan, Lotto, and I skate, along with a couple other guys, six or seven girls are watching us, and I’m pleased to see Courtney among them.  Sure, she looks uncomfortable, and yeah, she’s not really participating in their conversation, but hey.  At least she’s here.  It’s a start. 
When I’ve got twelve minutes left to be at Mr. Burnes’s office, I say my goodbyes and start to skate off.  Jayde, however, approaches me, so I hold up.  “Sup?” I ask her.
She gives me a chin-jerk.  “So, hey, I’m having a party tomorrow.  Jus’ a little one.  You should come.”
“Sure.”
“Cool.  I’ll text you my address then.”
“Ayite.” She starts to walk back to her friends, but I stop her.  “Hey, Jayde?”
“Yeah?”
“Is Courtney invited? Jus’ wonderin’.”
“Yeah, I just talked to her about it, actually.” She narrows her eyes at me.  “So, are you guys like, a couple then?”
“Uh, no.  At least, I don’t think so…”  I add, which makes Jayde laugh.
“Alright then.  See ya ‘round.”
“Yeah, you too.”

Mr. Burnes gives me a distasteful look when I enter his office.  “Been in a fight lately, Tyler?”
I flinch.  “Yeah, actually, yesterday, but…this one was different.”
“Oh, really? How so?”
“It was kinda like…the fight that should end all the fights, you know?”
Matching up his fingertips, he observes me over them.  “You mean you proved that you’re the ‘alpha male’ and now no one can challenge you since you’re the best fighter in the pack?”
Trippy way to put it…It occurs to me that Mr. Burnes probably thinks I enjoy getting in fights.  “Uh, no.  Well, I mean, I guess, kinda, in a way, maybe.  But really I mean that I beat the guy who always picks fights with me, and I beat him bad enough that he’s not gonna fight me anymore.  At least, I hope.”
“Hmm.  Well, I’m glad you won.”
“Thanks, sir.  I am too.  Oh, and, um, I wrote a letter for Lucy.  I was wonderin’ if you have the address it’d go to?”
With a smile he writes it down for me.
I’m grateful he doesn’t ask about my arm, though I notice the looks he gives it from time to time.  I consider mentioning something about it, like oh yeah, I accidentally burned it the other day, but I have a feeling he’d see right through that.  So I just continue on with my work, making small talk when he wants to, and shutting up when he doesn’t.  After my two hours are up, he hands me another crisp twenty dollar bill.
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head out the door.  I’m halfway down the street before I realize I don’t have a destination.  Huh.  I pull up and consider my options.  Ummm.  …food! Food is always nice.  I think about going somewhere and buying myself some dinner, but decide I should save my money for a more immediate need.  So instead, I start over to a park (not a park park, like with slides and stuff, but like an old people park that just has benches and whatnot) which of course reminds me of the quality vandalism my friends and I pulled off so recently.  I wonder if the city’s done anything about it yet, so I skate past on my way to the park.  It’s still all taped off.  I smirk.  Good.  I hope they never get our words off. 
I pick a bench that doesn’t have any people around, and then I peel myself an orange and turn my phone back on.  There’s a “why not?” text from Cal to which I reply “You really have to ask?” and another missed call from Jamie, which I don’t return.  As I drop the bits of orange peel at my feet, insects begin to gather.  I watch them with a distant interest.  After eating my orange and a couple other things I snagged and drinking some water, I stand back up.  For a few minutes, I wonder where I should go, and then I decide I’ll go to the post office.  Even if it’s closed for the night, there’ll be a mailbox outside where I can put my letter. 
That errand takes about seventeen minutes, and then once again I’m left with nothing to do.  I check my phone—it’s seven fifty-one.  I walk a couple blocks, then sit down on a random bench on some deserted street.  Setting my board and backpack at my feet, I lean back.  All I can hear are the buzzing of the electric lights above me and the sound of cars in the distance, roaring and fading, pulsing.  I like the way everything’s lit: the streetlights illuminate everything within an eight or so foot radius of them, and then it just abruptly stops.  The darkness edges right up to the light, but it can’t penetrate, so it continues over to the next eight-foot radius of brightness. 
The door of the building behind me opens.  It’s the shopkeeper guy, and he’s locking up.  When he sees me, he says, “Get outta here, kid, move along.  This’s no place to be spendin’ the night.” I obey him, standing up and moving out.  He probably thinks I’m homeless, I realize.  Then I laugh to myself in the darkness.  I’ve been homeless for six years.  Only recently did I become houseless.
I do a lot of wandering.  Up and down streets, alleys, fields, wherever.  I pass a few other people, but no one says anything.  I wonder what they’re thinking about, where they’re going to sleep tonight.  I wonder where I’m going to sleep tonight.  I wonder how Lucy’s doing, how Courtney is, whether she misses her dad still.  I wonder what Mr. Burnes is doing.  I wonder what Lotto had for dinner; his mom is such a good cook.  I wonder if Tessa’s written any stories lately.  I wonder if my uncle’s hurt anyone since I left. 
I skate.  Skating has always eased my mind, and it doesn’t fail me now.  I skate until I feel light enough to fly, and then I stop at a park.  Still feeling the vibration of my board in my feet, I head to the swing set.  Upon arrival, I don’t actually plan on swinging on it, but after a few minutes of just sitting there, I begin to.  Before long, it’s like I’m a little kid again—trying to kick the trees, arching backwards when I descend.  I come to a stop after a while, then I just sit there again.  A lone figure walks its dog on the sidewalk a block down from me.  Having nothing else to do, I watch them.  The dog sniffs a tree, then continues towards me.  When they’re maybe forty feet away from the park, the person spots me.  It’s a girl.  I see her jump a little, startled, but she tries to act like it didn’t happen.  Her dog pulls her to a tree closer to me, and then she recognizes me.
“Tyler?”
“Oh, Tessa.  Hey.”
“Umm.  Hey.  What’s up…?”
“Uh, just, you know…swingin’.  You?”
“Oh.  Cool.  I’m walking my dog…”
“Right, right, I see.  Um.  What’s his name?”
“Jonah.”
“Sweet.”
“Yeah.  So um…it’s kinda late…”
I look at the sky.  It’s pitch black, and I can’t see very many stars.  Stupid light pollution.  “Guess so.”
“Are you, like, on your way home, or…?”
“No.”  I think for a minute.  “No, I’m not.”
She walks to the swing next to me, her feet making loud crunching noises on the woodchips.  Jonah follows, nose to the ground.  Swinging a little, Tessa asks, “Why not?”
“I just…” All of a sudden, there’s a lump in my throat.  “I…” I swallow a few times.  “Can’t.”
Tessa drags her feet on the ground to stop her swing.  “Oh.  I see.”
I wanna scream NO YOU DON’T, because how could she? But I restrain myself.  I give a slight nod, knowing she won’t be able to see it.
“Why don’t you just stay at your girlfriend’s house or something?”
The question surprises me.  I look at her; her face is maybe three feet from mine, yet I can’t discern any emotion.  It occurs to me that physical distance doesn’t mean a thing.  I could be sharing a pair of pants with someone who’s completely messed up and just wants to die and never know it.  For all I know, Jamie could be suicidal.  Or some kid I sit next to in any of my classes.  Or the person whose locker is next to mine.  I don’t even know their name, I realize, and I encounter them multiple times every single day.  “What?”
“That Courtney girl…”
I laugh, and it echoes down the street.  I wonder what time it is.  “We’re not together.”
“Oh, really? That’s not what I’ve heard…”
“Yeah, well, I would know, wouldn’t I?”
“I guess so.  So what are you guys then? Like friends with benefits or something?”
I frown.  “Look, I get that people are sayin’ we had sex, ‘n yeah, I stayed at her place last night, but we didn’t do anything, and we’re not a couple, ayite?”
She puts up her hands in a mock surrender.  “Ok, ok, I was just asking.” She starts to swing again.  “When was the last time you slept at home?”
I’m tempted to say ‘six years ago’, because that’s the real answer, but instead I say, “Three nights ago,” because I know that’s what she’s asking.
“Why?” Her voice is soft.  I like it, like the way it sounds.  It glides.  Most voices disturb the night, some get lost, but hers works well with it.  The tendrils of her voice just entwine with the darkness, working to make something better than the sum of their parts. 
It takes me a while to come up with my answer.  “I can’t.”  I’m terribly articulate, I know. 
“Can’t what, Tyler?”
“I just…can’t.”  At this point, most people would poke, prod, attempt to persuade.  But not Tessa.  And in the end, it’s her silence that convinces me to spill.  “My uncle…I just…my parents are dead.  And my uncle drinks.  And I just…can’t…he…I left.  I left and I never wanna go back.  He just…sucks.”
You know how sometimes you know those people who somehow just know when something’s up? They can just tell? By this point, I’d already been thinking that Tessa’s one of these people, and what she asks now, her liquid voice and the soft night enfolding me like a blanket, confirms it.  “He hits you, doesn’t he?”
I say “yeah,” but it’s so quiet I can’t even hear it myself, so I clear my throat and say it louder.  “Yeah.”
“And your arm? He did that, too, didn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t say anything else, and at first I think she’s gonna get up and walk away, since that seems like what most people would do.  But then I hear her sniffle, and I realize she’s crying.
“Oh, hey, don’t cry.  Hey, what’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.  “Nothing, nothing.  It’s just, I really don’t deserve my life at all.”
“What d’you mean??”
“My parents are dead, too.”  She’s winding and unwinding Jonah’s leash around her hand.
“Oh, Jesus, Tessa, I’m sorry.”  My breath fogs in the air.
“It’s not your fault.  I live with my uncle, too, though.  And he’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.  And…and…and…it’s not fair! Why should I get my uncle and you get yours? It’s…” She dissolves into tears.  I lean over from my swing and rest my hand on her arm.
“Hey, there’s nothing we can do about it.  C’mon, don’t worry ‘bout it…”
Sniffing, she stands up.  “Let’s go.”
“What?”
“I’m taking you back to my house.”
“Come again?”
“You’re staying with us.”
“Umm, look, I appreciate the offer ‘n all, but I really don’t think—“
“No.  You ARE coming.  Let’s go,” she repeats.  However, I make no move to get up, so she marches right up to me and grabs my sleeve in one hand, my board and backpack in the other, Jonah’s leash around one wrist.  “Hurry up.  I’m cold.”
I let her pull me along, but I’m still protesting.  Spending one night at Courtney’s with no adults was one thing.  What Tessa’s suggesting is completely different.  But after she’s dragged me almost two blocks, I realize she’s not going to let me sleep on the ground somewhere.  She means business.  “Ok,” I concede, taking my board and backpack back from her.  “Fine.  But just tonight.”
“Sure, sure,” she says, placating me.  I stare her down, but it’s too dark for her to tell. 
After ten solid minutes of walking, we arrive at a nice, two-story brick house.  Once we get to the front stoop, Tessa says, “Wait here.  I’ll talk to him, then I’ll come get you.  It’ll just be a minute,” then she and her dog disappear through the front door.  There’s a large window to my left that looks into an office.  A man sits, back to the door, reading a newspaper at his desk.  I assume this is Tessa’s uncle.  I see her enter the room, and maybe the window’s open a crack or something, because I can hear little snippets of what she’s saying to him. 
“From school…no…I don’t know…beat up…burned…I don’t know…please…yes…the same…didn’t know…coincidence?...I don’t know…” And then the man gets up, and he and Tessa are all of a sudden at the door.
And it’s Mr. Burnes. 

Three minutes later, I’m seated in his home office.  With my board leaning against the wall, my bag at my feet, his fingers matched up, and a desk between us, it feels just like how it was a few hours ago.  The clock on the wall reads 11:39.  Tessa stands underneath it.
“Tyler, I’m more than happy for you to stay with us, and for as long as you need.”
I flinch.  “Thanks, sir, but—“
“But?”
“I really don’t want to impose or anything, don’t worry—“
“Don’t worry?”  I wondering if this conversation is just gonna be him cutting me off with what I just said, but then he continues, “I feel I’ve come to know you very well over the last couple weeks, and the thought of what your own kin has done to you makes me indescribably angry.  I would love to file charges, but I know you would never allow it.  Everything you did for your sister makes sense now, as well as all your…bruises.  I admire you, Tyler, because I think you’re one of the last of a dying breed: you truly care about others.  And I’m asking you to please allow me to assist you, just temporarily.  Because I want to.  I want to see you make a full recovery, and I feel like your grades and mental well-being would flourish, if exposed to the right environment.”
I’m so tired right now that half of his words go in one ear and out the other, but I have enough sense to shake my head.  “No, you’ve already done so much—“
“Tyler, please, as a parent, I’m afraid it would be impossible to now let you exit my house.  At least spend just this one night, and we can discuss this whole situation after we’ve all had a good night’s rest.  Please?  For my sake.”
I run my hand through my hair.  “Just one night.”

I’m hungry.
I open my eyes to discover I’m in an unfamiliar room.  I close them again as I recall what happened last night.  Tessa had been at the park.  She brought me back to her house, and…Mr. Burnes is her uncle? I frown; two completely separate aspects of my life just collided—well, three, really, considering both Tessa and Mr. Burnes now know about my uncle.  I don’t like this at all.
Before I can devise a way to get out of here as quickly as possible, the bedroom door opens.  It’s Mr. Burnes, and he smiles at me, though it seems forced.  “Good morning, Tyler,” he calls, and I wonder if I’ll ever get used to his saying my name, or if it’ll always make me flinch. 
Sitting up, I reach into my pocket for my phone to check the time, but it’s not there.  It’s sitting on the bedside table instead.  Mr. Burnes notices my line of sight and says, “It’s a quarter to eleven.  I didn’t want it to fall out of your pocket and get lost in the bed.”
I nod.  “Thanks.  Uh, did you say it’s almost eleven?” I’m pretty sure it’s Saturday.  “I should probably get goin’, so, um, thanks for lettin’ me crash here ‘n all, so I’ll jus’ be goin’ now—“
He holds up his hand.  “Actually, I do hope you don’t mind, but I was hoping I could speak with you.”
“Uh…”  I have a feeling I know what this conversation’s gonna be about, and I’d really like to avoid it.
“Through that door is a bathroom,” he point to his right.  “I’ve left fresh towels on the counter, so after you help yourself to a shower, could you meet me downstairs, perhaps?”
He poses it as a question, and I know he means it.  He’d let me walk out right now.  But looking back on everything he’s done for me, I just can’t bring myself to leave.  If he wants to talk, we can talk.  I take a deep breath.
“Sure, thanks,” I say.
He smiles again, and in his eyes I can see that he knows I’d give anything to get out of the conversation he wants to have, and he’s grateful that I’m acting mature.  “Excellent,” he says, and starts to turn away.  Then he remembers something and faces me again.  Placing a small glass bottle on the dresser, he says, “Oh, here.  Put this on your arm.  It should help.”
Once again, the sheer generosity of this man floors me.
He closes the door behind himself, and I roll out of bed and stretch.  For the first time, I look around the room.  A little bigger than the one I shared with Cal and Mason, it’s got two windows, a queen-sized bed with a little bedside table, a dresser, a small desk, a tiny walk-in closet, and a door that presumably leads to the bathroom.  A wooden cross hangs over the bed, a mirror over the dresser, and a painting of a waterfall over the desk.  There’s nothing personal, nothing to suggest this room belongs to anyone.  I peek inside one of the dresser drawers; it’s empty.  I deduce that this must be a guest room. 
Next, I pick up the bottle Mr. Burnes left and read the instructions.  Since my brain is still fogged from sleep, I have to reread them a few times before I retain anything.  “Unwrap arm,” I mumble to myself.  “Shower.  Put stuff on.  Rewrap.”  Simple enough.  I pull out the clean clothes from my backpack and head to the bathroom.  When I unwrap my arm, I don’t want to look at it at all, but I catch a glance in the mirror.  It’s…better.  Still not good, but better than before.  The shower feels heavenly, and probably lasts over a half hour again.  Then after I get out and slide into my clean clothes, I begin to gingerly apply the salve.  At first I don’t feel anything, but when I’m about half way done it begins to sting.  I’m actually grateful for this, because, well, I’d rather feel pain than just be numb.  I rewrap my arm when I’m finished.  For maybe the billionth time, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to move it again.  Eyeing myself in the mirror, I take a deep breath.  My face is only a little bruised; all in all, I don’t look too banged up.  I know I’ll have to leave the bathroom eventually, but I just don’t want to talk to Mr. Burnes.  I’m afraid of what he’ll ask.  
Be a big boy, Tyler, I tell myself.  Words are just words.
So I leave the relative safety of the bathroom and go downstairs.  It’s weird being here, because I know that behind one of these closed bedroom doors is where Tessa sleeps, and another is where Mr. Burnes sleeps. 
I find him seated at the kitchen table, cradling a mug of coffee, a newspaper open in front of him.  Dishes are stacked in the sink, like he’s one of those dads that cooks up a nice big breakfast for the whole family every Saturday morning.  Sure enough, he points to a plate piled high with pancakes, eggs, and bacon on the table across from where he’s seated.  A glass of orange juice sits next to it. 
“I heated them up a few minutes ago.  Hope they’re not too cold.”
“Thanks.  I, uh, really appreciate it.”  He waves my thanks away, not understanding how much this means to me.  I don’t remember the last time anyone besides Lotto’s mom made me a homemade breakfast.  Or anything homemade, really, for that matter. 
I sit down.
“Go on, eat,” he says, waving his coffee at me, not looking up from his newspaper.  “We can speak when you’re through.”
I obey him, devouring the meal.  It’s delicious.
When I lay down my fork after downing the orange juice as well, he looks up.  “Well, you certainly were hungry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was that enough? We have more if you’re still hungry.  I have two sons, you know, both in college now.  They’d eat me out of house and home.”
“No, thanks, I’m good.”
“I’m glad.  Well,” he lays down his paper and folds his hands.  Business time.  “I’m glad you agreed to speak with me.”
I nod.
“I know it must be very difficult for you.”
How could he know?? I just nod again.
He sighs.  “I don’t know any tactful way to get the information I want from you.  Oh, and Tyler, don’t feel like you’re obliged to tell me anything.  Just because I ask, doesn’t mean you have to answer.  I…I’d like to know things.  I want to help you.  So I was wondering if we could just start at the beginning? I gathered from your sister’s story that your parents are dead, yes?”
I nod.  He asked me this before, in his office once.  It feels like a lifetime ago. 
His eyes get all soft and sad and crinkly.  “How long ago did they die?”
I can’t meet his gaze; I focus on the wall behind his head.  “Six years.”
“How?”
“Car crash.”
He nods a few times.  “So you now live with your uncle, his son, and your two brothers, correct? Well, I mean, you did until a few days ago.”
“Yeah.”
“And your uncle…he hits you?”
“Yeah.”
“Do either of your brothers? Or your cousin?”
I shake my head.  Of course, Mason’s taken a few swings at me before when he was plastered, but that doesn’t count.
“Does your uncle hurt the other people in your family as well?”
Of course.  He hurts us all.  But physically? “Um, not really.  Mason—my younger-older brother—sometimes.   But never really Cal or Jamie.”
“And of course you never let him hurt Lucy, did you?”
God, no.  I shake my head. 
“Does your uncle abuse any substances?”
“He drinks, yeah.”
“Does he get drunk frequently?”
I begin to laugh, which causes Mr. Burnes to look slightly alarmed.  “It’s just that, sir, no, he doesn’t get drunk as much as he stays drunk.  Honest to god, I don’t remember the last time he was sober.  He might never have been.”
“He was already an alcoholic when you moved in with him?”
I nod. 
“Did you ever drink?”
I shake my head.
“Is your cousin an alcoholic as well?”
“No.”
“Are either of your brothers?”
I shove my hands into my pockets, still not looking at him.  “Yeah.”
“Both?”
“No, just Mason.”
“How old is he?”
“Seventeen.”
“How old was he when he started drinking?”
“Thirteen.”
“So…you were about nine when your parents died, then?”
“Exactly nine.”
“How well do you remember them?”
“Not very.  My mom better than my dad.  He was always at work.”
“And neither of them drank, did they?”
I shake my head.
“So you remember what it was like to live in a stable, nourishing environment?”
I nod.
“How would you like to live in one again?”
For the first time, we make eye contact.  “Uhh, what?”
“I’m asking you to live with me, Tyler.”
“Oh my god.  Ummm.  I don’t think…” I trail off.  What don’t I think?
“Where else would you go?” His voice is gentle; he makes a good point.  “I would not like you to go back to your uncle’s house, and neither, I think, would you.  It isn’t safe.  And the same goes for you sleeping in the streets.  I’ve had two sons your age before, there’s room in my house, and I really think it’s just the best situation.  At least for a while, until we can figure out something else if you really don’t want to be here.  But please, Tyler, consider it.”  I say nothing.  Eyes full of sadness, Mr. Burnes asks, “Why is it so hard for you to let people help you?”
I set my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand.  Seems to me like I’ve let plenty of people help me, mooched off enough people.  But a line from a Kanye West song that Nolan used to be obsessed with floats back to me: “swallow that pill that they call pride.”  I feel like I must be rejecting Mr. Burnes offer because it makes me feel weak.  Well, maybe I just need to accept that I am weak.
“Thank you, sir.  I’d be really really honored if you let me stay with you for a while.”
He beams.  “Fantastic.  I’m so glad.  Was the room you stayed in last night satisfactory?”
I nod.  “Completely.”
“Excellent, excellent..”
“Uh, sir?”
“Yes?”
“I just…um.  I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t give me any special treatment or anythin’ like that.  Any chores that Tessa does, I can do too.  And more.  I’m happy to help.”
He smiles.  “I’ll take you up on that.  Oh, that’s the other thing.  I consider Tessa my daughter, Tyler, and as of right now, I consider you my son.  Know what that makes you two?”
“Umm, siblings?”
“Right.  And you know what siblings can’t do?”
“Uh.  Be together?”
He taps his nose.  “Exactly.  So I’m warning you right now, it’d be wise of you to take all your teenagerly longings and express them elsewhere.” He gives me a stern look.  “You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
His gaze softening, he says, “You don’t have to call me sir.”
“Oh.  Ok.”
Mr. Burnes claps his hands, back to business.  “Is there any way you can retrieve your belongings?”
“Yeah, I can do that today, if you want.”  Though it’d be much easier to wait till Monday…
“No rush.  Whenever you can is fine.  And you can continue working for me at the office; I appreciate the help.  So you’ll stay in the green bedroom, and you have your own bathroom, good.  How do you get to school?”
“I skate.”
He chuckles.  “I could have guessed.  Well, if you’d ever like a ride, I drive Tessa almost every day.  Occasionally she walks.  And you’ll be getting your clothes and things…is there anything you need?”
I think for a moment.  “Um, no, I don’t think so.”
“Alright.  Oh, and I don’t know what kind of schedule you run, but I’m assuming it’s a loose one.  I, however, lock my doors at eleven each night, regardless of where my children are.  If you’re sleeping somewhere else, I need to be notified by seven o’clock that evening, or it’s not happening.  I’d like to have a general idea of where you are at all times.  You can have friends over, of course, but if there’s any drinking or drugs or anything of the sort, I never want to see any of them again.  And if you have girls over, they have to stay on the first floor.  No basement or bedrooms.”
I wonder if sleeping on park benches is better than living with this many rules.  Jesus Christ, this man’s a stickler.  Noticing my expression, Mr. Burnes smiles.  “Yes, I know.  But it’s my house, my rules, right?”  I nod.  No wonder Tessa’s a nerd—she wouldn’t have the freedom to be anything else!
Mr. Burnes eyes me over the table.  “Do you think you can live with that, Tyler?”  He extends his hand to me.
Flinching, I run my fingers through my hair.  “I’ve lived with worse, sir.”  I take his hand.
“I’ve already informed Tessa and my wife of the arrangement.”  So, what, he just knew I’d agree to it? Wouldn’t surprise me, actually, if he’s anything like Tessa.  “So now I’ll just leave you to your own devices, I suppose.  Unpack, get comfortable.  Look around the house.  If you need me, I’ll most likely be in my office, just down the hall.  Help yourself to anything in the fridge or pantry.  No doubt you’ll be hungry again soon.” He laughs, then continues to smile at me as he stands up.  “I’m glad you agreed to this, Tyler.”
“Thanks,” I say with a flinch and a smile.  “I am, too.”

I’m sitting on the floor of my new room, poking around the contents of my backpack, when I hear a soft knock on my door.  “Yeah?” I call.
Tessa’s face appears.  She gives me a small smile.  “Hi.  Mind if I come in?”
“Not at all.”
She enters and sits across from me, cross-legged.  I wonder what she came in here to say; I mean, she definitely doesn’t seem like the kinda person who’d be like OMG SO YOUR UNCLE ABUSES YOU AND NOW YOU’RE LIVING WITH US OMG.  No, she looks at me for a moment, then looks away and says, “Sorry your room’s so plain.”
“S’fine.”
An awkward silence ensues.  I rack my brain for something to say, but I’m drawing a blank. 
Finally, she says, “So, um, happy belated birthday.”
“Oh, yeah, you too.”
“Thanks.  So…how’s it going? Wait, no, I take that back.  It was dumb.  Sorry.”
I laugh.  “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”  Then, “Didja get anythin’ cool for your birthday?”
A huge grin breaks out on her face.  “I got a new camera.  It’s crazy fancy.  I love it! And then I got some sweaters and gift cards and stuff, you know, the usual.”
I nod, even though, no, I actually don’t know.  It’s been a while since my last birthday present. 
Tessa’s smile fades and her eyes grow serious.  “I came in here ‘cause I really wanted to just…make sure you were ok, I guess.”
I almost laugh, but don’t, cuz nothing’s really funny.  It just amuses me that this nerdy freshman girl who’s about 5’3” and probably weighs a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet wants to make sure I’m ok.  Me.  “Thanks,” I say.  “I think I’m fine.”
Her gaze drops to the floor.  “I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.  “And even though I know you don’t want my pity, I’m really, really sorry.”
I pick up my flatbrim out of my backpack and turn it over in my hands.  “Thanks.”  I never know what to say to people when they tell me they’re sorry for me—like at my parents’ funeral, when everyone was all like We’re so sorry for your loss, how are you even supposed to respond?  I mean, think about it: everyone just says ‘thanks’, but does that even make sense? I guess it’s more acceptable than saying ‘yeah, it really sucks, and you’re not helping so leave me alone’, though that’s usually more accurate. 
On the floor between us, my phone buzzes.  It’s a text from Jayde with her address and “party’s from 7 til…whenevs ”.  I reply “ok see ya there,” and then I realize that I need to tell Mr. Burnes I’m going out, and since ‘whenevs’ is NEVER before two in the morning, I’ll have to crash with Nolan or Lotto or someone, and I need to tell Mr. Burnes that, too, before seven.  Jeez, this is a lotta work.  I send a quick text to Nolan asking if he wants to meet up somewhere beforehand, and then I ask if I can spend the night.  He replies in the affirmative, so that’s settled.
After watching me text, Tessa says, “Well, I was just going to go downstairs to find some lunch.  Join me?”
Even though I just had breakfast, I’m hungry again, as Mr. Burnes predicted, so I agree.  We scrounge up some microwave burritos, and wash them down with Pepsi.  All in all, not too shabby.  After placing her dishes in the sink, Tessa says she has to go do homework and heads back upstairs.  I chuckle to myself.  Nerds. 
Just as I’m about to go seek out Mr. Burnes in his office, a woman walks into the kitchen.  She smiles at me and envelops me in a hug.  I try to remember the last time an adult hugged me.  I can’t.  “Oh, hello.  You must be Tyler.  I’m Laurie, John’s wife and Tessa’s aunt.”
I smile back.  “Great to meet you, Mrs. Burnes.  Thanks for everything.”
“Of course, of course.  It’s my pleasure! Have you had lunch yet?”
“Yeah, I just ate, thanks.”  She reminds me a bit of Lotto’s mom.
“I’m glad.  Well, I suppose I’ll let you get on with your day, then.”  She beams at me.  “Make sure you let me know if you need anything.  And I’m always free if you want to talk.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Burnes.”
I head over to her husband’s office.  Though the door is open, his back is to me, so I knock on the doorframe.  He spins his chair around.  “Yes?”
“Sorry if I’m interrupting anythin’, but…”
“No, no you’re fine.  What do you need?”
“I was jus’ plannin’ on goin’ to a party tonight, and I don’t think it’ll be over by eleven, so I’m’a stay with a friend.”
He nods.  “That’s fine.  Where will this party take place?”
“My friend’s house…”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Jayde.”
“What is Jayde’s last name?”
“Uh, Myrta, I think.”
“And where does she live?”
I pull up the text.  “2975 Birch Lane.”
“Very well.  Will there be alcohol at this party?”
It’s probably best not to lie to him on my first full day in his house.  “Probably,” I say.
He arches an eyebrow.  “Will you drink it?”
I shake my head.
“Alright.  I trust you, and I admire your honesty.  And at whose house will you be sleeping tonight?”
“My friend Nolan.”
“Last name?”
“Davis.”
“Alright.  Will anyone else be joining you?”
“Prob’ly our friend Lotto.”
He gives me a funny look.  “Is Lotto his real name?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m pretty sure.  I think his parents used to be hippies or something.  His sisters’ names are Basil, Emerald, Harmony, and Skye, and his brothers’ names are like Windsong, Marley, and Belou or somethin’.  I think I missed a few.”
Whistling, he says, “Those are quite the names.  And quite a few children, as well.”
“Yeah.  Ten.”
“Very well.  What time should I expect you home tomorrow?”
“Uhhh…”
“It doesn’t really matter, I suppose.  I’d just like to know.  What religion are you?”
Surprised at the sudden change of direction in conversation, I reply, “Um, none, really.  I mean, I don’t think I really believe in a god, but I definitely believe in somethin’.  Like capital S Somethin’.”
He nods.  “So you don’t attend any service.  That’s fine.  Tessa, my wife, and I do, so we’ll be out of the house from quarter to nine to about eleven, since we go to nine o’clock Mass and then out for brunch afterwards.  You’re welcome to join us if you’d ever like to, of course.  I’d like it if you were home by one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.  Is that reasonable?”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
“Excellent.  Thank you for letting me know your plans, and keep me informed if anything changes.”
“I will.  Thanks.” 
“Ah, I almost forgot.” He rifles through a drawer, fishing out a key and handing it to me.  “For the front door.  And the garage code is 9340.”  He then proceeds to give me his cell number as well.
“Ayite, thanks.”
It’s weird to think of my room as, well, my room, but I guess that’s what it is.  I sit back down on the floor and gaze around myself.  I wonder what Lucy’s doing right now—probably writing, or maybe hanging out with some of her new friends.  I bet she’s made tons.  I feel a sudden, deep ache inside of me; I miss that girl like hell.  To my alarm, tears begin forming in my eyes.  “Ok, Mitchell, you gotta go do somethin’ with yourself,” I say to myself.  So I pick up my board and head back downstairs.
“Um, I’m gonna go skate,” I call to Mr. Burnes from the front hall.  “Jus’ by myself, around the streets ‘n stuff.  I’ll be back soon.”
“Ok,” he calls back.  For all his rules, he’s a pretty chill guy.
I skate around the streets for as long as it takes to clear my head.  When I get back to my house, it’s almost two hours later, and I feel great.  Checking my phone, I see that I have a missed call from Jamie and a text from Cal.  I dismiss the call and open the text.  ‘I really need to talk to you.’  ‘Go for it’, I reply, then take all my belongings out of my backpack and line it up on the floor until he replies.  It’s a long text.  ‘I wish you would call me.  But fine.  Uncle just figured out Lucy’s gone.  Went on a rampage.  Started a fire, burned table and a few chairs.  Left a few hours ago.  Said he was going to find you and make you pay.  But don’t worry, he can’t even walk in a straight line.  Just avoid all bars.  I don’t blame you if you don’t want to stay here anymore.  I hope you’re safe and I’m sorry I couldn’t provide a better home for you.’
I flop down on the bed.  For a few seconds, I try to think of how to respond to that, but I just can’t.  I turn my phone off and toss it on the floor.

When six o’clock rolls around, I head out again.  Nolan, Lotto, and I decided to meet up at a Wendy’s for some dinner before the party.  Although we finish eating by 6:30, we mess around for another forty-five minutes before going to Jayde’s.  Who’s on time to these things?  When we’re a block away, we can hear the music.  We arrive around 7:30. Though her house isn’t huge, all the furniture’s been cleared out of the first floor, so it’s now an open dance floor/mosh pit, already with maybe twenty people roaming it.  We scope out the basement just to get a feel for the scene before the crowds arrive.  There’s one main room with a couch, TV, and a ping pong table, and then a few separate rooms that will be filled with couples within a few hours.
By the time we resurface a few minutes later, the number of people has doubled.  Beer sits on every available surface, and someone shoves a red plastic cup into my hand.  I accept it so they’ll leave me alone, then I set it down about fifteen seconds later.  A girl Nolan’s been crushing on for a while walks in with a couple of her friends, and Lotto shoves him in her direction.  “C’mon, dude, get it in.” Then Lotto spots a girl he decides he wants to go after, so I lean against a wall by myself, watching the people steadily pour in.  A little after eight, Courtney arrives. 
I think one of the natural skater girls must’ve taken her shopping or let her borrow some clothes or something, cuz for once she doesn’t stick out too much.  She’s wearing shredded mini jean shorts, high tops, and a black cami with a red plaid thrown over.  She doesn’t look half bad.  She spots me right away and makes a beeline for me.  The first thing she does is steal my flatbrim, trying to be all coy.  I don’t really mind.
“Heyyy, Tyler,” she says.
“Sup, Courtney.”
She grins, grabbing a beer off a nearby windowsill.  “I’m hyped.  How many people are even coming tonight?”
“Uhh, ‘bout a hundred, I think I heard.  Give or take a dozen.”
She talks at me for a little, and I space out, watching the bodies dancing, absorbing the music, feeling the bass under my feet.  All of a sudden I cut her off.  “Wanna dance?” I feel like I should really stop doing things like this, playing ‘ask and strip’ and sleeping in her bed and everything, cuz she’s gonna start thinking I like her like that, which I don’t.  I just wanna have some fun right now.  And she’s all too happy to dance with me. 
At first, when we get to the middle of the room, it’s like we’re back at her house again—she’s shy.  She won’t make the first move; that’s fine.  I put my hands on her hips, so she slings hers around my neck.  Though we start out about a foot away, in no time at all our bodies are pressed right up against each other’s.  I’ve danced with quite a few girls at parties over the last couple years, and I’d rate Courtney a seven out of ten.  What she lacks in skill she makes up for in enthusiasm.  Keeping one hand around my neck, she reaches for another beer.  Through the next few songs, which all sound the same, she drinks more and more.  She’s completely smashed within a half hour.  Soon enough, she spins around and grinds me.  I’m not complaining.  It seems like she has a lot more experience doing this than dancing front-to-front.  She’s good.  Before long, we’re both breathing pretty hard.  Remembering the rooms downstairs, I take her hand.  Although I haven’t been drinking, it’s as if everyone else’s drunkenness is seeping into me—I feel wasted.
“C’mon,” I say to Courtney.  “Let’s go downstairs.”  She giggles and complies.
We squeeze through all the people downstairs.  Noticing the beer pong that a few people’ve set up on the ping pong table, I feel a little nauseous.  I wonder how many of them will be driving home.
Then I shake it off.
Finding a vacant room, I shut the door behind us.  Courtney finishes the beer in her hand and tosses the empty cup on the floor.  “Remember when we played that game? Ask and strip?”
“Yeah…”
“Let’s play again.  Except without the asking part.”
I can’t deny that right now, nailing her seems like a great idea.  She’s drunk, sexy, and willing.  What more could I want?
I sit on the couch and watch as she shrugs out of her plaid shirt.  Before taking off her cami, she pulls a classic stripper move: spreading her legs, she bends over, then snaps her neck up and snakes her torso to upright again, giving me an excellent view.  And even though I feel dirty, I grin.  I can’t wait to feel her.  Courtney pulls her cami over her head, drawing out the movement, and my eyes drink it in.  Then she comes to me.  Straddling me, she pulls my shirt over my head, ever mindful, even in her drunken state, of my arm.  And then, arms slung around my neck once more, she gives me a lapdance.
By this point, hormones are just coursing through me.  While she’s still midmotion, I grab Courtney and pull her to me.  Our mouths crash together, and it’s unlike any kiss I’ve ever had.  All the other ones were hesitant, unsure, gentle.  But this…this is crazy.  We’re frantic…at least at first.  After the initial few minutes, things slow down.  I had been on top of Courtney, but now she switches so she’s on top of me, and extracts her tongue from my mouth.  Still panting, she manages a wink before reaching behind her back and unclasping her bra.  She lets it drop to the floor.  For a minute, all I can do is stare.  Courtney, giving a small laugh, picks up my right hand and brings it to her chest.  And our frenzied embrace breaks out once more.
At one point, just as Courtney reaches down to rub the bulge in my jeans while I’m kissing her neck, I hear Mr. LaScala’s voice in my head again.  “If kissing girls makes you happy, then Tyler, DO IT.”  Boy howdy, Mr. L, am I doing it. 
Total and complete bliss is all I feel for a while.  I have no idea how much time went by.
All I know is that at some point, Courtney had slipped out of her shorts, and now she’s reaching for my zipper.  And all of a sudden, I freeze.  My hand pulls Courtney’s away from my pants, and she looks at me in confusion.  Isn’t this what you want? Her eyes ask.  And it is, it is what I want, but that’s just because I’m a guy, right? And besides, I don’t want it like this, not here, not now.  With a sinking feeling I realize: not with her.
“Let’s jus’ make out,” I mumble against Courtney’s neck.  She brings her lips back to mine and keeps her hands out of my pants, but I can tell she’s hurt.  And who wouldn’t be? This is what she’s been working toward for so long.  With a jolt, I realize she’s probably done this for a lot of guys, and I’d bet that it worked with all of them.  Except me, the one she really wants, and she doesn’t understand that.  I can’t blame her; I don’t understand it either.
As we continue to make out, I engage in an internal battle.  I alternate between congratulating myself on not succumbing to the wretched beast within me that would take advantage of another person to sate my desires, and calling myself a douche.  My passion fades, and I can tell Courtney’s starts to do so as well.  I feel like a complete dick, leading her on like this, but at least I said no sooner rather than later, right? After a few more minutes, Courtney lies back.  “Tired,” she says, before falling asleep.  I look at her for a moment—not in a creepy stare-at-the-hot-girl-while-she’s-sleeping-and-almost-naked kinda way, but in a hmm-she’s-asleep-and-I-really-wanna-leave-how-do-I-go-about-this way, if that makes any sense at all.
I end up covering her with a blanket.  I’m sure plenty of kids will be passed out here for a while—Jayde won’t mind.  Then I tug my shirt back on and go on a hunt for my friends.  I find Lotto on the front porch, leaning over the railing. 
“What up, man?”
He looks at me, eyes bloodshot and bleary.  For one crazy second, he looks like my uncle.  “I puked on her.”
“Who?”
“Rachel.  It was goin’ so great.  We were about to do it.  And then I fuggin’ puked on her.”
Clapping him on the back, I bite my tongue to hold in my laughter.  “That’s rough, dude.  You ready to split?”
He nods.  “Wait, no.  Hang on.” He leans forward and throws up again.  After wiping his mouth, he says, “Ok.  Now I’m ready.”
“Ayite.  D’you know where Nolan’s at?”
“Sex.”
“Oh.  With that chick he likes?”
“Yeah.  Brina.”
“Good for him.”
“Lucky bastard.”
We sit on the porch until about three, when Nolan shows up.  During that time, I pretty much just torment myself with questions.  Why? Why didn’t I nail Courtney? Why am I so stupid? How’s Lucy? Where’s my uncle? Is Cal getting the bills paid? What the hell am I going to do with my life? Has Tessa ever been to a party like this? Did Mr. LaScala have any idea what he was asking of me? How much of tonight will Courtney remember in a few hours? Do other people ever feel this way?
While the three of us skate back to Nolan’s, he gives us the details.  Lotto’s all jealousy, and I’m mostly silent.  I’m jealous, too, I guess, but not for the same reason as Lotto.  Nolan says he and Brina are dating now, and I want that.  I want a girlfriend, I realize, but not just one that I have sex with.  Someone I can actually talk to.  Maybe someone who understands me? A little? Maybe…? Or maybe I’m asking for way too much. 
Immediately upon arrival at Nolan’s place, the two of them are out.  It takes me a while longer to fall asleep.  I keep wondering what life would be like if my parents hadn’t died…
I have a dream that night that my parents are banging on Nolan’s window.  I get up to open it for them, but Uncle Rich sneaks up behind them.  I yell out a warning, but they don’t hear me.  He stabs them, but as he does it they turn into Cal and then Mason and then Lucy.  Her small body crumples to the ground, and I reach out to her, but I can’t get the window open.  Then Mr. Burnes shows up with a baseball bat and smashes the window for me, but the glass gets in my eyes so I can’t see.  Everything goes black, and the rest of the dream is just a confusing hurricane of emotions.

“Nolan Joseph Davis, I swear to god if you’re hungover I will whip your little black booty into next week!”
Groaning, Nolan rolls over, pulling the blankets over his head.  “I ain’t hungover, Ma, I’m tired!”
Lotto gives a similar moan.  I drag my hand across my face.  Of our group, I’m the only non-hungover one, but I bet I’m tired enough that we all look about the same. 
“You shoulda told me you was home, I waited up half the night for you, I was about ready to call the cops.  Lord, Nolan, you tryin’ to kill me?  At least have some consideration for your mother, tell me when you’s in the house so I don’t have a heart attack when I wake up, thinkin’ you’s still out from last night—“
“GET THE HELL OUT OF MY ROOM PLEASE.”
In a huff, she slams the door closed.  Nolan sits up and rubs his eyes.  Managing a bleary smile, he says, “Whaddaya think the odds are she’ll make us breakfast?”
I laugh.  Lotto says, “Good thing I’m too fuggin’ hungover to eat anyway.  Crazy.nauseous,” and Nolan agrees.  I, for one, could eat a reindeer, but I’m not about to bring it up.  While I’ve got them captive, I have some important crap I need to talk about with my friends.  I’d prefer not to do it while they’re hungover, but I don’t have much of a choice right now.  I’m not very good at speaking or anything, so I can’t think of a way to gracefully breach the topic.  Might as well be blunt, I figure.
“We should integrate,” I say.
Lotto eyes me sideways.  “You wanna bang?”
“NO, what, god, no, what, DUDE, no.  I meant integrate, like, the social classes.  At school.  I LIKE CHICKS.  Dude.  No.  C’mon.  Dude.”
Lotto snickers.  “I was kiddin’, man.  But good to know.”  Nolan rolls around the floor in peals of laughter.  After he calms down, Lotto says, “But why the hell’d we do that?”
“Um…doesn’t it bother you?”
He gives me a blank look.  “Should it?”
Nolan puts his hand over his face.  “C’mon, dude.  Yeah, it should.” He looks at me.  “I feel ya.  I’ve thought about it before, tryina fix it, y’know.  But it seems like a lotta work.  How would you even…start?”
“I, uh, actually gave it a lotta thought, and I think homecoming’s pretty convenient.”
Nolan’s smart.  I can tell he’s thinking it over, but it’d go a lot faster if he weren’t so hungover.  Oh well.  At least he’s even playing along, unlike Lotto, who’s watching us both with mild disinterest.  “Well…ok.  I think I see where you’re goin’.  So we should all ask people from different groups, yeah?”
“Exactly!”
“That’s unheard of, bro.  But I’ll listen.  Tell me what you’re thinkin’.”
“Like…well, I guess you’re dating Brina now, right?”  He nods.  “Ok, so us three plus her would rep the skater class.  And then I could take Courtney, cuz, well, y’know.  And then…” We turn to Lotto.
“Who ya got in mind for him? Know any nerds?” He chuckles.
“Uhh, actually, I kinda do…”
He stops mid-chuckle.  “What? Who? A girl?”
“Uh, yeah.  She’s a freshman though, and her dad’s kinda strict, but I think he likes me, but…I dunno.  Tessa Alderman.”
Nolan leans back against the wall.  He opens his mouth, then closes it.  Lotto, instead, says, “How the hell d’you know one of those??”
“Uhh it’s kinda a long story.  I mean, we’re not like friends or anything.  But I could maybe talk to her.  She might be in.”
Nolan rubs his jaw.  “You’re one trippy dude, you know that?”
I flop back down to the floor, exhaling.  “Yeah.  I know.”  We’re silent for a while, then I remember: “Crap! What time’s it?”
Lotto checks his phone.  “Twelve fifty-two.  Why?”
“S***.  I gotta go.” I scramble to my feet, check my pockets, make sure I have everything.  “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
Nolan frowns.  “Got a hot date with a nerd?”
“No,” I mumble, opening the door.  I’m just living with one. 
I’m frantic as I skate back to the Burnes’s.  Don’t screw this up, I keep telling myself.  For once, something is actually working out in your life, stuff’s going pretty well, just don’t screw this up by being late.
At twelve fifty-eight, I’m through the front door.  Mr. Burnes looks over through his open office door.  “Hello, Tyler,” he calls.  “Come talk to me?”
I’m nervous; what if this is some kind of party-debriefing? Is this normal? Do most parents do this?  “Uh, sure,” I say, and drop into the chair facing his.
“How was your party?”
“Good.”
He steeples his fingers and looks at me over them.  “You should be aware that I do not accept ‘good’ as a one-word answer.  I find it terribly useless.  So try again.  How was your party?”
“Uh, fun.”
“Better.  And you stayed with your friend Nolan, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything happen I should know about?”
I almost had sex…my friends got smashed…you were in my nightmare…one of my friends might ask your daughter to homecoming.  “No, sir.”
He nods.  “Very well.  Do as you please.”  He smiles.  “As always, if you need anything, just ask.”
“Thanks.”
On the stairs, I have one of the most awkward encounters of my life.
I’m about a quarter of the way up when Tessa starts coming down.  With three of her friends.  All of them are small, female, nerdy, and now staring at me.  Their eyes drink it all in: the flatbrim, the bruises, the board.  One of their jaws literally drops. 
We all freeze.  Tessa and I make eye contact.  She looks horrified; I’m sure I do, too.  I can’t just turn around, that’d be weird.  I have to go all the way upstairs.  And they have to continue down.  But the staircase is narrow, so now Tessa and her friends have to file down in a single line, and we all have to turn our bodies just a little to avoid touching each other.  I unintentionally brush against one of them, and she actually winces. 
It takes an eternity for me to go up eleven stairs.  Years and years.  Finally I make it, and turn in relief to go into my room.  I hear whispers erupt as soon as I’m out of sight.  I throw my stuff on the floor and flop onto my bed.  I don’t even want to think about what kind of rumors will be flying around school tomorrow.  But wait…maybe no one will find out? No one I know, at least.  Because who would tell them? That might be the only good thing about all this segregation: the rumors usually stay segregated as well.  The gossip won’t spread from group to group if there’s no communication, or even if communication is extremely limited, which is probably more accurate.
I toss my hat onto my pile of belongings.  I feel relieved.  Within minutes, I’m asleep.

When I wake up, I feel disgusting, so I take a shower.  At the last minute I remember to unwrap my arm.  After I’ve finished, I reapply the stuff.  Again, it stings a little.  Better than nothing.  I rewrap it and get dressed in the clothes I was wearing before my other shower.  I need to go back to the house and get more of them.  I resolve to do it tomorrow.  Then I go sit on my floor and wonder how I’m going to ask Courtney to homecoming without a) getting her hopes up that I want a relationship, and b) being a total douche. 
A soft knock on the door interrupts my train of thought.  “Yeah?”
Tessa opens it about a foot.  “I just, um, I just wanted to apologize for that.  On the stairs.  My friends.  It was rude of them to stare.  Sorry.”
She starts to close the door.  “Wait,” I call on impulse.  She hesitates.  “Don’t worry ‘bout it. And um…”
“Um?”
“I was actually wonderin’ if I could talk to you for a second.”
“Sure, of course.”  Though her tone is upbeat, I notice the uncertainty in her face and that she leaves the door open. 
“Your friends gone?”
She swallows.  “Yes.”
I pick at the carpet.  “They asked about me, right?” I can’t imagine how they wouldn’t.
She nods.  I look at her; she gazes at the wall above my head.  “So…? What’d you tell them?”
She says something so quietly I can’t hear it.  “What?”
Clearing her throat, she says, “I told them to f*** off.”
I stare at her in disbelief.  “Are you serious right now?”
She nods, her face flooding with color.  “I mean, at first I just told them it was no big deal and to not mention it.  But they kept bringing it up, so I…yeah.”
“Huh.  Wow.  Well, thanks.”
She nods, still not looking at me.
“Are they mad at you now?”
She shrugs.  “They want to be, but Krissie would fail her Spanish test tomorrow if I hadn’t given her my study guide for it, and the others all follow her mood, so it’s not a big deal.”
I’m impressed with this girl.
“You can sit down, y’know.”
She slides down the wall until she’s barely seated.
I pop off my hat and rake my hand through my hair.  Again, I suck at…speaking.  I don’t know how to bring this up, so I just puke it out.  Word vomit, I think Mean Girls called it.  Accurate movie, that.  “So I really wanna try ‘n get rid of this whole bogus social class thing and I was thinkin’ we could do it at homecoming by like havin’ an integrated group so if you’re not goin’ with anyone yet could you maybe go with my friend Lotto?”
“Umm…” She looks assaulted by my words.  “I…well…that’s a really cool idea.  And I agree that it’s a problem.  I’d love to help.  I already have a date, though…”
I wonder who she’s going with, but I don’t ask.  That’d be weird, and I’m sure I don’t know him anyway.  I’m relieved she’s going with this so easily.  No questions or anything.  “Oh…d’you have any friends he could go with? And would you ‘n your, ah, date consider bein’ in a group with me ‘n some friends?”
After looking at her palms for a minute, she gives a few slow nods.  “Yes.  I have a friend in mind, and I know another couple in addition to myself and James that’d be fine with being in your group.  Wait…who is your group?”
“Uh, well, right now it’s just me n’ my date n my two friends ‘n one of their girlfriends, ‘n then the other one’d be with your friend.  I want it to be a big group though.”
Nodding, she asks, “Do you have anyone from the third group?”
“The jocks, you mean?”
Tessa makes a face.  “If you want to call them that.”
“Yeah, the girl I’m goin’ with actually.  Courtney…maybe you know her?”
“Your not-girlfriend? The one we talked about the other day?”
“Yup.”
“So I’m guessing you want more from that group, then?”
“Yeah.  I mean, I want more from all of the groups.  I want everyone to notice us.”  I note she looks uncomfortable with that—I guess being the center of attention isn’t her thing.  “But we especially need more of them.  Problem is, I dunno any of them.  D’you?”
“I tutor one freshman guy and a sophomore girl and guy.  I don’t think the sophomore guy would be willing, but I could always try and talk to the other two…”
“That’d be awesome.  Thanks for goin’ along with this.”
She smiles.  “To tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking about it a lot, especially lately.  None of this sort of thing happened at my old school.” She must see my expression—I went to the local public middle school, and there was already plenty of segregation—she explains, “I went to a private school.  It was very small and select.”
I nod.  A smart-people school.  She continues, “But so yeah, that made it really sudden: getting to high school and seeing how people treat each other.  It kind of disgusted me, actually.  It still does.  I mean, people hating people for no reason.  Why??”
I assume that’s a rhetorical question, so I just nod for a while.  Then I say, “Ayite, so I think I know a couple more skaters I could get in our group.  Homecoming’s like…next week, though, right?” She nods.  “So we kinda gotta get on this.  How ‘bout we talk to all our people today, and then meet back here at like ten tonight to go over stuff?”
“OK, sounds like a plan.” Tessa gets up to go, then pauses.  “Tyler?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m super impressed with all this.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“I think it’s really cool that you want to change things.”
I smile.  “Thanks.  And thanks for helpin’ ‘n everything.”
She smiles back.  No problem.  See you at ten.”

Courtney and I meet at a Caribou twenty minutes later.
“So, listen, Courtney, I’m workin’ on this thing…”  I trail off, not sure how to continue.  I need to ask her to homecoming, but I don’t want it to sound like I’m interested in her like that.
“What kinda thing?” She prompts.
“Uhh, like…it’s like a project.  A socio-thing, I guess, maybe.  A people project.  I’m tryin’a get people to be more, uh, accepting? To just not hate each other, basically, for what group of friends they’re in.  Does that make any sense at all?”
“Umm.  So you want like the football players to not hate the skaters?”
“Right, right.  Well, I mean, they can still hate each other if they want, but not just for the fact that they’re skaters.  You know?”
She nods.  “I think so.  But how are you gonna do anything about that? It’s always been this way.”
“Uh, well, I was thinkin’ that at homecoming we could have like this big group with people from all three social classes.  So…d’you wanna go with me? You’d rep your x-class, I guess.”
She lets out an ear-piercing squeal.  “I’D LOVE TOOOO!”
I don’t think she gets that I just wanna go as friends…
Standing up, I murmur, “Yeah, so I’ll text you the details ‘n stuff later, and uh, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then, I gotta run.”  Leaving Courtney bouncing with joy (and coffee) I head over to where I’m meeting Lotto and Nolan.  Both of them are already there, sipping Mountain Dews.  Lotto tosses me one as I approach. 
“So what’s the deal, man?” asks Nolan.
“Courtney said she’d go with me—“
“There’s a surprise.”
“—and Tessa ‘n her date are gonna be in our group, ‘n also another couple of nerds she’s friends with, ‘n then she has one in mind for you.” I jerk my head towards Lotto.  “Plus she tutors a couple jocks, a girl ‘n a guy, ‘n she said she’d talk to them.”
“I still don’t get how you know this nerd chick, but whatever,” Lotto says.  “I guess I’ll go with her friend.”
“So is that everyone that’s gonna be in our group?” Nolan asks.
I shrug.  “For now that’s all we got, but I want it to be bigger.  Everyone needs to notice.”
Nolan nods a couple times.  “I talked to Jayde, and she said she ‘n Alex are both goin’ with their boyfriends—skaters, obviously—‘n they’re just their own lil’ group right now, ‘n then if K gets asked she’ll be in it.”
“Ayite…so maybe the guy jock that Tessa knows could ask K, ‘n then the jockette…do we have someone who could ask her?”
Nolan’s got a thoughtful expression; he’s getting into this.  “It’d be good if she could go with a nerd, cuz that’s the only type of couple we don’t have yet, besides jock-jock.”
“Huh?” Lotto’s not into this at all.
“Well, Tyler ‘n Courtney, plus K and the kid Tessa or whoever tutors if they go, make skater-jock.  Me ‘n Brina, plus Jayde ‘n Alex ‘n their dates, make skater-skater.  Tessa ‘n her date ‘n also their friends are nerd-nerd.  Lotto ‘n the nerd chick make skater-nerd.  So to get all the six possible types of couples, we’d just need jock-jock and nerd-jock.”
I stare at him.
“What?”
“That was kinda brilliant, dude,” I tell him.  “I don’t think we’re gonna get jock-jock, but nerd-jock, maybe.  I’ll see if Tessa can maybe think of a friend that’d be willin’ to go with the jock she tutors.”
“Cool.  Oh, ‘n we gotta figure out where we’re doin’ pictures ‘n eatin’ ‘n havin’ the after-party ‘n everything.”  Nolan’s phone vibrates, so he pulls it out.  “Oh, hang on.”  He scrolls down.  “Sweet.  JT says that since his annual party ‘n homecoming are fallin’ around the same time this year, he’s jus’ gonna make his party one massive after-party for the dance.”  The three of us break into huge grins.  “This is gonna be sick.  All the skaters from North are invited, obviously, plus their dates, plus a buncha skaters from West and South.”  No skaters go to East…no one really knows why.  Anyway, I do some quick mental math: just over a quarter of each grade’s guys are skaters.  That’s two-fifty times four.  Eight hundred.  Plus dates.  Sixteen hundred.  Plus about a hundred skaters each from West and South, plus dates.  That’s another four hundred.  So TWO THOUSAND people.  Insane.  For regular parties, about a fifteen percent of the invited don’t show for whatever reason.  But at JT’s parties, the no-show number is maybe half that.  There will probably be between eighteen and nineteen hundred people at this party, almost double what there normally is.  Good thing he lives in a mansion set on twenty acres of land.
Lotto and I nod in agreement.  JT’s party is always insane, but this year it might just be legendary.

Tonight is the first time in forever that I sit down to an honest-to-god family dinner.  Even though it’s not even my family, I’m excited.  And nervous.  What if family-dinner procedures have changed and I make a fool out of myself?
Each place has its own placemat, folded napkin, silverware, plate, and cup.  It looks so…fancy. 
When the four of us are seated, Mr. Burnes begins to say a prayer.  His wife and niece join in; I fold my hands in my lap and cast my gaze downward.  I hope I look respectful.  He ends the prayer with, “and God bless Laurie, Johnny, Max, Tessa, and Tyler.”  I’ll admit, that almost makes me tear up, being listed with his kids and all.  “And bless Lucy, too,” I add in my head, just in case their god is listening. 
Mr. Burnes scoops some pasta for his wife, then for himself, then he passes it to Tessa.  After taking some, she passes it to me.  Mrs. Burnes asks her husband, “Did you look at those carpet swatches I picked out?”
“Yes, yes.  I liked, oh, what was it called?”
“The lighter one?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“I thought it would look better with the curtains.”
“You thought quite right.”  Mr. Burnes turns to Tessa.  “What’s new, sweetheart?”
“Nothing much.”
“Any tests tomorrow?”
“Just English.”
He smiles.  “And of course you’re prepared for that.”
She smiles back.  “I think so.”
Is this normal dinner conversation? This is fuggin’ boring.  Mr. Burnes and Tessa discuss what she’s doing in English for a few minutes, and then we eat in silence for a while.  That is, until Mrs. Burnes turns to me.
“So, Tyler, you like to skateboard, I gather?”
I nod.  “Very much.”
“Where did you learn how to do it?”
“Umm.  I don’t even remember, really.  I kinda just…always have, I guess.”
She nods.  “I see, I see.  And do most of your friends skateboard as well?”
I suppress a laugh and refrain from saying ‘society wouldn’t have it any other way’, which is the first thing that pops into my head.  Instead, I answer, “Yeah, all of them do.”
“Well, fancy that! And do you do tricks?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I never understood that, myself.  You must show me sometime.  I just can’t fathom how you manage to get that little piece of wood so high into the air, and then come down and land right back on it! Frankly, it’s magic to me.”
I laugh.  “There’s nothin’ too magical about it.”  I like Mrs. Burnes.  I like her easygoing manner, and also her cooking.  The pasta is delicious, and I tell her so.  She blushes and waves away my praise.
After dinner, I help clear the table and offer to do the dishes, but Mrs. Burnes shoos me away, so I just go back up to my room.  The whole homecoming mess is swirling around in my head, so I fish a notebook and pen out of my backpack and write down all the for-sure couples on one page, and all the hopefully-couples on another.  Then I realize I have to somehow acquire a suit in less than a week.  Hmm…I guess I could always just root around the house tomorrow, since I was planning on going back anyway to get some more clothes. 
I lie back on my bed.  Free time is something I usually don’t have; I don’t really know what to do with myself.  Normally I’d be in a fight right about now, or maybe cooking dinner or talking to Lucy.  Lucy! There’s an idea.  I pick the notebook back up and write her another letter.  This one’s longer than the first; I explain all about the Burneses and how great they are.  At the end I ask her to write me back again.  I hope she does.  I can’t think why she wouldn’t.
The noises floating from downstairs are calming to me: the scuffle of feet, the clanking of dishes, the low buzz of the TV.  I listen to them for a minute, content, then I roll to the floor and begin doing pushups—one-armed, of course.  Stupid left arm.  It’s a spontaneous thing, but once I start I can’t stop.  I love the rhythm of them.  At times like these, I wish I had an iPod or something so I could listen to music.  Instead, I listen to my heartbeat combined with the household sounds.  After a while, my muscles start to burn, and I relish the feeling.  As I begin to sweat, I yank off my shirt and continue.  At last I fall onto my stomach.  The sounds of the house become my lullaby.

“Sometimes it is easier to see the light when you stand partly in the darkness.” –Garth Nix

“Um, Tyler?”
“What?” I mumble, face in the carpet.  I’m still half-asleep.
“Uhh, if you just want to do this tomorrow, I can—“
I remember where I am.  “Oh, sorry, no, I jus’ fell asleep.  Hang on.”  I sit up, rubbing my eyes.  “I’m good.  Let’s…uh…oh, yeah, homecoming.  Right.”  I find my phone and scroll through the messages from Nolan and Courtney.
Tessa edges closer to me, leaving the door wide open.  I nod towards it.  “You might wanna close that,” I tell her.  She does so, then remains standing by it.   I arch an eyebrow.  “I’m not gonna bite, y’know.  If you’re uncomfortable with this or somethin’—“
“No, no, sorry, I’m fine.”  She marches over and sits cross-legged in front of me.  However, her eyes never meet mine.  They start behind me, then wander over the floor, and then they trail over my body, lingering on my chest.  I remember I’m not wearing a shirt, and I really don’t feel like putting one on. 
“How’s your arm?”
“It’s ayite.  I mean, I still can’t move it or anything, but I think it’s gettin’ better.”
“Oh, well, I hope you regain feeling and everything.”
“Thanks.  Me too.  Ok, so…homecoming.”
She nods.  “Homecoming.”
“Did you talk to your tutory people?”
“Yeah.  They both said they’re in.  The girl, Dalia, I don’t think she really has too many friends, and I know she hasn’t been asked yet.  The guy, Ethan, is really sweet, and I think he just wants everyone to get along.  And also he said he a friend of his would totally be willing to be in our group, too.  So…do you have someone his friend could go with? My friend Sean’s going with my friend Chloe and they said they’d be in our group.  Oh, and my friend Cristina said she’d go with your friend…what was his name again?”
“Lotto.  And that’s awesome! Ok, yeah, Ethan’s friend could go with my friend K.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“K.”
“Like…the letter?”
“Mhm.”
She looks confused.  “Um, ok.  So did you talk to anyone else?”
“Yeah, my friends Alex ‘n Jayde are both gonna go with their boyfriends.”
“Cool.  Oh, and my friend Liz has been crushing on Ethan forever, so when I mentioned he has a group but not a date, she flipped.  So I talked to him, and he said he’d go with her.”
“Sweet.”
Tessa tugs at a lock of her hair, still not meeting my eyes.  “I feel like we should organize this or something…”
“Ooo, I got this.”  I pull out the lists I made earlier.  “Ayite…”  Together, we compile a new list of all the couples we know are for sure going to be in our group, color-coding for the different social classes.  When we finish, it looks like this:
Tessa  James
Chloe  Sean
Brina  Nolan
Jayde  Seth
Alex  Derek
Dalia  Danny
Courtney Tyler
K  Matt
Liz  Ethan
Cristina Lotto
I lean back, lacing my hands behind my head.  “Well,” I say, “I think we did a pretty good job.” As Tessa jots down a quick copy of the list, I shoot out a text to Nolan, letting him know that we did, in fact, manage to get all six combinations of couples.  With a sigh, I also respond to Courtney, confirming that I’ll manage to find a tie that matches her dress.  Then I drop my phone to the floor and look at Tessa.  She folds up her copy of the list and slides it into her pocket, then looks up at me.  Seeming startled to find me already looking at her, she averts her gaze. 
“So,” she says.  “How do you like living here?”
“It’s nice,” I say.  “Peaceful.”
“Was it not peaceful at your house?”
I snort.  “Hell no.”
She turns a light shade of pink.  “Sorry.  I wasn’t thinking.”
“You don’t have to apologize.  It’s fine.”
Tessa looks anguished.  “But it’s not.  It’s not fine.  I just…” she buries her face in her hands.  I lean toward her, mildly alarmed.
“Hey…hey, what is it? It’s fine, ayite, nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”
:”I just can’t…God, I can’t even imagine what it must’ve been like.  What it still must be like.  For you.”
I lay back on the floor.  The carpet tickles my skin.  “I’m ok,” I say.
She sniffles.  “I can’t even comprehend that.  I wouldn’t be.  I’d be…completely destroyed.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
She nods, face still hidden.  “I’m weak.  Weak weak weak weak weak.”  When she begins to rock back and forth, I realize this isn’t just about me—she’s inside herself now, remembering and feeling things she doesn’t want to re-experience.  I remember Mr. Burnes told me once that Tessa’s parents died a few years ago.  That must be what’s come back to her now.  A strangled sob escapes her throat, and I decide that it’d be incredible douche-bag-y of me to just sit here, so I scoot over to her side.  Enfolding her in a one-armed hug, I rock with her, murmuring reassurances. 
Once she calms down, I consider asking her if she wants to talk about it, but then I remember how much I always hate when people ask me that, so I don’t.  If she wants to say something, she will.
Sure enough, she begins to talk, her voice quiet and controlled.  I keep my arm around her.
“Remember that hurricane that hit Mississippi a few years ago? The really bad one?”  I nod.  “My parents were two of the hundreds of volunteers who went down to help.  Before they’d been gone a week, a roof collapsed on them.  A roof of a church.” She shudders.  “I almost went with them.  I wanted to, but I would’ve had to miss school.  And school was so important to them.  Always so important.”
Now she’s got me wondering.  Is school only important to her because it was important to her parents? Why would she emphasize that it was a church roof unless she was somehow…blaming God? But Mr. Burnes said that Tessa went to Mass with him and his wife.  Could she be faking her faith? Or could her parents getting killed have somehow strengthened her belief?
Of course, I’m not going to ask.  Not right now, anyway.  She’s sobbing again, and I feel my eyes beginning to tear up.  Goddammit.  I will not cry.  I will not.  But now I’m reliving my own parents’ deaths, how I got called down to the school office and the principal made me and Mason sit down when she told us.  It wasn’t until later that I found out that the driver who’d crashed into our parents’ car had been drunk.  How I hadn’t even cried the first day.  How Cal had been driven over from the high school, and then we all picked up Lucy, and someone drove us to our grandma’s house.  They went to take us home, but then remembered our parents had just died.  How our grandma made us soup and stroked our hair and told us everything would be ok.  We stayed with her until all the funeral stuff was done.   How I didn’t even cry at the funeral.  The first time I cried was when I was alone in their room for the last time, when I was supposed to be packing up all my stuff.  How, later, when the whole issue of where we’d live was being decided, we all wanted to live with our grandma, but she had already been planning to move into assisted living within the month.  How Uncle Rich had grudgingly agreed to take us in. 
We hadn’t had much interaction with him prior to our parents’ death.  At the age of nine, I’d seen him maybe three or four times that I could remember, always on some holiday.  If I had thought about it, I would have realized that was strange, considering we lived in the same town.  He was my mom’s brother, after all.
I figured out why my parents avoided him within a couple days of us moving in. 
He was only a little drunk when he picked us up from our grandma’s.  Just enough that his words didn’t really make sense, and he swerved when driving.  Jamie, who’d been eleven at the time, kept interrupting his dad every time he said something insensitive or that didn’t make sense.  I thought that was strange.  I didn’t know what being drunk was.  Not until the next night, when I asked Cal what was wrong with Uncle Rich, why he was always saying weird stuff and couldn’t walk straight.  With a pained expression on his face that I remember perfectly, Cal explained it to me.  Mason, too. 
The first time my uncle hit me was four days later.
It was over something trivial—I’d left my shoes in front of the door or something.  He hadn’t punched me hard compared to what he’d done more recently, but it was the first time someone had hit me—I mean really hit me.
And then it became a regular thing.  I had just met Nolan and Lotto, and I started hanging out with them as often as I could, just trying to stay out of the house.  I didn’t know that what my siblings and cousin and I were enduring was called ‘abuse’ and was illegal, but I had a feeling it was wrong, so I never brought it up to my friends.  The first time my uncle hit me hard enough to bruise, my friends freaked out.  I told them I had walked into a door, and they, with all the naivety of nine-year-olds, had believed me. 
Things got steadily worse over the years.  Lucy had been so young when our parents died that she forgot it wasn’t normal to be afraid of your guardian.  Cal had to take her aside a few years ago and explain to her that she could never ever tell people about what went on in our house.  She and I grew close, which was one of the only bright spots in my life.  Cal started working the day he was old enough, and between that, keeping the house in shape, playing dad to us, and trying not to fail out of school, he certainly had his hands full.  Still does.  He never went to college, of course.  How could he? Jamie had always been quiet.  He felt, guilty, I think, like somehow it was his fault that his dad’s an awful person.  None of us blamed him at all, of course.  He spent most of his time sitting in the room he shared with his dad, reading or doing homework, just trying to ignore reality.
One of the worst things that happened was when Mason started drinking.  I was eleven.  All of a sudden, my older brother, who’d been funny, smart, athletic, my role model…he was a jerk.  He was a mean drunk, just like my uncle.  At first, he couldn’t hold his alcohol.  What thirteen-year-old kid can? They’re not meant to.  He threw up all the time.  Our room constantly reeked of vomit.   For the first year or so, Cal was always trying to talk some sense into him. 
But the alcohol won.
The alcohol always wins.

Monday morning arrives to find me asleep on the floor in my room, alone.  I shiver; the window’s open (though I don’t remember opening it…) and I’m cold.  I get ready for school without even thinking about it—my mind is still asleep.
Downstairs, Mr. Burnes is sipping coffee and reading the paper, Tessa’s scribbling in the margins of her novel while nibbling on toast, and Mrs. Burnes is packing a lunch, probably for Tessa.  She spots me and waves me over.  “Good morning, Tyler! Can I get you something? Cereal? Toast?”
“Uh, cereal’d be great, thanks.”
I sit down opposite Tessa when Mrs. Burnes hands me a bowl of Life.  Mr. Burnes gives me a nod and a smile, but Tessa doesn’t as much as look up.  I figure she’s probably engrossed in her book. 
In first period, Brad is absent again, but Mr. Washinski doesn’t say “Runger” during attendance.  I wonder why that is.  Following roll call, Mr. W. doesn’t begin teaching.  The first thing he says is, “Who knows Brad Runger?”  After a pause, everyone raises his hand, a few people exchanging looks.  What’s this about? “Who considers themselves to be friends with him?” About three quarters of the class raises his hand.  Mr. W. eyes everyone who doesn’t, his gaze lingering on me.  “Shame on you,” he says, and at first I think he’s speaking directly to me, but then I realize his view now encompasses the whole room.  “Shame on you all: those of you who openly don’t like him, those who feel apathy towards him, and those of you who call yourselves his friends.  Brad Runger is currently in the hospital, due to a broken nose, a shattered jaw, and a severe concussion, along with bruised ribs and a dislocated shoulder.” The girls on either side of me (one nerd, one jockette) scoot their chairs away.  A few people turn to look at me.  Way to be inconspicuous, guys.
“This is bullying,” Mr. W. resumes, his voice rising, “and our school will not stand for it!” 
Are. You. Kidding. Me.
What about all those times Brad and seven or eight of his friends cornered me? What about that? What about blackmailing me into changing his grade? Does no one care about any of that?
Of course not.
Brad is important.  His daddy donates lots of money to the school.  Me? I’m nobody.  I don’t matter.  I don’t matter at all.  In the grand scheme of things, I’m worth nothing.  My absolute value equals zero.  I’m just about as useful to this school as dirt.  Maybe less.  At least dirt has some role in the ecosystem or something.  I get beat up sometimes? So what.  Grow some balls, Mitchell.  No one cares.  Not unless you donate to the school.  Contribute to society.  But if Brad gets beat up, oh, that’s different.  That’s unacceptable.  The school can’t tolerate that. 
I want to stand up and scream BULL. S***.
But I don’t.
It wouldn’t help anything.
Nothing would change.  I would get expelled, and then life would continue as normal.  All the first period teachers would continue giving their little prewritten speeches about how bullying is something inexcusable and needs to be eradicated and the school officials are working to get to the bottom of the situation and I feel like I’m going to throw up.  I can actually feel the anger inside of my veins, coursing through me.  And then something strange happens.
The anger is hot, hot, running down through me, trickling into my appendages.  I feel it enter my left arm.  I feel it surge into my fingertips.  It gives them strength.  Almost on their own volition, my fingers spread out.  I curl them back into my palm.  I flex them outward.
My arm can move again.
Gee, thanks, Brad.
It takes one hundred percent of my self-control not to explode during this period.  As soon as the bell rings, I burst into the hall, not even stopping at my locker before going outside.  I need to cool off. 
I head to my usual spot, but I stop short.
There’s a person in it.
I rub my left arm with my hand, experimentally swinging it back and forth, thinking.  Huh.  Well this has never happened before.  Edging closer, I receive a further shock: it’s Tessa.
“Well,” I say, and she whips around, “you just seem to be popping up everywhere, don’t you?” I drop into the grass next to her.
“Oh,” she says.  “Oh, I just…well, our teacher was…” she trails off.
“Mine, too,” I say.  “Good book?” I gesture to the open novel in her lap.
Her eyes light up.  “It’s great.  It’s about…” and then she launches into a detailed explanation.  I half-listen, nodding periodically, mostly watching the clouds.  My anger seems to have dissolved.  When she’s finished, I say, “Sounds great.”
She nods.  “So…how are you doing?”
I shrug.  “I’m ok, I guess.  How’re you?”
“I’m fine.” She sighs, leaning back, looking up at the sky like I am.  “I just wish…”
“Wish what?”
“That I could talk to you.”
“We are talking.”
“No, I mean…I completely opened up to you yesterday.  I wish you’d reciprocate, even a little bit.  I feel like you must have all this stuff bottled up inside of you.  No offense or anything, but I’ve met your friends, I’ve seen how you guys interact, and they just don’t seem like the touchy-feely type, the type you could open up to.  And maybe I’m just being weird and needy, but I want you to know that you can tell me anything, and I’m here if you have something you need to get off your chest or just want to talk about.  Or if you just need someone to listen.  Or anything.”
“Huh.  Ok.”  Truth is, I do kinda wish I had someone I could just vent at…why not go for it? It’s not like Tessa’s gonna tell anyone.  “So I’m kinda pissed,” I tell her.
“Why’s that?”
“This whole bullyin’ thing.  How the school’s making such a big deal about Brad.  It’s just the first time he’s been in a fight with losin’ odds.  He’s a weak fighter.  If he were a skater, or if the skaters outnumbered the jocks, his neck woulda been snapped a long time ago.  It jus’ pisses me off that he, of all people, is the one gettin’ special treatment for this, when so many other people have it so much worse than he does.  He’s the one instigating mosta this crap.  And I’m not just talkin’ about myself, either.  It’s not like I was his only victim.  For some reason, he just had a special affection for poundin’ my face in.”
Tessa looks over at me and makes a face.  “Why do you guys even hate each other?”
I lean back and roll over so my face is buried in the grass.  “I don’t even know,” I mumble.  “It doesn’t make any sense.  Jus’ as long as I’ve known him, we’ve hated each other.  But I never had the balls to really call him out until a couple days ago, I guess.”
She’s quiet for a minute, then suddenly asks, “Why do you fight, Tyler?”
I roll back onto my back and squint up at her.  “Why do I fight??”
She nods.
“Uh, cuz I have to.”
“Why do you have to?”
“Cuz people pick fights with me, and the only way to avoid gettin’ my face completely busted in is to fight back.”
“Isn’t there some way you could avoid it? Talk your way out of it? Did you ever try? What if you—“
“Look, Tessa, no offense, but has anyone ever tried to pick a fight with you?” I don’t even wait for her response.  “Of course not.  Your lot’s different.  You can’t understand, ‘n I don’t expect you to.  If you’re jus’ skatin’ along, ‘n then three guys come at you outta an ally all of a sudden, you’re not thinkin’ ‘hmm, I wonder if I could peacefully resolve this conflict,’ you’re thinkin’ ‘crap, pay attention, that one’s got a knife, avoid that fist, dodge that kick, get outta here in one piece.’  It’d be great if the world worked like that, like you could just say ‘hey, guys, there’s no reason for us to fight, really, so let’s just knock it off and go grab some coffee, yeah?’  It doesn’t work like that, though.  People jus’ aren’t like that.”
“Ok,” she says in a small voice.  “Ok, you’re right.”
“How do those words taste, Ms. Smarty Pants?”
She laughs.  “Terrible.”  Picking at some grass, she says, “I’m glad I asked that, actually.  I feel like…like I’d almost judged you before.  Not you personally, all of you.  Everyone who gets in fights.  I didn’t understand it before.  I thought you were stupid.  Now I realize the only stupid ones are the ones who pick fights with random people for no reason.”
“Sometimes they’re drunk,” I offer.
“That’s not a very good reason.”
“No,” I mutter.  “It’s not.”
She looks at me sideways. 
“What?”
“Just, it seems like drinking is a pretty sensitive topic for you.”
“Well, um, duh.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“You apologize a lot.”
She laughs.  “Sorry.  I know I do.  It just seems like I say a lot of callous things around you, and I don’t mean them.”
I laugh, too.  “No, I don’t mind.  I’m sick of everyone always bein’ so careful around me, y’know? That’s why I could never stand shrinks.  I was always s’posed to see them after my parents died, but I jus’ couldn’t take their pity.  It’s not the pity itself that bothered me, it’s the fact that it was so…impersonal.  Like, those guys didn’t even know me at all, they’d jus’ read some facts on a sheet, ‘n all of a sudden they thought they had the right to pity me, simply because my life was messed up enough for me to need to see them.”
She nods.  “I get what you mean.  After my parents died, I had to see a therapist, too.  It didn’t help at all.  You’re right, it was too…impersonal.  The first time I met her, she was like, ‘ok, how do you feel about your parents’ deaths?’ I was like, ‘um, how do you think I feel? God awful.’”
“Right, that too.  They asked the stupidest questions.  Like somethin’ terrible will happen, and they’ll be like, ‘and how does that make you feel?’ I’d jus’ be like, ‘fantastic, let’s have a tea party.’”
Tessa bursts into laughter.  “You did not!”
“I did too.”  A grin spreads across my face.  “I loved to mess with them.”
We recount various shrink stories for a while, then, after we exhaust those, Tessa asks, “Do you think this is actually going to work?”
“What?”
“Integrating.  Fixing the messed up social class stuff.”
“I have no idea.  I sure as hell hope it does though.  I think we have a good shot.  You wanna know what I think? I think we can’t be the only people who have a problem with this.  I think there must be other people out there who want a change.”
“What do we do, though? After homecoming? I mean, coming in our group will shock people, but beyond that…?”
“Huh.  I haven’t really though about it that much, but I had this vague idea that our group would gather a few more people during the dance, ‘n then we’d all go to JT’s afterparty and have a great time together, ‘n then we’d all end up friends somehow.”  I laugh.  “Sounds dumb out loud.”
“No, I think it could work! You never know what could happen at those parties.  I hear they’re pretty crazy.”
“Wait…have you ever been to a party? Like an actual one?”
Tessa blushes, looking back at the sky.  “I don’t think what my friends consider a party really measures up to what you and your friends do.  We’re all home by ten thirty, for starters.”
“Seriously? Whadda you do at them?? Any drinking?”
“No, never.”
“Any fuckin’?”
She winces at my blunt language.  “Definitely not.”
“How many people?”
“Um, well the last one had about twenty…”
“Twenty?? And you call that a party?”
“Look, I told you it wouldn’t compare to what you do!”
“I guess you’re right.”  I look at her until she notices.
“What?” she demands.
“I just can’t picture you at one of our parties,” I tell her.  “Not at all.” 
“Why not?”
I close my eyes and pretend to imagine it.  “Hmm, lil’ Tessa Alderman, the bookworm, dressed all slutty, playin’ beer pong, grindin’ some dudes, playin’ spin the bottle, gettin’ locked in a closet with some guy for ten minutes, comin’ out with her shirt in his back pocket, both of you buttonin’ your pants back up—“
“Ok, ok, I get it!” She shrieks, shoving my shoulder.  Her face is bright red, but she’s laughing.  “But, no, seriously, is that what you guys do??” She looks incredulous.
“Me personally? Not usually.  My friends? Hell yeah.”
“Oh my god,” she says.  “I always wondered.”
“So what do you do at your parties? Have poetry readings?”
She looks a little indignant.  “No.  At the last one, well, we played some music—“
“Beethoven? My bro!”
She laughs, shoving me again.  “Shut up! So we played some music, and we danced a little—“
“The foxtrot? I got that one down.”
She shoves me in the chest so I fall backwards, but it’s playful, it’s nice.  We’re both laughing.  “Ok, sorry, sorry.  Please continue.  I really am curious.”
“So, like I said, music, dancing, and then just sort of sat and…talked.”
“You talked? Like as a whole group? At a party?”
“Yup.  And then we watched a movie until it was time to go.”
I mull this over.  “And there was no drinkin’? Or even makin’ out?”
She shakes her head.  “Absolutely none.”
“Weird.  Go figure.” I look her over again.  “Fits, though.  It makes more sense than you grindin’.”
“To be honest, I’ve never even grinded anyone…” She looks embarrassed.
I give her a dirty grin.  “I’ll definitely have to show you at JT’s.”
Tessa blushes again, and all of a sudden, I’m overcome with the desire to kiss her.  No, I tell myself, bad Tyler.  No kissing Tessa.  You live with her.  She’s your sister.  You’re her brother.  Her uncle will kick you out.  No kissing Tessa.
The words “I miss Lucy like hell” fall out of my mouth without permission.
The atmosphere abruptly changes.  “I can only imagine,” Tessa says.  “I think it’s incredibly brave, what you did.  Sending her away.”
“Either that or insanely cowardly.”
“No,” she repeats, her voice firm.  “It was brave.  You did something that was hard for you, that you knew would hurt you in order to protect someone you love.  To me, that’s bravery.”
“What if that’s not why I did it? What if I was just shippin’ off my responsibilities because I couldn’t handle them?”
“I don’t think that’s why you did it,” she says.
“But look at what I’ve done since then,” I practically moan, then realize that Tessa doesn’t completely know.  “I ran away.  I challenged Brad.  I almost nailed Courtney.  Irresponsible.”
Tessa looks away.  There’s a long pause.  She breaks it by saying something that sounds distantly familiar, like someone in my past used to say it all the time.  “Almost only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades.  Besides, I think all three of those things take some courage, each in their own way.”
“Oh really? Please explain to me how almost bangin’ a wasted slut takes any courage at all.”
“Well, you said almost.  That means you stopped yourself.  That takes courage, because I’m sure you must’ve wanted to.  I mean, she’s…”
“She’s what?”
“Look at her.  She’s gorgeous.”
I duck my head, rubbing the back of my neck.  “She tries too hard.”
Tessa glares at me.  “For you.  She’s really a very pretty girl.”
I snort.  “Yeah, sure, ok, wearing three pounds of makeup and barely any clothes makes you gorgeous.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.   Naturally, she’s just pretty.  She has nice hair and skin and bone structure…”
For the first time, I realize that Tessa probably doesn’t have very good self-esteem.  She always dresses in baggy clothes, she smiles at the ground, doesn’t seem to take initiative with boys, and now she’s talking about Courtney in a wistful manner, as if saying that Courtney’s all the things Tessa wishes she could be.  “She’s not as pretty as you,” I blurt.  
Then I realize I mean it.
“Oh, don’t,” Tessa waves her hand.
“Don’t what?”
“Try to make me feel good about myself.  I know you don’t mean it.”
“Why would I have said it if I didn’t?”
She glares at me.  “Stop trying to flatter me.”
“It should flatter you.  Cuz it’s true.”
At this point I’m surprised her face can even get any redder, but it does.  She ducks her head and mumbles, “Thanks.”  Then, checking her watch, she says, “Oh, shoot, we should get back inside.” She stands up, and I do too, but when she starts walking back toward the school, I don’t follow.  Glancing back over her shoulder, she calls, “Coming, Tyler?” I shake my head.  “Why not?”
“Gotta go clear out some of my stuff from my uncle’s place.”
“Oh,” she says.  “Oh, I see.  Ok.  Good luck.  I’ll see you back home then, I guess.”
“Yeah.”
Home.

I ease open the front door.  Like last time, the place looks empty; I inch toward my old room.  It gives me a creepy feeling, being back here, so I want to get this over with as quickly as possible.  I edge the door open and almost have a heart attack.
Mason is sprawled in the middle of the floor, passed out in all his drunken glory.  He’s harmless like this, I remind myself, and step over him to the closet the three of us shared.  Most of my stuff is on the floor, so I pick it up and stuff it into a bag I find on a shelf, since I forgot to grab my backpack.  I need to get out of here before Mason wakes up.  I’m about to head back out the door when I remember: homecoming.  I need a suit.  I dive back into the closet, but don’t find anything.  Next I rummage around under the beds.  No luck there either.  So I troop down to the crawl space.  In the few dusty bins of clothes down there, I find exactly what I need—the suit Cal wore to our parents’ funeral. 
I slip into it, marveling that it’s a perfect fit.  I fish out a silver tie, and then, just for a moment, I let myself remember my parents.  But then that moment turns into a minute, and then minute into five, and then all of a sudden I’m on the ground and I can’t breathe and—Mason’s standing over me.  And I think, ‘oh, god, please don’t let him kill me, please let him be drunk enough or sober enough not to kill me, how did I let him sneak up on me, I can’t lose control like that, not here,’ but then something strange happens.
Mason kneels on the floor next to me.  He rests his hand on my shoulder.  And he whispers, “I know.”

Back at school, I splash cold water on my face until all traces of my tears are gone and I can finally think straight.  Jesus, crying takes a lot out of you.  I drop my clothes in my locker, then head back to class. 
During lunch, my friends all rejoice over my arm and carefully avoid bringing up Brad.  Smart kids. 
In seventh period, I slide into my desk and prepare for my nap, but an unfamiliar redheaded woman snaps at me from Mr. LaScala’s desk.  “Heads up! I will have no dozing in my class!”
“Your class?” shouts a skater from the back of the room.  “What happened to the old man?”
The woman draws herself up to her full height.  “I was getting to that.  Mr. LaScala was feeling poorly this morning, and so I have come to be his temporary replacement for an indefinite amount of time.”
“Sooo you’re a sub,” the skater says, and the class laughs, turning the teacher’s face the color of her hair.
Not being allowed to sleep forces me to worry about Mr. L.  I hadn’t noticed when exactly I became attached to him, but apparently I have.  Maybe he just has a cold or something, I try to tell myself, but deep down I know the truth: it’s far more sinister.  He’d told me himself he’d outlived the doctors’ expectations.  I’d be willing to bet his time had come, and it saddens me.

That night, as I’m just dumping all the clothes I retrieved onto the floor, a soft knock sounds at my door.
“C’min,” I call, knowing it’s Tessa.
She smiles at the ground.  “Hi.  Need some help?”
“Sure, yeah.”
As we fold and stack and hang my clothes, I tell Tessa about my arm and try to explain how it happened.
“That’s so weird,” she says.  “I wonder how that worked.  Maybe the nerves just needed the adrenaline rush, like it was a kick or something to get the muscles working again, or…” I zone out a little as she muses on to herself.  However, I zone back in when she reaches up to slide a shirt onto a hanger and her bracelets slide down her forearm.  I grab her wrist.
“Tessa.”
She tries to pull her arm back, but I’m a helluva lot stronger than her, and I’m not about to let go.  Her gaze flies to the door.  “No,” I say.
“No,” she agrees, and then sighs.  “We may as well get comfortable.”  We slide down the wall till we’re seated on the floor, and I release her arm.  Both of us look down at the four parallel cuts on her wrist and the row of scars underneath them. 
She takes a deep breath.  “It didn’t start when you’d assume it started.  When my parents died.  It was a few months after.  And there wasn’t really anything specific that set it off.  That’s why it’s so dumb.  And I never told anyone, not even any shrinks or my uncle or aunt or anyone, because I don’t know what I would have told them.  I was just…” she swallows, collecting her thoughts.  “Really stressed out.  Things just kept piling up on top of each other and…it’s like the straw that broke the camel’s back.  One night I just ended up sitting on the floor in my room and I was freaking out about all this different stuff and without even meaning to, I grabbed the scissors off my desk and just…” she gestures to her wrist.  “It helped.  It helps.  It was just relieving to have pain that I could understand when my insides were such a mess.” She leans her head back against the wall, eyes closed.  “I don’t really know how to explain it.  I don’t think it’s something you can understand unless you’ve done it yourself.  But ever since that night…I’ve gotten addicted.  Whenever I’m stressed or anything, I know that cutting will fix it, at least temporarily.” A single tear escapes from under her eyelid, and she shoves it away.  “From what I can tell, whenever you feel freaked or stressed or whatever, you skate.” She opens one eye.  I nod.  “So that’s your outlet.  Mine is cutting.” She sits up, holding up her hands.  “And don’t tell me it’s bad.  I know it is.  I’m not stupid.  I get that it’s destructive and everything.  Don’t try and make me promise to stop, either.  If I could, don’t you think I would’ve by now?”
I nod, not trusting myself enough to speak.  I’d probably say something stupid.  She’s right—I don’t understand it. 
“I just…” she exhales, closing her eyes again.  “I know it must seem dumb to you.” I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand, knowing that’s what I’m about to do without even having to see me.  “It actually makes me feel terrible.  It doesn’t make any sense.  Why would I hurt myself on purpose when people like you are getting hurt by other people every day? Why should you have to go home every night to an adult who just wants to punch you and push you into stoves, while I come home to a wonderful, loving, stable family, and lock myself in my room at night and slice up my arm?” She smiles a humorless smile.  “Selfish, right? I know.”
This time I manage to get a word in, though it doesn’t accomplish anything.  “No, Tessa, it’s not—“Stop! Just stop it.  I know what I’m doing is stupid and pointless but I can’t stop and there’s absolutely nothing you can say or do to help me so just stop it.”
I don’t know what to say.  What the hell do you say to that??
“You’re right.”
Her head jerks up, her gaze piercing me.  “What?”
“I said you’re right.  I don’t understand it, and prob’ly couldn’t unless I did it, which I don’t plan on doin’.  It’s like me with fightin’.  You don’t understand that.  But neither does your uncle, and I think he helped me anyway.  So maybe I could help you?”
She shrugs.  “I guess.  But I don’t really see how you could…”
I think for a minute.  “Maybe…maybe when you’re feelin’ stressed or overwhelmed or anythin’, before you cut, you could tell me.  I know that sounds weird, considerin’ we haven’t known each other all that long ‘n everything, but, y’know, maybe jus’ talkin’ to someone who might understand some of your feelings’d help.  If I’m not here, you could call me.  I promise I’ll answer, no matter where I am or what I’m doin’.”
I give her a while to think it over.  After a couple minutes, she says, “I guess we could maybe try that…” and tosses her phone onto my lap.  While I put myself into her contacts, she wipes her eyes and stands.  I hand her her phone back and climb to my feet.  Her gaze is leveled at the small remaining pile of clothes that still wait to be hung.
“I think I can handle the rest,” I say.  “Thanks for your help.”
“No problem.  Thanks for yours, too.”
Before she turns to leave, I pull her back to me and hug her.  She stiffens, and then relaxes.  Resting my chin on top of her head, I whisper something Cal said to me a lot right after our parents died: “Everything will be ok in the end.  If it’s not ok, it’s not the end.”

Mr. LaScala died that night.  Before first period, we were all instructed to congregate in the gym, where we had a half hour memorial service ceremony thing.  The other staff members encouraged us to celebrate his life, not mourn his death.  A few students spoke, sharing their favorite memories from his class.
I could hardly concentrate.  I kept wondering how much pain he was in when he died.
And when the whole student body formed a single file line and walked past a picture of him, ten years younger and smiling, to say any last words, I silently promised him that I would do everything in my power to do what he asked of me.  I would change Redfield.
Now it’s lunch, and I can’t stop thinking about it.  Nolan looks at me edgewise.  “Everything ayite, bro?”  I nod.  “You jus’ seem jumpy, is all.”
I shrug.  “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Ah, ok,” though he doesn’t look halfway convinced.  Oh well.
I use partner time in modern world to discuss homecoming with Courtney.  She doesn’t mind.  I need this plan to work; it’s the only one I have.  I drift into silence, wondering what would happen if no one even noticed our group.  Courtney regains my attention by sliding her hand along the inside of my thigh.  I jump away.  “Uh, what color’s your dress again?” I ask, just to keep her busy.  She’s already told me exactly what it looks like about fourteen times today.  I reassure her that yes, my tie does match it, as I wonder where we’re going to have our picture party and eat dinner and all that crap that comes along with dances.  Too much work, these things.  That’s why I try to avoid them. 
“Where d’you wanna have pictures ‘n stuff?” I ask Courtney, cutting her off in the middle of a story about her dead hamster. 
“CHERRY GARDENS!” she screams right away, causing my ear drum to pop and all the other people in the hall to stare at us.
“Um, ok, what’s that?”  I cover the ear closest to her just in case.
“It’s this suuuper adorable place like six blocks away from my house and it has these little pavilion thingies and there are tons of flowers and IT’S SO PERFECT CAN WE DO IT THERE PLEASE PLEASE PLEEAAASE.”:
And so our venue was decided.  Courtney had equally strong feelings on where we ate, so I texted everyone in our group whose numbers I had, letting them know what time and where everything would be happening.  Check that off the list.
When my friends and I skate after school, I’m pleased to see that Courtney is once again in the group of girls watching us.  And this time she actually seems to be trying to participate in the conversation a little.  Go Courtney!
I manage not to screw up another family dinner, and then I attempt to do some physics so the sub doesn’t roast me.  While I’m struggling through it, someone knocks on my door, and I can tell it’s not Tessa.
“C’min,” I call.
Mr. Burnes walks in.  “Evening, Tyler,” he says, walking in, shutting the door behind him.  Uh oh.  Business time.  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything…”
I gesture at my notebook filled with illegible scribbles.  “Just homework, sir—I mean, Mr. Burnes.  Nothing too exciting.”
He seats himself on the floor opposite me and peers over at my work.  “That looks terrible.  I’d offer to help, but I haven’t done that stuff in twenty-five years, and frankly, I think I’d do more harm than good.”
I smile.  “It’s the thought that counts.”
He smiles back.  “Indeed.  I was hoping I could speak with you, Tyler, if that’s alright.  I won’t take too much of your time.  I like to see you working on schoolwork.”
“Yeah, of course, that’s fine.”  Like I could say anything else.  I’m living in the man’s house, of course I have to let him into “my” room and let him talk to me.
He props up his knees and sets his elbows on them, steepling his fingers.  “I won’t beat around the bush, then.  No point wasting time.  I notice Tessa’s been spending a lot of time in your room lately, specifically at night.  While I’m not saying I disprove of this, I would like to remind you to be careful.  I completely trust both Tessa and you; however, you are teenagers, and teenagers are notorious for having an awful lot of hormones.  I remind you now that I consider you and Tessa siblings, and that no shenanigans will be tolerated.
“To change the subject completely, I just wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you, Tyler.  I see your arm has healed, and I’m thrilled.  You don’t seem to have gotten into any fights lately, and I just caught you doing homework, so I commend you on both those things.” I nod my thanks.
“And now, to veer back toward my original topic, Tessa tells me you two are in the same homecoming group.  I urge you to remember that this is her first ever formal dance.  Please be careful with her.  Also, she says the afterparty is at one of your friends’ houses.  And again, while I completely trust both of you, to be totally frank, I do not trust your friends.  And I’m telling you right now, Tyler, if anything happens to my girl, I am holding you personally responsible.  Understand?”
I nod.  “I understand.”
He claps me on the shoulder.  “I’m glad.  I appreciate your cooperation.  Do you need a suit or anything?”
“Nah, I’m covered, thanks.”
I can tell he’s curious as to how I’m ‘covered’, but he doesn’t question me.  He stands up and walks to the door.  “As always, if you need anything, I’m here.  Don’t hesitate, son.”
I nod, forcing myself to speak around the lump in my throat.  “Thanks, Mr. Burnes.  I won’t.”

Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night and you can’t figure out why? And you don’t know where you are for a while, and it takes a few seconds for everything to come back to you, but those few seconds are freaking terrifying?
That just happened.
I take a deep breath.  I’m in the guest bedroom at the Burnes’s house.  ‘My’ bedroom now, I guess.  I’m safe.
I rub my eyes.  What woke me up?
It’s Tessa.  She’s kneeling at the side of my bed, shaking my shoulder.  I rub at my eyes again, forcing them to focus.  My hand fumbles against my phone until it lights up; it’s just after two in the morning.  The light casts an unnatural glow on Tessa’s face.  It shines wet with tears.  Her breaths are short and gasping.  Her eyes are unfocused, staring at the wall.  Her hand continues to shake my shoulder, though clearly I’m awake.  “Tessa,” I whisper, taking her hands in mine.  They’re cold and clammy.  “Tessatessatessatessa it’s ok, it’s ok, everything’s ok.”  I ease her up onto my bed, wrap her in a blanket.
At first, when she starts to talk, I can’t understand her.  She’s mumbling so quietly she probably can’t even hear herself.  After a couple seconds, it becomes audible.  “…don’t know, I don’t know, it just happened, the feeling just came, and I knew I had to, but I didn’t, I didn’t, I swear I didn’t, I remembered what you said, that I should tell you, so here I am, I came and found you, and I didn’t cut, but I still need to, there’s nothing you can do, I need it, I can’t, I can’t, I need to…”
She continues on like this until I wrap my arms around her and squeeze.  She breaks off mid-mumble.  “Whatareyoudoing.”
“Tryin’ my best,” I tell her, “to show you that someone cares.”
She doesn’t say anything, so I keep going, figuring that at least if she’s here listening to me, she can’t be hurting herself.  “I care about you, Tessa.  Even if you think no one does.  Even if it seems like you’re completely alone, jus’ know that I care.  I don’t want you havin’ to walk around tomorrow, all in pain cuz your bracelets are up in your cuts.  No one should have to do that.  Jus’ tell me what’s the matter, baby girl.  What’s hurtin’ you inside?”
Tessa’s body convulses in my arms and she chokes on her sobs.  “I…don’t…know.”
“C’mon, I’m sure you can figure out one thing.  Jus’ pick one thing, one itty bitty thing that’s botherin’ you.”
“Bio test,” she chokes.
“Tomorrow?”
I feel her nod.
“Didja study?” I ask, hoping she did.
Again, the nod.
“Then you’ll be fine,” I whisper into her ear.  “I promise.  Pick another thing.”
“Outfit.”
“Your outfit??” It’s too dark for me to see what she’s wearing, but--
“For tomorrow.”  Ohhhh.  I think for a minute.
“Wear jeans with that red shirt you wore the night we organized all the homecomin’ stuff.  It was pretty.  Next thing.”
She sniffles in mild astonishment.  “Homecoming.”
I chuckle.  “I gotta admit, I’m worried about that, too.  What’s got ya freaked about it?”
“Everything.”
That’s helpful.  I try to break it down, starting with the easiest categories.  “Got your dress picked out?” Nod.  “All the matchin’ stuff? Shoes ‘n everythin’?” Nod.  “Know how or where you’re gettin’ your hair ‘n nails done?” Thank god Courtney thinks out loud, so I at least have some clue what girls worry about concerning homecoming.  Nod.  “D’you like the place we’re eatin’? ‘N takin’ pictures ‘n all?” Nod.  “D’you like your date?” Nod.  “Bad dancer?” Shakes head.  “Self conscious about our group?” Shakes head.  So that leaves…”Ahhh.  The afterparty.” Nod.
“What about it?”
She sniffles, raising her head so her voice isn’t lost in the blanket.  “I’m just…afraid of what’ll happen.  What I might do.”
I nod.  “No, I geddit.  It’s your first big party ‘n all, it’s scary.  Tell ya what, you listen to me.  If anyone’s givin’ you a hard time, if your date or anyone’s tryna pressure you into somethin’, you come find me, ayite?  Feel free to interrupt whatever I’m doin’.  I’ll take care of it.  Yeah?”
She nods.  “Yeah,” she whispers, her voice tiny.  “Thanks…” and then she’s asleep.
I drift into a light sleep too, but only for an hour or so.  Then I force myself to get up, because if Mr. Burnes found me in bed with his niece, he may not kick me out onto the streets, but he’d at least cut my balls off, which might actually be worse.
I scoop Tessa up in my arms, then creep down the hall, praying her aunt and uncle are heavy sleepers.  After depositing her in her bed, I immediately feel creepy for lingering in her room like this while she’s asleep, so I go back into my room.  I can’t fall asleep, though.  To be honest, I’m worried about the JT’s party too, and for the same reasons as Tessa.  But that’s not the cause of my insomnia.  I can’t stop thinking that I helped, that I actually made a difference in someone’s life.  A good difference.  I kept her from hurting herself tonight, and hopefully alleviated some of her fears and stress.
It feels good.

Fast forward to English class on Friday.
“Could someone please list all the works of literature we’ve studied so far this year?”
A nubby girl in the front row raises her hand and rattles off, “The Pearl, Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird, Pygmalion.”
Mr. Green nods.  “And could someone else please tell me which of these they found most relatable?”
A nubby boy next to the nubby girl raises his hand.  “Catcher in the Rye,” he says, “because at this age, all of us are still searching for ourselves.”
“Precisely my thinking.  So as your assignment over this homecoming weekend, I would like each of you to reflect long and hard on Sunday after all these festivities are through, and then I would like you to define yourself.”  He holds up his hands.  “No questions yet.  Wait until I’m finished explaining.  I don’t care how long this is.  Don’t count words, make words count.” Next to me, Lotto fist pumps.  His won’t be more than a paragraph.  “Just give me the definition of…you.”
I sit back in my chair.  Huh.  How the hell do I define myself??

We lose our homecoming game by 27 points.  I hear a lot of murmuring about Brad, and not a just a few unfriendly glares are passed my way.  My friends and I decide to skip the school-sponsored ‘party’ being thrown at a pizza place nearby.  Instead, we opt to go to a skater girl’s place with about forty other people.  Although Courtney’s not there, I manage to find a good replacement dance partner, and we end up playing spin the bottle and subsequently making out for a while.  I mean to ask her for her number, but it slips my mind.  I don’t even think she told me her name. 
I already cleared it with Mr. Burnes that I’ll be crashing at Lotto’s tonight, so it doesn’t matter that we stay out until almost five in the morning.  In fact, I’m glad.  I want to sleep as late as possible, so I can minimize the time I have to sit around and twiddle my thumbs worrying about the dance.  Mr, Burnes said I don’t have to be back home until three, since he said he understands that I might wanna prep for the night ‘with my buddies.’  Have I ever mentioned how much I appreciate that man?
Lotto’s mom wakes us up around noon, but we promptly fall back asleep.  My friends are both still sounds asleep, actually, when I head out at half past two.  I stop at the cheapest flower place I can find and buy a small wrist thingy for Courtney.  I make it through the door with five minutes to spare, greet Mr. Burnes, then shut myself in my room for the last hour.
Shower.  Deodorant.  Suit.  Put flowers and change of clothes in backpack.  And then…wait. 
I go downstairs, flopping onto the couch, fiddling with the end of my tie.  All of a sudden, my little plan for integration seems incredibly stupid.  Showing up in a big group of people who aren’t friends? What’s that going to do for society??
Time, Tyler, I have to remind myself.  This all takes time.  Tonight will only be the beginning.  We’re planting a seed.  These people will continue hanging out with each other, branching out, breaking down barriers.  And maybe someday we can eliminate the barriers completely.
But we gotta start small.
Baby steps.
And that’s what tonight’s for.
Mr. Burnes joins me on the couch, and we sit in silence until Mrs. Burnes comes waltzing down the stares.  “Presenting,” she says in her best announcer voice, “Miss Tessa Marie Alderman!”
Almost in slow motion, like a real movie moment, Tessa comes down the staircase.  The first thing to come into view is her foot, sheathed in a bedazzled, spiky-heeled shoe.  Then the other foot, then her calves, then her knees, then the bottom of her dress, then the rest of it, then her arms and her face and wow.  She looks incredible.
I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen her wearing makeup, and while normally I think makeup is stupid, Tessa wears it just right.  She just accents what she already has.  Plus, this is also the first time it actually looks like she cares what her hair looks like.  And I gotta say, as a straight teenage male, it looks pretty darn good.
Mr. Burnes leaps to his feet, applauding and whistling.  Mrs. Burnes joins in, and then I do, too, because Tessa deserves it.  She turns bright red and beams from ear to ear.
On the way into the car, I brush against her and whisper, “James is a lucky guy.”

The picture party isn’t as painful as I expected it to be.  Courtney’s practically molesting me in all the pictures, but I don’t really care.  I stun myself by actually having a good time at dinner.  Who’d have known that nerds and jocks could be fun??
And at last, the big moment.  Our group piles out of all of our cars and assembles on the sidewalk in front of the gym entrance.  I can see the same expression written on each and every one of their faces.  Then as one, we grit our teeth and march into the gym.
People notice.  Right away, the people near the entrance stop and stare, and then the stopping and staring moves backwards through the crowd.  Within a minute, the entire gym is staring at us.
I grin.  Good.
We let them stare.  After a few year-long seconds, people turn away.  But they keep glancing our way, and the tone is hushed and awkward, not at all like the joking atmosphere from two minutes ago.
Courtney tugs at my hand, and Nolan nudges me, muttering, “Nice start, Mitchell.”
So we dance.  At first, our group is together but not really together.  I don’t like that.  Since all the other people are staring at us, we might as well give them something to really stare at.  I spread the word around, and when the song changes, we clump together and form a total mosh pit/grind fest.  I spot Tessa a few people over, her back against James’s chest, though she’s not really grinding him.  She’s laughing and looks like she’s having fun, and that’s all that’s important.  As Courtney grinds me from the front, someone else comes and grinds me from the back. It’s a jolly ol’ time until some teachers come and break us all up.  It doesn’t matter—everyone noticed.  Score tonight: integration 1, society 0.
When the first slow dance comes on, I kinda freak.  I’ve never slow danced before.  Ever.  But then I realize that Courtney probably hasn’t either, so it’s all good.  We basically just hug and rock back and forth.  As soon as the song ends, we resume grinding.  Personally, I like that a lot more.
The three hours go by in a flash.  I’ll admit, I had a good time.  But now, here comes the real party.
We can hear the music from blocks away.  We’re forced to park almost a half mile away from JT’s house, since the streets are already clogged with cars.  Walking up the steps into his mansion, the ground is literally vibrating from the bass.  We slip inside, weaving through people.  Someone stuffs a drink in my hand already, and I set it down on the nearest available clear surface.  Courtney and I make our way onto the dance floor.  We all changed in the car; I now wear jeans and a t-shirt, and she’s practically naked in a cami that keeps riding up and some booty shorts that don’t actually cover her booty.  Let the party begin.
I think Courtney must’ve practiced her grinding since the last party, because she’s WAY better now.  She might even have gotten some pointers from someone on the way here, because I swear she’s even better right now than she was in the gym.  Her body fits perfectly against mine, and it’s like she knows exactly what I want.  After only a few songs, I drag her by the hand through walls of people out to the backyard.  I can barely breathe. 
We join the herds of people dancing and hooking up on the grass.  A red plastic cup appears in Courtney’s hand, and then it’s empty and another one takes its place.  She grabs a folding chair from the deck and drags it a little bit away from everyone.  She giggles, shoving me down into it.  Some of her beer dribbles over the cup onto my shirt, but I couldn’t care less.  I know what’s coming next. 
“Lap dance,” she says, and goes right into it.  I swear it’s a routine or something—it’s way too perfect to be spontaneous.  By the time she’s done, my body aches with want.  I grab her around the waist and pull her onto me.  Our mouths collide, and my hands roam her body.  We’ve only been going for about five minutes, however, when an explosion above our heads jerks our faces apart.
“Fireworks!” I hear people shouting.  I look up.  Sure enough, JT pulled out all the stops.  He got a personal massive fireworks display.  How kind of him.  Courtney and I slide onto the ground, she straddling me, both of us pulling off our shirts.  We make out to the uneven pounding of fireworks.  Even though she tastes like beer, I’m still having a great time.  Who wouldn’t be? When Courtney slips her hand into my pants, I don’t stop her.  And if I rated her a seven out of ten at dancing the other night, she’s an eleven at hand jobs. 
Panting, I roll over in the grass.  Courtney traces her fingers along my back.  “That was awesome,” I say into the ground. 
She giggles.  “I’m glad you liked it.  Oh, look, I think your friend’s gonna say something.”
I look over to where JT stands on the porch holding a microphone.  “Party people, gather round!” he calls.  Obediently, Courtney and I climb to our feet, leaving our shirts in a sweaty pile on the ground.  We join the crowd forming around JT.  He gives us all the stereotypical party host speech—thank you everyone for coming, get drunk, have a good time, party on!
Everyone obeys.
We end up joining a game of double spin the bottle, which happens to be one of my favorite games.  Who doesn’t wanna get to make out with two chicks at once?? After a while, I notice that that thing happened again—that thing where I feel drunk even though I haven’t had any alcohol.  I shrug it off.  It’ll pass. 
While Courtney’s using the ladies’ room, I spot Tessa and make my way over to her.  “How’s it goin’?” I ask/shout directly into her ear.
“Good,” she shouts back.  “You?”
“Awesome.  So’s this all you’d hoped it’d be?”
She grins.  “It’s insane.  Are they all like this?”
“On a much smaller scale, usually.  So you’re havin’ fun then? No one’s givin’ you a hard time?”
She smiles.  “Everything’s perfect.  Thank you.”
Right about then we’re interrupted by her date grabbing her hand.  I can tell he’s buzzed.  He yells something about dancing and pulls Tessa away.  Meanwhile, I try to find something non-alcoholic to drink while I wait for Courtney.  It doesn’t work.
The two of us make out for a little bit longer, and then she pulls away.  “Let’s get outta here,” she says.  “My mom’s outta town again.  My car’s here, and I only live a couple blocks away.” She gives me a dirty grin and runs her hands down my chest.  “It’ll be worth it.  I promise.”
I believe her.  We walk around the house, stumbling drunkenly all the way to her car.
I almost wish I’d been drunk.  Then I would’ve had an excuse for getting in the car with her, for letting her drive.  I could’ve said, oh, it was the alcohol, I didn’t know what I was doing.
But I was sober.  I knew exactly what I was doing.  And I still did it.
We got in the car and pulled away.
It was fun.  She rolled all the windows down and cranked the music up.  We sang along to whatever songs came on the radio, made out at all the stoplights, and danced out of the sun roof.  By this time, most of the roads were deserted, so it was no problem to speed a little here and there.  Both of us were eager to get to her house.
We didn’t see the headlights until it was too late.

Faces swim into focus.  My uncle.  Tessa.  Her uncle.  His wife.  Cal.  Jayde.  Jamie.  Nolan.  Mason.  Lotto.  His mom.  JT.  The principal, Mr. Shaw.  Mr. Green, my English teacher.
Hospital.
It all sinks in. 
“Courtney,” I say, my voice coming out in a croak.  “Where’s Courtney??”
They all lower their heads. 
“No,” I say.  “No no no nononoNO.” I smash my fist into the metal bedside table.  “Where is she?!” I demand again.
A nurse comes scurrying over.  “Excuse me, sir, please calm down, you’ll upset your IV.” Huh? I feel an odd tugging sensation in my right forearm and notice the needle sticking into it, leading into a bag of fluids hanging next to my bed. 
I stare the nurse down.  “Where. Is. Courtney.”
“The doctor will be in momentarily to see you, Mr. Mitchell,” she says so calmly that I want to smash her face into the wall.  “For now,” she turns to the crowd of people around my bed, “I would like to ask you all to vacate the room until the doctor has spoken with the patient.  He appears to be upset.  Thank you for your cooperation.”
They all file out without a word, and the nurse leaves after them, pulling my door shut.  My mind is numb.  It can’t process what just happened.  Instead, seeing Mr. Green reminds me of our English assignment.
I think about Mason.  Mason when we were little, playing as only brothers can play, fighting as only brothers can fight.  Mason when our parents died, holding each other in our grief.  Mason when he started drinking, dead to the world.  Mason drunk, Mason swearing, Mason trying to fight me for real.  Mason on Monday.  Mason comforting me.
I think about Cal.  How he was when we were little, just a normal kid with a normal life.  Taking on all the responsibilities of an adult far before adulthood.  Caring for his siblings as if we were his children.  Continuing to love me and Mason, even through all this turmoil. 
I think of Mr. Burnes.  Mr. Burnes when I first met him, stern and businesslike.  Mr. Burnes making a deal with me because he could see I really cared about Lucy.  Mr. Burnes trying to give me advice on things he himself didn’t understand.  Mr. Burnes, Tessa’s uncle.  Mr. Burnes opening his home to me.  Mr. Burnes paying me to do what I’d been doing before for free.  Mr. Burnes threatening me if I did anything with his niece, yet still trusting me.  Mr. Burnes calling me ‘son.’
Mr. LaScala as a young man with cancer, Mr. LaScala as a teacher, Mr. LaScala dying while still teaching, not telling his students of his pain, Mr. LaScala dying believing that his life accomplished nothing, was worthless.
The doctor comes in and talks at me, but all I can think of is Tessa.  Tessa the scared little freshman, puking because she can’t stand the way dissected frogs smell.  Tessa the story writer.  Tessa the freshman who doesn’t brag about being in sophomore classes.  Tessa, Mr. Burnes’s niece.  Tessa insisting that I come back to her house.  Tessa’s parents getting killed.  Tessa cutting; Tessa hurting herself because she couldn’t bear to burden anyone else with her problems.  Tessa scribbling in the margins of her novel.  Tessa confessing her insecurities to me.  Tessa wanting to help me.  Tessa helping me.
All my visitors shuffle back in and touch my shoulder and murmur reassurances but my mind knows only Courtney.  Courtney the stalker-slut.  Courtney the overly peppy cheerleader who wouldn’t leave me alone.  Courtney telling me about her dad leaving.  Courtney grinding me, making out with me, giving me lap dances and hand jobs.  Courtney telling me why she likes me.  Courtney telling me about her biggest fear.  Courtney promising that going back to her house would be worth it.  Courtney singing along to the radio.  Courtney dying.
At last, the only two faces left are Cal’s and Tessa’s.  My eyes fix on Cal.  “Can you bring me some paper?” I ask, my voice sounding hollow.  “I wanna write Lucy a letter.”
“Of course, lil’ bro,” his voice breaks, and he hurries from the room, and Tessa takes my hand in hers, and suddenly I know what I’m going to write for Mr. Green.
People don’t have definitions.
Tessa squeezes my hand.  I squeeze hers back.