

# The Break

# Ann Jet Sieg

Copyright 2015© All rights reserved.

Many Thanks:

This book was conceived while my first novel was in the midst of being edited. If my husband hadn't prodded me every step of the way, neither of these books would exist. Because of you, I have realized my dream of writing not one but two books. You are the secret ingredient in all my most loved things.

My mother is the kindest person in the world. If you took all of the mothers out there and gave them personality tests, she would come out on top. I owe my empathetic nature and high standards to you, Mom. Mom, you spent a lot of time proofreading this book. I couldn't have completed this novel without you. I promise you that you will get a Christian romance from me, even if I have to pull out all the stops in my creativity.

To my Dad: You have passed on to me a spark that ignites my passion for transcending traditional ideas. Because I am your daughter, I am both steadfast in certain ideals and also open-minded to otherworldly possibilities. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have the grit to sink my nails into these projects and hang on for dear life.

To Melissa: who spent a couple of weeks out of her busy life to help edit my first book. Due to you, I know how to better proofread my material. May your own creative journey be filled with success beyond your wildest aspirations.

To my son Gauge and daughter, Bethany: Thank you for believing in me and giving me feedback on the books. Your support means the world to me. Bethany, your art work for my books is beyond the high standard I had in mind. Your talent will take you far above your dreams, my love. To my younger kids: Taylor, Joe, and Kiley. You have been a great inspiration in providing me subject matter to use. May my efforts be exemplary in a manner that you may embark on your own goal-driven expeditions.

To my friends who have sent me encouragement when I wanted to give up: Leslie and Jason, I love you guys! To my friends: Monica, Makeesha, Roscoe Traden Post, BJ, April, Kristie and Maple (and so many more!). Every supportive word has kept me going. For my impromptu previewers and reviewers: Leslie, Anita, Dorthy, Jennifer, Trisha, G. Mark, Mark M., Bethany, Laura, Maple and Brandi. Your feedback made the story even better! You have my full support in whatever dream paths you wish to follow.

For my mother-in-law Rhonda: I couldn't have a nicer, more supportive second mom. Thank you for your continuing reinforcement. Thanks to Rachel, Jeremy, and Krystal, who have been great cheerleaders. Also, Aunt Carolyn, Uncle John, Aunt Renee and Uncle Doug, who have also sent great encouragement. You all mean the world to me.

To all my other friends and family who have given me a kind word in passing: I know that everyone has their own lives that take up most of their conscious daily efforts. The fact that you have taken a moment to think about a project of mine is heartwarming. Because of you, I have made a vow to become more conscious of others' plights and victories.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, organizations, or locales is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.

I was never meant to live this way.

I am a dim shadow in my own home,

unable to speak

or make a sound.

The

silence

in

the

room

is

deafening

when

everyone

is

standing

around.

Sometimes, when you look back on things that have happened in the past, you realize that you didn't take the time to process your thoughts while life was busy kicking your ass. It's not until later, when recalling those events, that you realize how peculiar the situation was and just how messed up you ought to be.
Chapter One

Henry and Ginger dropped me off in front of my house at three thirty-eight. A neat row of four shiny choppers lined our cracked driveway, blocking my mom's beat-up old brown Ford Tempo that squatted in front of our dilapidated white garage.

I threw open the heavy wooden front door, letting it smack against the back wall. The guys I knew as Fat Gater and Latch looked up from the rickety laminate wood table that they stood by in the middle of the disheveled living room. Drugs were laid out on my black lacquer vanity mirror my sister had given me for my thirteenth birthday.

"What seems to be the problem, Nova?" Fat Gater asked in a hoarse voice-probably the result of sniffing drugs all night and day. Fat Gator wasn't actually fat. He was thin with an oily pitted face, no facial hair and stringy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. The black patch on the front of his greasy denim vest spelled: D.A. The large one on his back had their club name above a bearded skeleton holding a rifle with a green marijuana leaf background. Another patch bore his name: 'Fat Gater' embroidered in the same hue. The Dutch Assassins fell into the 1 percent category of motorcycle clubs that don't abide by the law.

"Hmm. I never have a moment alone with my mother who, by the way, is never sober enough to even know I'm there. Think that could be a problem?" I retorted.

Latch leaned down and snorted the stimulant, wiping the white residue off of his beak of a nose with the back of his twitchy claw-like hand. With almost no hair on his head, save a shadow of silver stubble, he was the heavyset one of the pair that always rode together. Latch was a more pleasant of the two and talked like he might have been normal a long time ago.

I turned away from the dysfunctional duo and faced the cracked white painted door adjoining the living room. As usual, the circa 1920's door remained sealed. Two more bikers loitered in the dingy yolk yellow kitchen that connected from the corner of the tiny living room. I walked past a scantily clad red-haired biker bitch that was passed out on our worn tan leather couch. My bedroom happened to be located at the back of our ancient kitchen. The fractured black and white linoleum floor squeaked in protest as I stomped into the kitchen.

The two younger inhabitants were quite good-looking. The newest member of the Dutch Assassins was Bolt from Shreveport, Louisiana. Bolt was nineteen, had short light brown hair, a thick brown mustache and gray eyes that crinkled when he laughed. He didn't often speak, but when he did, it was with a southern accent that dripped with Cajun spice. His muscular shoulders extruded from a sleeveless black shirt portraying a topless biker bitch granting a blow-job to a frightful skeleton. That didn't make sense.

Slither was twenty-something and had lengthy black hair peppered with streaks of premature gray that hung in thick ropes over his also bare and likewise powerful shoulders. The duo was inked up like their D.A. brothers and both donned greasy denim jeans. I'd never seen either one of them partake in drugs that everyone else in my house assumed to be fond of.

The pair was in mid-sentence, having a conversation about belt drives, when I attempted to slip past their intrusive forms. There was little space between Bolt and the dingy yellow wall for me to squeeze through, so I brushed the back of his tattooed arm while attempting to scramble into my room.

"Hey there, Nova," Slither said in a creepy voice.

"I'd love to stay and chat, but I have more important ways to spend my time...like watching my wallpaper peel," I mouthed off back to him.

I caught Bolt looking down trying to stifle a chuckle as he roughly wiped beer foam from his ample mustache.

"You're a mouthy little bitch. Just how I like em'!" Slither called out to me as I slammed the door shut behind me.

My bed was a waiting cloud of billowy comfort. It took me in like a temporary shelter from the stormy madness happening right outside my bedroom door. I buried my head in my Russian-blue satin pillow, breathing slow and deep.

My decent room was one of the luxuries I could afford, thanks to my deceased grandma, Betty. My sister used her inheritance to run away. I used mine to create an alternate life... a life I could bear to pretend was really mine.

Typically, I wouldn't see my mom until the sun set, but today she was in rare form. She barged into my room, letting the sick light of the kitchen/meth lab into my safe haven. Her raven black hair was in disarray. What used to be a smooth mane of black silk was now a shoulder length spray of thin ratty hair. The shadow of a woman bustled around my room in frantic motion as she yanked drawers open and partially shut them, leaving colorful bulging clothing remnants hanging in tumultuous drapery.

"Mom! What the eff are you doing?" I screamed as I jumped off my bed like a sprung maniac and ran to stop her from decimating the only decent items in the house.

She dropped a little, her bony shoulders hunched forward in anxiety.

"I can't find my ruby ring your father gave me," my fake mother muttered as she continued to dig.

I pulled her wasted milky arm behind her and reached towards her other wrist. She twisted away from me, resisting my interference while attempting to continue her fruitless mission.

"What makes you think it's in my room?" I yelled into her ear.

She stopped squirming for only a moment and tried to look at me. Her once golden complexion was now sallow and dry. Her dark eyes were empty sockets of indifference.

"I hid it in here."

I let go of her gaunt arm and just stood there as she went back to rummaging through my precious commodities. I was certain of why she had concealed it in here. She knew, at some point, if left to her own devices she would end up selling the ring for rent, or food, or even worse, to bail one of her boys out of jail. She might even be planning a trip that she would abandon me here alone for weeks, as she had done before. I hoped to God that was the case. Peaceful time in an empty house was too good to be true.

My mother didn't need the valuable ring for drugs because the woman had an endless supply at her disposal. She also wouldn't find the jeweled band. What my matriarch didn't realize, in her incoherent state, is that I had organized my room so that if it were in here I would have run across it by now. She had already "blanked out" where she'd stashed the ring, or she already sold it a long time ago.

This wouldn't be the last time I'd have to clean up my mother's wreckage. It sucked that I was the adult in the house and I wasn't even of age.

The empty woman concluded her fruitless search and turned to leave without putting anything back in its rightful place.

"Mom," I said without expectation.

She turned around hugging me with spaghetti arms, her vacant eyes scanning my bedroom. Her hair smelled like bitter oil and cigarettes. I squeezed her back. Even though she was a screw-up, I still needed a mom.

Self-preservation guide rule #1: Never believe people are inherently good. There is always a dark side.
Chapter Two

Like most typical weekday nights, I escaped my house around eleven o'clock, rapping on my best friend's darkened window. My ally offered me a secure place I might get some sleep before school the next day. I knew oodles of teens, my age, who considered me lucky to have unbridled freedom but, to be honest, I just wanted parents that gave a damn about me staying out late.

The story I recall began when I was ten years old. To look at me back then, you would've likely believed I was some kind of self-centered rich bitch. But, who I was at home and who I portrayed at school were two different characters.

Our ruination began when my dad got himself committed five years ago. Before that, we were a passable brood: a father who complained about his dull job, played golf with his work buddies on the weekends and attended my school plays. Mom was a stay-at-home mother who hosted a women's book club every Wednesday at six and never stayed out past ten. My parents didn't carry on as if they loathed one another but, at the same time, I don't recall them acting like they enjoyed each other, either. Ours was an uncomplicated existence, but it worked for us. Hell, our family was probably closer to normal than most, those days.

Now, my life is anything but safe or comfortable. Sometimes, when I think about what I might have done differently, my heart begins to pound and I start worrying that I won't be able to quit going over everything in my head. My mind is like an endless dryer cycle containing a pair of smelly rubber soled shoes, driving me mad with the noise, and always falling the same way.

When my dad was admitted to the hospital, his doctors said he would be out in a couple of months. After he had returned home, I expected our routine to continue as before, but nothing was ever the same again.

I was just a little kid, having to call the cops on my own father who was convinced our neighbors, the Heizelmans, were witches. His personal vocation was persecuting the sorcerers before they invoked a curse on his family.

When the police arrived, they found him outside Mr. and Mrs. Heizelmans' bedroom window, holding cute little me up to the glass. The cops immediately discovered fire starting supplies in the satchel he was carrying, and just like that, he was gone from my world.

Different psychiatrists have assured me that most people with schizophrenia are harmless, never inflicting personal abuse on others. Lucky me, I found out my father just happened to be in the small percentage of sufferers who would be likely to take their suspicions on the offense. I loved the medical terminology they spouted because it was all crap. They should have just called him what he was: a homicidal freak. Since he was a repeat offender, physicians concluded that he was a threat to society and locked him up. A year after my dad went away, my shell-shocked mom joined an outlaw motorcycle club.
Chapter Three

Okay, I can't say my life has sucked the entire time. After all, I had a locale where everything was as it should be: Shaker Creek High School in Springfield, Missouri.

Everything that mattered to me happened because I made it happen. I excelled in school, was part of the elite crowd, and led the Drama Club and Choir... A self-made debutante, I was destined to be a famous singing actress.

My best friend was Ginger Smith and we'd been inseparable since the first grade when my family moved in the house seven doors down from hers. I question what might have happened to me if I hadn't had Ginger to take me in. If I couldn't have slipped into her bedroom at least four nights out of every week, I wouldn't have been able to keep up my facade. I mean, I was glorified at school, but at home, that was another story.

Being removed from the scene was more desirable than being present when cops showed up to break up a squabble or to back up a noise complaint from the neighbor. A daytime visit from family services inevitably followed those nights I was there.

Most of the time, on the evenings I was at large, my mother didn't even realize I was gone. If the police showed up, there was no kid for them to be concerned for, so she usually got slapped with a warning. The next day, she would completely forget I hadn't been there. I kept waiting for her to get sent away to jail because her good karma had long been used up. I guess she was just freaking lucky that I was always on the lookout for her pathetic ass.

I have an older sister named Nora, who escaped the chaos four years ago when she graduated high school. Lucky me-I got left behind. She left town the minute she had her diploma in hand, and never looked back. Before our primary service was shut off, I would receive a telephone call from Nora about every six months when she checked to see if I still lived and breathed.

Sometimes, I could have sworn I heard stark disappointment in her voice that that I was still there. She probably thought I would have been better off running away like her, even at my age. The ironic part was, even though my sister never called to talk to her and didn't even ask about her, my mother talked about her all the time.
Chapter Four

One morning at school, before things got...weird, I remember thinking to myself how glad I was that it was Monday. Most of my friends were occupied with grumbling about school or sending me Snap Chats reminding me of their teen-aged despair.

What I didn't tell them: If attending that institution for twenty-four hours had been an option, I would have signed up for it in a heartbeat. My friends already thought I was a nut because of my relentless scholastic enthusiasm. Every time they teased me about it, I recall thinking: I'm not the one who's crazy. If only you knew.

Ginger's older brother Henry drove us to school that serene Monday morning. He was a free-thinking senior who didn't feel like it was beneath him to drive his little sister and her best friend to school whenever she asked. I wouldn't say he was exactly a hipster. There was no real category that Henry fit into. That's why none of my friends appreciated Henry except for Ginger, and she was constantly bitching about him.

Being contrary wasn't how you made friends at that school. But I guess it didn't concern Henry because he'd been that defiant rust-headed boy since the day I met him. I respected him because he treated me as an equal, and I adored his sarcasm. I actually used some of his comebacks when he wasn't around.

Ginger and I had separated into distinct cliques at the beginning of the school year. I didn't know what or who had initiated her preference, but she didn't want to be associated with the rest of my friends anymore. She claimed they were bloated snobs and that I was pretentious for hanging out with them. I couldn't help it; being popular made me feel worthwhile. My brand-new status almost made up for all the strife I dealt with at home. I took painstaking measures to avoid any possibility that my friends might catch up with me at on my own turf (except for Ginger).

Not only had I persevered but also I was superb at being a deb. Even older students at Shaker Creek looked up to me; they acknowledged that I deserved respect. Behind those brick walls, was the only venue where I had some control over my chaotic existence.

The Riches also gave me hell for staying loyal to Ginger. The last time I invited Ginger to Botanas, our hangout, she had spent two hours trading insults with Laila and Veronica and it got ugly because all three were getting wasted. Personally, I think Ginger got the worst of it. Ginger never accepted my invitations back to Botanas again.

Laila Burton was the wealthy lush of the group. She legally changed her name from Laurel to Laila because she read somewhere it meant "as intoxicating as wine". With a platinum pixie cut, Laila was a miniature bombshell. I had to admit, I was a little jealous of her inhibition.

Veronica Helmsley, a rich bitch with enormous breasts and poker-straight honey blonde hair, was quite promiscuous. Fortunately for her, she didn't mind the slut title because she was the reigning queen.

I was the characteristic girl next door with long black hair, a natural tan and the only freshman of the group. I suppose I seemed like an old soul because I'd had to grow up faster than the other ninth graders.

Eric Morrison, the Varsity Letterman of the group, didn't come from a wealthy background, but he was the best looking jock. Half Korean and half African-American, Eric was the embodiment of hotness and to top it off, he was intelligent.

Kurtis Farrow was also an athlete, his main sport being football, but his primary focus was acting. As my co-star in theater, Kurtis would likely become a renowned actor...just to prove he could. This was because he wouldn't have to work a day in his life if he didn't want to. His uncanny resemblance to my all-time favorite actor, Paul Newman, stole my heart. I was positively smitten.

That recollected Monday, I wore a silver Wildfox open-back sweater accented with a rose print tangerine silk scarf. Underneath, I sported a daring tangerine-laced Cosabella camisole and a pair of D&G jeans Veronica had given me because they were too small for her booty.

In first hour, it was an absolute requirement that students took notes for the World History test. Veronica, instead, insisted on blowing my phone up with texts about her latest tryst with a guy from an all boy's school. Apparently, segregated boys were the most sexually repressed and most eager to please in our age group. I wouldn't know because I was a true-to-life virgin. I was likely the only celibate deb in my clique unless the ladies were misrepresenting their conquests, and I highly doubted that.

Just to be clear, my virtuousness was none of my mother's doing, either. If left up to my dear mom, I would have bedded a grown man the first night she threw a party for her biker cronies....that's how little she supervised my whereabouts. She had no idea who my friends were, or that I was the leading lady in the upcoming fall production, Macbeth.

If Mr. Sanders had caught me reading Veronica's texts, he would have had an explicit sexual encounter burning an image in his mind for the remainder of the first hour. He would have confiscated my phone, scouring it later for similar material.

I fancied his massive forehead pruning and his milky-blue eyes struggling to focus on tiny words. A conglomeration of syllables that spat a blend of agitation and curse words...punctuated with blatant accounts of filthy acts.

Fortunately, by my freshman year, I had mastered the art of illusion. Sleight of hand was one of my specialties. I might be able to hide my texting in class, but I was terrible at multitasking. Therefore, I didn't take notes, at least not ones I could use to memorize important dates in World War II. That really stunk because Mr. Sanders always went over exactly what was going to be on the test the following day. I had no choice but to spend my evening studying the entirety of chapters seven through fourteen and I had my gal pals to thank for it.

Self-preservation guide rule #2: You can't rely on others to survive. If they screw up something, you have to fix it yourself.
Chapter Five

I slept over again at Ginger's house. The social gathering at my place began before I got home, and by five o'clock my skinny driveway was crammed with shiny motorcycles that reflected each rider's passion for the road.

Not all of the Dutch Assassin club members haunted my pathetic home. The club members that I knew had some covert operation going on, and the less I knew about it, the better. The majority of the club members had better things to do than spend time with a washed-up mom and her kid, however, there was a steady group of about twenty bikers that had no shame. None of them had ever threatened me or made sexual advances towards me, so I wasn't categorically afraid of the bikers. The dirty punks were more of an unwanted distraction in my life.

My station in life would be unchanged, even if my mom had never met Triumph Phil, her first biker boyfriend. She would have clung on to any bad seed that offered her an escape from reality. I guess I'm just fortunate that she didn't bring a child molester into our home.

Ginger's moonlit expression reflected her drowsiness as she extended her pale hand, offering me a lift into her dark bedroom. I took hold of her cool fingers and boosted myself through the welcoming entrance. She stumbled backward and plopped with a thud onto her derriere. Voluminous earthen curls sprung wildly, surrounding her charming round-cheeked face. She rubbed the back of her left hand to her half-closed eye.

"Do you want a Pepsi?" she mumbled.

"No, I already brushed my teeth," I whispered.

I nestled into Ginger's bed with an extra throw pillow she tossed at me from her white egg-shaped chair. We faced each other this time, Ginger's wide sparkling eyes studying my face. She brushed a fly away curl from her cheek.

"They were back again tonight?" she murmured.

"Yeah."

She didn't answer but continued to regard my expression (or lack of). She knew how much I relied on her. We didn't often talk about it because it was our unspoken agreement. The bikers had only recently been staying at my house every night. Previous to a couple of months ago, they would just show up, unannounced. I guessed now they must have dirty transactions going on, and I didn't want to be around when their shenanigans blew up in my mother's face.

We drifted off to sleep facing each other, and I dreamed about my father. He was the president of the Dutch Assassins Club and was running it from inside the institution. I felt anxious that he would discover my mom was sleeping with Triumph Phil and I didn't know how he would react.

My father stood up from the white plastic chair he was sitting in from the mental hospital, and suddenly we were standing in our living room. The rest of the gang was milled around, filling the cramped space with black leather and the mechanical smell of motor oil.

The menacing man wore a black leather vest adorned with a white patch on the upper right side. The opposite edge of his dark apparel displayed green embroidered letters that said 'Witch Hunter.' He opened wide his long sinewy arms and pieces of yellow straw fell from them onto the stained green shag carpet. A broad smile stretched across his bony face as he lowered his forehead, still looking straight ahead. Messy graying blonde hair hung into his indigo-blue eyes that blazed with fury.

"I already know," his voice crackled through a muffled telephone receiver.

Instead of my father's presence in the living room, there sat a white hospital type telephone in the middle of an empty void. With dread, I picked the white plastic receiver up and held it to my ear, feeling the curling cord resting against my thigh. There was no dial tone, only dead silence.

"Hello?" I asked.

"If you would like to make a call, hang up and try again," a female voice grated in my ear.

I slammed the phone in its cradle, only to find that I was clutching my mother's ruby ring in my white-knuckled fist. Startled, I threw the ring down, watching it clink and bounce across the stark white tile floor of the mental hospital. My father, standing in the corner of the massive room, now wearing a red sweatshirt and jogging pants, strode over to the resting place of the glittering object. With no hesitation, he bent over and picked it up. Putting the ring in his pants pocket, he turned his back to me.

"Wait! Dad!" I yelled in his direction. My voice sounded weak.

I was getting pretty effing tired of him walking away.

He continued to stroll off until he disappeared from sight, the fluorescent blue corridor swallowing him up.

God, I was sweating like a pig.

"Nova Rae."

I jerked awake, opening my eyes to Ginger's freshly washed face inches from mine. Her amber-green eyes were wide, reflecting the hue of the lime colored comforter snuggled below my chin.

"You were yelling in your sleep, sweetie," Ginger noted with a frown crease bisecting her smooth forehead as she tugged at a glossy strand of my hair.

"Oh yeah, I've been dreaming every night," I remarked as I playfully yanked a frizzy flyaway of hers.

"We are going to have the best day ever, biotch!" I exclaimed with sudden enthusiasm.

"Oh yeah? What gives?"

"Scott Miller is going to streak during the assembly today with the horse head on, so Principal McKnight won't know who he is!" I gushed.

Ginger's smile was forced. "Scott Miller told everyone I gave him a hand job in the locker room. Remember?"

I grabbed Ginger's shoulders and shook her, forcing her to look into my eyes.

"Well, did you?" I asked her with fake sincerity.

"Screw you, biotch! You know I didn't. We only got to second base. Scott Miller is an ass!"

She put on a mad face, but I knew she would get over it.

"You shouldn't have gone down there with him, you slut!"

Her round pink cheeks flushed with added color and she smiled a bit.

"I know. Whatever."

She paused for a mere second.

"It is going to be hysterical to see his lily-white ass streaking in front of McKnight."

I jumped up in an accusatory stance.

"You've seen his ass! You are a big ho!" I yelled loud enough for her parents to hear.

My friend threw a shiny chocolate-brown throw pillow at my face.

"Shhhhhhhhhh!" she hissed at me while grabbing another pillow to toss at my head.

Ginger's painted brown door vibrated with the rapping sound of a heavy hand knocking. We both froze with an expression of mock horror, staring at each other wide-eyed.

"Hey, ho! Hurry your ass up! I've got to go over our set list with the guys before first hour!"

"All right, ass monkey! Be out in a few!" Ginger replied to Henry in a booming obnoxious voice.

Footsteps outside Ginger's door retreated. Still gaping at each other's ridiculous expressions, we convulsed with peals of laughter.

Ginger and I wedged ourselves into the compressed back seat of Henry's vintage black 1995 convertible Chrysler LeBaron. Henry was the lead singer in an alternative rock band called _Pale Crow_. Principal McKnight had agreed to let Henry's band play two of their original songs that day in exchange for their modern rendition of our school song, _Pride of Shaker Creek_. McKnight gave the atypical group the stipulation that their song version must incorporate the original lyrics, with no additional words. The two other numbers were to have acceptable subject matter content, which meant half of their original songs had to be edited.

Even though Henry was in a rad band, my rich pals loved to hate him. Before the Riches found out Henry was halfway cool, they tirelessly insulted him for his retro thrift shop attire he wore with zero shame. According to the elite crew, faded flannel and chunky belts were bait for constant abuse. The Riches likely would have come to respect him if he hadn't returned their comments with brilliant insults they lacked the skill to respond to.

Henry appeared from the side of the brick shaker style house lugging a tall black amplifier. I squeezed out of the back seat to help the skinny kid load it into the deceivingly cavernous trunk. I was not expecting to see that Henry had stashed an impressive box of dusty books that dominated the center of the otherwise vacant cavity. He thrust the bulky cardboard bin to the side and hoisted the substantial amp into the trunk with my help to guide it in. The ample box smashed the side of the book crate, but Henry paid no mind. He produced a green bungee cord that had been hanging from the ripped back pocket of his baggy denim. The trunk stayed partially open, resting on the top of the upright amp. It took him a few tries to secure the bungees to the underside of the black bumper, but once he was done, he seemed satisfied. He waved a dismissing hand at the haphazard trunk as he walked away from it.

"You guys really need a van," I commented to Henry.

A dimple creased the side of Henry's fuzzy cheek as he glanced up at me with golden-amber eyes.

"Don't I know it? But as long as I have you as my roadie, I think I'll be all right."

I smiled in return. How could anyone not like Henry?

Once in the weighted convertible, Henry peered at me from his cracked rear view mirror.

"Are those gang guys bothering you again?"

I was instantly embarrassed. Ginger must have told him why I stayed over at their house so often.

"Yeah. It's no biggie. Ginger really just needs me to help her accessorize!" I exclaimed as I draped one of my scarves over Ginger's shoulder.

"Exactly!" she played along, as she twisted the yellow patterned scarf around her bare neck and knotted it.

With an obscured expression, Henry observed us once more in his rear view mirror before turning over his ignition. Even though my heart belonged to Kurtis Farrow, I studied other boys. I accredited my curiosity to human nature. Over the years I had known him, Ginger's brother had changed a great deal. His overgrown brown hair had a slight reddish tint that came out only in the sunlight. The top-heavy wavy locks often fell in his eyes, especially when he was performing on stage. Almond shaped and light-brown (sometimes yellow), Henry's eyes were his best attribute besides his wit.

I was enjoying meaningless chatter with Ginger as the warm morning air blew our long hair back in smooth rivers of rust and ebony, when Henry swerved sharply to the right. He jerked the car into a tight space in front of his friend Kyle Blankenship's enormous gray stone house.

Kyle lived within walking distance to our school in an upscale neighborhood. The bass player of _Pale Crow_ , Kyle was born of an affluent family, but chose to rebel against their conservative beliefs. It was fortunate for Henry that he wasn't the drummer because the trunk would admit no more instruments.

Kyle, like Henry, dressed as if he had borrowed his clothes from a homeless man. His dirty blonde hair fell to his shoulders and he wore a black and white checkered short sleeved oxford shirt with a missing button in the middle. His black chinos were accented with a pair of green suspenders left hanging as if he was dying to provoke the Riches with his trashy style.

"Morning, ladies! I see you've dressed to impress me this morning and you're in luck. I am impressed. Now, don't fight over me in the back seat. I am generous enough to share myself with both of you," he chided as he swung his guitar case into the back seat between Ginger and me.

"Sorry, Kyle. Ginger and I have both devoted ourselves to a life of celibacy. Since we are single, and our only two prospects at the moment are you or living a life alone, we choose the more satisfying one," I retorted.

Henry grinned as he focused on me in the rearview mirror, his dimple dominating his angular cheek.

"I think you better give up on these two. At least while Miss Comeback is around. She'll tear you down every time," Henry said with evident admiration.

Kyle settled back into his cracked red leather seat in the front while shaking his head.

"I'll never give up. It's the challenge I live for, brother!" Kyle pronounced as he placed his arms behind his head in a relaxed pose.

"I hear ya, bro," Henry replied while pulling back into thick traffic directed towards Shaker Creek High.
Chapter Six

The first half of the day was fairly uneventful except for the Snap Chat message from Laila: _Botana's at 4pm, Be there!_

I wanted to attend but not without Ginger this time. I had been staying at her house almost nightly, and I didn't intend to leave her out and then show up at her house later. That would make me a terrible person.

I messaged back: _Bringing Ginger. Don't be a bitch._

I got no reply back. Oh well, no response was better than a nasty one.

After lunch, the entire school reported to the massive gymnasium for the pep rally. Our school was a lusty supporter of sports as well as the arts.

Even though Principal McKnight was dorky, it was clear to the students that he cared about the future of all the kids that attended school here. His involvement was evidenced by his sponsorship of many extracurricular events that nearby schools did not offer.

Principal McKnight had a haircut that made his thinning gray hair look like he had bangs. He was wearing a black and gold Shaker Creek High School football jersey over his gray dress pants, which made his sad case worse. After a brief announcement about the upcoming football game that evening against Skyline High school, Principal McKnight stepped back from the microphone stand to allow Henry's band to play the school anthem.

Before _Pale Crow_ could begin, a naked teen boy wearing only a giant war horse mascot head darted behind Principal McKnight. The runner headed to the other side of the gymnasium where the entrance to the football field was. The absurd streaker's male parts jiggled furiously as he dashed for his freedom across the brightly lit floor. All we could glimpse of the retreating figure was the daring student's bare white backside far below a giant retreating golden horse head. The entire student body was on their feet roaring with laughter. Amused students began to exit their seats, filing down the aisles to watch the jackass attempting to cross the football stadium without getting caught. Two of the school security guards were in hot pursuit, but the runner was too speedy for them.

"Students! Please return to your seats! Any student that is out of their seat when I blow my whistle will be serving detention after school tonight!" Principal McKnight announced with mandatory harshness.

His bluntly cut bangs were far too ludicrous for his students to instantly take him seriously. The drama-seeking students took their time filing back to their seats. Some of the students had actually made it out to the field, capturing the daring streaker on their phones. They had to be retrieved by James and Eduardo, our school security guards.

James was tall, had short dark buzzed hair and had a miniature pot belly that hung over the belt of his tan security uniform. Eduardo was Latino, muscular and diminutive with a thin mustache. Neither of the adult men could keep up with the wiry teen boy.

I crash landed backward in my upper row stadium seat, in between Veronica and Laila. Directly in front of us, Ginger perched on a metal bleacher bench beside her closest school pal, Sarah. Sarah was an outgoing, lofty, brunette girl that was eye level to most of her male coeds.

"I can't believe Scott actually got away with it. And his ass is so white!" Laila exclaimed with a smirk on her perfectly painted crimson lips. Only Laila could pull off the impressive combination of insult and compliment. She hadn't yet finessed the art of witty comebacks, though. She had only one style and it was mean.

Kurtis sat two seats over on my row packed in between Eric Morrison and Trent Norton. Trent was a recent transfer student who both guys had played against in football in the last few years. With his blonde hair and athletic build, combined with ultra-high confidence, the famous teen was an instant add to our select group. The three amigos made a stunning trio of good looks.

Kurtis leaned forward and gazed inquiringly at our feminine trio, his icy-blue eyes teasing us from beneath a fringe of dark eyelashes.

"You three going to be at Botana's, right?" Kurtis inquired, with a charming smile on his baby smooth face.

Veronica leaned forward, her pale blonde hair falling forward and her low-cut white Vanessa Bruno blouse dropping open, revealing her bronzed cleavage that only a blind person could ignore. Leave it to Veronica to find the smuttiest Vanessa Bruno blouse on the market.

Laila scooted up, blocking Kurtis' view of Veronica's boobs and replied bluntly for the three of us: "Does Veronica have more plastic in her butt than I have in my wallet?"

"Ugh! Bitch!" Vanessa protested without really minding.

"Turn up!" Trent called from the other side of Kurtis.

Kurtis sent cheeky Laila a brilliant white smile, and I felt my cheeks flush with instant jealousy. My two best friends at school were both pros. I knew I had the least chance out of the three of us to gain Kurtis' attention, only because I lacked the experience they had. I sat back quietly in silent defeat, waiting for the crowd to settle down so I could watch Henry's band play.

Henry stood alone on the stage testing his microphone, muttering, "Check. Check. Check, check, check."

From a distance, he looked so nervous. I had the urge to dash onto the stage and fix his damned hair that was hanging in his eyes.

"I can't wait to hear this loser try to sing. He probably sounds like vomit. He certainly looks like vomit," Veronica said too loudly, aimed at the row ahead of us.

Veronica's bait worked. Ginger immediately turned around and stood up, her wiry cinnamon hair looking exceptionally fiery today.

"Listen, bitch. No one here asked for your narrow-minded opinion. Only an idiot would form a preconceived opinion of something before actually experiencing it," Ginger uttered with conviction. Her green eyes blazed and her usual porcelain complexion flushed with anger. Geez, she sounded pretty intelligent, just then. I bet that pissed Veronica off.

Laila stood as she made her public discourse, her tiny stature actually a bit imposing. Classy blonde spikes surrounded her perfectly made up doll face.

She snarled as her high-pitched voice transformed into a hiss: "You're a social moron. You don't have the clout to take us on. You had better turn your fat ass around and sit back in your seat. That is...if it will fit."

Apparently, Laila didn't feel the need to sound clever in delivering her crass retort.

The guys in our row snickered at Laila's dauntlessness. Ginger's lower lip trembled a bit as she witnessed me mutely looking on. After a moment of gaping at me with crushed betrayal, Ginger pivoted and plopped down, her back rigid with fury.

"I can't stand that bitch. You better not bring her to Botana's tonight," Veronica remarked nastily as she leaned into me, brushing me with her ample cleavage. I pulled back in revulsion.

I said nothing, my face burning with shame. I didn't know why I had choked up.

My silence was effed up and I was lying to myself. I did know why I had said nothing. I hadn't wanted Kurtis to know Ginger was my best friend. I decided, at that moment, to skip Botana's to face Ginger later and make things right.

Finally, the audience chatter was diminishing and Principal McKnight returned to the podium to announce _Pale Crow_. Suddenly, two familiar figures caught my eye from the far corner of the gymnasium where Scott had streaked. My mother and her current biker boyfriend, Dog, were scanning the crowd and walking across the shiny wooden floor towards the bottom of the steps that led to where I sat.

I panicked. It would be a matter of minutes before the spun-out duo spotted me and my social life would be over. I stood up abruptly and edged past Laila and Kurt, not caring if I stepped on their feet.

"Nova! Where are you going?" Veronica called after me.

"Ladies' room. Sorry-emergency," I muttered behind me as I booked it down the steep stairs. I didn't know if they heard me and I didn't care. I had to get out of the gymnasium before my mother and Dog blew my school life façade. They had devastated my home life, I'd be damned if they wrecked my carefully constructed school existence. The embarrassing pair was not at the bottom of the stairs or anywhere in sight. They must have left the gymnasium and were possibly headed towards the office, likely attempting to send someone in there hunting for me. That wouldn't be so bad, as long as no friends were in the front during assembly, but there was always some sick kid in there.

My fast walk transformed into a sprint as I frantically scanned the front administration area. I needed to measure myself or risk being caught. As I rounded the corner, I caught sight of my mother and Dog trudging at what seemed to be a snail's pace at the far end of the south hall. Their scrubby manifestation proved a stark contrast to the pristine institution. I wondered what the hell they were doing.

Dog had oily bleached blonde hair that flowed past his broad shoulders and wore a black bandana around his forehead. He proudly donned the club patches on his vest and made sure everyone in public was made aware of them.

My mother wore her characteristic black denim jacket and displayed obvious twitches that I could clearly differentiate from where I jogged. The dismal duo turned the corner at the cusp of the shiny hall before I could reach them.

Seconds later, I neared the end of the impossibly long passageway, my breath coming out in ragged bursts of anxiety. I hung a right, surrounded by rows of tall yellow lockers and closed black doors with tiny windows. Expecting to see the dubious pair close by, I halted in my tracks when I realized they had already made it to the far end of the new hall. They were casually passing underneath a giant white and red banner strung across the hallway ceiling that read: Students Against Drugs and Alcohol-Join the Family!

Taken aback, I paused at the entrance to the new passageway. I began to sprint towards my nemesis, hoping that I could advance near to the unsightly pair.

"Nova Price! Hey!" an accented male voice commanded from behind.

I froze and pivoted around to discover who had caught me. It was Eduardo, the Latino security guard. The deep scowl furrowing his dark brow portrayed his annoyance. Scott Miller had burned any second chance I might have been thrown from the usually easy-going security guard. Eduardo rapidly walked towards me as he spoke into the two-way radio held up to his perspiring handsome face. His upper lip curled, obscuring his neat little black mustache as he spoke rapidly into the small black radio. Deliberately, I faced away from him to hunt for the double imposters. The end of the gleaming yellow-walled hallway was void of their infamous presence. A single white paper lay discarded underneath the anti-drug banner.

"Stop right there, Nova!" Eduardo barked behind me.

I canceled my mission, turning to face Eduardo, the wanna-be cop. I was in deep doo-doo.
Chapter Seven

I regretfully missed Henry's pep rally performance and willingly skipped lunch. Principal McKnight sentenced me to after school detention for the entire week. I think Scott Miller's prank had likewise lowered his tolerance for bullshit. Despite my demise, I was surprisingly grateful that I would be missing the afternoon get-together at Botanas. The detention would save me an explanation to Veronica and Laila, who were already thoroughly questioning me via Snap Chat. As I started to lean on McKnight's clear glass door, he called out from behind me.

"Nova. If you come to your senses, you can come back and I will release you from detention for the rest of the week," he said in a barely audible voice.

I paused again then pushed my way through the doorway, letting the lettered glass door slowly whoosh shut behind me. I had told Principal McKnight that I had spotted a loose dog in the school and I was trying to catch it before the guards did because I knew the dog would be accosted by animal control. Needless to say, McKnight hadn't believed my improvisational tale. I could have told him what I really had been chasing, but I didn't want to take any chances of a story leaking out that I associated with a motorcycle club, especially an outlaw club.

Even though McKnight was famed for his discretion regarding the affairs of his students, I still speculated on whether he would let a big secret like mine slip. The situation was so far-out that Principal McKnight would find it difficult to keep to himself. He might mention it in passing to the secretary, Miss Glenhoven, who in turn would spread it around like a bad case of the crabs.

I could picture her in the teacher's lounge, thin brown hair in a bun pulling her face back tight, and an evil smile playing on her colorless, nonexistent lips. She would invite other teachers to sit by her, coyly patting the chair next to her. Other teachers that were sick of their non-appreciative students' ungrateful attitudes and half-assed efforts to learn the material they so lovingly presented, would take a chair. Teachers that were hungry for usable ammunition that would make them feel just a little bit better about their own life struggles would sit. Pretty soon, the entire faculty body would know and eventually it would get back to the student body. I would never be able to show my face at school again. So, I had to lie. A week of after school detention was entirely worth it.

I returned both texts back to Veronica and Laila. I found no messages from Ginger, so I decided to send her one before I went back to my next class.

Hey. Sorry about earlier. I'll talk to Veronica and Laila. I'm sure they'll apologize to you. See you tonight?

My iPhone remained quiet. She probably had her phone on silent or vibrate. I had no classes with my girls the rest of the day. I did, however, have theater class with Kurtis seventh hour and we would be going over final scenes of MacBeth.

Kurtis was MacBeth and I was Lady MacBeth. Working so closely with Kurtis had aided me in diminishing some of my reservations about him. While I was confident on the outside, my conscience repeatedly whispered that I would never be suited to someone of his caliber. Although I tried so hard, I could never change the fact that I came from poor white trash. At least I could live in my own fantasy for a short while.

At the last minute, our theater director had written in a romantic scene for the Macbeths. We had not yet practiced the scene but were scheduled to that very day. I had kissed a few boys, but I didn't know how I should go about kissing Kurtis Farrow. Would I pretend he actually felt something for me or would the embrace be undeniably counterfeit? Either way, the prospect of his curvaceous lips pressing onto mine seemed...perfect.

Towards the end of seventh hour, Mr. Shelton, our drama instructor called a meeting. His blue eyes were cast down as he stroked his neatly trimmed blonde goatee. At forty-five, Mr. Shelton still looked like a movie star and, like the subject he taught, he could be intensely theatrical. As the group of students formed a lazy circle surrounding him, Mr. Shelton carried out a dramatic pause before speaking.

"I'm afraid we are going to have to make some changes to the play cast. Annette will now play Lady MacBeth and Drew will take her place. Nova...you will move to set construction for the remainder of the week. Annette, get your lines memorized tonight. Remember, you are the understudy. We can start with scene three today because there are very few lines required..."

The actors instantaneously erupted in excited chatter. Annette, an adorable red-haired girl, spoke up: "But why, Mr. Shelton? I mean, we are due to open next weekend."

My heart began to race with the realization that my refusal to tell McKnight the truth had cost me more than what I had known I was gambling. Annette would be kissing Kurtis today, instead of me, and Mr. Shelton had not mentioned whether or not I would get my original part back. If I permanently lost this crucial role, my acting career could be devastated. This wasn't some cheesy musical, this was a classic.

I backed away from the circle, my eyes blurred with tears. It wasn't fair! My horrible home life was tearing apart the image at school I had worked so diligently to build. I had to do something about my reputation before I had to kiss it good-bye.

"Mr. Shelton? May I go see Dr. McKnight?"

The entire mob of attractive thespians gawked at me as I continued to back away towards the edge of the massive wood floored stage. I clumsily bumped into the thick velvet curtain that bisected my route of escape.

"Yes, Nova. Grab a pass."
Chapter Eight

Principal McKnight leaned back with his elbows perched on the ample brown leather arms of his plush office chair. He looked puzzled, or maybe his Moe bangs just lent him a permanent expression of comical absurdity.

"So, the reason you ran amuck down the halls was to chase down your mother? Why didn't you tell me this in the first place? I called her a while ago. She was anxious about you....but she didn't mention being here earlier."

I found it impossible to believe that he had actually spoken to her, much less that she was even slightly concerned about my behavior.

McKnight didn't look convinced, even when I had finally told him the truth. Why was I being punished for coming clean?

"Mr. McKnight. My mother doesn't abide by rules, herself. Why would she admit to you that she was here?"

McKnight frowned, causing him to resemble Moe, from the Three Stooges, even more.

"That doesn't sound like the doting mother I met last year at your junior high play. You undoubtedly don't give your mom enough credit. She cares about you very much."

I was skeptical. McKnight dealt with so many kids and their parents, it had to be impossible for him to keep them all straight. However, he had been in the audience at my play, 'The Sound of Music' last year. It had been the only school related activity my mother had attended in three years since she had started taking drugs. She had been there all right, but she had been stoned. Not with speed that night-it was marijuana that had probably made her friendlier than usual. Back then, she still looked halfway healthy. Like a mother.

"Okay, I'll buy that, but she was a lot different last year. My father's absence has made her a different person. I just wanted to get to her before..."

I stopped at that. I was embarrassed to admit to McKnight that my prestige meant everything to me. I wanted him to see me as a mature young adult.

McKnight's bushy gray eyebrows reached the bottom of his fringe of bangs as he expressed empathy.

"You didn't want the other students to see her."

I exhaled an audible sigh of relief.

"Yes."

"I see. Well, the detention this evening still stands. You are excused from the rest of the week. You may return to your original part in the play tomorrow, and I will let Mr. Shelton know."

I smiled weakly at McKnight. He really was a decent principal. "Thank you, Dr. McKnight."
Chapter Nine

I returned to the theater just in time to witness the passionate scene between Kurtis and Annette. Well, I saw that Annette didn't waste any time filling my spot.

I had thought it would bother me but actually witnessing it didn't because the chemistry was awkward as hell between the two of them. Either Annette was extremely nervous or she was an awful actress. Considering how cute Kurtis was that day, I doubted I would have fared much better.

"Okay, you two, let's call it a day," Mr. Shelton announced sarcastically from stage right. I could tell he was overjoyed that this hour was almost over.

Kurtis and Annette pulled away from each other. Annette accidentally stumbled backward in one flustered motion, her cherry-red hair in slight disarray. Kurtis smirked as if he knew his presence made her self-conscious. I perceived that all impossibly gorgeous actors must start out in high school knowing they were something special, especially if they had been treated that way since birth because of who their father was. Even though I came to that realization, it still didn't change the fact that my mind was set on him.

Kurtis turned and walked towards me, his chilled-blue eyes lit with amusement.

"You'll be Lady MacBeth tomorrow, I hope."

My heart jumped with excitement. This day was getting much, much better than how it had started. Shyly, I combed my fingers through a thick portion of my smooth black hair. God, I was nervous.

"Yeah. I mean yes. McKinley put me back in. So I'll be..."

I was never this bad at coming up with words so why was I having issues today? I definitely wasn't acting much like myself. Kurtis was simpering at me as he got closer. He was Paul Newman reincarnated. My knees were weak as he continued to draw nearer. Oh my God. I hoped my breath smelled okay.

"Let's see if this scene works better between me and you," he murmured, right before he cupped my burning right cheek, lifted my chin up with his other hand and kissed me.

The scene definitely worked between us. I don't think the lip lock endured very long, but it was extensive enough to draw some attention from the remaining thespian students. An anonymous audience member threw out an appreciative wolf whistle. The kiss was actually more of a prolonged peck on the lips, but it was enough to make me weak in the knees as his soft lips explored mine with tenacious expertise. Kurtis didn't get the leading parts in plays solely on the merit of his name, he was living art.

Kurtis drew back leisurely, gazing into my eyes with steel blue intensity. He wasn't shy or hesitant. I hadn't anticipated this first kiss, so I wasn't sure if I was elated or felt anticlimactic.

"All right, you two. Your practice for scene three wasn't scheduled until tomorrow. Break it up."

Mr. Shelton's obligated sternness prompted us to step back from each other.

"See you later at Botanas," Kurtis said nonchalantly as he turned to exit the stage. The bright theater lights glinted beautifully off of his sun-bleached brown hair.

"Oh! I won't be there tonight! I have to serve detention," I uttered towards the disappearing epitome of near-perfection.

Without pause, he called back, "See you tomorrow then."

I replied too quickly with regrettable enthusiasm, "Okay! See you tomorrow!"

I hoped I didn't sound too desperate.

I wasn't the only girl checking out his retreating denim adorned back side. Five years of football had undoubtedly added to his already toned physique. Shelby Carter approached me, her eyes still diverted to his retreating form. Mousy brown haired Shelby was just one of many teen girls who carried a torch for a boy who would never realize she existed. Her slightly oily face shined under the less than flattering stage lights as she turned to me with apparent envy.

"You're so stinking lucky! What was it like? I bet he has strong lips. Am I right?" she interrogated with egg tainted breath. She gripped her already wrinkled script with enthusiasm as her brown eyes twinkled and blinked behind thick lenses.

I smiled coyly.

"Well...," I paused for dramatic effect.

"It was...amazing."

For some reason, I could think of no epic words to describe the kiss. I was probably in shock.

"That's what I thought! I'll be your second understudy if you want!" She eagerly offered as she habitually flipped a strand of dull shoulder length brown hair behind her right ear.

"Don't worry, I won't even need one understudy," I said in a tone of friendly warning to back the hell off.

"I figured you'd say that. Oh well, a girl can dream, can't she?" she said dreamily as she sent me a magnified wink.

I nodded amicably at her and turned around to leave. After walking to the edge of the massive stage, I stooped down to retrieve my small cobalt Dior bag and script, starting to exit.

"Nova-don't take what you have for granted. There are many girls who would kill to have what you have," Shelby called out as I left.

Shelby was very weird. I paused for a split second and then navigated towards the detention room.

Self-preservation guide rule #3: Someone is always ready to fill your shoes. Be ready to fight for your rightful place.
Chapter Ten

Detention wasn't so awful. Miss Lesmeister, one of the youngest new teachers at Shaker Creek High, skimmed a Cosmo magazine the entire time and paid no attention to the students that played continuously on their electronic devices. The cover of her colorful magazine read: Ten Ways to Please Your Man in Bed. Miss Lesmeister's trendy brunette bob hairstyle and stylish clothes signified that it had not been long since she was a student herself. Everyone in detention, including the disinterested teacher, was just killing time.

Since it was my first detention ever, I wasn't sure how I was going to get home afterward. I was hesitant to call Henry before I had a chance to talk with Ginger about the incident at assembly. I considered trying to take the public bus, but I had never done that before, and calling my mom to pick me up was out of the question. So was asking any of my school pals to give me a lift. I'd rather walk home.

My humble abode was roughly two miles from the school. I set out trudging down South Ashbury Street towards my hated destination. Biting fall wind snuck in the nooks of my thin black Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater as cocoa-colored November leaves surrounded me on the newly patched sidewalk. After six blocks, I was tired of walking, but I figured that if fitness-oriented people could run further than that every day, I could manage the one-time ordeal. My loose dark hair whipped in my face, obstructing my sight as a sudden gust of freezing wind blasted me from the North. My numb fingers were icicles and my cheeks burned with near frostbite as I lowered my head like a charging bull against the opposing force, clutching my cumbersome school books as a desperate barrier to my ill-prepared body.

Deep rumbling resonated from the East, creating a tickle in my neck as the reverberation continued to grow into a thunderous growl. The throaty sound neared until it kept pace with my walking. Refusing to raise my eyes for a moment, I expected to see Dog with my mom riding bitch on the back of his Harley. Instead, I beheld Bolt, who was astride his own light-green self-customized Harley Davidson Chopper bike.

His left hand gripped his gleaming silver handlebar, and the other casually waved at me to come over. Nervously glancing down the street both ways, I cautiously approached the outlaw biker. Tufts of stringy wheat-colored locks stood up in the tumultuous wind, as his black bandanna held the rest of his considerably shorter hair in place. His faded black leather jacket was adorned with club patches, a dark-green hood poked out at the back of his neck, and he wore faded oil stained jeans ending in gray Converse high top shoes. His dark black sunglasses and umber brown mustache fluttering slightly in the wind, both obscured his facial expression. I scanned both directions once more before drawing close enough to hear what he wanted to say.

"Get on. I'll take you home," he instructed with his particular drawl.

I was afraid that was what he would say.

"No, I better walk. My mom doesn't let me ride on motorcycles," I said, hoping my excuse would suffice.

"She won't mind. It's too cold out here to walk. Just get on."

His gruff voice was barely audible over the throbbing engine.

I resisted once more: "I have a friend picking me up any minute after football practice. I just wanted to walk for a little bit."

From what I could tell, he looked neither skeptical nor surprised. The frisky wind continued to play with his hair and mustache.

"Okay. Suit yourself. See you at home then," he stated in his southerly way.

He already knew my lie. He started to pull back the throttle when I yelled, "Wait!"

I found myself behind Bolt, trying not to hold on to him as his dangerous machine purred then roared in acceleration. My entire body shook, and then I leaned forward in terror, wrapping my trembling arms around his frigid leather encased torso. I wore the flat black half helmet he had released from the leather strap near the rear of the bike. His amber hair flowed freely but not in my face. I decided to bury my head against the back of his jacket and doubted anyone from my school would recognize me in that fashion. My concern that Bolt would take my embrace the wrong way was very minute; after all, Bolt was not immature like a high school boy. I figured he knew how not to misconstrue simple gestures.

I breathed in the cold black leather as my face pressed securely against the supple material. The cow skin carried hints of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and surprisingly, of a delicious woodsy cologne. I allowed my eyes to drift closed and let the throbbing vehicle guide me safely home. I actually started to get warm, at least from the front of my neck down to my waist. The rest of me was so frigid I could no longer tell the rest of my body existed.

Minutes later, the pulsating mechanism slowed to a loud rhythmic: chut-chut-chut-chut. Bolt leaned upright and killed the impressive engine. Immediately, I opened my eyes and pulled away from him, no longer grasping his waist. Clumsily, I looked for a foothold to swing off of the monster machine. Without looking back, Bolt pointed at the footing I should use. I swung off of the chopper with a deliberate movement, careful to not to graze the gleaming chartreuse chopper.

Bolt didn't speak or wait for me. Instead, he took lengthy strides towards the front of my ramshackle white clapboard house. I watched him prop open the cheap aluminum screen door that hung twisted on a single rusty hinge. Dog pulled aside a ruffled fringe of a dirty white window curtain and peered out at Bolt, allowing him through the bolted front door seconds later. I hadn't moved since I had climbed off of the perilous and exhilarating machine. Once Bolt disappeared from sight, I took notice of the cutting air and walked briskly towards the door that Dog had left unlocked for me.

I didn't slam the front door against the back wall this time. For the moment, I had lost my standard feeling of maltreatment and closed the door softly as I set foot in my unusually empty and quiet living room. Bolt wasn't visible from where I was stationed at the foyer. My mother approached me from the narrow entrance to the brightly lit egg yolk colored kitchen. She appeared sober today and her hair looked be half-way groomed.

"Your father called me this afternoon and asked if I would bring you to see him. He's doing a lot better."

I stared at her emaciated figure that was adorned in a plum purple sweater and snug-fitting blue jeans. She had dark circles under her large chocolate brown eyes, but her pupils were normal size and her face was uncharacteristically clear and pretty. She faced me with the anemic smile she reserved for those few occasions that she recognized me as her daughter.

"I'm not going out there again. Oh no, you know what happened the last time," I flatly protested. Nothing she might do to me could force me to go to that place again. I began to perspire again, my skin feeling prickly and hot.

"He's been on new meds now for three months. The doctors tell me that it's working for him, and when I spoke to him today, he sounded like his old self."

I consciously scowled at my temporarily clear-headed guardian in an effort to deter her further attempts at taking me to the crazy house.

"No way Mom, you're wasting my time. The chances of my father being sane for longer than five minutes are about the same as you staying sober. It's just not possible."

My verbal slap seemed to annoy my frail mother.

"Nova Rae, what is your problem? I don't appreciate your nasty attitude. I understand your father's absence has affected you, but you don't have to take it out on me."

She actually looked angry now. I could have held my punches, but I absolutely refused to go back to that insane place. I already had to put up with a drug house, I'd be damned if I subjected myself to a nut house too. I may be hurting her with words right now, but she hurt me with her actions every single day.

"Don't try to play the part of a concerned parent, now that it's convenient for you. Did Dog cut off your supply because you wouldn't give it up to his crew? Yeah, I'm fifteen, but I know what goes on here behind closed doors. Thanks for that."

I thought my mother would slap me with that one, but she didn't. What baffled me is why she tried to act like nothing I had said was true. Maybe if she owned up to her wrong doings, I would consider easing up on her.

"I've heard enough of your nonsense, Nova Rae. I don't want to hear it one more second. Go to your room. Immediately."

She spoke as if she still retained some authority over me. I hadn't heard that clarity in her reed-thin voice in a long while. Fatigue settled in her sunken aging face as she conceded to failure once gain. I could have refused, but I wanted to go to my room anyway. Shutting out this stark reality was my only option as far as I was concerned.

Bolt was standing alone in the kitchen holding a long-necked brown beer bottle, his relaxed exterior showing no hint of having heard my unpleasant conversation. I was again mistaken.

"Why don't you go see your dad?" he asked bluntly in his thick accent.

He took a long draw of the sudsy liquid as he surveyed my face for a reaction.

"It's none of your business, Bolt. Just because you gave me a ride home, which I didn't even ask for, doesn't give you a right to offer your opinion about something you know absolutely nothing about," I said snottily.

"Hold on there, Nova. You may not want to consider anyone's opinion but your own, but I happen to know a thing or two about parents that get locked up. First of all, they don't wish the heartache on their kids. And secondly, once they are gone for good, you don't get to go back and do it over," he said with a flash of emotion across a face that hinted older than its nineteen years.

He blocked the entrance to my room at the back of the buttery-walled kitchen. His smoky gray eyes were open pools of regret as he took another considerable sip from his bottle.

"Not interested," I said coldly as I stepped forward to signal he should move aside.

"You don't think you should have to listen to anyone because of what you've been through. But I've got news for you, kid. You aren't the only one around who has problems. The difference is, you haven't learned to use it to make you stronger. You're just making it a crutch so you can feel sorry for yourself," Bolt murmured thickly as he considered my reaction.

His obtuse words actually pissed me off. How dare he accuse me of using my home life to gain sympathy! Maybe his daddy was in jail during his childhood, but that that didn't create a bond between us and he had no right to give me unsolicited advice.

"I may have no choice in having to put up with you in my house, but I don't have to listen to you. Now, please step aside, I have homework to do."

Tiny creases appeared on both sides of his large mustache as Bolt smiled and stepped to the side. I crossed the narrow threshold to my room and slammed the ancient rickety white door.

All this shit going on made my head hurt and I was tired of thinking about it. I threw myself down on my fluffy bed and buried my head in the comfort of cool blue satin. Minutes later, I raised my head, my face obstructed by a nest of my silky black hair that had flipped over, and I reached for my trusty white iPhone. Looking at the brilliant white screen, I discovered, with dismay, that I had sent ten unanswered texts to Ginger. Maybe she would answer my phone call.

Her cell phone rang once and went to voice mail: Hey, this is Ginger. Leave a message.

Ginger never had her phone off so she was definitely avoiding me. Still tired, I let the smooth electronic device slide from my hand into the thick covers as I drifted off to sleep in my soft barrier from the world.

Startled awake, I exited a monotonously bad dream about roaming the school hallways, returning to the dark reality of my quiet bedroom. The house outside my cell-like bedroom was quiet for once. The only light in my room glowed from incandescent blue numbers of my digital alarm clock that read: 9:13 p.m.

Sleepily, I stumbled across my shadowy room after my foot caught on the silky blanket I had inadvertently pulled to the floor. I found myself at the edge of my dresser and momentarily paused to regain my balance. Feeling around for the switch pull on my lace-covered lamp, I nearly toppled the delicate object over towards me but caught it before it fell. Setting the gauzy light upright, I located the light pull, creating a soft pink glow, in order to find my tennis shoes.
Chapter Eleven

The nebulous evening sky was void of stars or light from a moon. I stood shivering, beneath Ginger's darkened window, waiting for her to appear to my familiar rat-a-tat-tat on the crystalline glass. After a few minutes of having no response, I tapped more intensely. This time, her pale face materialized behind the see-through barrier. She pushed the smooth aluminum window pane up but did not move aside to signal my entry. Her curly haired silhouette remained stiff as it had earlier in the assembly. Her wispy pink floral nightgown flattened against her from the incoming night breeze.

"What do you want?" She asked dispassionately.

"Can I come in? It's freezing out here," I said hurriedly, as I moved forward to climb in the half-open aperture.

Warm air flowed softly on both sides of her, from the hub of comfort within her room.

"No, Nova Rae, not tonight. My parents said you have to stay at your own house. They are worried about it affecting my sleep and my grades. I'll see you tomorrow," she said flatly as she yanked the sliding aluminum panel down.

"Ginger! Hey, wait! Can we at least talk?" I begged as she fumbled with the window lock on the other side of the pristine glass.

"Not tonight, I'm tired. Go home Nova Rae," she said sternly, her voice muffled by the closed window.

She moved away from the bay area that she had been standing in, and I was left alone. Slowly, I retreated from the inky black alley and headed home with a depressing solitude. She had never before turned me away.

I had honestly believed that my good-natured friend would be over the morning drama. She always behaved as if she understood my need for acceptance at school. Often, she would criticize the actions of my school clique, but I thought that, above her dislike for my pals, she cared about what I valued. After all, my school image was all that mattered. Ginger, at least, had a regular mom and dad that didn't embarrass her, and she liked being at home.

Eventually, she would discern the error of her judgment and get over the minor incident between my friends and her. After all, I needed her.

A single light bulb hung, uncovered, from the porch light, beside my half-open front door. Cautiously, I nudged the creaky door the rest of the way inward and carefully stepped into the vacant living room. Not a single intrusive biker inhabited my house. My soft-soled footsteps echoed in the empty dwelling as I unsealed protesting wooden doors to every room while looking for my mom. Less than a minute later, the cracked front door abruptly thrust open, revealing my sober-looking mother. Freezing air rushed in behind her, chilling my already shivering bare arms.

"Nova, what are you doing up? It's past ten o'clock."

Irked by her sudden maternal interest, I chose not to answer her. She settled wearily in the ragged tan chenille rocker recliner by the doorway to the kitchen. The circles beneath her doe-like eyes were now purple bruises. She leaned forward, folding her feeble looking hands together as she looked at me with somber concern.

"Your father asked about you tonight. There's only one thing that keeps him going, and it's you, his only daughter."

I shifted my weight to my left foot, causing the weak floorboard beneath the rust-colored throw rug to squeak loudly in complaint. I was his only blood offspring. My mother had created my older sister with someone else before they had ever met.

"Awesome. Thanks for the guilt."

My mother leaned forward, wringing her heavily lined hands.

"Nova, why don't you talk to me? Tell me what is going on. I've been worried about you. You've been acting out and I don't know what do."

I stared incredulously at her self-righteous countenance.

"How can you act so clueless, Mom? The fact that you deny what has been going on is worse than actually living with the dysfunction! You're a piece of work! I might as well have two parents in the nut house!" I yelled with hot tears obscuring my vision.

She stood up as I ran through the squeaky-floored kitchen to my closed bedroom door. Willfully shoving my ill-constructed door inward, I staggered into the pitch-dark cavern and blasted the thin barrier behind me.

"Nova Rae! Open up right now! We need to talk about this!" my mother called hoarsely from the other side of my locked door. After thirty seconds, I perceived that the shadow beneath my door had retreated, leaving me with the silence I had been longing for.

Quietude led to steady breathing and then fitful dreams.

My father was attempting to enter through the yellow-painted front doors to my school, but they were chained closed. My clique stood nearby, as I pretended not to notice the tall, unkempt blond-haired man wearing a red and black checkered house robe, noisily rattling the exterior of the steel barrier. The thick clanking chains echoed a rude and clamorous cacophony that shouted: "Don't ignore the crazy man!"

Veronica flipped her silky platinum hair in annoyance as she glared at me with edgy blue eyes, her cherry red lips puckered into a tight ring of disapproval.

"God, Nova. I didn't know that was your father. I mean, I knew you were from poor white trash, but I didn't know you came from that."

My father now stood inside the school, five feet away from my friends and me. His checkered terry cloth robe hung open, exposing his black t-shirt and white boxer-briefs. In his right hand, he held out a long red-handled charcoal lighter that sported a two inch yellow flickering flame at its end. Looking directly at me, he raised the ignited device above his head and pointed it at the ceiling, his light-blue eyes flickering along with the small fire. His toothy smile became more of a grimace, as he lowered his head, continuing to stare daggers at me.

"Witches, Nova. They're all witches. Better take care of them now, before they get into your skin," my father said into my ear.

I shuddered at the closeness of his whisper. Closing my eyes, I willed myself to be gone from this nightmare. Quiet solitude prompted me to open them seconds later. I was still in the front hall of the school, but I was alone. A crumpled piece of black clothing lay on the polished white and black tiled floor. I couldn't stop my dream self from picking it up. The front of the large black tee shirt read: Don't Blame Us!

The picture on the shirt portrayed a standing dark-haired man dressed in black, wearing mirrored sunglasses and surrounded by a wall of orange flames.

I dropped the shirt as if it had burned me. Ginger was now standing by me, smiling prettily in her standard friendly demeanor. Somehow, she always knew what to say in these kinds of situations. Her rusty brown curls were perfectly coiffed around her round angelic face. She wore a delicate mint-green formal dress that flared out at her hips, giving her flattering curvature. She did not offer to speak first, so I asked.

"Is this mine?" I questioned, without emotion, as I indicated with my pointed index finger at the mound of ebony cloth lying at my bare feet.

"It's always belonged to you, Nova. Just put it on."

Without hesitation, I reached down and grasped the foreign cotton material. My eyes opened in that instant to sunlight casting yellow beams onto my wood paneled wall, from my parted smoky-blue curtains. My flickering alarm clock read: 7:22. A power outage had shut my alarm off at some point last night. It was going to be another day in paradise.
Chapter Twelve

By the time I had thrown some clothes on, school had already started. There was no option to catch the bus or get a ride from friends, so this was going to be another walking day.

I searched for a stylish sweater to wear, but everything I sought was in the laundry. I settled for my black double-breasted wool Balenciaga jacket I had purchased on Ebay for a fraction of the price sold at Barney's. My school friends didn't have a clue of where I acquired most of my pricey attire. Most of my girlfriends flew to Chicago, every two months, just to shop. When they were bored with something, they just threw it away (I wondered how that concept worked with friends). Laila said she couldn't bear the thought of some maid or bus driver wearing one of her hand-me-downs. I hardly ever went shopping with them and if I was asked I always made up an elaborate story of why I couldn't make it.

My grandma may have left me a decent chunk of money but it wasn't limitless and I had to make it last. Because I was walking, I couldn't wear heels today (or actually anything cute), so I settled on a pair of black leather Giuseppe Zanotti zip and buckle ankle boots. Ironically, the thought crossed my mind that they would go well with a motorcycle club jacket and faded jeans but I wasn't going to go there. Ever. My kitchen was brightly lit and teeming with bikers. Every member that I knew from the club seemed to be crammed in the dingy little hub. My mother, now in her typical frantic state, darted by to refill the empty coffee pot. She didn't seem to notice I was supposed to be at school. So much for her short-lived motherly concern. Her black flyaway hair was a nest of split ends and was sticking up at the crown of her head as if she had just rolled out of bed. Her attire was a skin-tight pair of acid-washed blue jeans that would probably fit a twelve-year-old and she was obviously braless under a lacy black camisole. To give her credit, the camisole was not see-through, thank God. I had seen that wreck before.

Fat Gator poured a generous glugging stream of Johnny Walker Red scotch into his coffee, stopping at the rim. His oversized white mug displayed the word Steamer above a skillfully painted rendition of a brown piece of crap. I walked past Dog, Bolt and Slither to the tall faded-white cabinets that contained our dishes and cups. Snatching up a white paper napkin, I used it to grasp the crusty metal cabinet handle that was surrounded by black smudges and fingerprints. I grabbed a regular-sized black coffee mug near the very back. Chances were, it was more sanitary than the ones up front.

"Hey Nova, we are setting out for a road trip. I'll be gone for a week. You can check in with Mr. Donahan if you need anything. He said he would keep an eye on the house," my mother said hurriedly as she bustled by, yanking away the brimming coffee pot before I could reach for it.

"Gee Mom, thanks. I'll be sure and check in with Mr. Donahan. By the way, did you know he offers me popsicles in his basement every time I walk by him in his front yard?" I responded sarcastically.

That was a lie, and I had borrowed the concept from a television show but the impact was what mattered. Unfortunately, I don't think my mother got the sarcasm or believed me, anyways. Her flaky-skinned brow wrinkled with a slight frown as she grabbed the half-empty jug of milk from the countertop and rushed by me without looking my way.

"Why would he keep popsicles in his basement? Anyway, Nova, you can reach me on Dog's cell phone. Just don't try to call the first day because we'll be riding all day," she said distractedly as she refilled Slither's black mug that was identical to the one I was going to use.

By the time she had topped off everyone's coffee, the pot was empty. I set my unused mug on the stained white and green flecked Formica countertop and walked out of the kitchen without responding to my mother.

I grabbed my cobalt Dior bag and my gray twill Everlane backpack and headed towards the front door, bypassing the red-headed hoochie-mama that was actually wearing legitimate clothes for once. The club was allowing her to tag along with them, so they had to be riding for recreation this time. I knew the club rules made the females stay behind if they were on business...especially if she wasn't someone's "old lady". Red definitely wasn't anyone's old lady. I didn't know her name, but then again, I didn't hang out and socialize with the intruders in my house, either.

"I can give you a ride to school," a familiar drawl startled me, from behind, as I prepared to exit my front door.

I turned around to face Bolt, who already had his leather club jacket on. He leaned casually against the doorframe between the living room and kitchen, smiling lightly, his gray eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I'm not going to be your old lady. Or your girlfriend," I said sternly.

"Fine," he answered as he pushed away from the scratched up white door frame.

My own mother hadn't offered to take me to school, but I would have refused to ride with Dog, anyway. Dog's chopper was my mom's only mode of transportation. I would have turned down Bolt's offer as well if school hadn't already started.

The ride to school was much warmer this time and I felt more comfortable with it; therefore, I didn't hold on to Bolt as tightly as I had the first time. The fall sun bounced orange and pink hues off of Bolt's autumn-tinted hair as it whipped back lightly in the unseasonably tepid breeze. The dark, choppy thrum of the motor seemed a welcome silence breaker in the sleepy hours of dawn. The suburban neighborhoods hurtled by before I knew it, causing me to almost miss my preconceived drop-off point, blocks before the school. I tugged insistently on the back of Bolt's thick leather encased arm. Bolt leaned back, turning his right ear towards me to hear, his thick amber tresses tickling my left cheek.

"Drop me off here," I said loudly into his ear.

"You're still blocks from school," he yelled back.

"I know! That's the point," I shouted away from his ear this time.

Bolt slowed the reverberating machine and then pulled over to the pristine newly cemented sidewalk, in front of a lovely tan and purple Victorian home. I let go of Bolt's broad shoulder and then stepped smoothly off the green chopper. Bolt leaned away from the bike towards me as I repositioned my bulky gray backpack.

"Never be ashamed of who you are, Nova,"

Bolt settled, helmetless, into driving position, leaned back and took off full speed before I could retort. His raucous engine rebounded against the charming houses for blocks until evidence he had once been here was completely gone. I utterly paused until the sound was gone. He was the only person that had ever been able to successfully have the last word with me and I didn't even like him.

"Who do you think you are?" I questioned out loud to no one.

Kids at school thought I was one person, but Bolt and other seedy characters knew me as someone else. As much as I wanted my identity at school to be true, could it be that I was living a lie? Did I have a choice?

I repeatedly told myself: if my friends at school knew what my home life was like, they would drop me in a heartbeat. Bolt knew me at home and who I was trying to be at school and he still tried to help me, even though I was mean to him. I'm not sure what kind of epiphany my fifteen-year-old brain was having, but it wasn't enough to change my mind about wanting to be friends with the in-crowd at school. One thing was for sure, though, I had to make things right with Ginger, even if my school friends didn't like it. I refused to compromise on the matter of our friendship. We were friends for life, and nothing or no one could change that.

Miss Glenhoven, the bitchy secretary, gave me a hard time because I didn't have a note from my mother. She tried to telephone my mom using the last number the school had on file: a house number that had been nonexistent for two years. Finally, she released me to first hour with an unexcused tardy. The majority of class was over, which I really didn't mind because, truthfully, even though I did well in school, I liked to get a break once in a while too.

Mr. Sanders handed the graded World History tests back to his less-than-ecstatic students. I turned my stapled paper over. The top read: 68% D... You need to STUDY next time. Well, no shit. Isn't that usually why students usually did poorly on tests?

My phone was vibrating off the hook.

The first text was from Laila: _Where were you last night?!! I heard you and Kurtis kissed!! You're scandalous!_

The second text was from Veronica: _Bitch! :P_

The third was from Ginger _: I know you mean it now, but you have trouble remembering it around the Riches. I can't be friends with someone who always forgets about me when it's inconvenient._

I was actually scared. Ginger had never been this mad at me for this long. I had pissed her off before, but she always came around by the end of the day. Come to think of it, it was consistently me doing the offending. I was a terrible person...an awful friend.

To Ginger, I texted back: _Please! It will never happen again. I'll prove it to you, girl. Lunch on the green today?_

To Laila: _I had detention last night. I thought you knew. Did Kurtis tell you about the kiss, or did someone else?_

To Veronica: _Don't Hate:P_

"Miss Price, hand me your phone please," Mr.Sanders barked sternly from the front of the iridescently lit classroom. His tall forehead was void of hair on top and glistened cruelly under the greenish glow of the hanging school lamp. I was astonished that he had caught me despite the fact that I was a discreet texter. And, there was also the fact Mr. Sander's eyes were milky-white from cataracts. It made him creepy and, I assumed, nearly blind.

"Well, come on. We don't have all day, Miss Price. Some of the students in the class still care to learn in this course."

He didn't have to be so mean. My face burned as forty pairs of eyes burned holes in the back of my head, tittering lightly and sneaking texts while the attention was on me. I brought to him my beloved white iPhone. I thought, perhaps, my mother's physical presence might be required for Mr. Sanders to release it. That meant no phone for me for a very, very long time. What a shit crap day.

I had no idea what kind of response I got from my texts, but the one message that really mattered to me was Ginger's. I took a chance and left the cafeteria at lunch, willing Ginger to be on the bench under the giant oak tree near the football field. I sat alone on the cold hard bench, hoping my best friend would show up and also wishing the frigid wind to die down and let the sun do its job. The shade of the giant oak tree made me considerably more miserable than a bench in the sun would have. My filet of fish sandwich tasted dry and gummy so I discarded it in the nearby yellow trash can. Wistfully, I nibbled at my baby carrots while sipping a carton of chocolate milk. After ten minutes of waiting for someone, who obviously had no intentions of showing up and freezing my little buns off, I got up, heading back towards the cafeteria. I could have eaten with my friends instead of wasting my time out here. How long was Ginger going to keep this shit up? At this rate, I'd waste away to nothing and, Lord knew, I needed to save what little boobs I had.

I made it back into the white and yellow painted cafeteria just in time to see Ginger and Laila in a full-on fist fight in the midst of the cluster of tables where the "techies" usually congregated. At first sight, I could tell who had the upper hand. Ginger had just shoved Laila into a tall folded cafeteria table (with benches attached), causing the miniature fighter's blonde head to smack loudly against the hard plastic surface.

"Dayum!" some faceless guy in the crowd enthusiastically shouted.

It wasn't over, however. Laila sprang back and ran at the taller, broader, girl and swiftly punched her in the throat. Laila was the perfect height for that move. At that point, I decided I had better intervene before both girls ended up as roommates in the hospital. Then again, that might've been a good idea for the both of them.

As Ginger leaned over, hacking up white foam while clutching at her larynx, I caught Laila's thin, but wiry, arm before her fist could come into contact with Ginger's skull. These two acted like they were in a prison fight. It was kind of scary.

Ginger's eyes were watering as she righted herself. Now partially recovered from the throat punch, I could tell she was ready for more as she headed my way. Laila struggled to loosen my grip on her deceivingly hearty little arm. I let go of Laila and stood in between the two, facing Ginger.

"Get out of the way, Nova," Ginger said while out of breath as she pushed into me.

I didn't back down. Laila tried to sneak by me to get in front, but I held my right arm out and blocked her.

"No. You two need to cool it," I said loudly, adopting the same phrase Dog said when breaking up biker fights that occasionally played out in my house.

Ginger was suddenly yanked back a few feet by agile hands. Henry held her back while I gripped Laila, who was still struggling to get at Ginger.

James and Eduardo had now arrived on the scene, late as usual.

James, the taller of the two, took Ginger into his custody, his protruding stomach brushing against her side as he pulled her away from Henry. Eduardo placed his hand on the shoulder of Laila and asked her if there was going to be any more trouble. Laila shook her head calmly and said, "No, Eduardo. I've been waiting for you and James to step in. She just attacked me for no reason...and I was so scared she was really going to hurt me!"

I stared at Laila with my mouth agape at her bold-faced lie.

Ginger came to life again, trying to get away from James' stronghold. James stretched out, catching the back of her left arm and slightly hyper-extending her limb. Ginger halted immediately, howling in pain.

"Let go of me, you cretin! You just pulled my shoulder out of its socket!" Ginger yelled furiously as James let her go.

Suddenly free, Ginger charged at Laila, who was standing calmly beside Eduardo, who was, himself, gawking at the dramatic scene. I sprang into action, grabbing Ginger before she could impact Laila.

Laila grinned wickedly at Ginger, her bright red lips forming into a sinister pout and said: "See, I told you Nova would defend your sorry ass. Too bad she didn't already find out that you screwed Kurtis last night!"
Chapter Thirteen

I was in shock because it had to be a lie. But, I had seen Ginger's face when Laila had said it and I knew it was true. So many questions invaded my mind that I began to get a headache. After Principal McKnight had helped James and Eduardo take the two girls into custody, I started feel nauseous and light-headed. At least I had convinced Mr. McKnight to get my iPhone back for me. However, I didn't want to stay at school and I positively didn't wish to do the kissing scene in Theatre class with Kurtis, now.

A warm hand touched my forearm as I distractedly gathered my school books in preparation for fifth-hour choir. I looked up in a cloud of numb stupor to see Henry's familiar face. I couldn't even smile.

"Hey. Can I walk you to class?" he asked.

At that point, I didn't know what I wanted.

"Yeah. Sure," I replied in a voice from far away.

"She didn't mean for it to happen," Henry murmured.

My knee-jerk reaction: "She couldn't keep her legs closed?"

"No...she has problems. I can't explain it to you now but, later, I think Ginger will. It's not an excuse, but it is an explanation," he stated.

"Great, I can't wait. Besides, she can screw whoever she wants to. Kurtis doesn't belong to me; no one does."

"I'd like to..." Henry whispered, his voice trailing off as his eyes searched my face for a reaction. We walked slower than usual to the choir room. He was going to be tardy to his class, but my guess was he didn't care.

"You'd like to what?" I snapped.

Henry's golden eyes seemed a deeper shade than usual, almost brown, as he considered my response. A wavy lock of rust-colored hair fell down into his left eye. He flipped it aside with his hand and looked away.

"Never mind, we'll talk about it another time, okay Nova?" he muttered while moving down the near empty hall his next class.

My eyes followed his retreating figure down the yellow metal lined hallway until he reached the end that turned to the left. He stopped for a second, and then turned around to see if I was still outside the music room door. His hair was hanging in his eyes again.

"Nova! Do you need a ride home after school?" he asked, just loud enough for me to make out his words.

I would have to ride in the same car with Ginger and I didn't know if I could deal with that. Before I could answer, Henry spoke out once more.

"My dad just texted me and he's picking Ginger up from school right now," Henry reassured me.

"Okay. Thanks," I half-whispered, half-shouted back.

The rest of the day, I functioned on autopilot through a hazy fog of nothingness. I pretended to be sick in Theatre so I wouldn't have to do the scene with Kurtis, and Annette was more than happy to replace me. I decided, then, that I would converse with Mr. Shelton about transferring the script to Annette. Regrettably, I would be losing the starring role, but I just couldn't face Kurtis now, if ever.

I spent half of seventh hour in the bathroom feigning illness. In all honesty, I did feel unwell; I merely didn't have the category of sickness that causes one to suffer symptoms. The other reason I remained in there was because I didn't want Mr. Shelton to witness me hanging around and decide to expedite me to the nurse's station. I might unwittingly come across some characters that I'd sooner avoid right now.

Even though I was a few minutes behind, Henry stuck around for me in the student lot. His LeBaron was already toasty and the windows were defrosted. It was considerate of my friend because I knew how much he liked to cruise with the top down on the raggedy black convertible, even in the middle of winter.

"Feeling any better?" Henry inquired, a grin dimpling his fuzzy cheek while he assisted me to shove my cumbersome school pack behind his seat.

"I guess..." I doubtfully replied.

"That means no," Henry informed me as he clicked his black seat belt.

"You're right, I don't feel any better," I said resignedly.

It was at that moment that I realized Henry had been behaving oddly lately. As I came to think of it, I hadn't recently witnessed his typical dissing of the Riches at school. He usually lived to pick verbal wars with the supposed superiors because they always walked away feeling dumb. Where had his customary sarcasm gone, that I had come to greatly appreciate? I was anxious that I might have been taking his amusing gift for granted.

"You can tell me, Henry," I said firmly.

"I wanted Ginger to talk to you about it. It's better if you hear it from her," Henry protested as he navigated his prized LeBaron out of the cracked student lot.

I ogled him until he gave in...five seconds later.

He took a deep breath and then sipped from a half empty twenty-ounce Pepsi bottle before he began.

"My mom's got cancer...breast cancer."

Instant feelings of pain for him rushed through my head, making my chest ache. I reached out to pat his sleeveless right arm as he drove.

"Oh, shit, Henry! Why didn't you tell me before?"

His tiny smile was tight but seemed appreciative. "Anyway, she has a stage-three breast cancer, which means it spread to her lymph nodes before they found it last month. She's been on aggressive chemotherapy and she's been really sick. Her doctor's say she's responded well to it, though. She's going to need a lot more treatments and surgery...and Ginger hasn't taken it well. Mom was funny about it. She asked us not to tell anyone about it right now because my grandpa has a serious heart condition and she didn't want to aggravate it. I know she means well, but not talking about it has made it worse."

Henry was trying to navigate his car, but I could tell he wanted to cry.

"Stop the car and pull over," I commanded.

Henry obeyed my order, parking his Lebaron at the rear of a purplish-blue Volkswagen Beetle. I leaned across his compact interior and pulled Henry into a hug. As cumbersome as embracing each other inside of a car was, I think we both felt better. His hot breath tickled my neck as I encircled my arms around him, giving him a real bear hug.

When we finally separated, Henry's eyes were glassy and his long reddish brown tinted eyelashes clung together in spiky little points. I reached out and slid a hanging strand of his hair away from his left cheek.

"No wonder you need a haircut. Your mom's been too busy to be on your ass about keeping it out of your face," I bantered. Henry appeared to regard my tension breaker. He grinned again, more like himself. His cheek divot was broad and his clearer eyes had transformed to a lighter golden hue.

"Nova, as much as you care about other people, you should allow the ones that care about you to help you. You're not alone."

I didn't appreciate the sudden shift in the conversation so I attempted to steer it away from me.

"Tell me how it happened. How Ginger ended up....you know...having sex with Kurtis. The sooner I know, the sooner I can get over it."

Henry's countenance revealed that he acknowledged my point of view. The ignition fired and Henry proceeded to pull his LeBaron out on the bustling side street. He guzzled another swig of his Pepsi and exhaled before speaking the terrible truth.

"Ginger told me that she snuck out after you came by our house last night. She was upset about what happened at the assembly but mostly about what Mom has been going through. She felt like the Riches didn't believe she was good enough to date one of their kind so she set out to prove them wrong. After the assembly, she overheard some kids talking about a small get-together happening by North Fork River at Little Foot Access. She actually stole Dad's minivan to drive out there. When she got there, it was only one other girl and a bunch of guys drinking. She was only interested in Scott, but it was Kurtis who kept giving her shots. Anyway, the rest is pretty predictable. She was shit-faced drunk, but she remembers all of it... she didn't resist or say no. She told me about it this morning when I had to literally roll her out of bed. Dad knows about it, too because she vomited down the side of the driver's side door."

I had believed hearing the explanation would make me feel better but it didn't. I was still angry even though Ginger's mom was dying of cancer and Ginger had been inebriated when she had slept with Kurtis. One emotion I did realize, other than anger, was the comfort that I wasn't the only kid that had to deal with family issues.

If only I had been born of a wealthy family...because money could pretty much solve any problem. If my mom had been rich when my father had gone away, she could have bought her happiness instead of falling back on some drug-addicted biker. If Ginger's mom had been well-off, she could afford the best treatments and probably would be cured of her cancer.

I nodded, acknowledging the story Henry had just revealed to me. I perceived that Ginger was dealing with a terrible situation at home, but given the same scenario, I would have never taken the first alcoholic shot Kurtis had been peddling. Apparently, Ginger cared more about fitting in than staying loyal to her best friend.

"Thanks for letting me know, Henry. There was no relationship between me and Kurtis to be mad over. It's the fact that my best friend knew I really liked him, but she slept with him anyway. She could have said no."

Henry heeded my argument with a slow nod as he circled the corner to our street. The sun that had been hiding emerged from behind a massive wall of fluffy clouds, casting surreal yellow beams into our short-lived driving path to my home on the left. The lost boy turned to me as the sun rays navigated towards the Lebaron he had just stalled in front of my house. Radiating dream-like iridescence transformed him into an angelic presence. His hair diffused a cinnamon brown aura and his face glowed flawlessly white. His golden amber-shaped eyes were dazzling crystalline facets, framed by thick silvery lashes. Each caramel hair on his right forearm was highlighted in magnificent ghostly brilliance. I would have trusted anything he had said at that moment.

" _Pale Crow_ is playing at the South Landing tomorrow night. Would you like to come watch me...I mean watch us?"

It wasn't exactly a revelation, but what could you expect from a seventeen-year-old boy? Perhaps my luck would change there tomorrow night. One thing I knew for sure, though, I wouldn't be drinking.

"Sure. What time?"

"Eight o'clock. I hope your parents don't mind you staying out late."

I looked at him as if he had sprouted two heads.

"What are you talking about? You know my parents aren't around. It's not funny to joke about that."

Henry's heaven-sent ambiance was now shattered. The sun had disappeared behind inky gray clouds.

"I'm sorry, Nova. Please forget I said that."

The magic was over. He had reminded me of my pathetic reality that I was trying to avoid, even for just a few sanctified moments.

"I'm sure you could stay with us tonight. Mom said she doesn't care if you stay over. She would prefer if you didn't climb in through Ginger's window, though. The screen is pretty saggy now," Henry tried to rectify.

"I don't think it's such a good idea right now. Ginger and I haven't talked yet. I'll be okay...and I'll see your band tomorrow night."

My cover-up didn't appease his concern.

"Are you sure you are okay?"

"Yep. I'll see you tomorrow."
Chapter Fourteen

The overcast sky outside created dense shadows within my houses walls. I switched on a single tall white-shaded lamp in the shabby living room. The light cast just enough off-white glow to the empty kitchen. Upon my brief inspection, I concluded that I could either have macaroni and cheese with no milk or a peanut butter sandwich with no jelly on stale white bread. I opted for macaroni and cheese.

I set a quart-sized saucepan of water on the stained white four burner gas stove and turned on the sweet smelling gas-fed flame. I became mesmerized by the blue fire crackling in the dim room. Because I hated the yellow color of the kitchen I preferred to keep the light off. I don't know why the color irked me so much, but it was not something I had taken time to ponder. I didn't mind the bright sunflower hue at school, but the color at home was a lie.

Unlike most teens I knew, being alone didn't bother me. I actually preferred being solitary at home, but at school I enjoyed having my friends nearby. I couldn't decide if that made me weird or not, but that was one more quirk about me that I didn't care to analyze.

Once the water commenced to hiss and bubble, I added the elbow noodles, swirling the emulsion with a small metal spoon. The popping steam burned my fingertips, but not badly, due to my mid-length manicured fingernails. I withdrew the steaming spoon, pivoting to scan for an oven mitt to grab the temperate handle with but to no avail. My mom certainly wasn't little Susie homemaker. It was a miracle that I actually knew how to boil water.

As I continued to ransack the nebulous kitchen, a black outline beyond the kitchen window caught my eye. My skin prickled and my heart thumped in fright. Guessing it might just be my morbid imagination, I crept forward a few inches to better focus on the inky shape behind the parted yellow gingham curtains. The borders of a head shape became more distinct as my pupils adjusted to the dim incandescence. I scuttled back and fumbled for my keys lying to the side of my cobalt bag on the kitchen counter. Snatching them up, I dashed beyond the front door, sprinting towards my only option for safety.

Ginger's father answered their front door. Deep lines creased both sides of his mouth and his eyes appeared to be blood-shot like Henry's had earlier. His red hair was ruffled as if he had just rolled out of bed.

"Hello, Nova. I'm sorry, Ginger is unable to have guests for a while. I'll let her know you stopped by..."

Dr. Smith seemed to have picked up the fear in my stature.

"Is something wrong, Nova?" he inquired with genuine concern displayed on his deeply lined ruddy face. He cracked the storm door, beckoning for me to come in.

Out of breath from running, I swept a rogue hair behind my ear as I attempted to catch my breath.

"Yes, Dr. Smith, I saw someone outside my kitchen window. "

Dr. Smith squinted his eyes. "Where are your parents, Nova?" he asked as if he didn't already know.

I stammered, "I-I thought Ginger or Henry told you. My mom is out of town with her boyfriend and my dad is in a hospital."

I hoped that I wouldn't need to further elaborate on my situation. I found it hard to believe that Mr. Smith hadn't already known the dirty details regarding my parents. However, he didn't seem like the kind of man that nosed in other people's business. He did have his own family issues to worry about.

"Have a seat, Nova. I'll get Ginger and Henry. Maybe Henry and I should go have a look around your house. Even if we don't find anything, you should not be alone there until your parents return."

I nodded, sitting on the very edge of the soft brown leather sofa that was part of a very expensive looking living room group. Mr. Smith exited the living room and I just perched there, muscles tensed, in the muted family room. A bird chattered from a distance, outside the bay window. The only other noise in the family dwelling was the tick of the tall ornate grandfather clock that took precedence in the entry hall.

Mr. Smith appeared, noiselessly, at the kitchen threshold. Henry was one step behind him, but I didn't see Ginger with them. Henry looked more worried than Mr. Smith.

"Nova, you never mentioned, to us, that you were alone in your house. Why didn't you tell me?" Henry interrogated.

His words left met a bit defensive.

"You never asked. Besides, I'm fifteen. Lots of fifteen-year-olds make it on their own, and I'm not a child. All I need is someone to check out the scene and make sure it's safe to go back to," I retorted.

I didn't want to go back and stay home by myself, but I couldn't stay with Ginger either.

Mr. Smith spoke up: "I'm sorry, Nova. I'm not comfortable leaving you alone at your house. We're going to see if anything looks suspicious, but either way, you're staying here."

I took Dr. Smith's words to mean he wasn't going to let it go. Sometimes, I took for granted my freedom to make my own choices.

"All right. It's your call, Dr. Smith," I resigned.

Dr. Smith opened the front hall closet and retrieved a light-green sports jacket. He handed it to Henry who promptly refused it. A temporary expression of annoyance crossed Dr. Smith's already hassled countenance and I felt guilty for the extra trouble I was putting him through.

"Make yourself at home, Nova. There are sandwich materials in the kitchen. Please help yourself and we'll be right back," Mr. Smith remarked as he hurried out the whooshing storm door.

Henry paused, turning with his mouth half open as if he wanted to say something. It appeared that he changed his mind at the last second and then he exited through the door before it closed. I had no intentions of helping myself to food in their kitchen. Although I had eaten here plenty of times with Ginger, something about our falling out made her house seem like a foreign territory. I regretted my habitual instinct to gravitate to this place. I should have escaped to the metro bus stop where I could have taken a ride to the mall.

Returning to the fluffy leather sofa, I crouched as my ears strained for other sounds of life. I thought I might hear Mrs. Smith walking around upstairs or, perhaps, music coming from Ginger's room. There was no noise except for the ticking clock and the occasional rumbling sound of the ice maker from the refrigerator in the kitchen. The lack of commotion that I usually experienced at Ginger's home was starting to creep me out. The house was so quiet I could hear myself breathe. With uneasiness, I crept to the front hall to peek at the intricately painted German clock face to estimate how long Henry and his dad had been gone. The timepiece read 7:15. They had been gone for five minutes.

Moonlight from an engorged yellow moon emerged from behind wispy night clouds and now shined through the clean storm door onto the brick tiled foyer. The family room was now too dim to make out anything but the silhouettes of the overstuffed furniture.

I was desperate to learn where the hell Ginger and her mother were and I found it bizarre not seeing or hearing any sign of them. A loud thump commenced from upstairs as if the house had read my thoughts.

"Hello?" I croaked.

My inquiry drew no response from the second level. Without hesitation, I flipped the hall light on and started to ascend the cushioned stairs. Pictures of Henry and Ginger lined both sides of the cream-colored stairwell, beginning from their infant years up to their current ages. I experienced light resentment that no memorabilia capturing the progression of my life was on display in my own home.

I ascended, pausing on each step to study each beautifully framed picture of the cherished children. One photograph, in particular, held my interest longer than the others. It was a middle school picture of Henry the grade he was in the first year my family had moved into this neighborhood. His hair was red and quite short, almost a buzz cut and freckles popped out from his pale face. The young boy had no smile as the other pictures of him did, but the main thing that stood out in the photo was his eyes. They were blue. Hair raised on the back of my arms as I rushed back down the padded stairs, my rapid descent as silent as a tomb.

Henry and his father had returned to the front storm door as I completed the bottom of the stairs. I almost felt as if I was trapped in some low-budget horror film until I saw their faces. Henry looked like his old self and Dr. Smith gave me a friendly smile. Then, I noticed something about Henry was different. His eyes were now a pale blue and the left pupil was a strange shape resembling a teardrop. Henry caught me staring at his eyes and glanced away.

Dr. Smith spoke up before I could open my mouth:" We didn't see anything suspicious over there, Nova. Are you sure you didn't mistake the shape of something else for a face outside your kitchen window?"

I shrugged with doubt, still trying to catch a glimpse of Henry's eyes.

"In any case, Nova, I'd never be able to sleep at night knowing you were over there alone. Please stay here until your folks return. I insist."

I wasn't sure, yet, what I wanted to do. Henry's eyes had really freaked me out. I needed to make sure some weird kid replacement shit wasn't going on before I agreed to stay.

"Thank you, Dr. Smith but would you mind if I talk to Henry for a minute?' I coaxed.

Henry's dad looked a little perplexed that I had basically just asked him butt-out of a conversation in his own home, but he walked away.

Henry was still avoiding eye contact with me.

"Henry, look at me," I breathed.

"You don't want to see my eye. It's ugly," Henry muttered, his eyes still averted.

"Just tell me why your eyes used to be blue, and then gold, and now they are blue again."

Henry raised his head enough for me to see his left pupil didn't match the right one.

"I injured my eye when I fell out of a tree six years ago. A branch perforated my left iris and tore my retina. I lost half my vision in that eye and now have a permanent reminder of it. That's why I wear the contacts," he said with shame.

I breathed a loud sigh of relief.

"Ho-ly shit! Your middle school picture freaked me out! I thought your family had gotten rid of some other kid with blue eyes and replaced him with you! And your house was so quiet-I was beginning to think no one else was here. I didn't hear a peep from your mom or Ginger!" I spewed out.

Henry beamed as he realized I didn't care what his real eye looked like. I hadn't made a big deal of his explanation because I was just relieved to be safe.

"I guess your dad is making me stay. Go ahead and take me up to see Ginger so we can get this over with."

Self-preservation guide rule #4: If someone offers you a break from the misery, take it. Even if it means you've got to swallow your hurt.
Chapter Fifteen

Henry rushed to take the lead up the cushiony cream colored steps, not bothering to wait for me. Dr. Smith sermonized to us from the bottom of the stairs.

"Stop right there, Henry. I want to have a word with Ginger before you two go any further. Even though Nova will be staying here, Ginger is still on restriction."

Henry stopped in his tracks at the top step, expelling an exaggerated sigh without turning around.

"Really, Dad? With mom being sick, don't you think we're all under enough stress? Can't you just let it go for one night?" Henry rebutted.

I rationalized that Mrs. Smith's illness was affecting each member of this family in different ways.

"Henry, this topic is not up for discussion. Once I make a decision, you know that it is final."

Henry finally pivoted around on the padded step, glaring past me at his father who was standing at the base of the stairs. Beyond the hardness, Henry's blue eyes reflected more pain than I had ever seen in them when they were amber colored. Perhaps the colored contacts masked his emotions. After a second of hesitation, Henry motioned for me to turn around and go back down the steps as he took heavy steps towards me.

I could tell that Mr. Smith was struggling with his decision to punish Ginger, but he was going to stick with it regardless. I was a tad uncomfortable with the emotion flying around in this house because I had only dealt with my brand of drama. Dealing with someone else's ruckus added to the base level of anxiety that I always carried around.

I marched towards Mr. Smith, gripping the carved wooden rail in short increments because I could feel Henry's rushed breath on the back of my neck. We were in grade school again, and Henry was a hyperactive kid that hadn't yet learned his personal boundaries. I halted on the next to the last step, letting Henry nearly run into the back of me.

"Hey! What's the deal, speedy?" Henry whispered into my hair.

I said nothing and continued to the bottom of the stairs. Henry's dad lent us an impatient look, as he passed by while heading promptly up the staircase.

"C'mon, let's raid the kitchen. I know you didn't help yourself to the sandwich stuff," Henry said in jest as he continued to crowd me from behind.

"Hey! Watch your step, mister!" I spoke to my side with false annoyance.

The giant stainless steel refrigerator was packed with lunchmeats and cheeses as promised. The impressive box also held milk, orange juice, and chocolate cheesecake. It had been a long while since I had witnessed an ice box stocked with real food. Having a kitchen packed with dirty bikers and liquor was my norm.

After I had gorged myself on two sandwiches, a glass of milk and two slices of cheesecake, grogginess hit me yet I remained anxiety ridden. Life at that moment was very tumultuous, but I was too stubborn to acknowledge what needed to happen in order to make it clearer.

Henry was crossways from me at the copper-colored marble island that sat in the center of the professional type kitchen. A green and brown tiffany lamp suspended from a copper chain directly above our heads, lending cheerful glow to the formerly shadowed kitchen. The sandwich fixings were spread out, taking up the entire surface of the makeshift table. Henry consummated his roast beef on rye sandwich, leaving the last crusty corner of his bread on the shiny stone slab.

Henry was no longer averting his gaze. His eyes were a serene shade of sky-blue, and I already appreciated the unique teardrop shape of his left one.

"Lately, we've been eating a lot of sandwiches around here. It's okay with me because dad always buys out the deli department at Lucci's. Throw some tomato and lettuce on whatever he brings home and call it good," Henry explained while he was still chewing the last of his grinder.

He ceased for a moment to take a lusty swig of milk, gulping it down with the finesse of a cow, leaving himself with a glistening white mustache. I smiled politely and nodded. Henry was a lovely person and friend, and I was fortunate to have him around. Just when I was beginning to feel comfortable in his home, he brought up my sore subject.

"Nova, why didn't you fill me in about your mom and dad? This morning, Ginger told me that those bikers have been driving you out of your house at night. I guess I didn't realize that it was so serious because I have never seen their motorcycles when I've driven by. When your mom gets back from her trip, and you go back home, I'm going to swing by at night to make sure you are okay," Henry said

I wasn't comfortable with discussing my home life with him. He might be a friend, but the thought of telling it to a boy seemed too intimate. The only person in the whole world that I had trusted with my secret was Ginger, and she had betrayed me. Perhaps betrayed was not the most fitting word for how I felt. Ginger had grievously disappointed me. Truth be told, we had both let each other down in a matter of two days, and it wasn't worth ending our friendship over. I would never put the Riches before Ginger and Ginger would learn that no guy is worth losing your self-respect over.

"Henry, I don't really want to discuss this right now. I'll work it out with my mom when she gets home so you guys won't need to worry. I'll be fine."

I could tell by Henry's raised brow that he didn't appreciate my blow-off, but I couldn't have him patrolling my house at night. He had his problems without adding mine. Besides, I needed my cynical muse back, and all this serious talk wasn't helping matters. Henry hadn't spat forth a sarcastic comeback in weeks, and we both knew, even as kids, that humor was good medicine. I had been coping with my issues for a long time and had learned how to separate my two worlds. Henry was just learning.

"Hi."

Henry and I simultaneously rotated towards the arched entrance to the kitchen. Ginger's face was puffy, she had red blotches around her eyes and nose, and her wiry, burnt-umber curls were frizzy.

"Hi," I returned.

Formerly a shadow in the background, Ginger's father faded back into the lightless family room. Standing upright from his forward-leaning position across from me, Henry took another gulp of his milk to avoid the awkward confrontation.

"So, you're going to stay with us," Ginger stated rather than questioned.

"I guess that's the plan," I answered matter-of-factly.

"My dad says you can stay in my room, but we can't stay up late or he will separate us. He said he's going to keep checking on us."

I supposed Dr. Smith was worried about a repeat performance by Ginger. He sure didn't know me very well. I was here to sleep.

She appeared upset about having her dad keeping tabs up on her, but her countenance might have been embarrassment at having her dad comprehend what her fight at school was over. I pondered how much of her personal life Ginger legitimately shared with her parents. I knew her relationship with both of them was amicable, and I was envious of how involved they were in both of their kids' lives. I reckoned that Dr. Smith had a right to be upset, and if I were Ginger I would be grateful he cared enough to act that way.

"You know I like to get my sleep, so there won't be any argument from me," I said in an effort to break the ice.

Ginger smiled a little bit, taking my words as a cue to step into the kitchen. Henry avoided our impending conversation by bustling around, replacing the unsealed food packages back into the fridge. Ginger and I both knew Henry normally wasn't the first person that volunteered to clean up after a meal. The typical teen usually had to be prodded, and even chastised into helping with chores. Apparently, being involved in a girl fight was a worse option than promoting proper food storage.

"Hey, someone besides you two might want to eat in this house," Ginger remarked.

Henry halted his busy work and left the kitchen after shaking his head in defeat.

Now that Ginger and I were alone, I began to get nervous. She was the only person in the world who cared about me and had showed it. I didn't want anything to change between us. Looking at her wounded expression, I believed she felt the same way. We had both screwed up, and we knew it.

"Maybe your mistake cancels my mistake. What do you say?" I asked with guarded optimism.

Ginger's head remained bowed as she picked up the open rye bread sack, pulling out two slices of dark mottled bread and meticulously spreading mayonnaise on both sides.

"I can live with that," Ginger stated as she placed thin slices of corned beef and pastrami on the open sandwich.

"All right then. Would your mom like a sandwich?" I asked (Using food as an opportunity to change the subject).

We had a different relationship than most girls because we never tried to over analyze things. In some ways, we were more like men in our thinking than women. Instead of holding grudges, we preferred to punch each other out and then move on by having a beer together (or in our case, sandwiches).

"No, my mom just had a chemo treatment today. I've been upstairs with her...she's been getting sick. She probably won't eat for a while," Ginger replied, her tone deeper.

Her flushed face immediately became blotchy in spots around her mouth and eyes. This had been the reason for her crying, not getting into trouble at school. I felt deep empathy for what my friend was going through. I, in different ways, knew what it was like to be troubled over a parent. I doubted I was in danger of losing my dad physically, but he was already gone in every other way. My mother, on the other hand, truly was in peril. She could die any day if she didn't stop her drug induced lifestyle, making me an orphan. A kid shouldn't have to be put through adult worries. The harsh reality of life though was that we all had to grow up more quickly than we were meant to.

I assisted Ginger to put away the rest of the food after she had eaten her sandwich. I noticed, then, that she had consumed less than she usually did and that Ginger had lost weight. Her clothing was loose, and her typically round face was leaner. Ginger was beautiful, whether she was plump or thin because she had a big heart that overflowed into her presence. Boys might not always see it but, someday, the right one would.

I was glad that we had made-up because staying at Ginger's house would have been awkward if we had been ill-tempered with each other. I supposed I'd gotten past my resentment faster than Ginger had hers, but I was used to being offended.

After cleaning up the kitchen, Ginger and I headed upstairs to her bedroom and listened to our favorite music: _Crater Mass_ and _Tales of Swordplay_. We also gave attention to _Pale Crow_ and numerous eighties punk bands. Ginger and I lay face down on her puffy queen-sized lime-colored bed, doodling pictures of each other on Ginger's heavily-used art tablets. Being the ones she used as sketch pads, both tablets curled and ripped pages. She kept the high-quality paper in an expansive portfolio case. Ginger was a remarkable artist. I, on the other hand, had zero talent. My rendition of Ginger was crudely penned in black ink, resembling a five-year-old's version of Ronald McDonald. Peeking over at her drawing of me, I immediately wanted to roll mine up into a tightly compacted ball. Ginger's portrayal made me look better as a penned sketch than I did in real life. At least I knew she thought a lot of me because it was reflected in her art.

"Yours is too good. I'm not that pretty," I stated.

Ginger opened her mouth in protest; her thick cinnamon-colored eyebrows raised in defiance.

"You are too! You are the prettiest of the Riches, and you aren't even rich!" she said in a shrill voice, aiming to make her point the last word.

"You're just saying that because we are best friends. You would say that even if it weren't true," I defended.

"Bull! I wouldn't tell that you are the prettiest if it weren't true. For example, take Veronica, who is hot because of her body parts. It takes inner beauty to be called pretty...and Veronica is not pretty," Ginger said with authority.

I supposed I believed her after the valid point she made.

"That makes you prettier than all the Riches, as well!" I gushed.

"You're damn right it does!" Ginger shot back with equal gumption.

Our music and gabbing must have been more clamorous than we had intended because Ginger's chocolate-candy-bar of a door swept open at the beginning of Pale Crow's: Everybody Denies. Ginger's father appeared to be trying to hold it together because his expression was strained, at best. Ginger and I glanced at each other as if we'd been caught in the act of murder, instead of merely playing loud tunes. Ginger hopped up from her relaxed prone position and grabbed the white remote to her IPod dock, turning the volume down before Dr. Smith could utter a single word. His ruddy face relaxed somewhat, the lines around his mouth and in between his eyebrows almost vanished.

"Thank You," was all he said, before doing a curt about-face and exiting Ginger's room.

I felt tension in the Smith household. It wasn't because anyone here was doing anything wrong; it was because everyone was scared of reality. Reality meant that everyone's worst fears had come to light. It was kind of the way my house felt when I was there but, in my house, I think I'm the only one who sensed it. I was appreciative of the invitation to stay here and believed my presence could benefit at least two people: Ginger and me.

Perhaps Henry, too, was unconsciously happy I was here because, at the very moment I was thinking about these things, we were interrupted by a beastly rapping on Ginger's cheerfully-bedazzled chocolate door. It could only be Henry because Ginger's parents didn't ever bother to knock.

I could tell that Ginger was pleased that her brother wanted to interrupt us. Her deep-green eyes glittered with a welcome diversion from the stark interruption of her sad father. She really cared about Henry, even though she put a lot of time and effort into making fun of and tormenting him. Perhaps, negative attention was the highest form of flattery.

"Come in, asshat!" She yelled out with gleeful provocation.

Ginger's door stuck at first and then popped open with Henry's extra force. Henry lost his balance, which made it seem like he had been leaning on the door before it was opened. For a split-second, I questioned if we were in a sitcom instead of a home struck by tragedy. Henry regained his balance while attempting to preserve his dignity. The long russet hair on the top of his head bounced into his natural blue eyes, causing him to lose his cool act. It was impossible to be composed when stumbling and almost falling to the floor.

"Walk much?" I asked with well-deserved bantering.

Henry's naturally-rosy complexion deepened to a shade of beet red.

Ginger laugh-snorted and then did a double-take at Henry.

"You're not wearing your contacts," Ginger stated.

Henry shook his head and said, "I don't need to at home. I can see fine without them."

Ginger spoke no more of the subject, as she knew how sensitive her brother was about his perceived flaw.

"Well, that's good. What's up?"

Henry propped his elbow on Ginger's chocolate brown dresser by her open bay window, focusing on me.

"Nova, Dad called and said the lights are now turned on at your house. Your mom must be home...but Dad said you weren't going home tonight. He's going to talk to your mom tomorrow."

My heart began to pound in my chest as heat rose in my face. I sprang up from my lazy perch on the luxurious bed, propelling Ginger's sketch pad and pencils to the floor.

"No! Don't let him do that! Nothing he says is going to make the situation any better, and it will just piss her off. She'll get all paranoid that the cops are after her, and she's extremely hard to live with when she's like that. Please tell him to leave it alone," I said in one speedy breath.

Concern and doubt were evident in the flushed faces of my two confidants. Henry, I could tell, was torn between what would protect me and what I had asked of him. Ginger, I knew, would side with me even if she had doubts.

"Nova, I think it would be better if you let my dad talk to her. He's not going to let it go," Henry reasoned.

"Do you think that it would be better if Social Services stepped in and put me with a foster family that could rape and abuse me? That's what happens, you know. At least that's not going on right now. I may have to take care of myself, but no one there tries to hurt me," I retorted

I perceived that the odds of being abused were only slightly higher in a foster family, but my dismal scenario had already performed its intended effect. Henry appeared to be shaken by my proposed maltreatment. He ogled me in shock as if he couldn't believe I had uttered those unmentionable words. After using a few choice expletives, Henry changed the direction he had been heading.

"No, I don't want that to happen, Nova. Do you really think something like that would?" he said with a slight tremor and less conviction.

Do you really want me to take that chance?" I punched back.

"Of course I don't. Okay, okay. I'll talk it over with my dad. I'm the only one that would be able to get through to him. I have to warn you though, once he makes up his mind, he usually never changes it," Henry compromised.

"Well, I'm counting on you to change it. You can do it, Henry. I know that witty, biting character, which once ruled the halls of Shaker Creek, is still hiding in there somewhere. Use that calculating mind of yours and make it happen," I coached.

Ginger had been watching our verbal tennis match going back and forth but had said nothing until now.

"Henry, you have to convince Dad to not talk to Nova's mom. Please. Do it for Nova, and do it for me. She's safer where she is than somewhere else. Besides, I can't live without my best friend. I'd die if she left!" Ginger begged, out of breath.

I perceived Henry's countenance to be simultaneously perturbed and shaken.

"I said I would do it. Now bug off. I've got to think about what to say. This isn't going to be easy," Henry growled.

Ginger leaped from her crouching position on her bed and ran to hug Henry, who attempted to bar her affections by lightly shoving her back. Her erratic spice colored curls bounced in opposition.

"Oh, come on, don't be a tool. You can hug your sister," Ginger prodded as she continued to go at Henry.

"Get back, heathen!" Henry shot at her while smirking.

We were all facing strife in a battle to maintain an existence we had once taken for granted. Matters we once complained about as younger children, we now yearned for in the form of security and peace. It was a bond the three of us recognized, however, it wasn't one any of us would have chosen. We no longer yearned to become adults because adults knew life was cruel.

Henry finally gave in, letting the two of us crowd in and hug him. The group embrace was sweaty, awkward and wonderful. It was the second time I had shown affection to Henry in one day and it was the first time, in a long while, I felt like I had a family again.

Self-preservation guide rule #5: Accept your family, even if they aren't your blood.
Chapter Sixteen

Before sleep came, I was wrought with introspection, pervading my utter physical need for rest. I had sought to focus on Ginger's steady breathing that had long ago signaled her calm repose. Anxiety permeated my sleep deprived logic, and I needed an escape from reality for just a couple of hours. Finally, my body won the battle for rejuvenation, and I drifted away.

Blinding daybreak sun shined through Ginger's flowing sheer white inner curtains. My eyes hurt from the magnitude of the solar force in my retinas. A dark figure stood in the corner and walked over to the window, blocking the main brunt of the yellow rays.

As my eyes focused, I confirmed that the figure was indeed my father. His height seemed more imposing than ever before and I felt threatened. He walked towards me, rapping his left fist against his red sweatpants-covered thigh. His taps had rhythm, as if there was a method to his madness.

"Guess what, Nova?" he quizzed, though I knew he didn't expect an answer.

I was unable to speak. Ginger was still asleep beside me, swathed in a shiny lime cocoon. The sun gleamed like diamonds on all sides of his monstrous black silhouette. He continued to slap his fist against his thigh, and somehow the sound echoed in the still room, like a fish slapping water on a calm lake. Even though he was my flesh, I needed to make him leave this house. This place wasn't his domain. He could permeate my home, and even at my school, but this was sacred ground. He had been here many times before but he had to be banished once and for all.

"Nova, I told you to guess what. Why don't you guess?" He growled.

Ginger stirred as though my father's voice had disturbed her own dream.

"See what you made me do?" my deranged father asked (as if waking Ginger was my fault).

Ginger now sat up, staring at the same phenomenon that I was looking at.

"What does he mean?" Ginger murmured, as she squinted her eyes against the harmful crystalline rays that blinded us.

I found that I was able to talk to her.

"He means that we all pay the piper, Ginger," I said, without knowing what I meant.

"Oh," was all she said, as she lay back down and closed her eyes. Her cinnamon curls gleamed like coppery spools in the bursting sunlight. She sighed contentedly and rolled back on her side, pulling the thick green comforter over her form into a tight burrito.

When I looked back up at the sun, my intimidating father was gone. The brilliance suddenly vanished, and the room was utterly void of luminosity. Usual shapes of Ginger's room gradually became apparent in the inky blackness. Ginger's regular breathing soothed my rattled conscience.

I wasn't sure if this was still a dream, but I settled down beside Ginger because I didn't know what else to do. I didn't enjoy the nightmares I had, in fact, I hated them. If I couldn't escape the madness during my waking hours, and occasionally while I slept, I feared the pressure would become too intense for me to handle. At last, dreamless sleep won the battle, and I relaxed as pressure exited my wounded body.
Chapter Seventeen

The real morning sun wasn't as blinding as my dream sun as it lazily streamed through Ginger's wispy curtains. I felt exhausted and grumpy from my restless night. Ginger, on the other hand, seemed well rested and chipper, and that grated on my nerves. Every clink and clank noise reverberated down my spine. I perceived that my condition must have been what a hangover felt like.

Instead of planning my attire for the day, I yanked on a pair of navy-blue sweat pants and a white long-sleeved tee-shirt emblazoned with: "Surf 101" in large orange lettering. Ginger gave me a look as if I was an intruder in her bedroom. Her golden-green eyes reflected the modest sunlight as she bent down to her open bay window, picking up the light-blue blouse she had just dropped when she first beheld my attire.

"Do you have a fever, Nova? I have never seen you walk out in public wearing anything less than a full ensemble ready for a New York runway," Ginger gasped.

I shook my head and continued to brush my tangled hair while avoiding eye contact with her.

"What's the big deal? You dress like this every month when Aunt Flo visits. Don't I deserve a little down time?" I snapped.

The truth was; I didn't give a rat's ass how I looked like today. Kurtis was dead to me, and I was too emotionally bankrupt to care what anyone else thought.

Ginger tossed the last of her makeup into her generic Kelly-green leather purse and shut her open window. The cut-off of fresh air instantly made the cozy bedroom feel stuffy.

"Whatever you say, Sugar Britches, it's your choice," Ginger replied in a lilting voice, her hill shaped eyebrows arched more than usual.

"Yep, it's my choice," I said flatly.

We met Henry in the dim hallway to the stairs that descended to the first floor.

Henry's droopy eyes were back to the gold color I was used to seeing. His stooped posture and long careless hair that fell into his eyes indicated that he had suffered a rough night as well. I thought, perhaps, that we were also on the same page, due to the fact he was also wearing a long sleeved white tee-shirt. His shirt, however, had a picture of a long-haired dude biting the head off of a bat.

Ginger stopped for a second as Henry passed by in his zombie-like stance. His tee-shirt was halfway tucked into the left side of his baggy whitewashed jeans. On top of that, one of his worn black Chuck Taylor Converse shoelaces was untied and dragging behind him as he trudged along.

"What's going wrong with everyone this morning?" Ginger demanded.

"Mom was up all last night. Dad was on-call last night, remember?" Henry replied with garbled words.

Ginger and Henry's dad was a third-year resident doctor at the local hospital, Springfield Regional. Henry carried the brunt of Mrs. Smith's care when Mr. Smith wasn't able to.

"Oh, I forgot. I'm sorry. I'm going in to see her, then," Ginger resolved as she followed Henry.

"Don't. She just got to sleep an hour ago," Henry directed with an emotionless drone.

I trailed the two of them, saying nothing. At this moment, I was too exhausted to think about any issues that pertained to me or my friends. What I yearned for was to sneak over to my house and crawl into my comfy bed.

Once back in the kitchen, Henry performed a miracle. All it took was two motions to bring us all back to life. From the shiny refrigerator, Henry presented an ice-cold tall can of the latest energy drink: Mind Bomb 2. I cracked it open, watching beautiful jewel-like drops of condensation roll down the side of the acid-green can. Cherry-Pink foam rose to the nickel-sized hole in the gleaming aluminum top and then receded enough for me to take an obnoxious, unladylike guzzle. I chugged down three man-sized gulps before setting the can down and belched like a truck driver.

Ginger gaped at me once again, her eyes practically bulging from her eye sockets.

"Good Lord, Woman! Where are your manners today? You're not acting like yourself at all!" Ginger exclaimed.

I took another drink of the liquid gold, without responding to her. For some reason, I didn't feel like talking to her, or for that matter, anyone. The boost of caffeine only temporarily helped. On a good day, the caffeine and other mystery ingredients tended to serve me well. Today, however, my brain was still unfocused and I felt like hell. I was appreciative of Henry's efforts, however. Ginger could just lay off my case for one day.

Henry leaned in towards me, from the other side of the sturdy copper-flecked island the three of us were converged around.

"So, uh, Nova....are you still up for going to my show tonight?" Henry asked with a slightly greater inflection than his previous lackadaisical state.

I wanted to tell him that I couldn't promise anything. What I longed for was to skip school today and run away from all my problems. I couldn't do that though because I was smart enough to know that running away was not the answer to my wreck of a life.

"Sure. Can you still give me a ride?" I asked faintly.

Ginger broke in: "Dude! You didn't even tell me you had a show! What the hell!"

Her green eyes were deep and bright as they flashed in anger. She had enough crimson in her hair to be considered a fiery red-head. Her perfectly coiffed curls bounced against her defiant head bob.

Henry looked down as if he was ashamed of what he was going to say.

"Mom's going to need you tonight. That's why I didn't tell you yet."

Ginger's fire sizzled out as she remembered the burden that she and her brother willingly shared while their father was on-call at work. Her expression softened as she nodded in agreement.

"I have a week of detention to serve after school, but I'll be out by 4:30," Ginger offered.

"How are my three amigos?" a weak, but cheerful, voice called out from the doorway.

Mrs. Smith stood in the doorway, not yet frail-looking but thinner than I had seen her a couple of weeks before. Her blonde hair was cut in a short bob and her blue eyes appeared tired but not lifeless. She smiled, and a prominent dimple appeared in the corner of her left cheek. I felt relieved after seeing her because the imagination can play wicked tricks.

"Mom, what are you doing up already?" Henry inquired as he hurried to the doorway.

"Oh, I'm okay right now. Don't worry, honey. The anti-nausea medicine is finally working for me this morning and I've wasted enough time confined to bed. My only exercise lately has been trips to the bathroom and I want to get some fresh air," Mrs. Smith rationalized while still appearing to be genuinely positive.

How could she be happy right now? I wasn't dying yet I was still miserable. For some reason, I had expected Mrs. Smith to appear like death itself and act depressed. I wasn't exactly disappointed (that would just be wrong) but I was thrown off. Even faced with life-threatening sickness, Mrs. Smith was still a better mom than mine.

"Mom, I don't think you should go out by yourself," Henry guarded.

"Oh, nonsense. I'm a grown-ass woman and if I get into any trouble, I'll use my cell phone to call Aunt Sharon. Now, go on to school before you are all late," Mrs. Smith retorted with admirable spunk.

Henry gazed at his weak, yet strong, mother with doubtful acceptance. He grabbed a shiny green Granny Smith apple from the wooden bowl of fruit on the island counter, shoving it into his worn black nylon duffel bag. Ginger followed suit, handing one to me as she walked towards her mother, her face concerned but not troubled as Henry's was.

"Mom, really. Try to make the trip short. You haven't been out in a while and if you really do need help...don't be stubborn," Ginger ordered in her business-like voice.

When Ginger stepped within arm's length, Mrs. Smith hugged Ginger, her now thin, pale arms gripping her almost-grown daughter for dear life. The coral-pink sweat suit, Mrs. Smith, wore, swam around her in wrinkled protection. She, of course, wasn't angry that her daughter had gotten in trouble at school yesterday, which is if she knew. I felt awkward. I wasn't used to being around this much affection between parents and children. Mrs. Smith caught me staring and beckoned to me with her free hand.

"Come here, you," she offered to me.

Her translucent hand was swollen and shiny with two small band-aids on the top side of it. I couldn't do it.

"Um, I forgot something upstairs," I said, nervously, as I moved past them without waiting for their response.

I ran back upstairs and into Ginger's muted bedroom, closing the door behind me, leaning against the chocolate-brown barrier. I had no idea why I had bolted, but it was too embarrassing to try and explain it to anyone, even myself.

The closed green room looked cheerless without the fall sun streaming in. I prepared to compose myself when something on Ginger's smooth satin coverlet caught my eye. It was a small metallic object. My heart fluttered with a sudden burst of adrenaline as I moved closer, helpless to keep myself from reaching down to touch it. Nestled in a tiny gathered fold, amidst the lovely lime-green fabric, was a white gold ruby ring. My mother's ruby ring.

My heart sank with a weight of realization. Either Ginger had stolen my mom's ring from my house or someone else had planted it there to mess with me. I disbelieved that Ginger had taken it from my home, however. She refused to hang out with the girls who shoplifted at the mall, and she seldom spent time in my house. I picked the object up with a trembling hand and glared at the troublesome metal loop that lay innocently in the creases of my sweaty palm. I had half-a-mind to flush it down the toilet, but instead dropped it in down into the recesses of my cobalt purse. Perhaps, it would get lost again, in there.

"Nova! Are you coming?" Ginger's voice echoed through the half-open chocolate door, from the base of her cushiony steps.

I paused to scan Ginger's dim room, once again, afraid that I would find something else that was incriminating yet helpless to stop my compulsion. Grateful that I had discovered no other contraband, I turned about-face, leaving her den. I joined Henry and Ginger at the front door as they were saying goodbye to their mother. I waited until they had finished and then proceeded to go out the front door between the two of them.

"Goodbye, Nova. You have a good day at school," Mrs. Smith called out from the threshold.

I pivoted around, waved at Mrs. Smith and caught sight of Ginger's face. She was looking at me with an expression I couldn't interpret. I wasn't positive, but it might have been fear. I, for the life of me, had no idea why Ginger would look at me like that.

As we braced ourselves against the brisk autumn breeze, I yanked my teal hoodie strings tighter to seal out the harsh, frigid air. Henry leaned across the passenger seat and shoved open the dented passenger-side door. The handle required usage from the interior, due to the lock malfunction in the outer part of the aged door. Chilly wind blew Ginger's rust-colored corkscrew curls in front of her face as she paused in the wavering opening. She brushed the flying hair out of her face, swiveling to look me in the eye.

"Why did you avoid my mom this morning? You didn't even say goodbye to her this morning, until she said it to you, as you were leaving." Ginger accused.

I was at a loss for words and it was cold outside.

"Can we get in the car first?" I replied, feeling irritable.

Why was she on my case about her mom, anyways? She knew I had my own issues at home.

"Well then get in," she snapped.

We crammed our frigid bodies and bags into the leather rear seat, adjusting the front seat back into place once we were settled. Ginger was analyzing my face, her teeth chattering behind shimmery pink lips, her white breath misting, in short, cloudy bursts.

I unzipped my expensive cobalt purse, and then methodically rooted around, until I revealed a tube of cherry Chap Stick, taking my sweet time to circle my top and bottom lip several times. The thick, waxy coat was too gross. Ginger was still glaring at me as I continued to avoid eye contact with her.

"What gives, Nova?" Ginger asked with an uncharacteristic edge to her voice.

"I don't know, I'm just tired," I muttered.

"If you don't tell me what's really bothering you, I can't help you," Ginger stated with increasing fervor.

I didn't comprehend why it bothered her if I was having an 'off' day. I would get over it, she should too.

My iPhone buzzed several times from inside my purse. I dug it out and opened the blazing orange front screen with a few light finger swipes. I had fourteen unopened Snap Chat messages from Veronica and Laila. I closed the screen and put my phone back in my purse without checking the messages. They would have to wait.

Turning away from my best friend, I peered out the window. The fleeting, needle-like tree branches were coated in a pearly sheen of frost that reflected like glitter in the dim, pre-winter light. Houses swam by, and then a grave yard, more houses and finally the procession halted. Henry swerved over to pick up Kyle. Kyle spoke something to me from the front seat, but I didn't even discern his words or how I responded to him. A faint buzzing sound played in my head, distracting me from clear thinking. Whatever I had said, it must have been sufficient, because he smiled, nodded and turned back to Henry, continuing to jabber without me having to bear any of his noises.

The buzzing sound became louder, and then more of a rumble. It was not coming from my head, after all. An overwhelming, chopping noise surrounded the LeBaron as a startlingly green chopper pulled up beside the lightweight car. Bolt sat, upright, on his pristine hog, looking straight ahead. A slight mist of freezing rain began to fall, landing on his loose brown hair. No helmet or stocking cap protected his head from the inclement weather. He was adorned in the same leather club jacket and worn Levi jeans that I always saw him in. I thought to myself that he must be cold and pondered why he wasn't dressed warmer. He didn't strike me as an idiot.

Bolt never saw me watching him. He revved his beloved machine, taking off in a burst of ear-splitting power, the second the changing light turned green. Bolt must have stayed behind on the club ride. Then again, my mother was supposedly home, so, perhaps, the trip got canceled.

Henry didn't seem to take heed of the impressive chopper that had passed him by. He was usually the first one to point out cool and unusual things because he was what could be considered a 'people watcher'. I wasn't sure I wanted to discuss my unique relationship with Bolt to my friends, anyway. Most people would jump to conclusions. Henry would most likely be protective, thinking that Bolt was out for only one thing. Other people, like Ginger, would stereotype him, assuming that Bolt was a drug addict. I knew neither of those assumptions was true. Bolt was one of the few people that actually cared what happened to me.

Seconds later, we arrived at school. At once, I felt nauseous as if my insides were fighting a bloody war. I was not ready to face the day at Shaker Creek High. Kyle and Henry left their cold leather seats flipped forward so we could slide out. Ginger tossed her deep caramel tresses to the side, as she situated her purse and book bag on her round hip. She turned to me, pointedly before I made a move towards the dreaded building.

"Please talk to me, Nova. I'm going to be worried about you all day. What's bothering you?" she asked with genuine concern on her perfectly made-up face.

I honestly didn't know what to tell her. I was used to living on little sleep, due to family drama and nightmares, but I had never felt like it weighed me down like today. Maybe, I was getting sick.

"I don't know. I just don't feel very good," I said softly.

"Nova, then, why don't you just go home sick?" she persuaded.

"I can't leave. I'm competing for the Westford Academy Theatre Scholarship. One of the criteria is perfect attendance for a whole year," I replied, thinking her suggestion was spot-on.

"Oh, well, message me if you need me. I'm floating around the school as a teacher's aide today. I can find you in a heartbeat!" Ginger said enthusiastically.

It was at that moment that I perceived that I was rapidly becoming her pet project. Perhaps, taking care of me took her mind off her own family troubles and I supposed I didn't mind.

"Yeah, sure. Thanks," I said with an equivalent lack of enthusiasm.

If it kept little Cinnamon-Snap from busting out in a fight at school, it was okay to let her focus on me.

Ginger smiled prettily, her shiny-apple cheeks glowing with youthful perfection.

"Okay, doll! See you in third period...unless you need me!" Ginger shouted from the west side of the massive student lot as she rapidly traveled to the student aid office.

I waved half-heartedly, trudging to first hour with heaviness in my bones.

The moment I crossed through the front door at school, I knew my day was going to continue on a downward spiral towards an unknown demise. It was as if every kid in the front annex already knew I looked like crap. A hundred eyes were on me as I navigated the unfriendly waters, known as high school, towards the safety of World History class. At least most of the kids in there were not from the top three cliques. As I nudged through crowds of judging young faces, I pulled my static-ridden flyaway hair back in a knot, securing it with a silver hair elastic I had stretched around my wrist. My carpus ached from the release of the long-standing pressure of the band I had forgotten about last night.

Two steps after I turned the corner into Naysmith Hall, I was accosted by Veronica and Laila. A destructive force, they carried the power to make or break a person.

Veronica's already too dark eyebrows were raised in horror as she snarled in repugnance.

"Spirit-week hobo day isn't until next month, sweetie. You spend the night in a bus station and get your clothes stolen, or what? I can't believe you showed up this way. By the way, thanks for messaging me back, bitch," Veronica spewed out with assault-like force as she aimed her pink-tipped fingernail at me.

Laila's attack from below was no less nasty. She might be miniature, but her words were colossal and carried a punch. Her blood-red lips thinned around her bared teeth as she grimaced in distaste. She reminded me of a feisty Chihuahua.

"We can't be seen with you like this. You had better turn around, go home and find something at least passable for our level of sophistication. You know we don't let just anybody be seen with us. If you want a second chance, you had better abide by our code and get your head out of your ass. In this world, there is no margin for error. We simply don't make mistakes like this," Laila lectured in her sharp, little-girl voice.

I had been aware the two most popular girls in Shaker Creek High were bitchy, but I hadn't realized how ingrained the Appearance Rule was. Veronica's nostrils flared as her side-kick, little dragon-lady, breathed in short bursts while chewing me out.

Ginger was right: Veronica wasn't pretty (or even hot) and the same went for snotty little Laila. Seconds later, both were stupefied when I told them (along with some choice expletives) where they could shove their matching pink Vera Wang pumps. As I stepped back from my verbal rebuttal, I realized our little pow-wow was on display for an extensive portion of the school. Not one nosey person watching made a peep, in the stuffy yellow hallway. One could literally hear a pin drop in the surreal congregation.

Veronica jerked as if I had physically slapped her and Laila responded with a grimace and more scathing verbal abuse.

"Bitch, you're going to regret this. You won't be able to show your face in these halls after we get done with you. You might want to think twice before walking away from us. Before we allowed you to our group, you were nothing. If you quit us, you'll be less than nothing. You'll be lower than the outcasts and I don't think you want that," Laila spat with pure evil flowing from her tiny red snake-mouth.

She was right. I knew if I walked away now, my life at Shaker Creek High would be pure hell and my escape from my home life would no longer exist. My rebellion to their dark forces was becoming weaker by the second.

"Oh sorry, I don't know what came over me just now! Jeffrey canceled my hair appointment for last night and it threw me off," I said with as much conviction as I could muster in my impromptu lie.

The evil twins' expressions showed no mercy for my plea of shame.

Veronica poked her exposed chest out and jutted her chin as she spoke down to me: "You have one day to get your shit together, Nova. If you try any of your pathetic crap tomorrow, your reign here at Shaker Creek High will be cut short. Don't doubt that."

Laila glared at me in support of Veronica's reprieve. I knew it could get a lot worse.

"No problem. It won't happen again," I replied without emotion.

The second bell rang as the dangerous duo made snobby noises of satisfaction, turned tail simultaneously, and strode away as one blonde unit. The crowd that had milled around to watch our drama unfold was late for class as well, scattering while whispering my public shame. I pivoted to enter my World History class, with the majority of the class following suit. Mr. Sanders threw all of us a reproachful look, orating a speech about responsibility, before spending the first fifteen minutes of class passing out tardy slips for each student. It was hard to believe that my choice of wardrobe could cause such a catastrophic ripple effect at Shaker Creek.

After his lecture on responsibility was over, Mr. Sanders punished us by forcing us to take notes while he spoke on World History crap. I pretended to take annotation, but I doodled instead, while taking extended glances outside the window I was conveniently located next to. As Mr. Sander's voice droned on, with his milky glazed eyes barely able to perceive his uninterested students, I meandered into my own little world.

Tiny snow crystals drifted from the sky in shimmery waves, forming pristine blankets on the bright green grass. Gusting wind transformed snow piles into miniature tornados of white particles. A single line of crisp, black footprints marred the sea of fresh snow. My eyes followed the line of strange tracks that ran perpendicular to our long line of classroom windows. A singular dark figure, wearing a motorcycle jacket, stood amidst the circling snow. Squinting my eyes, I discerned wisps of brown hair and a thick brown mustache that lifted up in accord with the swirling wind.

Bolt's face was turned in my direction. I wondered how he knew which classroom I was in and why in the hell he was standing out in the snow by my school. If the security guards spotted him, they would call the cops. He reached into his pocket and brought something out, holding it at his side in his closed fist. I rose, without warning, from my chair and tried to get a more advantageous vantage point of the odd stalker.

"Miss Price!" Mr. Sanders warned as he cast me a dirty look from his crusty old eyes.

"Sorry, Mr. Sanders, I think I might throw up. I need to go to the bathroom," I said with a monotonous tone, hoping that he bought my lie.

"Go, go by all means," Mr. Sanders responded with full sarcasm.

I scooped up my belongings, stealing a glance out of the window, before circling to leave. The white wonderland bore no evidence of the conspicuous character that had been in the midst of it only seconds before.

"Miss Price, if you are truly in peril, why are you taking your time to gather your menagerie of accessories while staring out of the window? It only makes sense that someone, in your supposed condition, would be more likely to rush to the bathroom before taking time to admire nature. Sit back down, Miss Price."

Instead of backing down, I pretended not to hear Mr. Sanders as I flew past the open threshold into the empty hall. I was past the point of no return. In one day, I had literally trashed the reputation I had worked so hard, for years, to build. If I received another detention in school, I would automatically be sent to the school counselor. Escape seemed to be the best option available to me at this point.

Mr. Sander's voice trailed after me as I ran towards the west exit door at the end of the long vacant, yellow corridor. The snow was falling heavier now, in torrents of pristine alabaster crystals that hit my face with weightless bodies.

I ran like my feet were on fire; as if my life depended on getting as far as possible from that brick building in the distance. Snow had already covered Bolt's tracks, so I high-tailed it towards the only place I knew he might be. My breath burst forth like small clouds of misty dragon heat. I knew if I kept running I would find him sooner or later.

The tell-tale rumble of Bolt's motorcycle was music to my ears as I had just run without stopping for five blocks and was out of steam. I was a third of the way home and somehow Bolt had sensed I needed help. It was as if he possessed a radar that detected my ongoing trouble. For a moment, I stood there, letting the fat, icy flakes melt on my nose. The ice pods tickled my eyelashes as I took in the slow, methodical rut-tut of the reverberating engine that had brought my shining knight to my rescue.

Bolt's gaze was neither kind nor judging. It bore the character of a man who seemed to find me entertaining enough to spend time with. I had a feeling my well-being was enveloped beneath the layers of leather to the human encased from within. Perhaps, I didn't want to know my destiny or I didn't care. Being free was the one thing I needed that he could provide.

He asked no questions and I offered no insight, as I straddled the back of the gleaming hog, leaning forward just enough to signal that I was settled. We cut through the swirling snow and in our world, it was quiet and insulated from the rest of the earth. I held onto Bolt just enough to remain comfortable but not enough to let him know I was getting used to him. He probably knew anyway.

Minutes later, we arrived at my house and there were no other motorcycles in the driveway. Maybe, my mom and the gang hadn't returned as Mr. Smith had believed. That meant I would be alone with Bolt today. Even though I had an inkling of his real intentions for me, I suppose I had pushed that unrealistic thought to the back of my mind for as long as I was able. Now that opportunity knocked, I wasn't sure whether I was ready to respond. I hadn't planned on losing it this soon, but I supposed there were worse prospects than Bolt for the job.

Bolt leaned on the doorframe outside the front door as I ventured into the cold, dark living room, trudging across the worn carpeted floor to switch a lamp on in the corner. Bolt posed in the open doorway, the wild bleached snow dropping like miniature bombs on his black leather shell. His hair was damp, matted at the ends, and his thick, dark mustache bore a few rapidly-shrinking flakes. His gray eyes were unflinchingly hard as he took in my pathetic abode.

"Well...come in," I offered after a moment of hesitation.

"No."

"I thought you..."

"No," he said again in a toneless voice.

I was confused.

"I'll be back tonight to check on you. Try to stay out of trouble until then," he grumbled before turning and disappearing into the white storm.

With that significant deed off the table, the only thing left to do then was to go back to bed.

Self-preservation guide rule #6: Some days are better spent asleep.
Chapter Eighteen

I was buried under three layers of thick blankets, enjoying deep, dreamless slumber when my cell phone ruined my repose by playing its shrill musical ensemble from Beatles, Helter Skelter. The lit-orange face bore the numbers 10:37 a.m. and there was no name affiliated with the unknown number.

"Hello?" I whispered, my voice cracking from the pocket of phlegm in my throat.

"Nova Rae?" a deep familiar voice asked.

"Yes?" I breathed

"Have they come for you yet?" the deep voice questioned, confirming that the man who had called me was my father.

"I don't know who you are or what you are talking about, so please don't call again," I sputtered before pressing the end button.

About thirty seconds later, the orange rectangle noiselessly lit up and I chose to ignore the call. My quest for refuge from the world, by the way of sleep, was over. I could sooner run the country as the president of the United States than get one more minute of rest. I almost wished, now, that Bolt had come in with me and that we had done some dirty things to each other. At least 'it' would have taken my mind off of my problems, even if for only a short while. It probably wasn't too late for that, but I had the rest of the day to ponder it before he was due to come back.

I wandered to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door, my stomach already rumbling with hunger. Expecting to only find a few condiments, I was surprised to see a gallon-sized jug of milk and some lunch meat with an assortment of hard cheeses. I knew my mother wasn't responsible for this, so it had to be Bolt. I was also sure that a man must be responsible for the choices in meal fixings. Sandwiches were the implied staple of all males, everywhere. I wasn't sure what to think about it so I built a tall sandwich. Scarfing down the sandwich, with intermittent gulps of milk, I tried not to overanalyze how, in a matter of days, my life had gone so very, very wrong.

Halfway through my sandwich, I was startled by a clicking noise at the kitchen window. My mouth hung slack as I stopped chewing, my eyes focused on the dim gray-matter beyond the small glass frame. Perhaps, the bogeyman, from the night before, was back to get me. I was getting pretty sick of being afraid of everything.

The atmosphere outside was tumultuous, as gusts of wind flung hard snow-pellets into the transparent, protective barrier. It was merely precipitation that appeared to be messing with my nerves. I returned to the consumption of my soggy sandwich remnants I was holding in my palette. Turning my back to the window while preparing to leave the kitchen, my senses were jolted once again. The face-level pane of glass squeaked with the jagged noise of something being drawn across it. I whipped around to catch the perpetrator, but nothing stood behind the simple square aperture. Staring so hard I could feel my head throb while straining to listen for any tell-tale noise, I was relieved to see a wind-driven tree finger scrape its bare sprigs across the frosty sheet of glass. I felt half-baked but grateful at the same time. I'd rather be made a fool of than...murdered.

Shutting the useless kitchen light off, I left the kitchen. My hunger and imagination satisfied for once, I decided to clean the house before my mother and her cronies returned. Their arrival would not be for a couple of days; however, Bolt had promised to be back today, and I was bored.

Dusting the marred wooden end tables with a dirty rag I had discovered under the sink, I concluded that, by shifting the dust around, I might be fighting a losing battle. I dropped the dingy white rag to the floor in front of a fingerprint-coated white cabinet door. Imaginary fingernails were, once again, scratching the surface of the kitchen window. Ignoring it this time, I rummaged beneath the sink in the loathsome cavern that held only dirty rags and no cleaning agents. I had no vacuum to clean the carpet, no paper towels or toilet bowl cleaner, and only a ratty old broom that had hairballs clinging to the bottom of the pathetic broken brown bristles. Grabbing the broom, I began to sweep the kitchen floor, drawing up a cloud of dust and immediately gathering a sizable pile of unexplainable refuse in the center of the yellow tiled floor.

I moved on to the shaggy living room carpet with the broom, working up a sweat as I cast the bristles hard against the nappy pea-green loops. At some point, during the struggle, I realized that I was becoming obsessed. There was no real way to remove the years of dirt and grime that had settled on the weathered and porous surfaces, lacking some legitimate supplies. I was only moving the filth around, without actually removing it. Feeling defeated, I put all of my weight on the rickety broom, as I wiped my perspiring forehead with the back of my pink sweatshirt sleeve.

The red handled brush broke away from the base, causing me to almost fall with it. I left the pieces in the living room to return to the kitchen for a badly-needed glass of water. Frustrated, I swiped a nasty mud-colored cobweb from my shoulder as I crossed the kitchen threshold, only to stop dead in my tracks. My father stood smack-dab in the center of the kitchen; his hands jammed his tan corduroy jacket pockets as he smiled a strange smile at me. I wasn't dreaming this time. He was here.
Chapter Nineteen

"It's time," my father said as he grinned, his tobacco-stained teeth glaring out from a dark abyss. The whites of his eyes implied more prominence than his pale blue irises.

"What?" I asked with confusion and dread.

My hands were balled into tense fists. It had been a long time since I had seen my father, and I had almost no clear memories of him before he became delusional.

"You know what, Nova. It's unfinished business," he stated.

"No Dad, I don't know. Why are you here?" I stuttered.

"Damn it, Nova. You don't remember, do you? When I took you with me to do the cleansing...you were the one that reminded me to bring lighter fluid. You were always my right-hand gal...my partner in truth. How could you forget?"

His fluid eyes reflected betrayal.

My mouth went dry. He was right! I had been with him the night he had tried to burn down the Heizelmans' home. It hadn't been me that had turned him in, it had been my mother...because I, too, had been trying to light the house on fire.

I had only been ten years old. But somehow, I had been convinced, by my favorite person in the world, my father, that the Heizelmans had put a curse on my mother and sister. My mom had done something to upset the family, and my sister had fought with her over it. My ma had been threatening to leave us, and something had to be done.

I still wasn't clear on what exactly my mom had done, but now that I was older, I figured it had been terrible enough (like cheating) to cause a family break up. She and my sister had initiated a huge, knock-down-drag-out fight in the living room of our old house. A lot of expensive glass had gotten broken that night. I remembered my father breaking up the confrontation, yelling, "The curse is killing this family! I will make the pain go away!"

I had thought, for sure, that he had held the answer to everything and I had worshiped the sacred ground he walked on.

His physical intervention had only lasted one night. Countless nights of yelling passed by, until one evening... the night of reckoning. I hadn't needed much convincing to become sucked into my father's delusions. He had always guided my steps and I trusted him with all my heart.

It was about ten-thirty at night and the quiet neighborhood was lit by a giant half- moon that bathed the Venetian doll houses in milky effervescence. The adventure had seemed magical in my ten-year-old mind. I hadn't thought far enough ahead to wonder what would happen beyond the moment we lit the fire. I didn't even perceive the thought that the fire would most likely kill the Heizelmans. In my immature mind, the act was the only way to ward off the curse that was causing my mom and sister to hurt our family.

I had been carrying the lighter fluid and when my father had pulled out his charcoal lighter, I had held out the aluminum can, like a good daughter, and said, "Dad! Don't forget this!"

My father had taken the shimmery silver can in the moonlight and had said, "That's perfect, Nova. Just what I needed."

I had felt proud and loved. Just as my father was fumbling with the broken-off red plastic spout atop the lighter fluid can, a sudden light had blinded our eyes. I had scampered behind my tall father, shielding my eyes from the imposing light.

"Step away from the house and get down on the ground!" a deep commanding voice had barked at us from behind the spotlight.

Scared at the intrusion, I jumped in fright, shrinking against my father's legs even tighter. I had wondered why the police were trying to stop us from getting the bad people. I had thought we were both on the same side.

My father had refused to get on the ground and what had ensued next was horrible. The police had rushed in, first roughly pulling me away from my dad, and then slammed him face-down into the hard carpet of midnight grass. The sound of my father's back popping, as one heavyset policeman knelt into his prone body, flooded back to my already crowded memory bank.

I didn't want these memories back! I had tried so hard to bury them and they now felt worse than ever. I glared at my father, furious at all the heartache he had caused me.

"Nooooo!" I screamed as I rushed toward him, not caring that he was twice the size of me and could knock me to the ground.

Instead of trying to stop me, he allowed me to pummel his thin chest, as his hands remained down at his sides.

"It's okay, Nova. Shh. Daddy is home now," he cooed, a hint of my old father creeping into his tone.

I stopped striking him and stood there, trembling. My eyes stung as a flood of tears rushed and I was powerless to stop it. My father leaned in and cradled the back of my head, pulling me in closer. His embrace was dry and bony. I recognized that he was attempting to comfort me but, somehow, the hug was false, as if it was a ploy to quiet me. I drew away, looking up at him. Stale, dry breaths assaulted me from his parted lips. His teeth were more carnivorous and yellow-looking than I had perceived from a short distance back.

"Are we done now?" he barked.

He was not the man I remembered.

He looked similar, but his body was just a shell. What once had composed his insides had wasted away and all that was left was impersonal and selfish.

"Yes. We are done now. Why don't you go back to where you came from? That is hell, right?" I retorted.

His face turned ugly fast.

"Why do you torment me so, Nova Rae? I was once the shining star and, now, I am, but a fallen rock," he said in a pitiful, wheedling voice.

I was thinking, only seconds before, that he had changed since I had last laid eyes on him but, then, the worst realization of all came to be. It wasn't my father who had changed, it was me. He had always been an ass, but I had been too young and impressionable to see the self-centered narcissism that had dominated his personality.

Children want to believe that the people they love are good and trustworthy. The horror of growing up is finding out they are not.
Chapter Twenty

I had traveled through a cycle of emotions in a matter of moments, coming full-circle to the original state-of-mind I had been in when my father first appeared in my kitchen. That emotion being that I wanted him to leave me alone...forever. He had already done enough damage to my psyche; I could no longer bear his damage-causing influence.

No wonder I was obsessed with being popular at school. I was overcompensating for the ridiculous position I had been put in for five years. Not only was it uncharacteristic of a fifteen-year-old to be self-analyzing her mental status; but also I felt it was pretty damn unusual to be living the way I had been living for so long. I just wanted the madness to stop.

My father remained in the nucleus of the kitchen, unwashed grayish blonde hair spiked up at his crown. His crooked teeth still gleamed from his open cave, as he had developed a mouth-breathing habit. His momentary lapse of anger was now covered in a façade of concern for me.

"Despite your initial rudeness, how have you been, Nova? I have wondered for so long because you have chosen not to communicate with me. I do understand your predicament. In my absence, you haven't been placed in the best of care."

His pooled white eyes were vacant, his cracked lips and mouth slack with absence of emotion. The words sounded sincere, but his presence was not.

"Why are you here?" I asked as if he hadn't already mentioned it.

He didn't seem to recall that he had said it already. He beamed, as he extended his phalanges to tweak my cheek. I had pulled away before his crooked fingers touched my face. I was no longer ten.

"We are going back over to the Heizelmans, Nova. If we complete our mission, our problems will be over. If the witches burn, the curse will be broken and we can become a happy family again."

His logic was astounding. I found it absurd to recall that I had once fallen for it. So much of my young life had been lost to this man; he would have to drag me kicking and screaming back to the Heizelmans. I doubted his little plan would play out as long as the other one had.

"I don't think so, Dad."

My firm, but quiet, response didn't seem to budge his stubborn resolve.

"Sure you will, Nova. You're my right-hand girl," he garbled as if intoxicated.

"Nope. Not gonna happen."

My imposing father figure took a threatening step towards me, his feeble, bony hand outstretched towards my face. I sprang back, out of his reach. Immediately, I perceived that through my pop's diminished reaction time to stimulus he wouldn't snag me. I was smaller, faster, and smarter. He growled as if the spirit of a mangy dog had invaded his body. Again, he swiped at my face, while lumbering like the undead, en route to the area I had just been standing.

"Nova Rae!" he half growled, half-barked.

"I told you, I wasn't going to help you this time. Actually, come to think of it, I'm going to call your home and have them pick you up," I taunted.

I was astonished at how careless I could act towards my own flesh and blood. It was almost as if someone else was orchestrating my words and movements. Inside, I must have been concerned for the creep, because a black-sadness clung to me, every time I thought about him. On my outside, though, I was a machine.

"Aghhh!" the imposter snarled, gnashing his ragged half-human teeth and lunging towards me like an animal.

The vaulted jump happened in slow-motion because I could see my father's facial features transform before my eyes, making him more beast than human. Once in creature form, he became more limber, able to leap tall children in a single bound.

He was far less helpful or attractive than a super-hero. His eyes changed from a steely-blue hue to a glassy emerald-green color and his bleak face became darker, with a full, untrimmed, dark-blonde beard. His claw-like hands were now a higher pigmented skin tone and less feeble than before.

My father's foreign mug was now inches from mine, his muscular body taut as it weighed mine down from above. His breathing was ragged and perverse, but his teeth were still the same jagged daggers as before.

"Still think you're going to call those gatekeepers, Nova Rae?" he asked with a mouth full of gravel as he glared into my conscience.

I dared not answer. He was more deranged than I had given him credit for. He weighed a ton too. Shifting away from me a little, he leered through his gnarled garden of blonde-beard.

Just as I was starting to believe, I was a goner, the rickety front door extended with an exaggerated squeak. In strode the man that had been exhausting all of his free-time to save my pathetic ass. The crushing weight on me released, as my creature-father leaped up to face Bolt.

Bolt accosted him with no words; his muscular form tense beneath fragrant black leather. Bolt's usually tame eyes glinted like severed steel, as he boldly advanced on my paternal brute. The face-off did not last long. My newly-fit dad was no match for a nineteen-year-old who spent his majority of the time on, or under, a monstrous motorcycle. Bolt's wheat-colored flyaway hair tossed like a mane as he swooped down, crushing my father to the floor. Pops was not hurt, only pinned to the sticky black and grayish-white linoleum. The hairy grayish-blonde varmint had dissolved back into a weak, pitiful human, incapable of carrying out the simplest of strategies to cause harm to a couple of innocent, defenseless beings.

"Don't fuck with my crew, understand?" Bolt seethed through clenched teeth, as he glared down at my father from the same vantage point my father had been, moments before, over me. There had been almost no typical accent to Bolt's commanding order.

"Yes. Yes. I get it, brother," my father pouted, suddenly cohesive and able to respond. It was unbelievable how being cornered made a world of difference in his clarity of mind.

"First of all, I'm not your brother. Secondly, that wasn't a question. I have no doubt you get it, because you know I could cave your teeth in, in the time it takes you to say one more dandy-fucked word," Bolt breathed in my cowering father's right ear. Still no southern drawl. Anger must send it away.

I noticed my father's ear was waxy and deformed like a boxer's. Perhaps, he had already received regular pummeling at his institution. The weak-minded take their beatings out on even feebler beings.

Bolt delivered the defeated coot a final shove and stood up lithely, automatically balancing with youthful grace. The molten steel in his eyes had cooled down to a powdery gray, as he surveyed my condition.

"You okay?" he murmured, a hint of Cajun creeping back in.

"Yep, I'm all right. I'm just ready to get him out of here," I breathed while tossing a finger at my still-lying father.

Bolt grinned at my use of the bird. I couldn't conceive that his impressive coffee-colored mustache was completely gone...and I hadn't noticed until now. His clean face had aged in reverse and was now a tender nineteen, instead of late-twenties, as his furry mug had recently indicated. Not only was he youthful, but he was stunning. Screw the Paul Newman look-alike (or not); Bolt's lovely countenance put that selfish loser to shame. I couldn't stop looking at him and I felt embarrassed. For a hormone-driven moment, I even forgot my pops was still an intruder in my crappy house.

I was ready to clam up, unwilling to make any more words come out. My face burned with heat, as I viewed Bolt guiding the decrepit codger to his feet. I wondered how I had not guessed that Bolt was so beautiful, and I was also a bit irritated at my own lack of intuition. I was even madder at myself that I briefly considered that his looks even mattered. The fact was, he had always been solid to me. Given our age difference, he had never tried to take advantage of me in any way. His character had built suspense up to the finale; the revelation of his outward potential was at hand and I was hooked.

I desired to investigate where things might go with him, but I wasn't stupid. Relying only on myself for years had made me awake to dangers that girls my age were blissfully unaware of. I knew that if Bolt chose to mess around with me, he likely wouldn't get in trouble, because he was only nineteen. That didn't mean the law wouldn't give him trouble. Cops were always looking for ways to bring down the club members.

My brain ached, from all the chaos, as my father and Bolt condensed into one mutant-blob. I took a second look, my achy eyes focusing on the supple black leather and stained deer-colored corduroy jacket that joined together by the end of sleeves. Bolt told my dad that he had to leave, or the hospital would be called, who in turn would call the police. I knew that Bolt hated to get the law involved, because the law saw only black and white and no shades of gray. Pops skulked through the back door.

I think Bolt could tell I was apprehensive that my nutty father would be on the loose. He sauntered over to the nubby burnt orange plaid loveseat I balanced on the edge of and sank down beside me. He wasn't big on conversation, but his body language spoke volumes. His laid-back slouch said he wasn't worried about my father; his calm gray gaze spoke that I was going to be okay. The space between us was a little less than a foot. I leaned back to accept his gift of serenity. We still weren't touching, but it was enough for me to feel connected to another human being.

"So, I'm part of your crew, huh?"
Chapter Twenty-One

No authorities from the school would be able to contact my mother about my absence. Since the only reference number Shaker Creek High had was a land line, one that had been out of service for over two years, no school officials would be cluing in my carefree Mommy Dearest. Citizens considered Shaker Creek a high-ranking school, so it was possible they might care enough to send out a truancy officer. In the event, that it happened, I would be hiding in my bunker-like bedroom, attempting to take another nap.

Naps were my primary defense against the stress I was feeling...as long as my father didn't pop into them. I had been hoping my new crush would stay all day, but he said he needed to ride over to Jamesville to pick up parts for a new chopper he was helping Slither build.

"Why didn't you go with the Assassins? I thought everyone was heading out of town," I queried, most definitely not sorry that he had stayed.

I still hadn't gotten around to asking him why he had been standing in the midst of a blinding snowstorm, outside of my school, at eight-fifteen in the morning.

It had taken a minute before he answered. The clean lines of his baby-smooth cheeks contrasted against the ridiculous orange-plaid backdrop, as he leaned forward to contemplate his answer. His rough, oil-stained fingers twined together as he clasped his hands in pretense, sighing in resignation. His lowered, powdery-gray eyes portrayed a hesitancy in responding to my need to know the reason behind every action.

"Your mom said your dad had been telling her he was going to get out. I told her she needed to stay behind with you, but she didn't think he could get out of the institution. So... I stayed behind instead."

The words stung and blanketed me at the same time. The person that was supposed to have taken responsibility for me, had split. The last character anyone would suspect of being a caregiver gave up a trip, with his brothers, to protect a defenseless little girl. That's probably what he saw me as... a pitiful little child. I wasn't his problem, but he made me his problem. I doubted if it was because he was interested in my body. Intuition told me he was just trying to do for me, what no one had done for him. I guessed, at this point, I could care less what the answers were. I was just grateful I wouldn't be fighting my creature-father off alone.

"Oh. Well-thanks. I mean..."

I was at a loss for words. Fortunately, Bolt didn't care about words that much. He was so different from my friends, at school, who made it a point to harass anyone who looked uncomfortable or out of place. Bolt was much tougher than those fakes, and he didn't even have to say one word to prove it. Once upon a time, Bolt could have been a blundering kid, with shaggy blonde hair and worn clothes that no longer fit. But, now, he was a man that needed no approval from anyone. I wanted to be that strong; to live like nothing anyone thought of me mattered.

Bolt shook his head in his typical laid-back fashion, smiling at me from across the antique couch. The distance was killing me.

"Nah. You're fine, Nova. I'll be twenty minutes away, and I know, for a fact, your dad won't be back tonight. He nearly had a stroke when I told him, if he came back, I would feed him to my pitties. Ha! Maybe not cool of me to threaten him with my babies, but scary enough to keep him away," Bolt rambled, his Cajun accent free-flowing by now. His uncharacteristic chattiness put me at ease for the moment.

"I don't hate him, you know," I interjected.

Bolt's sedate expression reflected no surprise.

"Yeah, I know. I didn't hate my dad when he tried to kill my mom, when I was eight, either. It took me growing up with him in the state pen to finally figure out he was where he belonged...still loved him though."

Bolt's crispy voice had cracked a little when he had said the last part. I was willing to bet his dad was still in jail, to this day, and it would never be easy for him to think about.

"Well, I better get on now. I'm supposed to meet that dude at three and, at this rate, I'm gonna have to make my own road to get there in time," Bolt said as if we were becoming pals.

He fake-punched me in the upper-right arm. His slight glance caused warm prickles on my entire right side. I returned a smile of my own, and I hoped it looked pretty to him.

My mom had split town with an outlaw biker gang, my father had escaped a mental institution for dangerous nuts, and I was in trouble at school in more than one way. Yet, I was feeling happier than I had in years.

Self-preservation guide rule #7: You can't help who you love, but you can choose what to do with your love.
Chapter Twenty-Two

I was more than a little worried about the possibility of my father showing back up while Bolt was out of town. I knew the chances of that occurrence were slim because I had witnessed the terror on my dad's face when Bolt had picked him up by the front of his shirt. The strange thing was, I doubted that Bolt would become his new target in place of the Heizelmans. Yellow-bellies tended to focus on poor folks that were unable to fight back. Mentally ill or not, Pops still had some wits about him or, at the very least, survival instincts. You didn't mess with a motorcycle club member...especially a Dutch Assassin. Everyone, around Springfield, knew what the Dutch Assassins were capable of under duress. I supposed I was even considered an unofficial crew member. If anything happened to me, there would be hell to pay. I might not have had food in my house all the time, but I had protection. My reality was one great-big, monumental irony.

I resolved to forgo the nap I had been considering because I didn't want to give my father another chance to sneak up on me. Looking around my characteristically grubby house, I surmised that any further efforts to clean would be futile. I simply didn't have the proper supplies to get the dirt out. At a loss for what to do with myself, I squatted, once again, on the orange love seat I had shared with Bolt, less than an hour before. I could create situational daydreams about Bolt all day or watch some mindless basic TV. I usually didn't watch the tube out in the living room, due to the club activity that often went on in the main area of the house.

I wondered if my lacquer mirror Fat Gator had used, still lying flat in the corner of the living room, had powdery residue on its smudged surface. Before returning it to my room, I would need to rinse it off first. Somehow, knowing now that Fat Gator would likely fight to the death for me, made me a little less mad at him for carelessly defacing my property.

I didn't realize how much time had passed while I was off in my own world, until the front door clattered, causing me to jolt in my skin. Glaring at the entrance, while gripping the broom handle I had placed at my feet, instant relief calmed my nerves when I heard Henry's familiar greeting.

"Hullo! Nova?"

I fumbled with the latch on the door for my second-best friend. Henry's rusty eyebrows arched into mountain peaks, as he rushed through the creaky threshold.

"What the hell, Nova? The school put out an alert for you this morning when you took off. What happened?"

I stumbled back as I racked my brain for an honest explanation. Gesturing towards the new favorite orange loveseat, I ordered: "Have a seat, Henry. I'll explain it to you the best that I can."

His expression softened a little as he balanced on the edge of the gnarly cushion. He had appeared as if he had worried the entire day.

"Things got crazy at school today, bro. I went head-to-head with Veronica and Laila. We're over. I mean, I haven't told them officially, but, I'm out."

Henry didn't look the slightest bit astounded. Not much gets past the entire school when it happens in the halls of Shaker Creek High.

"I knew that, silly. The whole school has been buzzing all day. I mean, why did you leave school? You took off after the whole face-off with the rich bitches. What gives?"

I could tell, from the beginning, what he was getting at. How could I reveal to him I was cavorting with a biker dude and playing hide-and-go-seek with my crazy dad? I suppose, I had already told him part of the story. What if I told him everything and he decided he couldn't handle being friends with someone that carried so much drama? Taking chances was what had kept me afloat, for so many years. My endeavors had even gotten me a place in one of the most elite social groups in the city of Springfield. The same character trait had also gotten me kicked out of the group, as surely as it had gotten me in.

"Well...It's kind of a long story," I began.

"I've got time," Henry reinforced, his amber eyes glimmering in the early-afternoon sun.

"Take your contacts out," I stipulated.

Confusion and dismay played on Henry's youthful countenance.

"Why?" Henry asked with discomfort, his eyes staring into his lap, avoiding my targeted eye contact.

Reaching out, I grabbed one of his sweaty hands that lay flat, palms down, on his faded denim covered knees.

"Because, I need to see you for who you really are so I can trust you."

Henry still looked doubtful, but he let go of my hand to do what I requested.

I already knew that he hated baring his natural eyes. His fingers were steady as he removed the colored lenses from his natural blue eyes. I perceived his hesitation, in the entire process, so I kissed him.

It was a simple peck on the lips, but I could tell it meant more to him than what I had intended. After his initial shock, he kissed me back, with more pressure. It was a pleasant kiss, even though I meant it as an ice-breaker, to make him feel better. When his mouth parted to invite me in a French version, I pulled away at once, to signal the end of the make-out session. I had forgotten that boys were notorious for misinterpreting the meaning of simple gestures and Henry was no exception.

"Sorry," Henry muttered, as he adjusted his purple 'I Love Jelly' shirt that had ridden up a bit, exposing his flat, well-toned midriff.

I chuckled a little.

"No problem," I said as I searched his fascinating mismatched blue eyes.

His sky-blue eyes were now focused on mine and I felt more at ease with him.

"I have a biker friend, which showed up at school today, and I followed him. It turns out, he is keeping watch over me while my mom is out of town.

I could tell, by the odd look he was giving me that Henry didn't get it yet, so I went on.

"My dad got out of the institution he was being held at. He's been trying to contact me so I can help him burn down my old neighbor's house. Bolt is hanging around to keep that from happening."

I had thought Henry would take this news in stride but, instead, he appeared very distressed. He was observing me as if he felt sorry for me, or as if I might sprout two heads and eat him up.

"Nova...I think we had better talk to someone about this. I'm really worried about you."

I was disheartened, yet I couldn't say I was surprised at his reaction.

"Damn, Henry! We already went over this last night, remember? Social Services-perverts in the foster care system? This is the only safe way I can deal with my situation, right now."

Henry seemed a bit frightened.

"Nova, I think you're a little confused right now and we really need to get you help. Can you please trust me?" Henry pleaded his familiar face stricken with emotion as he attempted to grasp my hand.

My hand edged away from his.

My annoyance developed into displeasure. How could I expect someone, who had never gone through what I had, to agree with me? If he didn't go along with my plan, he was going to screw-up everything.

"Henry, Henry, Henry! You are freaking out for no reason! Just trust me. I know what I am doing!"

What I had attempted, as a rationalization, came out in a burst of defensive energy. I saw myself grabbing fistfuls of his grape-colored tee shirt, as I pleaded with him for permission to continue my wild ride.

"Nova...stop it."

My knuckles were now pushing into his solid purple chest.

"Bolt will be back in about an hour. Talk to him. You'll see!" I spat out.

"Nova, I don't..." Henry started but paused.

"Never mind. All you need to remember, is that I'm your friend, okay? You have to trust me. If you just take my hand, I'll make sure you are safe. You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to go. I promise you that."

Henry's words were earnest enough, but I was too far gone to accept his way. Shoving away from him, with all of the force I could muster, I took flight. Caught off-guard, Henry fell back into the gaudy orange loveseat as I scrambled out the door. Henry wasn't on my side; he never was. He might be a nice guy, but my nightmare was not his.

It was freezing in the blinding-gray winter dusk, and I was only wearing a thin yellow hoodie. I ran, like there was a pack of wild dogs on my heels, not thinking of where I might go...I just ran.

After traveling two blocks to the east, I stopped and looked back. Not a soul followed in the dim, snow-fallen lane. My six-inch deep tracks were invisible in the crunchy bleached snow. Deep punctuated breaths clouded my vision. I saw two figures, in the distance, heading my way, so I cut into the alleyway between two identical subdivision houses. Crouching behind a tall Rubbermaid trash bin, I peeked to the side, just enough, to spy the owners of the rumbling voices. The figure, closest to the house on the treacherous sidewalk, was Henry. For a moment, I couldn't make out the other bundled up character until they passed by. Then it hit me. Taller figure's dragging gait gave him away. Henry was collaborating with my father!
Chapter Twenty-Three

My stomach ached as if I had been kicked in the guts, and I was terrified that I might pass out. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping me from curling up, in a fetal ball, and giving up. I crouched down, for a moment, behind a refuse container, letting the frozen brick wall support my unsteady posture. There was little time to think but, I had to gather myself before I jumped the gun and got captured. With no time to let Henry's betrayal sink in, I had to devise a quick plan.

If Henry had turned his back on me, it was also likely that Ginger could not be trusted, either. In fact, she had already proven the possibility to me, with her slutty behavior. No, my only confidant in this situation was Bolt. He was the singular person, in my world, who had yet to let me down.

I could attempt make it on my own, but I wasn't altogether naïve. I knew what happened to girls, my age, which ran away from home. More often than not, they ended up on the streets, paying their debts, to their pimps, with their bodies. Nope, that wasn't going to be me.

Bolt might be my only hope, and if he failed me, I was done in. At this point, I had nothing to lose. I wasn't lying, when I admitted to Henry and Ginger that I was petrified of the foster-care system. Maybe it didn't happen to all the kids, but one case of abuse in the system was too many. I'd be better off attempting to fare on the streets.

With Henry and my father patrolling the area, it was going to be difficult to get back to an accessible place Bolt might find me. I had failed to carry my I phone with me, and even if I had it, I doubted if anyone from the club would answer my call to give me his number. Dutch Assassins weren't big on communication.

Worried that I would freeze to the side of the brick wall if I retained my hiding spot much longer, I elevated to a hunched stance, peeking as far into the street as I dared. Both directions appeared to be empty and silent. What had started out as microscopic-silver crystals were, now, quarter-sized fluffy white bombs landing on my vulnerable body. The snow made a light crackling sound when it landed on my bare head and shoulders. The rest of the world was silent.

Making a decisive move, I headed toward home, on the treacherous sidewalk. I could have tried to navigate through the back yards, but the snow was drifting to depths I might get trapped in. Time was of the essence, and rolling around in snow forts, while Bolt was heading back to my house, was not in my game-plan.

Faint golden squares signified the ramshackle destination I was drawn to. With my shack in sight, I picked up my trudging pace, only to lose my balance. I came crashing down on my left side, my left hip taking most of the crushing impact. When people speak of not feeling pain right away, when they become injured, well, this wasn't one of those times. It took everything I had not to shout out a string of cuss words, as I writhed in agony, in my deep grave of evil snow. Wet-blasted flakes pelleted my prone body, as I struggled to stand up. As I scrambled, for balance, my foot began to drift to the side, as I groaned with the effort of putting weight on my left hip. A white-hot iron stung my left leg joint, while my trembling right appendage overcompensated for its twin, on a surface that felt as slick as snot.

On cue, an echoing rumble blessed my ear drums from the background, as I posed like an idiot, in the lane of a darkened snow-packed sidewalk. The grumble became a chutting-growl, as Bolt accelerated through the hazardous streets, gaining momentum until he spotted my ridiculous stance. The magnificent engine ebbed to an impressive purr, as Bolt pulled alongside me, his face obscured by an icy, gray helmet. Lifting up the foggy visor, Bolt's darkened features played second to his twinkling, gunpowder eyes.

"I'm not even going to ask. Get on," Bolt directed, towards my invalid form.

Hobbling, at a pace I believed unsafe only seconds before, I felt myself losing gravity. My arms jutted out for balance and then the black snow-dotted sky became my sole point-of-view. This time was less traumatic yet it returned stinging reminder pains to my left side. I lay, paralyzed, in the disturbed garden of ice, with the face of a wayward angel hovering in the three-dimensional, heaven-sent showers of silent snowfall.

"Gee, walk in snow much?" Bolt asked as his lovely, misted face appeared closer.

Midnight-leather squeaked as Bolt scooted his hands beneath my back and splayed-out legs. Intense pain shot down my left side, to the end of my toes, causing me to cry out like a little baby.

"Funny. Hurry, though! We need to get out of here and we can't go back to the house."

Bolt lifted me, carrying me, like a light parcel, towards his resting green chopper. His black shell was ice, like a glacial automobile seat in the winter. The heat from his face emanated towards mine, like a hot-burning fire. This time, I gravitated towards the warmth, like a moth to a flame.

Bolt threw me a concerned, yet exasperated, look.

"You need to get back to the house. You're injured," Bolt commanded the obvious.

"No, shit. But my dad's back there with my neighbor and it's not safe to go back," I justified.

Bolt sighed, in drawn-out patience, as he placed me on the seat of the still-warm machine. Holding on to Bolt's leather-sheathed arm, I eased my left leg over the smooth, ample seat, sucking in the frigid air, as jolts of fire shot down my lowered appendage.

"It doesn't matter who's there. I'm here now, and home is where you belong," Bolt replied as he straddled the tamed beast.

The well-tuned motor roared to life and we were resting in my driveway in a matter of seconds.

He had left no room for me to argue back. If we were going to be together, he was going to have to learn to give in a little. Things couldn't remain one-sided for long. Being insanely hot was only going to get him so far with me.

My rickety front door stuck in the freezing air, and then with a loud crack, it popped open, with Bolt carrying me through the narrow threshold into the dark front room. My father and Henry were already there, positioned on opposing sides of the room. I shrank against Bolt's freezing leather-clad chest and tightened my grip around his solid muscular neck. His wet hair tickled my cheek. Even in the heat of the moment, his brake cleaner and wood chip smell aroused my senses. Bolt strode, like he lived there, to my favored orange sofa, setting me down as if I was an infant child.

My father stood up, facing Bolt, and I leaned back, in my crippled state, to follow the showdown.

"Thank you for bringing her back, Bolt. I think we can all agree, this is in her best interests," my father addressed Bolt.

"I didn't bring her back for you, Mr. Price. I brought her back because this is where she belongs. Her mom left me in charge of her and this is where she is going to remain until she gets back," Bolt reprimanded, with a blazing-steel glare.

Henry sprang up from the rickety wooden chair he had been waiting in. He appeared to be more than a little mixed-up.

"Wait, Mr. Price...I know you've been away for a while and I'm sorry I never introduced myself but what, exactly, did you have in mind with Nova when you came here?" Henry asked my dad.

"Sit down, kid. This is between me and him," Bolt ordered Henry, with more than a little authority.

Henry didn't automatically do as he was told. I could tell he wasn't intimidated, or impressed, by Bolt's motorcycle club affiliation or superior physique.

"Sorry, man. I'm here to make sure Nova is safe, too, and you don't know anything about me. Don't assume I'm just some dumb, useless kid," Henry countered with self-confidence.

His amber eyes glowed, with defiance, in the dismal gathering room. A signature-curl slid down into Henry's right eye, to which he responded with an absentminded swipe from the back of his right hand.

I was kind of proud of Henry, even though he had taken the wrong side in this matter. Bolt's bland expression showed no change of his position in the matter. Henry had neither impressed him nor angered him.

"I don't have time to explain it to you, right now, kid. I have to deal with this," Bolt retorted as he gestured at my odd father.

My dear-old-dad shot towards Bolt, without saying a word. Seasoned Bolt met his attempted blows, with a simple move, and my dad hit the nappy-green carpet with a massive thud. Henry shot over to the duo as if he could help the situation.

Seconds later, Bolt instructed Henry to find duct-tape.

I hated to tell either of them that the chances of striking gold in my house were greater than finding a roll of duct-tape. If anyone had perceived it was impossible to retain food in my house, it was even harder to keep other supplies. We had gone a solid eight weeks once without my mother ever having purchased toilet paper. Fortunately, I kept a stash of pillow-soft toilet paper hidden in my room because small comforts were worth spending my own money on.

"Eh-you're not going to find that kind of luxury in this place, bro," I advised Henry (who had begun his futile search, heading toward my kitchen).

Henry stopped in his tracks while mumbling something. He still wore a grape-colored shirt that was now soaking wet like my yellow hoodie.

Bolt searched my face as he continued to pin my disadvantaged father to the filthy green floor.

"What about belts, Nova? You have belts, don't you?" he inquired while deflecting the backward swats my father was aiming at him.

Finally, there was something I could do to help.

"Hell yeah, I have belts. I have fat belts, skinny belts, leather belts, cloth belts, even chain belts. Just don't use my Silver and Black Louis Vuitton belt. It's worth a ton more than the others," I bragged.

Henry tossed me a raised eyebrow as he changed directions, heading for my room beyond the bright egg-yolk colored kitchen.

"I'm not going to know which one is Louis Vuitton. You're just going to have to catch it if I bring it back in," Henry yelled from my room.

Bolt smiled the tiniest bit. It was weird, but I think he kind of liked Henry's attitude.

Henry dumped a rainbow belt pile that could have easily busted a five-gallon bag. The deposited mound was inches from Bolt's thick leather biker boot.

"Grab that thin black one right there," Bolt instructed Henry, as he nodded at the snake-pile.

I felt stupid and helpless, as people, I wasn't even related to, were binding my father. It should have been me taking care of this problem and not my friends.

"This one?" Henry asked as he pulled a thin faux snakeskin belt from the nest.

"Yep, and the red one it's stuck to will do, also," Bolt replied, more affable than before.

Henry grasped the two belts and shoved the dangling accessories in Bolt's lowered face.

Bolt scowled, with irritation, at Henry's ignorance.

"What am I supposed to do with them? You have to do it, kid."

Bolt's disdain didn't seem to faze Henry, who was intent on helping.

"Alright, man, what do you want me to do?" Henry asked, with evident enthusiasm.

I watched the odd pair work together, with awkward symbiosis. It amazed me how Henry had jumped right into helping Bolt, who was a natural leader. However, if given a choice of the two of them, it was clear who I would pick to be my beau.

"Loop the long end through the handle, as if it was already around your waist. Do the same thing with the red one. When I pull Mr. Price up and hold his arms together, you place the black loop around his wrists and pull it tight. I'll show you what to do next," Bolt mandated, with a calm voice.

"Let's do it," Henry agreed.

The two of them succeeded in binding my struggling dad, as I watched from my perch from the orange love seat. They had tied my pops up in a way that looked as painless as I could imagine, under the circumstances. That didn't keep him from yelling out and trying to wreak havoc. Bolt finally gagged my too-vocal father with a greasy-looking black bandanna.

"Sorry, hate to do this to you, Mr. Price, but you didn't stop yelling when I asked you to," Bolt reasoned, as he stood over his incapacitated figure.

Henry stood up, turning to look at me but addressing Bolt: "So, what do we do now? Call the hospital?"

Bolt was unresponsive, as he ambled over to the love seat where I sat, taking a spot next to me and easing back.

"No hospital. No cops," Bolt answered.

"But- isn't he supposed to go back in?" Henry stammered, with confusion.

"That doesn't matter. No one, not even the hospital, can know I'm here. Mr. Price will just have to stay here until Nova's mom returns, and then she can deal with it."

I wasn't sure, by the puzzled look on his face, that Henry bought Bolt's vague explanation, but I believed that Henry looked up to him enough not to further question him. Henry didn't bring up the scenario that Bolt could hide while Henry stayed behind, as the hospital picked my father up. I'm sure we were both thinking it; nevertheless, Henry went right along with the crime.

Crazy-dad crouched in the middle of the pea-soup colored rug. He was decorated like a Christmas tree with black, red and shiny blue bands, topped off with a black neckerchief (only it was in his mouth, not around his neck). Struggling like a water soaked cat, while emitting the most God-awful moaning, my dear-old-dad made sure we didn't forget about him. While I was living out my most feared nightmare, I was appreciative that my two unusual confidants were in it with me.

Henry decided he was hungry (as most growing teenage boys did), proceeding to rummage my empty wooden cabinets for a tasty snack. Finally, after zero success, he settled for any remnant of any edible sustenance he could find. What he ended up with was a basic meat and cheese sandwich, on white bread, that had direct origins tied the kind efforts of Bolt. Bolt and I partook in a sandwich, grouped with Henry, in a semi-circle in the depressing yellow kitchen. Devoid of plates or napkins, we chewed our simple fare while my pops grumbled his fits in the next room. After Bolt had consumed his sandwich, he made another, bringing it into the living room while balancing it on a tiny, orange plastic tea plate.

Shrieking and howling immediately ensued, after Bolt pulled the wet gag away from my devil-father's slobbery mouth. My dad lunged forward, still bound, attempting to bite off a chunk of Bolt's bare forearm. He wasn't quick enough, though. Bolt shoved my maniacal father back, transforming him into an overturned turtle that struggled for upright dignity. Bolt pulled Mad-Dad back upright, into a sitting position, and brought the tattered white-bread sandwich inches from his face, only to have him reject it with a sharp turn of his head.

"This is your only chance to eat tonight, Mr. Price. Don't miss that train. I won't offer again."

My pops kept his head turned away from the sandwich and responded with a dog-like, ear-splitting howl. Without hesitation, Bolt placed the orange plate on the nubby green rug, reached over, and yanked the wet bandana rag up from my father's scrawny neck, back over his mouth.

"That's fine, Mr. Price. Maybe you'll change your mind by the morning."

Henry's coppery eyes flashed with panic.

"Shit! I'm due at South Landing in less than 30 minutes! I still have to go home, pack up the equipment, and grab the new set-list," Henry sputtered with panic.

I felt sorry for Henry because he had spent all of his free time with my shenanigans. Now, he was going to be late and piss off his crew.

Bolt directed his calm gray gaze my way and said, "Go with him, Nova. He helped save your ass, now help him. "

I was a tad disappointed that Bolt was willing to send me off with another boy, but I knew he was right.

Henry grinned at Bolt. Oh great, I thought, was this turning into a bromance?

"What about my father? I hate to leave..."

Bolt let his eyelids drop, leaning his head back.

"I've got this-just go. Besides, it's better for you to be seen in public, so no one thinks you've gone missing."

His confidence was unfaltering. I wish mine were.

Self-preservation guide rule #8: Learn from those who are stronger than you.
Chapter Twenty-Four

Henry and I packed up his music equipment, with Ginger's help. In a matter of minutes, exceeded the speed limit on route to the club, making it with five minutes to spare. We had been in such a rush, Ginger and I barely had time to talk. I lacked confidence about cluing another person in on my dirty little secret, even my best friend. If given the option, I wouldn't have chosen for Henry to have found out, either. Bolt was the singular one, I knew, who was a willing accomplice in my mess. I couldn't say that I understood why, but sometimes it was better not to question things.

With a half-hour until show time, Ginger turned to face me, her cinnamon eyebrows raised in perfect arches. I had a feeling she was going to give me the third degree. That's what best friends did.

"Where have you been all day, Nova? Disappearing like that was crazy! I know the Riches got to you, but you're tough. I've seen you face down bigger bitches than them. What gives?"

I paused and sipped from the icy cherry-limeade drink Henry had purchased for me. South Landing's compact loft-style club was filling up with young, under-aged teens. South Landing was the only establishment in Eastern Springfield that hosted 18 and under nights for youth. The bar shut down liquor sales for the night, and if adults came, they sought the latest contemporary music. Looking at the growing throng of anticipatory, yet angst-ridden, individuals, I realized that _Pale Crow_ was a popular band.

"Holy Crap, is that Megan Garcia from Lansing Timbers? Remember her stunt at last New Year's bash at South Landing? I can't believe she had the nerve to show up here!" I attempted, while gesturing at an attractive long-haired brunette who was sauntering towards the built-up wooden stage.

Ginger wasn't buying it. The green flecks, in her inquisitive eyes, flashed like fire in the dimming blue-cast lights.

"I'm not buying it, Nova. Talk to me," she demanded.

I didn't know why I had even tried the diversion. Hadn't Ginger hadn't gotten me to spill my guts hundreds of times before? This time, though, my life depended on the right words. If I told her the real story and it slipped out in front of the wrong people, I could be shipped off to live as a tortured-by-day sex slave, somewhere, in the basement of a well-loved minister.

I pictured a heavy-set, dark-clothed, older man that preferred to wear his white collar all of the live-long-day. He would pleasantly answer his door to a couple of old biddy church-goers, and then appease their intrusiveness by accepting a beautifully baked apple pie. After sending the ignorant, yet well-meaning, bright-clothed elderly ladies away, he would force me to slather my naked body in apple pie goo. Then, after dragging me down the steep wooden steps, he would force me onto the brightly-lit sub-floor where he would snap pictures of me as he did sick and perverse things to me. His beautiful blonde, upstanding wife would be in on it too. After all...how could you hide something like that?

A chill ran down my spine, causing me to shudder. I hoped Ginger hadn't caught that. Taking in a deep breath, I hoped it would clear my head. I was grateful to see the shadows of Henry and his infamous band mates come to life in a sudden blaze of red spotlights. Seconds later, _Pale Crow_ bathed the tiny club with an eruption of sick chords and clever lyrics. For the moment, I was very happy.

I was pleased to hear _Chocolate Monkey_ as Henry's first selection. Weeks before, I had confided to him, in a moment of rare vulnerability that it was my favorite of his written songs because it reminded me of my young childhood. It was pretty cool when a friend remembered the little things.

_Chocolate Monkey_ was an upbeat sounding piece, wrought with darker undertones brought in by the bass guitar. I enjoyed every delicious second of my new favorite song. The next selection played was _Cheap Disaster_ , which Ginger and I both had decided was choice. The higher notes lightened the mood a bit after the initial heavier song. I glanced at Ginger, who was swaying enthusiastically to the punctuated tones of _Next time_ , and felt a little calmer. I anticipated that she would dismiss her need to know my personal business.

I knew it was selfish of me to try and keep the truth from her, as I went to her with almost every matter in my life, but my fear of being sent away was greater than my need to preserve our friendship. Besides, she had chosen to keep her mom's cancer from me for a long duration. Even though her mother had asked her and Henry not to share the bad news, she could have revealed it to me and I wouldn't have said a word to anyone. My best friend would probably feel matching resentment if she knew what I was holding back. Perhaps, our friendship bond wasn't as tightly sealed as I had previously conceived.

Analyzing every situation had been taking a toll on me. I caught myself grinding my teeth, even in the light of day, and my muscles were on fire from being tense all of the time. This music show should have brought me enjoyment and relaxation, but all I could do was worry about what was going to happen next in my real-life drama.

Ginger continued to groove to the brilliant tunes as I started to drift away. My eyes were lidded with stone weights, the green haze casted a sheen of hellish debauchery. Ginger's coiled tresses became thick, like earthworms, squirming in the damp black soil we were all encased beneath. The other demon people turned around to laugh at me, as I swiftly backed up in revolt. I bumped into a green-skinned Medusa, with hair made of writhing black snakes. Her eye sockets glowed like fiery embers, her mouth gaped and needle-like teeth protruded like a piranha's. No longer just repulsed, I screamed in pure terror, now sure that I was trapped in a real-life horror movie.

From that point, every motion was played in fast-forward. I could no longer hear any noise at all. My ears were plugged and my eyes captured the only remaining senses I had.

The show stopped, Ginger was back to being Ginger and the lights were harshly florescent. A multitude of young faces peered down at me in, what looked like, a real concern. Ginger's flushed face was at the forefront of the masses; then came Henry's. With intense pain, sound rushed back into my ear canals, like the whooshing of a vacuum.

"Nova! Nova! Are you okay?"

I stared up at her safe countenance, my eyes unblinking.

"Call 911, somebody!" Ginger yelled at no one, in particular.

"No, I'm fine. Don't call," I croaked out, as loudly as I could.

My throat was dry, as were my eyes.

"Are you sure, sweetie? What is going on? Why were you screaming?"

"I fell on the ice earlier...it was pain," I told my half-truth.

"Well, honey, you should get that checked out then," Ginger tried to insist.

"No! I had it looked at earlier, and I'm okay. I just bumped it against a table or something."

Visages were starting to drift away, but Ginger's and Henry's remained.

Henry seemed scared, and Ginger looked pissed off. Well, she probably wasn't truly angry-perhaps confused. Henry leaned down near to my face, his peppermint-breath enveloping my pocket of oxygen.

"Nova...maybe it's time to get some help. This has gone too far, don't you think?"

Immediately, I sat up, almost conking my dizzy head into his hairy one. He flipped one bronze strand out of his intense-coppery orb.

"No, Henry, I have all the help I need. If you want out, you can be out. Just leave me be."

Henry's hanging locks didn't camouflage his hurt feelings. Human emotions were funny. Men, especially, pretended to be invincible to every danger, but say one cross word, and they became wilted flowers.

"Come on, Nova. You've been acting too weird lately and Ginger's not going to let it go," Henry urged.

I scooted back a couple of inches because Henry was way too intense.

"Well, shit. Okay, okay. Aside from my family trouble, I've had day-dreams. You know, where you actually fall asleep. And, I promise I will really get help when my mom gets back. It's just that I don't know if we have insurance. I need to find out, for sure before I go racking up some doctor bills we can't pay," I fibbed in a little voice.

It was half true. I was having day-terrors, but I was positive it was due to increased stress. The part about me not knowing if I had insurance was also valid...as well as the possibility of my mom getting mad over uncovered doctor bills. The gray area was the piece of speech where I had said I would get help, later. I had no plans of going to any doctor, no matter how bad my day-terrors got. I was positive they would go away after my dad was put back into the hospital where he belonged.

To my luck, my speech seemed to appease Henry, for the time being.

"All right. You have two days. That's when your mom is supposed to be back, right?"

He didn't wait for me to answer.

"If you don't get help after she gets back, I'll be knocking on your door, to help you find help," Henry said, in the sternest voice he could muster.

His hand was offered, palm side up. I couldn't help but notice dark red marks on the tips of his fingers. I wondered if that was from playing the guitar.

"Yep. I got it, Captain," I appeased.

Ginger's reddish haze rushed in as I stood up.

"What's going on? Are you going to the hospital?" Ginger demanded as her rusty curls bounced.

"I already saw a doctor, remember, I just said that. I will be fine. Now please, let it go so we can finish the show," I snapped.

This time, Ginger looked pissed off.

"What the hell, Nova? You've had these episodes and you haven't bothered to mention them to me? I thought we were best friends! Best friends don't hide these kinds of things from each other!" Ginger's words flew out in a slew of dramatic emotion.

"Please don't do this now. I'm so tired. I just want to watch the fucking show and I don't want to talk about it. Can we just do that?"

I was drained. Exhausted, in fact. Why couldn't she just leave me be? God, she could be so pushy.

"Fine. If that's the way, you want it, Nova. But, I'm telling you, you're setting yourself up for a huge crash-landing. You can try to hide it, but I know something's wrong. If you keep dealing with it alone, no one's going to be there to pick you up when you fall," she said in a higher-than-normal voice.

I thought to myself that she should be a daytime soap actress, as dramatic as she was being. Maybe I was being a bitch, but I just didn't want to share everything. My position was too agonizing to talk about, even with my best friend. I had felt safer burying it under the pretense of being somebody important...and now that my guise was over, I would have to cover it some other way. I just didn't know how yet.

Self-preservation guide rule #8: Everyone will eventually get on your nerves. Learn to deal with it.
Chapter Twenty-Five

Borrowed time. That's what I was living on.

Henry went ahead, playing the rest of his gig, but it wasn't with the same intensity he had started with and it was my fault. Ginger hardly spoke to me during, or after, the show. She might have been mad at me, but if she were a real friend, her concern should have overshadowed my temporary snappiness. My carefully-constructed daytime life was slipping away from me and, pretty soon, my existence was going to be one long nightmare from which I could never wake up.

Henry dropped Ginger off first, and then brought me home, making sure to follow me inside. Bolt lounged on the burnt-orange love seat, his eyes glued to the grainy screen of my ancient console television. The characters from an eighties sitcom argued over how to hide some fiasco they had gotten themselves into. Maybe I needed to stay tuned so I could learn how to deal with my mess, I thought with full cynicism

My dad was still belt-bound but, now, he sat on the insipid couch, beside Bolt. He must have given up on escape. Bolt was a pretty convincing character, possibly even, for a crazy man.

I felt left out, sitting on the larger, tan couch. The distressed leather felt chilled, as I was sure no warm bodies had occupied it as of late. Henry made himself at home, settling in beside me in the ill-supported sofa. I would rather have had Bolt as my partner in the sinking camel-colored nesting area. Henry and I gravitated towards each other, the result of having no springs underneath the cushions. It was a wonder the long pieces of leather clad foam didn't fall through to the nappy-green floor below. I adjusted my weight to pull away from Henry's oblivious form that had no qualms about leaning into my personal space.

I didn't want it to appear, to Bolt, that I was in any way interested or obligated to Henry. Bolt didn't seem to notice, though. His serene charcoal eyes were glued to the terrible television screen, as patterns of blue and white light bounced off of his god-like face. I sighed in despair. I should never have kissed Henry because he was becoming more of a complication, than a comfort, to me.

Blue and white cartoony light bounced from my dear-old-dad's gag-endowed mug. The phosphorescence didn't caress his hairy face in the same manner that it enhanced Bolt's. My father's head and neck area seemed woolier than before I had left for Henry's gig. His beard stuck out in silvery tufts, around the gooey black rag that bisected his cheeks, and his chin area was wet, like the muzzle of a long-bearded dog. I had no clue of the speed at which a man's facial hair could grow.

I glanced, with annoyance, at Henry. His rusty hair was getting out of control, the scruffiness making him less attractive. Small things like inattention to grooming, or not getting my obvious hints, were beginning to eat away at me. Without a word, I jumped up, causing Henry to tumble over to the center of the brown-cushioned nest. Henry grinned, which further irritated me.

At least my erratic move made Bolt glance up from the television.

"What's up, lil' lady?" Bolt asked, in his signature Louisiana drawl.

My arms broke out in goose bumps, as before, when he had addressed me.

I was awkward, weird, and my hands felt mummified, as I squeezed them together.

"I don't think I'm going back to school," I stated.

I don't know what had prompted me to blurt that thought out, but I couldn't take it back.

Bolt surveyed my jelly-like stance, as Henry leaned forward in his dirty nest, dying to offer his two cents.

"That may be a good idea for tomorrow, or at least until your ma returns. Then we can-" Bolt started.

"I mean ever. I am not going back to school. Ever," I cut in.

Bolt's pretty-boy visage wrinkled a bit, as he turned the volume down on the idiot-box.

"Nova Rae, I know you are having a rough time right now, but this is not the time to make rushed decisions. Maybe, after you get with your ma, you can..." Bolt countered.

"No! I've already thought about it, and my mind is made up," I interrupted once again.

Henry interjected from behind me, "Don't let the Riches dictate your life, Nova. Who the hell cares if you are part of the A crowd at school? They suck the life right out of you, anyways."

Bolt said nothing as he waited for my reaction. Smart man.

I spoke to Henry without turning to face him: "I didn't ask for your opinion, Henry. This isn't your problem, anyway. Come to think of it, I don't know why you are still here."

My words came out mean and I knew it. What I didn't expect was for Bolt to take his side.

"That's pretty harsh, Nova. He's gone out of his way to help you. I would say that's a real friend and those are hard to come by," Bolt lectured from his burnt-orange throne.

I guessed that Henry appreciated Bolt coming to his defense, but he got up to leave, anyway. Instant regret washed over me, as Henry snatched his patched denim jacket from the arm of the sunken-in old cowhide we had been sitting on. His down-turned face hid the slap I had dealt him, his hair glinting cherry-red from the brilliant essence of my television screen. I found my dilemma damn confusing...to have feelings for two boys at once. I couldn't seem to sort out my affections, without hurting one of them. As he left, I desired to call out Henry's name but I said nothing, as the front door softly closed.

Bolt didn't bring Henry up again. I appreciated the fact that he recognized that I was in plenty of pain, without his adding insult to injury. Sensing that Bolt also perceived that further mention of my schooling would bring us both to another dead end, I silenced my words, settling into the brown sofa-nest. I watched Bolt's retreating figure, as he walked towards the tiny bathroom that was nestled in between my mother's closed bedroom door and the entry to the kitchen.

I was left in the dim family room, with my father, who perched on the edge of the cozy love seat he had been sharing with his new best friend. Still incapacitated, with my designer belts and the black rag, his pale-blue eyes bulged, as he glared into me his message of betrayal. He was positioned in a way, which he would have to gain higher momentum than what he was currently capable of, to stand up from the couch.

I dared not gaze at dad for too long. He had already started his beast-like transformation while Bolt was in the bathroom. His eyes were a milky green, his fingers sharp like talons, and his face was hidden by scraggly-blonde animal fur. His breaths panted out and his dry skin crinkled like paper, as he shifted his muscular body.

With my eyes now glued to the blinking effervescent television screen, I pined for Bolt's return to the living room. Every excruciating second played out in slow-motion, as I refused to look at what was sitting next to me on the burnt-orange couch. I could hear rustling of the giant insect and it made my skin crawl.

Dripping with sweat, beneath my black tee shirt, I felt for saturation beneath my shirt tail and was met with cold, wet jersey knit material. Bolt finally returned, sauntering past me, with no apparent anxiety towards my monstrous father that crouched as he waited for him.

Bolt surveyed my tense aura, his powder-gray eyes projecting some epic statement that he was about to reveal.

"What do you say we order a pizza?"

Self-preservation guide rule #9: When in doubt, order a pizza.
Chapter Twenty-Six

The hot, cheesy pizza made me feel a lot better. Most of the time, I couldn't eat in these kinds of stressful situations, but something about being with Bolt made me comfortable enough to consume the delectable Italian pie.

Bolt tried to feed my dad before he ate but was rewarded with a face full of half-chewed red dough in a gooey stew of pink spittle. A lesser man might have struck my father in that instance, but Bolt was no ordinary man. As Bolt washed the masticated bread and sauce from his pristine face I, too, stepped into the cramped baby-blue bathroom. I offered him a fresh white tee-shirt of mine (we had no clean towels and I didn't want to defile him). He accepted the soft white clothing, patted his face and then took a better look at the cotton cloth.

"What's this?" Bolt asked as he handed back my still-folded top.

"It's better than a dirty old towel that Dog has dried his ass on, isn't it?" I asked, with all the remaining humor I could muster.

Bolt's eyes crinkled at the corners as he returned my humor.

"Well, thanks for saving me," he chuckled.

After what seemed longer than a few seconds of staring at each other, Bolt made the first move to leave. I could never read him. I wondered if he thought about me as often as I thought of him.

"We better get back in there with your dad. No telling what kind of trouble your old man is working up, in there."

"That's no joke," I retorted.

We both became animated as if we were jolted with an invisible shock of electricity. We even had trouble exiting through the narrow bathroom doorway at the same time. Bolt was clumsy, in one rarely-seen moment. I, on the other hand, was exhibiting a typical lack of dexterity.

Bolt was correct in his foretelling of my father's pesky predisposition for trouble. My weak-looking dad was lying on the floor, having inched like a worm, towards the front door. His wasted body was pressed against the faded white entry door, like a snake that seeks heat in the winter time. I would have laughed at the ridiculousness of it, if not for my father's rapidly-accumulating track record of bad behavior. His peskiness was getting old and I was already tired. I asked myself if this was how a forty-year-old felt inside and thought it was no wonder that my mom had always tried to escape responsibility.

Bolt's chuckle sounded hard, as someone who laughs when he discovers that his car has been stolen. Watching a middle-aged man squirm around on the filthy floor, like a wounded insect, might have been amusing if we had been in a movie theater audience. But this was real life, baby, and real life stunk like poo.

With considerable effort, regular pops was hauled back to the orange love seat by the two of us. I avoided looking at his bristly face while he struggled like a beast against us. His bumps and jabs were of no consequence, as my dazzling rainbow of bands did their job. I acknowledged, with some measure of pride, that less-expensive belts might have already broken.

Feeling lonely on the large tan sofa-nest, I prepared to go to bed, after checking my I phone. Unlike most days, the orange face of my perfect device was blank, displaying no messages or Snap Chats. Just days ago, my brilliant-sunburst screen would have been filled with the beginnings of more messages than I could count. Looking over at Bolt, who lounged beside my cumbersome father, I wordlessly sealed my initial decision to quit school. Minutes later, I was nestled deep, in the only security I had known in a very long time. Glorious sleep came, as I put an end to my hateful day.

Slumber was not kind for long. I had just drifted off, after what I believed to be a very short while, when I was startled to the creak of my door easing open. My body rebelled in exhaustion, as I fought the weight of physical pain that came from the lack of uninterrupted rest. My distracting fatigue had influenced me to ignore the sliding lock on the top of my bedroom door before I had collapsed into bed. I regretted the trust that I had put into someone I hardly knew and was angered at my own continued naivety. If only I were five years older, these troubles would have occurred to me. Being fifteen was a pain in the ass.

The dark figure in the doorway didn't move, as blue rays bounced into the threshold around it. My eyes strained to adjust to the low light, as I sought the identity of this intruder. Telltale tufts of hair around the monster's head gave my father away. Not positive that he could see into my room, I sat up in bed, pulling my heavy comforter aside. The creature-dad pounced, catapulting at my vacated bed, like a rabid dog.

I scrambled past the violent half-wolf, jetted into my living room and expected to see Bolt torn to shreds on the burnt-orange sofa. The living room was completely void of human existence. With utter panic rising in my chest, I shoved my feet into my mother's green crocks that she had left under the coat rack, yanked my thick blue Burberry coat from the crooked coat rack by the front door, and dashed back into the frigid night.

My weak hip stung like a hot flame, with each repeated impact from running. The sidewalks were even blacker than earlier, but I pushed away any lingering concern for safety with my higher priority of ultimate survival. My feet burned from the ice slush that seeped through the holes in the top of my mother's too-large foam shoes. Street blocks passed by and I ran, without any thought or care, of where I was headed to. The hidden alleyways would not protect me any more than a muscle bound biker could. This was my last hurrah and I was completely on my own.

Oddly enough, I was able to better navigate with no light than with dim incandescence. It was almost like my body was free from inhibition or fear of crashing. The crocks, though made for wearing in warm weather were, in fact, adept at gripping the icy ground. I had made it to Highway 90 before I knew it. A few cars skimmed by, their tires munching at the black ice as they took their chances out in the storm. Without contemplating, I stuck my padded blue arm out, towards a slow approaching red semi-truck.

The trucker had no choice but to apply air-brakes, in order to come to a complete stop. There was no turning back, as I climbed up the metal ice-covered step, pulling myself into the toasty, but ill-lit, cab. The middle-aged, pot-bellied trucker grinned at me, displaying a brilliant-white set of teeth (that were likely false).

"Where you headed to, miss?"

I was suddenly terrified at the impromptu decision I had just played-out. I had to appear sure of myself or I was a goner, for sure.

"Kansas City, if you're headed that way," I responded, hoping that I exuded more confidence than what I was feeling.

"Well, that just happens to be where I'm headed, next. You must have read my mind, little lady!" the crusty old man offered.

I nodded in agreement and wasn't sure that he had seen my acknowledgment, in the pale effulgence of the cab.

"I hope you don't mind me stopping up here at this next truck stop. A man's got to do his business every couple hundred miles, if you know what I mean!" the trucker exclaimed, with no less enthusiasm.

I deduced, with relief, that this unusual little man was completely harmless. At least, I reasoned that he wouldn't be heading for the rest stop to take a shit if he were planning on raping me right away. Minutes later, the miniature road-boss with perfect teeth, directed his rig into a truck stop, settling in a wide lane designated for semi- trucks.

"Well, here we are! Go inside and use the ladies' room if you care to! There won't be any stops again, before Kansas City. If I hadn't eaten that Firebomb chili at Margie's Diner earlier, I woulda been fifty miles closer to Kansas City, already! Hee hee hee!" the ludicrous pint-sized driver laughed out.

Unsure of how to respond, I nodded at him as he stepped down from the hot stale cab. He loped in a fast-paced gait, my guess was, trying to make it to the toilet in time. Tired from the running and still feeling agony in my hip, I made the election to remain in the smelly hot-box.

To say I was in over my head was an understatement, but I had no alternative. My insane father had probably killed Bolt and would never stop looking for me. Somehow, I felt more secure attempting to live on my own where my dad couldn't find me, than staying behind and always worrying about his return. I hoped that Bolt was not dead, but I knew, in my heart that he was. The weight I had, in the pit of my stomach, was as if I had ingested whale of a stone. Never mind that my esophagus was too narrow to admit a five pound rock...that's exactly what it felt like.

I weighed my options of going inside the truck stop. I knew I could make the three-hour drive, without having to go to the bathroom, and I didn't want anyone to be able to trace me to this spot (just in case someone decided to turn me in as a runaway). I was a little thirsty, but it was nothing that would kill me in three hours, even if the semi cab was as hot as hell.

With my fingertips, I traced the rectangular outline of my money clip that was zipped in a hidden pocket in the wine-colored silk lining of my Burberry coat. My blue leather-bound money clip contained my debit-card accessing my bank account that grandma had set up for me, prior to her death. This miniscule piece of plastic was my lifeline. Now, instead of designer handbags, I would have to buy necessities, like toilet paper, with it.

Mr. Truck Driver ambled back towards me, at a slower pace than he had headed away in, minutes earlier. I did a double-take at his stumpy figure. He appeared about ten years younger than what I had guessed him to be, only ten minutes prior. Perhaps, he had cleaned road grime off of his face and had combed his hair or something.

"Good news, I lost ten pounds!" Mr. Truck Driver exclaimed as he clamored back into the steel box, beside me.

"My name's Tucker, by the way," he beamed, as he extended his chunky-fingered hand at me.

It took me a second to finally shake his hand. The man had just taken a dump and I wasn't sure if he was the kind to wash his hands, afterward. I took the chance. This was a big world and I was part of it now.

Tucker's semi-truck jerked from its resting spot and we were off towards Kansas City. Tucker wasn't as talkative as he had been in the first twenty minutes I had known him. His inconsiderable brown eyes reflected silver micro-dots, as vehicles passed by, in the night. At one point, after about thirty silent minutes into the journey, I questioned whether he was even conscious. He must have picked up on my anxiety because he came-to-life as if his power switch had been flipped.

"What's the matter, miss? I see you fidgeting over there. I bet you're wondering how close we are to the city. Well, see that cheese factory we are passing right there? That is our half-way mark, there. We still have an hour and a half till we hit the big city!" Tucker exclaimed.

Tucker had gone from zero to sixty miles per hour in a matter of seconds. He went from mannequin to zany disco-queen, in the time it took to open a piece of gum. I wasn't quite sure what to make of him, but I didn't, yet, feel threatened.

The massive concrete-formed building, he spoke of, sprawled to the left, as we shuttled past in the night. Before long, flickering white and red lights appeared on the horizon. Tucker's massive red rig zoomed by a highway patrol car that had stopped a mid-sized white SUV on the side of the freeway. Tucker stopped chatting, as we changed lanes, to stay a safe distance from the sparkling authority.

As soon as the red, white and blue dots vanished in the background, Tucker returned to his previous state of vocal delirium.

"You don't like those po-po, either, do ya miss? I hate those mother-effers! Why, one time, I got a ticket for tailgating a school bus, full of kids, when I did no such thing. Some nosy driver turned my license plate number in, to the cops, and they pulled me over, ten miles down a windy stretch of Montana Highway- and I was on a tight deadline. I was a gnat's pecker short of delivery time, when the state fuzz let me go. He was a class-A bunghole that cop was. I had a mind to hand him my piss bottle, for inspection, like that funny old movie about those dumb boys. Anyhow, I didn't get myself into any higher-water, with that one. He was out to find some needle in a haystack, on those long stretches of empty road, and he sure wasn't going to let any poor soul go, lest he'd be in his car the whole time, scratching his nuts and falling asleep. I knew I was in for a fight if I said anything cross to him, so I just let him run his mouth and kept my trap shut. I don't like those pigs, no ma'am, I most definitely do not."

About five minutes after Tucker had delivered his heartfelt rant, he was silent again. He was either zero or one-hundred percent. I actually found him quite fascinating and I was beginning to look forward to his next outburst. Human beings were fascinating creatures and I was anticipating many exciting ones, in the days to come. My old life was about to be replaced by a new one, in which I would be an adult.

Glittering sparkles punctuated the horizon, becoming more dazzling, as we advanced on the populated city. More vehicles, some being semi-trucks, joined our trek towards the metropolis. Surprised, and a little disappointed, that Tucker had not joyously announced the upcoming juncture, I slumped, in silence, alongside the somber little driver. Just as I was getting accustomed to his sleeping mode, he broke the stillness, with a loud cough.

"Eh, sorry little lady! My throat's dry from all the asbestos I breathed in while I was in construction, back in the sixties. I can't breathe right no more. All that poison's coming back to seal my fate. I'm feared to be a goner soon, don't ya know?" the driver said, in a more depressed tone than before.

"Well, this is Kansas City. I don't know if you've been here, before, but you should be careful. It ain't the most dangerous place in the world, but it ain't the safest either. Do ya know t'where you want to go, little lady?" he asked in a less formidable tone.

I bet he was a lonely man. He was grateful to have someone to talk to, for a short while, and now he faced the reality that he would be alone again. I felt sorry for him, but it was the lifestyle he had chosen.

"Um, I think the first decent hotel we get to, will do. It doesn't need to be the Ritz Carlton, or anything, just a clean place to sleep for the night," I responded, hoping that I sounded adult-like and that, after I left, he wouldn't be too depressed.

It wasn't like I had been stellar company or anything. I had responded to most of his speeches with head nods or yes's and no's. I perceived that after a while of being alone, a human being craves the mere presence of other like creatures.

"Let me see, I think there's a Comfort Inn along Seventy One highway. Yes, come to think of it, I've stayed there, once. It's plenty nice, for a girl like you," Tucker spoke in a faraway voice.

I had misread Tucker altogether. He wasn't all or nothing and he had just been away from human contact for too long. I hoped it didn't happen to me.

Just as my last thought had passed through, Comfort Inn made a bright, inviting appearance, to our right. Tucker steered his truck wide and into the far edge of the long, brightly-lit, parking area.

"Sorry, Miss, I can't pull any closer. Boss won't let me take any chances. Rules-we all got to live by em'. Trouble is, sometimes, you never get to have any fun that-a-way," Tucker spoke in a soft voice.

Looking Tucker squarely in the face, I smiled.

"Thanks for the lift, Tucker. I won't forget you," I said as I offered my hand.

A cheesy grin broke Tucker's solemnity. He pumped my hand, as he offered advice: "Don't take no shit, out there, Miss. I know you won't!" he said, his chocolate-brown eyes now twinkling with reanimation.

Self-preservation guide rule #9: Some heroes come in weird packages.
Chapter Twenty-Seven

I nodded, as I opened the bulky cab door and stepped down, wincing, as my hip sizzled, with a jab of pain. I was now headed for a hotel that was more charming on the outside than any I could remember being on the inside. There was a time, right after Dad went into the hospital, that Mom took me with her on a trip to New Mexico to visit my grandma (before she got sick and subsequently passed away). The motels we had stayed in were tiny and often had letters missing on the flickering signs out front. The rooms we had stayed in smelled funky like perfume sprayed over an unflushed toilet full of turds.

As I approached the sandy-colored, clean but not ornate structure, I paused, with the fear that I would be turned away, because of my age. I wasn't sure, but I thought, maybe, a person needed to be eighteen, before booking a hotel room. If I had been dropped off in front of the kind of motel my mom and I had stayed at, long ago, there would have been no questions asked. This establishment looked like the type of place that liked to go by the code.

As I hovered, I became even more paranoid that I appeared to be out-of-place. The last thing I needed was to draw attention to myself. My apparent immaturity might draw in overly-concerned old folks, or even worse, bad men on the hunt for easy prey. I became aware that I was peeling shaggy bark from a stately pine tree that was situated in the center of a rock-filled median in the main entryway. Disgusted at my lack of awareness, I tossed the shreds of bark to the ground, drawing my coat closed as a gust of winter wind swept in from the North.

Time to act was now. I decided to hike down the highway, towards a half-lit gold-colored motel sign, in the distance. At least, my chances of drawing attention to myself, there, might be less. I felt that I could maintain a decent night's sleep, in a crappy, bedbug-infested motel room.

My assumption that no questions would be asked about my age at the Green Goblet Motel was accurate. The eighty-looking old man, behind the counter, probably didn't give half-a-shit about much of anything, anymore. Under the green-toned blinking fluorescent lamp, the man's white, bald head gleamed like a newly polished floor.

"Your room is number eighty-three. Your check out time is eleven thirty. Don't forget to let me know if you want to stay another night. Enjoy your stay," the white dinosaur recited in a whispery, air-deprived voice.

"Thanks, sir," I replied in my new adult voice.

The towering rusted lampposts, bordering the length of the motel were ill-lit with yellowing bulbs, and the one closest to the end where I was headed was burned out. My nerves were, once again, on fire with fright. I wasn't sure what the hell I was doing, but I forced my heavy feet to move, as my head screamed, "No!"

I finally made it to the end, without interference from a predator. I exhaled relief, as the sticky, copper instrument sank into the well-worn keyhole in the scuffed door knob. The door opened with ease, but the chamber was as black as the night. To expose any monsters that might be lurking within, I fumbled inside the threshold for a light switch but was denied. Apparently, the builder that had constructed this lovely getaway had failed to provide the weary traveler with a way to safely enter the room at night, without feeling like they might be attacked in the dark.

With dread, I sealed the door behind me, noting that my body was burning with internal heat. In those primal moments, I dared not turn the lock, just in case my deepest fears were justified. My breath was a whistle, in the echoless void of noir. I crept, like a cat, positive that my hackles were up, towards an area I believed lamps might be. My knees jolted into a padded bar and, immediately, my hands swept down to touch the cool, damp bedspread. I followed the line of the dank sleeper to the chunk of a side table that jutted out at the end. Tracing the top surface, I patted my way to the upper part of the lamp base, finally locating the twisty switch. With triumph rising in my chest, I twisted the switch clockwise, only to be slapped with devastation.

The lamp did not provide light. More panic ensued and, by then, I was sweaty. A drop skimmed the tip of my nose to my chin. Crossing the area, parallel from the first lamp, I anticipated that there was another bed and end table with a lamp. I was discouraged when I smacked into the air conditioner unit that was embedded in the wall, by the door. I rationalized that my only choice left, was the bathroom. It had to have a working light. Immediately after locating a light source, I would be ringing Mr. Clean to come fix my light.

I crossed the black hole, beyond the bed, maneuvering along the wall to the door frame of, what I assumed was the bathroom. Reaching in to locate the power switch, I was, at last, rewarded by a wash of yellowish light. I was, also, given the privilege of witnessing a whale of a red cockroach racing across the pink faux-marble vanity sink. Gagging, I turned away. So far, being a grown up sucked.

Beyond the grotesque cockroach, which disappeared in the crack behind the sink top, the rest of the forty-nine dollar motel room appeared clean and smelled better than most I recalled inhabiting.

Marty, the motel clerk, knocked on my door, minutes after I called him at the front desk. At least, he seemed prompt, even if the room had initially been a demon-infested hell-hole.

Marty's cue ball head was a stark outline in the dim doorway, from my cave-like room.

His aged brow wrinkled, as he huffed in effort, dragging a step ladder as he wobbled under the white seventies-model bowl-shaped light. His hunched figure seemed ghostly, in the dim room.

"Ah, could swear I replaced this bulb two weeks ago. Or, maybe, that was in eighty-two. Hard to remember these things, anymore. I've been running this place, since nineteen seventy-seven. Back then, it was a pretty swank joint. Now, it's hard to keep up with the commercial chains. I just quit trying. Know what I mean?" Marty rambled in a thick accent that was punctuated by gasping wheezes. He unscrewed the light cover with shaking fingers.

Marty was another lonely guy who was thirsty for conversation. I was beginning to feel as if everyone, who was on their own, was starving; desperate for companionship. If I were to become this, after venturing out on my own, I could live to regret it.

All at once, the miniature room was bathed in white cheer. Marty deployed from the rickety wooden step ladder, cradling the broken light bulb that he had extracted from the socket.

"Dang cheap bulbs. Every once in a while, they'll blow. Wish I could put those LED kinds in here, but who can afford that?" Marty grumbled as he tossed the black shards in the trash that sat by the lavatory sink.

"Now, don't be sticking your hand down in the garbage, there. I don't expect you will but, sometimes, it pays just to say something afore hand. I would take it with me, but I can't carry both, in my condition. You'll just have to remember. Got it?" Marty lectured (more than advised). His glistening head created a faux-halo, under the too-bright light.

"I also replaced the bulb in your lamp. It's a little less bright," Marty stated, and then exited, towing the burdensome half-ladder behind him.

The motel door was half-cracked, and I could perceive the faint thump and crackle of the wooden step stool, as Marty navigated towards his office/home. The motel atmosphere seemed less scary, now that I could see. Savages roamed, in the places devoid of light. Good abounded, in the open spaces that light devoured. I needed light.

Right across from my room, a young lady wearing a navy-blue mini skirt and matching sleeveless top, cut across the shadowy parking lot. Her hooker-heels made tiny pops in the otherwise still parking lot.

Since I was free to do what I wanted, I was now a people-watcher.

Her curly black hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail; it had probably not been brushed in a while (I could even tell from a distance). As a kid, dutifully heading home from playing all day, the fascinating woman climbed the metal steps to the second level. The door, she knocked on, was answered by a middle-aged gray-haired man wearing head-to-toe, black. I couldn't decipher if he wore an all-black suit or just a button-up shirt and pants. He ushered her in, shutting the door with haste.

I bet this motel got a lot of call-girl traffic. Thoughts, like those, didn't make me feel more confident about spending my first night alone, away from my home.

The motel grounds were now barren; slick with melted snow, reflecting blue and white gems cast from far away lamp posts. Feeling the weight of being alone, I sealed the lightweight mustard-yellow door to my flimsy motel room, double-locking it and sliding the thin chain across the top. Each situation I encountered appeared to have a reoccurring theme of being one extreme or the other. My tattered room was now too bright, in the harsh reality of the fresh bulb. Decades were revealed in every crack, peeling edge and worn corner.

I determined that television might be a softer light, a soothing distraction. After searching the bedside table and counter by the tiny closet, I concluded that there was either no remote or the last tenant may have thrown it away for their jollies. Unsure of what I wanted, I roosted at the foot of the bed, waiting for my brain to let me decide what to do next. I wasn't convinced it was worth it to call Marty back about a television remote. He was old, grumpy, and even the smallest efforts made him huff and puff. I supposed that I could try to sleep, but the sight of the hooker had given me the heebie-jeebies about getting under the deceivingly clean mauve rose-print bedspread and matching sheets. I hadn't even snatched my iPhone when I had left, so I was without a method of communication, much less a form of entertainment.

I reasoned that my mother had lived her entire life without a cell phone and was way more irresponsible than me and that, somehow, she had managed to survive, even if poorly. Using my mother as a point of reference reflected how far I had fallen from my state of grace, in a mere two days. I required something solid to hang on to, but the only thing I had left was...me. I lacked confidence that I was strong enough to make it.

My eyes burned, and my body ached from the day's ordeal. With physical surrender, I eased back on the stiff mattress with my legs still jutting over the far end, my fear of catching something dissolving with each passing second. The Sandman had sprinkled tiny grains of sand in my eyes; the pain was intense but just bearable enough to permit sleep. The white bug-speckled light cover glared from above, yet I was unable to move a muscle. I was becoming immune to many former sources of irritation because I had no choice. I would be tough. I would survive.
Chapter Twenty-Eight

I didn't recall the act of falling asleep. An angry repetitive buzzing noise was my jolt back into consciousness. Stiffly, I pulled myself upright in the midst of the intensely-bright nightmare. The cradled white phone emitted an undesirable drone, as it blinked red Morse code at me from the cheap blonde faux-wood end table that was, of course, out of my reach.

Churlishly, I tip-toed, with bare feet, across the scratchy rose-colored carpet (I couldn't recall taking my ugly green crocks off). Thinking that perhaps I was in a dream, I stood in front of the impending phone letting it bleep and blaze for an unknown amount of time. My stall-tactics didn't change the outcome. Whoever was calling, (real or a figment of my nightmare) was ever-persistent and wasn't going to give up.

Believing it was likely Marty, calling to remind me of something he had already lectured me about (because I could already tell he was that kind of guy) I boldly placed the antiquated white plastic phone to my ear.

"Hello?" I answered feebly.

"Why did you leave me, Nova?"

My blood turned ice-cold at that very second. I couldn't believe my ears; I was the star of a nightmare. Unable to speak, I slammed the hard plastic phone back into its cradle. Shaking uncontrollably, I reckoned that there was nowhere I could travel that my father couldn't find me. This really was a nightmare or I was going to have to keep one step ahead of my insane, yet wily, father at all times. I found myself at the base of the hard-edged bed, sitting in a sort of stupor at the realization that my life was never going to be normal.

This was not what I had in mind, when I decided to become an adult. Adults did things like go to movies with friends and have barbecues on the weekends. They didn't spend their entire inheritance on travel expenses and motel rooms to keep avoiding their homicidal father. These were my playing cards; I just wasn't sure what my winning strategy was.

The hateful plastic phone was, once again, announcing my father, with grating bleats of a dying goat. Without thinking, I jetted to the far-sitting end table, disconnected the problem device with one swift yank, and then went to the bathroom, dropping the grandma-style phone in the rust-rimmed toilet bowl. The device landed with a hard plop that rewarded me with a splash on my cheek. Time was no luxury to me in my state. I had to act quickly, even if some of my actions didn't make sense at the time.

Before I could fully comprehend my situation and make my next move, I was startled by a familiar rumble in the outside world. I dared not believe it was my dark knight searching for me. Such a thing was unfathomable. Yet, my heart fluttered painfully as I strained to recognize the increasing vibration, anxious that my hope would be crushed.

The resonant engine sound was absent. It was as if my life was teetering on the outcome of that single chutting sound. Seconds later, a loud knock permeated the thin metal door that protected me from the outside.

"Miss? You have a visitor. He claims to be your brother. Normally, I would never permit such an intrusion, but now that I think of it, you look pretty young, and I don't want to get blamed for helping no runaway," Marty shouted through the mustard-yellow barrier.

What I had deemed as impossible was now happening. With shaking gratitude, I flipped locks and sliding chains to allow entry to my prince. Yanking the door open, I rushed past the puzzled old man into the arms of my leather clad "brother".

I didn't part from Bolt for a good thirty seconds. His frigid embrace soaked my shirt, but I didn't mind. I knew now that Bolt was my guardian angel and that he would never leave me.

"Well, you two are certainly a close brother and sister," Marty said under his breath.

Bolt gently pulled away, being the practical thinking one.

"Let's step inside. You're getting cold out here," Bolt whispered, before leading me back into the glaring motel room.

Marty didn't take Bolt's cue, though. He walked away towards his office/home, shaking his head and grumbling something about family values as he shuffled into the glistening night.

Surveying my sopping-wet hero as he peeled his black skin away, I knew I had to be the unluckiest and luckiest girl in the entire world.

"How did this happen?" I asked, knowing he understood my vagueness.

"I went to the bathroom. Hate to say it but I was in there for a while. Your pops got out of the belt-bindings while I was in there. Your friend must not have secured them as well as I'd thought. When I came out, both you and your dad were gone."

Bolt's gray eyes seemed to blaze with intensity as he explained how the ordeal we had both gone through came to be. His sand-colored hair was still damp, clinging to his forehead in places. I wanted to hug him again, but I resisted. Adults held back their compulsions.

"I know what you are going to ask me next. Let me get a drink of water first. I've been on your trail for the last couple of hours, trying to get to you before your dad did. Let me tell you, finding you took a little effort."

I wanted to ascertain how Bolt found me, but I knew there was something I needed to say before he began.

"My dad knows where I am. He just called here, before you showed up."

Bolt's dusty-gray eyes scanned the gaudy room expectantly.

"Where's the phone?" Bolt asked.

Instantly, I was red with shame. Rather than try to explain my temporary act of panic, I just spoke the truth.

"I threw it in the toilet."

Bolt's sedate expression didn't reflect surprise or repulsion at my ridiculous compulsion.

"Okay then. Let him come to us. He won't get past me," Bolt said as he walked to the bathroom, opening a plastic-covered cup and filling it with cold tap water from the pink-lined sink faucet.

I was grateful at his dismissal of my erratic behavior. Despite his placid exterior, there might be a little part of Bolt that understood my nonsensical outburst. I might never know what Bolt went through as a kid, but I got that it linked the two of us together, in a bond that no one else had.

Bolt camped before the long, cream-colored metal box that blew warm air from rust-spotted slats. Sipping the disposable water like a gentleman, he didn't glug it down. Unlike most high school boys, he didn't have the atrocious habit of wolfing and chugging his sustenance.

Everything about Bolt was a pleasant discovery and nothing about him was typical. A living contradiction, he would never have gained approval of my former friends, the Riches. However, he'd become more real to me than they ever were. Likely, he caught me gazing at him but I was in my own world and I was powerless to stop myself.

If he thought I was staring at him, inappropriately, he didn't show it. He was my polar opposite. Where I proved to wear my heart on my sleeve, his was tucked away in a hidden spot, where no one, not even I, could touch it. Maybe he didn't comprehend what he had become to me but I suppose it really didn't matter, right now. He would remain at my side, regardless of either of our feelings. The problem we presently dealt with trumped those minor details.

With one last drop cascading down the inner edge of Bolt's clear plastic cup, he began his tale.
Chapter Twenty-Nine

"When I returned to the living room and found that your father had escaped, I checked your room and saw you were gone too. I found two sets of tracks leading from your front yard to the highway, which was pretty easy to trace since an inch of snow had fallen from the last time we had been out in it. Yours were smaller, of course, and I was able to follow them on my bike. I figured you got picked up by a truck driver, since they were the only vehicles that had to be on the road that night-plus they are known for picking up hitchers. I took a chance and dropped in Ace's to see if I could stir up any information from the lot of them. Luckily, your friend Tucker was a talkative bastard. He had already radioed in your description to the other drivers, letting them know you were on your own and to keep their mitts off of you. Apparently, he took an oath of protection over you and the other drivers had been warned. One of the guys having dinner at Ace's took me out to his cab and got a hold of Tucker. After threatening me with an ass kicking, Tucker told me where he dropped you off. I went to Comfort Inn first, and the concierge told me he had seen a girl with your description headed towards this motel. Once I got here, your buddy Marty had no issues with giving up your whereabouts. Oh, and I have no idea how your dad found you. He's obviously got a few crazy friends out there."

Bolt's speech had been low-key as if he were describing that afternoon's golf game to a buddy. His voice dripped with Louisiana honey. I wished that he would go on talking just so I could listen to his growl. His story made sense and put me at ease. I needed something to believe in. If I couldn't believe in Bolt, I had no one. Not even myself.

Bolt eventually had his fill of the stale warm air that blew tufts of his honey hair up from the crown of his head. He sauntered towards the floral disaster I was seated on and sank into the mattress more deeply than I had allowed myself to. His profile was smooth lines of symmetry that his creator had generously crafted for my viewing pleasure. I hadn't realized it, but Bolt had exchanged the light of the overhead bulb with the softer light-diffusion of the tall leaf print lamp that sat behind the side table.

I pondered if tonight would be the night I became a woman.

Bolt didn't give me a choice in the matter.

"C'mon, let's get some sleep. I know we both need it before your pops decides to show up."

With that said, he yanked the right corner of the hideous rose printed bed spread back, lay underneath fully clothed, turned his back to me, and cocooned himself with the ugly drapery. I was speechless. Before I could react, his cozy corner met me with thick breaths of sleep that couldn't be reproduced in a wakeful state. I was astounded, not only with his ability to slumber in a tense situation, but the speed at which he had achieved it. To give him credit, he had just driven his motorcycle three hours through a nasty snow storm to find me.

Unsure of what else to do, I peeled back my side of the dark pink material and eased underneath with trepidation. The covers smelled clean, not musty like I had feared. Because Bolt had turned his back to me, I did the same. There was at least two feet of ugly rose-print bed sheet between us.

Getting a restful night's repose was pretty much out of the question at this point. I was mentally exhausted, yet wound tight from the day's events. Bolt was right, if my father did show up, I needed more energy to deal with his crazy-ass than what I currently had. Just knowing that Bolt was in bed, tucked under the same covers that I shared, was enough to keep me awake. I didn't even have to question whether Bolt would try anything that night. I already knew he wouldn't. For all the morals he had revealed, I found his choice of extracurricular activities to be ironic.

My mind was spinning in overdrive; if I didn't find some way to quiet it soon, I would lose out on the small opportunity to gain some much-needed rest. It wasn't as if I had transformed into a logical thinking adult that knew better than to stay up all night. My knowledge stemmed from the experience of many restless nights that produced a grumpy, useless teenager the following day. Ha! I was at least back to thinking of myself as a teenager again. Now that Bolt was here, I wouldn't have to be a full-fledged adult, just yet. That was a relief! I knew I hadn't been ready.

Bolt shifted and mumbled something in his sleep from his far corner of the massive concrete slab of a bed. I was willing to bet that Bolt could slumber outside, in the middle of a snow storm. I, on the other hand, was accustomed to billowing mounds of comfort in a sea of fine linens. It was a luxury I had afforded myself with my inheritance money. This type of sleeping situation was unacceptable, yet unavoidable.

At some point, my worn body won the battle against my brain and I drifted away into a blank abyss. It was a sweet repose of nothingness. The only downfall was that the time seemed to accelerate and I was waking up in a glaring ray of morning sunshine before I knew it. Twisting around to look behind me, I experienced faint dismay at the sight of flat rose-print covers. Bolt was already up and out of bed. Falling water reverberated through the closed pink bathroom door, and I had to pee. The shower cranked off with a squeak, as if on cue. Two seconds later, Bolt emerged with nothing but a small white towel that hardly covered his front side and could have left some of his backside exposed.

"Oh. I didn't know you were awake. Thought I'd slip on in there before you got up," Bolt apologized, his steel-gray eyes glinting as he strolled through a blazing sunbeam.

I couldn't take my eyes off of his lean muscular nineteen-year old-body. I felt like a big pervert just gaping at him and not saying anything.

"Oh-uh, that's okay. I've seen it-I mean..."

I was, without fail, making an ass of myself. Bolt could would be able to tell I was flustered. He scooped his clothes from the floor between the bed and the bathroom. Carrying them back into the steamy pink bathroom, Bolt sealed the door behind him. I doubted that I had embarrassed him. His expression had been more of self-assuredness than shame for having exposed his well-toned backside.

Then it hit me: Bolt had come out of the bathroom to get his clothes. That meant he had to have slipped them off, in the area where I had been sleeping. If I had been roused a few minutes earlier, I might have seen him naked. The thought thrilled me, yet worried me, at the same time. I wondered if Bolt had wanted me to catch him with no clothes on. Perhaps, he was less of a gentleman than I thought. I had been comforted while discerning that Bolt's intentions were pure because I could rely on him to keep my best interests in mind. If Bolt was willing to allow me to see him naked, it meant that he wanted more from me than kinship. If his motives were indeed selfish, I felt less secure in his ability to protect me.

The baby-pink bathroom door creaked open, revealing a freshly-shaved young biker.

"Hey-I probably freaked you out a little by leaving my clothes out here but the shower curtain has holes and water was spraying all over the place I got out and threw them outside the door. See-feel the dampness on them?" Bolt explained after having read my mind.

I had to admit, I was more than a little relieved. Bolt wasn't a creep, he was still my protector.

He extended the bottom portion of his black tee shirt for me to touch. A sliver of exposed bronzed skin hinted his masculinity from beneath his skull-printed adornment. With guilt, I pressed the tip of my index finger to his soggy-cotton material offering. The shirt was more than damp, it was sopping wet. Immediately, I felt remorse in my haste to throw him under the bus.

"We should take it to the laundry room to dry, don't you think?" I asked with hopes that my helpful attitude could make up for my untrusting thoughts.

"There's no time for that, darlin'. It's going to have to dry while it's hanging on me." Bolt said with a hint of humor.

I was pleased that Bolt didn't make a big deal out of my jumpiness. I knew that my insecurities were shouting loud and clear, but he wasn't bothered by them.

"Marty said check out time is eleven-thirty. What time is it now?" I asked, thrilled to be able to steer the conversation elsewhere.

"According to my animal-like instincts, it's ten twenty-seven. Nah-just kidding. Let's check out what my phone says," Bolt prattled, as he sauntered over to the side table where the white phone had been.

I was beholden to his ability to find humor in high-stress situations. I just wish that I had been blessed with that relaxing attribute.

"It's eight-thirteen. We might have gotten four or five hours of sleep, you think?" Bolt remarked.

"Feels like it," I said while groaning as I stretched.

Just as I leaned back to rest against the pitiful faux-wood headboard, I glimpsed a gray shadow crossing the sealed rose-printed curtains at the foreground of our motel room. Bolt saw it, just as I had. Motioning for me to sneak into the pink bathroom, Bolt sidled the wall perpendicular to the flimsy mustard-yellow door, his jaw clenched.
Chapter Thirty

Seconds later, thumping and crashing noises permeated the door I was crouched behind in the damp pink motel bathroom. It sounded as if multiple circus clowns were knocking over furniture and jumping on the bed, but I was sure that there were only two hooligans in the next room: Bolt and my father.

I doubted the validity of what Bolt had said about my father making some friends that were just as crazy as he was. If there were people as deranged as my pops, it was even unlikelier that such individuals would just happen upon each other by chance.

Just as the last thought passed through my head, someone yelled "Ow!" in the next room. The voice didn't sound like either of the two men I had thought to be rumbling in the adjoining room. The voice seemed more like a woman's or a child's,

My curiosity trumped my fear, and I opened the door a crack to peek at the fiasco happening right outside my ratty pink bathroom portal.

Bolt was straddling my creature-father, right inside the open mustard-yellow entryway. My grizzled father attempted to swipe at Bolt's face as he secured one of my dad's wasted arms beneath his villainous head. His claw-like yellowed fingers barely missed Bolt's pretty-boy face, but his violent disposition didn't appear to rattle Bolt's cage.

"Do you have another belt? Grab something long-an extension cord, anything I can tie together," Bolt instructed as he huffed in effort to keep my father under control.

I wanted to say: "Yeah because they worked so well last time," but I curbed my sarcasm while scanning the room for a belt or tie. Considering we were in a rented room, not a home, there were very few items that might work to bind my father with.

Ah-ha! Success!

I brought forth a white electrical cord that I'd ripped from the stationary hair-dryer that I found in the bathroom cabinet drawer. As Henry had, I tried to dangle the cordage in front of Bolt's face. His face was masked with concentration and shiny from perspiration, yet still angelic.

"Nova, you're going to have to do it. I'll hold his hands together while you loop the cord and tie it around his wrists-tight. Can you handle that?" Bolt inquired through clenched teeth.

I hadn't thought I would have to participate in the crime, but I supposed it was my problem; I needed be the one to take care of it. With quivering hands, I wrapped the thick white cord around my father's twisted wrists as he fought to resist Bolt's intense lock-grip. I tried to cinch the knot close enough to his grizzled wrists to hold them tight, but the rubber casing on the cord made it impossible. With an exasperated expletive, I picked at the weak knot, loosening it so I could try again.

"You're on the wrong, side Nova! You'll see the truth when it all comes down. Untie me now, you wench!" my father spat as he struggled like a caged beast.

Creature-dad began to wail in a higher tone, sounding much like a distressed woman.

"Forget that for the moment! Find a gag for him and shove it in his mouth. We don't need extra company!" Bolt commanded as he gripped my squirming father.

I sprang up, as if jolted with electricity, spanning the room for a strip of gag-cloth for my patriarch.

There was nothing in the room that jumped out at me saying, "Sure, I'll become a human-muzzle for a homicidal lunatic. Pick me!" Knowing that I would not leave much of a paper trail for Marty, I decided to rip up one of the floral pillowcases at the head of the unmade bed. The cotton fabric was easier to tear than I had expected, as it was faded and worn. It had probably been bleached a thousand times. Bolt had scooted his fuming captive inside the entryway and I took the cue to shut the door.

My father continued his feminine whining until I attempted to tie a gag around his fading-blonde head. At that point, he bared grizzly yellow teeth, snapping at me like a rabid dog. A droplet of spittle landed on my forearm as he continued his ferocious animal act.

"Hurry, Nova! Just do it!" Bolt snapped.

His impatient tone had instantly hurt my feelings. I recognized that I was acting hesitant because I had never before done anything like what I was doing, but he didn't have to gripe at me. I pushed my sensitivity aside for the moment because we were in the heat of battle. An enemy had to be squashed. It just sucked that it had to be my father.

With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I twined the rose print rag over his cracked gaping mouth and cinched it near the back, causing the material to sink into his impaired orifice. My aggressive act pissed creature-dad off. He lunged to head butt me as I pulled away but Bolt's grip on his was steady and he missed my chin by inches. We were fortunate that Bolt was so athletic; my father's muscles had formed again, making him stronger and more violent. Emerald-green eyes glared at me from a hairy mug that still intended to hurt me.

"Do you see how he's changed?" I hissed.

"Shit, Nova. Do you think you could try to bind his wrists now?" Bolt retorted, not catching my father's transformation.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry." I apologized as I grabbed the white cord and reattempting the bondage of my dad.

This time, my prickly feelings pushed me to tighten the rubber-coated knot on the loop that held my father's hands together.

"Ah, you got it this time. Good girl!" Bolt praised as he finally let up from my incapacitated father.

I looked at my old man lying prone on the rough mauve floor, bound and gagged at my immature hands. He was a captured beast, completely at my disposal.
Chapter Thirty-One

"Sorry, I got a little cross with you, Nova. I'm usually pretty good at holding down my prisoners, but your pops is built like a bull. I didn't tell you before, but I turned my bike on its side down the road from your house in the ice storm when I was looking for you. I bent my wrist back and pulled some tendons, I think. Bess is okay, though. She just has a little smudge on her rear mudguard, but nothing I can't buff out."

I was still a bit tender, but I was appreciative of the apology...and I found it amusing that he thought I would be at all concerned about the status of his motorcycle.

"That's okay. It's all good," I shot back.

"So, what I thought we could do, since we don't have a vehicle to transport him back, is just leave him here. Soon enough, the maid or manager will find him, figure out that he's crazy, and then let the authorities come get him. We have to tie him up so well, even they won't be able to undo it. Of course, we need to be long gone, by then."

His grayish eyes now carried a bit of silver, amidst an intensely white sunbeam glaring off of his taut figure as he leaned against the smudged white motel wall behind the closed door. His face now sported a hint of day-old stubble, yet it was still sleek and handsome. It wasn't that I had hated his mustache; the band of hair had only masked the perfection of his features. His light-brown hair glinted tiny blonde highlights in the sun. He didn't appear to notice me taking him in; in a way, I was grateful for that but, on the flip side, I wished he would be aware and reciprocate.

I wondered where we would go from there. I was only fifteen, but I knew what kind of trouble we could get in if authorities found us in our little situation. I wasn't even concerned for myself. I knew how the police would treat a known member of an outlaw motorcycle gang.

"Um-that sounds good, except, what are we going to use to bind him that others won't be able to unfasten?" I questioned with more than a hint of skepticism.

Bolt smiled his usual easy-going smile, making my heart thump like a drum in my chest. I wanted to see that same face hovering over mine, right before...I couldn't bear to dream it. I was stuck in an absurd situation with my father tied up on the floor of a motel room, three-hundred or so miles away from home and I wished for romance. Boy, was I screwed up.

"You leave that up to me. Why don't you go up to the front office, grab us some donuts like the manager promised, and by the time you get back, I'll have the plan together," Bolt reassured in his usual confident manner.

I was unsure of leaving the pair of them because of what had happened the last time I had let my guard down. My rumbling stomach had protests of its own, so, with its added prompting, I attempted cover my angst as I followed Bolt's bidding. I pulled my prized Burberry coat from the harsh wire hanger in the tin-can closet, trying my best to hide the storm brewing inside of me. I left the two societal rejects in the crappy motel room while I headed for the front office in the starkly-bright morning.

The motel shell was more decrepit than it had appeared in the dark of night. The rambling structure had tan legs, spotted with mustard colored doors and cracked windows. It was plain to see that Marty had fallen behind on the upkeep of the business many decades back. Distracting observations, I allowed them to appease my mind.

The parking lot was a black pool of melted snow and ice; I was careful to sidestep any cesspools with my grotesque hole-adorned crocks.

I was surprised to see the same woman in blue, which I had investigated from my doorway the night before. She limped a bit, gripping the rusted handrail as she hobbled into the parking lot. Her frizzy hair was now yanked into a tight ponytail, making her angular face more severe than before. I supposed that she had caught sight of me staring at her because she spoke to me.

"Can I help you, honey?" the hooker wheezed, her heavily-penciled eyebrows arched in mocking self-hatred.

"Oh, uh...no. Sorry," I replied with embarrassment.

"Well, I declare. Some little high and mighty bitch thinks she's too good to be seen talking to a gal like me. Well, I got news for you, sweetie. If you're here, you're only two steps away from where I'm at," the ravaged call-girl taunted.

She was right. I was no better than her. I had taken down my own father and had him tied up in my seedy motel room. She was, in fact, probably a better person than me.

"I wasn't judging you, lady. I'm just having a rough day," I countered.

Her thick blue-shaded eyes glared at me from her gloomy mask. Her skirt was torn a bit at the hem, wrinkled, and had tiny white splatters on the bottom portion of it. I knew her job was probably terrible, but I sort of admired her moxie.

"That's okay, chica, I'm used to it. If I were you, I'd get out of this dump before you end up like me," the worn prostitute muttered.

I knew there was no way in hell that I would ever let myself be in her shoes, but I respected her anyway.

"Yeah-that's what I'm working on. Thanks. Good luck with your...I mean, stay safe," I said as I rotated to head for the office.

I think my response had startled her. Her comically-drawn face was softer as if she was at a loss for words.

"Thanks," she breathed as I left her.

I doubted she was used to much kindness. It was okay to show compassion, even if I didn't agree with their way of life. I don't know where she was headed to, but it wasn't the office.

I approached the miniature outcropping at the front of the building, close to the highway. The tan painted office sign was hanging, askew, to the side of the faded mustard-yellow brick structure. The fingerprinted glass door was jutting out, obscuring clear entry or exit. Someone had placed a chunk of cement rock against the inside of the scratched metal frame. When I set foot in the royal-blue carpeted office, I understood why the door was propped open in the middle of winter. A pungent odor of smoke immediately assaulted my nostrils. The smell was so intense, my eyes began to water.

"Breakfast is a little late and it's going to have to be donuts this morning. The eggs caught afire this morning," Marty yammered from behind the counter. One of his bristly white eyebrows was much shorter than the other one. It was actually brown now, with black tips.

With gnarled hands, Marty slid a plastic tray of white and cinnamon powdered sugar donuts, a few inches from the edge of the shoulder-level customer counter. Powdered sugar donuts were my least favorite, but they would have to do.

"Thanks. My brother and I are going to check out early. We'll be out of there by ten," I said with false cheer as I collected three white-powdered sugar donuts on a white Styrofoam plate.

Marty's furrowed mismatched eyebrows drew together in, what I perceived to be, annoyance.

"You never told me you were having another guest last night. I'm going to have to charge you extra," Marty grumbled, his arthritic hands trembling as he set down a stack of white napkins by the tray of cheap donuts.

His apparent memory lapse of bringing Bolt to my room last night threw me off. My anxiety raised a degree. I wasn't positive that it would be advantageous to remind him of something he plainly should remember. His age must have had something to do with his apparent amnesia. Immediately, I felt sorry for him. The hotel business was apparently getting to be too much for him.

"Oh... sorry, Marty. You can adjust it on my card. It's not going to be a problem, is it?" I smoothed over.

His bald head gleamed like a wet seal beneath the florescent light bar in the ceiling. My heart jumped out of my chest when his eyes rose from his rustling paperwork to meet mine. The whites of his eyes were filled with blood; his teeth were solid black and broken off at different lengths, causing his haggard grimace to be appalling.

Stepping back in horror, my plate of donuts tumbled to the nubby royal-blue carpeting, christening the dark weathered carpet with powdery-white dust.

"What'd you do that for? You young people ain't got no respect for property!" Marty lisped through a sunken decaying mouth.

Marty appeared to be breathing through a grisly hole in his neck. The sound of harsh breaths rattling in and out of the thumb-tack sized opening became louder, dominating the insipid drone of his tiny ancient television in the back of his cluttered office. His mottled skin was loose, beginning to hang in doughy gray folds on his cheeks and chin.

"Sir, are you all right?" I asked in alarm.

His nearly black blood-filled eyes glared back at me in disgust.

"Why wouldn't I be?" the deceased snarled.

It seemed that Marty didn't know he was dead. I wasn't going to be the one to let him in on that foul discovery. I had no idea how a man reacted, once discovering that he was a walking corpse. Marty turned around after leaving a long, wet, brownish-red smudge on the cracked tan Formica countertop.

"No reason, sir. I'll pick up my mess. Do you have a broom and dustpan?" I wobbled, trying not to let my revulsion show.

Marty twisted back around, his face now liquefied in a pile of sticky brown flesh that clung, hanging, at the bottom of his bone-chin. I could no longer look at him. I instead focused my line-of -sight on the drying brown streak on the tan customer counter.

"Don't I look like I own a broom?" Marty garbled.

Being dead made Marty crotchetier than ever. I figured he had good reason to feel that way, so I didn't take his offensive retorts personally.

"Ah-don't worry about it. Hilda will get it. She's due back here any minute," Marty murmured wetly.

I wasn't sure if I should come back at ten to check out... Marty might be a pile of bones by then. Checking out now was likely the best option.
Chapter Thirty-Two

A gust of Christmas wind moved the fingerprinted glass door a few inches. The asphalt chunk scraping the concrete walkway had the same sound-effect as a stone cover being slid from a tomb. I felt a presence slide in the office behind me. Glancing to peek at the new visitor, I was relieved to behold a normal-looking middle-aged woman wearing a gray uniform and standing five feet to my rear.

"Land sakes, we have a mess in here, don't we?" she declared to no one in particular.

Scuttling past me, she bustled into the office past the decrepit manager, returning seconds later with a broom, dustpan, and a white mini dust-buster. According to the expression on her smooth, broad face, she hadn't caught on to Marty's ailment. Her short, fine, doe-brown hair swept her peach-colored forehead in unassuming style. She was so top heavy that I was startled when she bent down and scooped my powdery mess. The buxom woman had no trouble standing upright after her precarious position on the floor.

"You're a little clumsy this morning, aren't ya sweetie?" the pleasant maid asked as she rushed past me one more, passing dead-Marty on the way.

"Uh-yeah. I guess so," I replied in agreement.

It was so like grown-ups to state the obvious. I found it hard to believe that this bright woman couldn't see her boss had some severe problems.

"Would it be too much trouble to check out right now?" I asked Marty, who was busy decaying in his rolling office chair.

"I don't see why not. It's up to you, though. Hilda will be in your room early if you leave by eleven. Let me pull up your ticket," Marty snuffled from his chair.

Getting up with considerable effort, he shuffled his dead body to an aged brown filing cabinet towards the back of the office. I waited for Hilda to say something as his decrepit corpse passed her in the small enclosed space. Her thoughtful expression didn't change one bit as if his disgusting presence was commonplace around these parts. She smiled at Marty, her long white teeth gleaming like beacons. I thought, perhaps, there was something wrong with Hilda as well. I didn't care to stick around much longer to find out.

Marty didn't believe in computers or much of any new-fangled technology. As dead-Marty handed over the thin paper signature slip, I gagged a little at the sight of red dots and clumps that riddled the fragile document.

"I adjusted the price in your room since, you say, your brother stayed with you last night. Next time, give me a call and let me know. It don't matter how late it is," Marty lectured thickly from a fleshless skull.

I wished that I had kept my internal promise not to look at him. If I had to be in the morgue-office much longer, there was not much I could do to stop from screaming.

"What's the matter young lady? You're as white as a ghost," Hilda remarked, somehow now at my side.

I dared to look her straight in the eyes, when I let her in on the big secret.

"Something's happened to Marty. Look at him," I said with dread.

I knew Hilda would be devastated to find out her beloved boss was, in fact, the living dead. She was just that kind of person: kind, compassionate, and caring. She didn't want to believe the bad in anyone, especially if it meant they were no longer living.

"What do you mean, honey? Marty always looks like that. He had a stroke, some fifteen years ago, made his face droop a little. Nothing major, he can still think straight and do most things. Believe me, I've worked next to that man for twenty years and I would know if something was amiss. Marty is just going to be Marty. Cross at times and funny-looking to outsiders, he's just a peach when you get to know him. Don't be scared of him, hun. He's harmless," Hilda counseled in a quiet voice.

There was something amiss with Hilda, too. She had a massive bald patch in the back of her mousey-brown head as if all the effort her niceness took caused her to just rip it out. I knew now that nothing I said would convince her of the truth. This kind lady would only see what she wanted to believe. Her perfectly round doe-like eyes reflected concern for my apparent distress.

Marty was undeniably dead, but Hilda wasn't going to see it. I decided not to further push the issue.

"It's okay. I'm just tired. Thanks for explaining it to me," I played along.

With the room slip signed, I had no reason to stick around. As I swiveled to leave, Marty called out from behind me.

"Miss, don't you want some donuts?"

Turning back around, I became sickened as Marty placed three powdered donuts on a Styrofoam plate with his gooey fingers, each donut bearing a brownish remnant of his demise.

"One for you and two for your brother," Marty taunted and winked, letting me know he wasn't fooled.

A wet blanket of nausea enveloped me, as I shook my head in polite dismissal.

"No thank you. I'm no longer hungry," I attempted to beg off.

Marty's exposed skull targeted me in a hateful glare.

"Don't tell me you're going to waste half a dozen of my donuts, girl. Go on, take them. I'm betting your boy-I mean brother, is still hungry," Marty seethed through exposed black teeth.

Hilda, still at my side, was quick to come to my defense: "Oh, stop it, Marty. You're scaring the poor girl. Let it go. We can eat those if she doesn't want them.

I glanced at Hilda in gratitude, only to be further dismayed at her nearly bald head. Most of her stylish silky brown hair had fallen to her shoulders. That's when everything went haywire.

My ears filled with a deafening shriek. A high-pitched sound, much like a dog whistle, sent me to my knees in agony. Marty and Hilda hovered over me looking on in alarm (as much as they could, in their condition). Hilda attempted to touch my arm as I tore at my ears in torment. It no longer mattered that they were zombies; the only thing on my mind was stopping the torture.

The deafening whistle persisted as I caught flashes of Marty and Hilda, pretending. Hilda patting my arm. Marty on the ancient telephone.

Finally, the hateful noise ceased, their words coming back.

"She's on the floor screaming. Yes, it just happened. Okay, we'll stand by," dead Marty dripped into the plastic phone receiver.

Hilda's baby bird head swam above mine, her doe eyes still bleeding tender-hearted sentiments.

"Shh, it's fine, darling. No one's going to hurt you here," Hilda lied.

Bits and pieces of the brilliant parking lot flashed by as I ran from the misleading ogres. The gaudy face of the nice hooker whizzed by as I high-tailed it to my knight in shining armor. Keyless, I broke through the mustard-yellow door to my waiting protection. Bolt would remove me from all of it.

My motel room was empty. No remnants of my father or Bolt were left behind. My heart exploded from the ultimate betrayal. There was no time to comprehend the misunderstanding, I was utterly devastated.

Absurd rose-print material took flight, as did the ridiculous tall lamp and the Holy Bible. The mocking brown book spewed its pages; hundreds of crumpled word-filled sheets littered the nasty mauve floor. Glass shards cascaded in torrents along with the runaway cordless hair dryer. The cheap white shower curtain yanked the flimsy plastic pink rod along with it to the insipid pink linoleum. Tufts of harsh toilet paper littered the stale air, as an unfair sunbeam permeated the depressing room. Big-eyed girl, on the wall, jumped ship in a satisfying crunch as she tumbled corner to corner before resting in a maimed heap.

My ears stung with excruciating trauma; the dog whistle returned its assault on my wrecked head. The room had sunk into inky blackness for a singular moment before I was thrown onto the bare yellowed mattress. Struggling to right myself, I was again incapacitated by the controlling whistle and was forced to lie on my back as the cheap room was destroyed.

Blinding-white light struck my pupils as dark figures poured in through the open portal. I was able to sit up now and defend my post against these invaders. A toffee-brown face swam into my field of vision as more opaque white ones joined it in an evil ritual. The band of ghost people surrounded the barren white mattress as I backed up against the rickety headboard before it failed, shoving me into the angry crowd.

The invasive army closed in, binding me, in the same way that I had tied up my father. I bit at the alien hand that protruded from the mean brown face. Foreign words poured out from their blurred mouths as they took me into their custody. I was no match for these elusive combatants. I made no effort to understand their maniacal speech, as it was unique to their disgusting culture.

Finally, merciful repose came as the room softened into a creamy haze, melting together in a swirl of vivid colors and then fading into nothingness.
Chapter Thirty-Three

I thought perhaps I had dreamed the terrible event, but Bolt periodically reminded that me that it had actually happened. Sometimes, I would wake up to see obscure faces watching me, their nondescript heads floating in the pearly-white clearance above my bed. I was no longer angry but was continually perplexed.

Being a hostage in this sea-foam green cell made no sense to me. Hell, I knew I hadn't done anything to deserve their wrath, yet they visited me without fail. First injecting me with serum, and then again, in short intervals, forcing pills upon me. Sometimes, they would attempt communication, but their foreign language scalded my ear drums. The only solace I had was in Bolt, who stood posted by my bed each time they left.

When I had been in captivity for days (I guessed), I found the courage to ask Bolt why he had deserted me in the haunted motel. From the moment I had met him, he had portrayed a trustworthy protector but had failed on more than one occasion. It wasn't as if I had asked him to do it...he'd always volunteered for the challenging role. I was over being let down by everyone close to me, and it was time to stand up for myself. If anyone claimed to be part of my life, by golly, they had better be there.

Bolt loitered to the right side of the steel bed I was punished to lie in, remaining behind after the fat-faced captor forced pills and warm water down my raw throat. Bolt's beautifully chiseled face smiled as I struggled for words.

"Bolt...why did you leave me?" I whispered thickly as he lifted a tear from my hot cheek.

Bolt's angelic-gray eyes reminded me of a framed picture of Jesus I had noticed on the ornate wall of my grandmother's house the summer she'd passed away. I wasn't fooled into thinking Bolt was my savior, like Jesus was to my grandma, yet the resemblance was uncanny. Bolt's face portrayed the unexplained comprehension I had been seeking my entire life.

Bolt had, apparently, taken a vow of silence because he never spoke to me again in that place. I could tell he wanted to explain everything, but wasn't allowed to. I entertained a fleeting worry that he had decided to join the enemy, but his sweet devotion convinced me of his undying loyalty. No matter how many times the bad people came, he remained in the background, ready to comfort away their assaults. Time after time, day after day, he was always the same.
Chapter Thirty-Four

This day, instead of Bolt, my mother was at my side when I woke up. Her usually gaunt face was fresh and full, pink with blood-driven health. My captors were finally able to thwart my devoted knight, replacing him with a woman who hated my guts. Needless to say, I was pissed off at this turn of events. If I was going to be stuck in this falsely-lit dungeon, I wanted Bolt there with me.

Leaning over in fake compassion, she stroked my hair as a line of ridiculous concern dissected her smooth forehead. I knew better than to fall prey to her lying ways. She only wanted to convince me, like the others, that Bolt wasn't real.

"How are you feeling now, honey? We've all been so worried about you," the blasphemer crooned from under a curtain of smooth black hair.

If she had believed I was going to answer her, she had another thing coming. I hadn't come this far on my own, only to lose my ground under her control. Why couldn't my prison guards see that she was nothing but a scummy drug addict who cared only for herself? If she was here, it was for her benefit. In some manner or another, my selfish mother had to be profiting from my imprisonment. Because of this, I kept my mouth shut-I wasn't going to give her an inch.

Seconds later, my thoughts were diverted to the whereabouts of Bolt. I guessed that that my wily captors had finally given him the boot, even though he had played by their rules. If it meant getting my faithful guardian back, I would plead, beg and bargain.

Unfortunately, my born-again matriarch was not ready to give up her rehearsed charade. Her mocking words brought me back to the reality of her presence in my room.

"Sweetie, the doctors said I shouldn't ask you any questions just yet, but I have to know. Were you hurt by anyone, out there? You can tell me if you were. I just want to help you," the black-tressed witch blabbed, her round cheeks dotted with drawn-in crimson patches.

I turned away from her to face the other side of my hospital bed. I would turn towards the opposite direction of her until the hateful bitch left.
Chapter Thirty-Five

This place didn't exactly frighten me anymore.

I was finally allowed out of my sea-green room, in order to visit Dr. Warming.

Dr. Warming first visited me in the room they were keeping me, and at the time, I had thought he was a Nazi just like the others. It was hard to count the days with no windows or form of outside communication, but I guessed my stay had come to about ten days, give or take.

Dr. Warming sat behind a simple gray metal desk; a wall, overflowing with books, flanked his posterior. A picture window nestled the center of the literary blockade, allowing the first ounce of real sunlight I had been exposed to in a very long while.

Dr. Warming was middle-aged, having grown his salt and peppered hair out in hippie fashion, perhaps to put his subjects more at ease. His unremarkable hazel eyes swam from behind a thick pair of wire-rimmed bifocals, a crooked tooth waving at me from his open smile.

Dr. Warming knew that I requested not to see my deceitful mother when she visited, but they let her come in, anyway. I couldn't figure out how she'd transformed her image to one of a robust, devout mother, but I put those concerns aside for the time being. I was more perturbed that Bolt hadn't been allowed in the facility since the first week they hauled me in.

"How are you feeling today?" Dr. Warmer asked in an unassuming tone, his snaggled tooth jutting out as he lisped.

I couldn't pinpoint how Dr. Warmer was able to pull it off, but he actually came across as a decent guy.

Unlike my refusal to speak to my mother, I allowed myself to respond to him. After all, he held the key to my beloved.

"I'm feeling pretty crappy, thanks for asking. The pills your nurses are force-feeding me make me sick to my stomach and sleepy," I accused.

Dr. Warmer's plain mug looked like he gave a rat's ass.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Unfortunately, the medication that does the best also carries some unpleasant side effects. You will find those bothersome side effects diminishing after a while," Dr. Warmer promised, his giant hazel eyes blinking in agreement.

"Sorry, Dr. Warmer, but I don't need the medication. In fact, you still haven't told me why you think I need to be here," I countered.

What Dr. Warmer didn't understand about me was that I had the ability to argue a point into the ground until my opponent simply gave up due to desperation.

"Why don't you tell me why you think we brought you here?" Dr. Warmer combated with a question.

He was sneaky, all right, but I would play along, just to get Bolt back.

"Hmm...does it have anything to do with my insane father coming after me, forcing me to do things I didn't want to do?" I offered.

Mr. Warmer's enlarged eyes blinked several times as he considered my response, yet he didn't appear to be surprised by my revelation.

"Tell me how that came about, Nova," Dr. Warmer prompted with a friendly voice.

"Well, how far do you want me to go back? Should I go back to when my father convinced me to help him set the neighbor's house on fire? Or, should I skip forward to when he escaped the mental hospital and ruined my life at school?" I rattled off.

Dr. Warmer met my anger with no counter aggression. In fact, he looked more concerned than when I had first walked into the room.

"Nova, there's some things I need to tell you. Things you might find frightening, at first, but it's nothing you can't adjust to, in time. I've come to believe you are a very resilient young lady, so, I think it's time to have this discussion," Dr. Warmer said as he leaned forward in his rolling office chair.

At that point I was anxious, dreading the lies he was going to try and sell me. I remained in my hard plastic chair, though.

"All right doc, I'll bite. Give it to me straight. What's the big secret?" I demanded.

Dr. Warmer adjusted his posture in his squeaky rolling chair, twisted the neck of his fuzzy black turtle neck sweater, and then settled in a forward-leaning stance while clearing his throat.

"In order to get this information straight, I have asked your mother to attend this meeting. She has been here for you through the entire process, even though you have rejected her on numerous occasions. I must ask for your cooperation with her involvement, from now on. What do you say?" he asked as if I had a choice.

I didn't want the deceitful hag involved, but if it meant the difference between getting Bolt back or not, I was willing to play Dr. Warmer's game.

"Fine. Fine. Let the bitch say her piece," I compromised.

Neither Dr. Warmer nor anyone else here could make me believe something I didn't want to believe, try as they may.

Seconds later, the unfinished wooden door opened behind me, producing my scandalous mother. She settled beside me in an empty brown plastic chair. I refused to look at her as she acknowledged my presence, along with the doctor.

"Hello, Dr. Warmer...Nova. How are you sweetie? I'm so glad we are finally doing this. I've wanted to talk to you about things before now, but Dr. Warmer has told me it could do more harm than good if you weren't ready," my false mother rattled.

God, she was self-absorbed.

I refused to acknowledge that she had spoken. She was as dead as dirt to me. After all, she had left me alone when I had needed her the most.

Dr. Warmer smiled at my mother as if she was a saint. I was instantly pissed off.

"Out with it, doc. What's the big news?" I grumbled.

I realized I was a bratty little tyrant, but I deserved to be under the circumstances.

Dr. Warmer nodded at my mother as if giving her comfort. His owlish eyes were beginning to look more like the eyes of a serpent the longer he took my mom's side.

What Dr. Warmer said next floored me: "Nova, first of all, I need to tell you that you have an illness. That illness is called schizophrenia."
Chapter Thirty-Six

I knew what schizophrenia was. My father had been diagnosed with it. But, Dr. Warmer was wrong about me having it. First of all, schizophrenic people didn't get into the most elite social crowd at Shaker Creek High. Schizophrenic people didn't have hot biker boyfriends that followed them around, making sure they were safe. Schizophrenic people were old-they weren't fifteen-year-old girls that looked like me.

"So, how did you come to that conclusion, Dr. Warmer? Just because my father is schizophrenic, I automatically have it, just because I got into trouble? See, this is what happens when "authorities" get involved. They always want to stick the kid into a hospital," I lectured, as I made quotation marks with my index and middle fingers.

Dr. Warmer did not look surprised at my cynicism.

"Well, Nova, I hope to answer all of your concerns today. It is my goal to have a foundation, from which we can build a good treatment program for you. The good news is, your age makes you a prime candidate for a new medication that has proven a high success rate of partial to full recovery in young adults," Dr. Warmer blabbed, his serpent eyes becoming clearer.

"Well, Dr. Warmer, you still haven't said anything that means a hill of beans to me. What evidence do you have that I have schizophrenia? As far as I'm concerned, you're wasting your time on me. I'm ready to go home now. You should worry about some of those really crazy kids I passed in the hall...all drooling down their shirt, talking to themselves and shitting their pants," I fired back, proud of my verbal assault.

My mother shifted in her chair beside me, her sleek black hair obscuring her face. I refused to dignify her with a glance. Dr. Warmer smiled, his evil eyes not giving up.

"You'd be surprised at how many times I get the same response from kids your age, to which I have unfortunately had to deliver the same news. Your angst is entirely understandable and to be expected. No one here expects otherwise. At this juncture in the meeting, I would like to talk about your point of view, versus the facts we know. Does that sound all right to you, Nova?" Dr. Warmer droned.

I knew it was his job to pacify his prisoners, to prevent an uprising. That was part of their secret. I knew I was smart enough to know the difference between a lie and the truth so I was willing to be subjected to whatever B.S. was about to come out of their mouths.

"Yeah, fine. As long as we can talk about getting visitation rights back for Bolt," I bargained.

Dr. Warmer sent a meaningful look in my mother's direction. I didn't care if they thought Bolt was a bad influence on me. He did more for me than my parents ever did and I was willing to prove my point.

"Okay, Nova. Let's start off by going over the things you have told me in the last couple of weeks. Then, we will discuss your wishes. Does that sound fair?" Dr. Warmer coaxed, his reptilian eyes shifting from me to my mother.

"Okay. What do you want to go over? I've already told you everything you need to know," I retorted.

"Let's see...from what you have told me, you are a freshman at Shaker Creek High School in Springfield Missouri. You belong to the popular crowd at school, your best friends in the clique are Veronica Helmsley and Laila Burton. These two wealthy young ladies have allowed you to become part of their elite group, despite your socio-economic background. You told me that your father is a homicidal schizophrenic that took you, five years ago, when you were ten years old, to a neighbor's home. At that time, he convinced you to join him in his attempt to burn it down with the Heizelman's inside. After the thwarted attempt, you say your father had been institutionalized until most recently when he escaped, hoping to reunite with you in order to re-enact the crime together. So far, does this sound accurate?" Dr. Warmer recited his script.

"So far, yep, that's what I told you," I replied, amazed that he had actually paid attention to details.

My hypocritical mother made a pitiful noise beside me, trying to get the sympathy of Dr. Warmer. I hoped but didn't count on, that Dr. Warmer was smarter than that.

"You told me that your mother-," Dr. Warmer paused, while gesturing at the dark-haired woman beside me, "became part of an outlaw biker gang, shortly after your father was hospitalized five years ago."

This statement struck a chord with my dear old mom because I heard her take a sharp inward breath while bringing her hand to her hair-covered face. I chose to ignore her dramatics. She wasn't going to get any special treatment, from me. Facing guilt must have been difficult for her. After all, it was because of her that I had ended up in here.

"Your account is, since the beginning of her involvement with the outlaw biker gang: the Dutch Assassins, your mother has failed to provide you with the necessary care. According to you, she has spent the majority of the time with the motorcycle gang, allowing them to take up partial-residence in your home. Some of what you have been subjected to includes: manufacturing and use of illicit drugs by your mother and other club members, parties held until morning hours, especially on school nights, strange people in and out of your residence, and other illegal activities, to which you are sure goes on, but are not privy to. So far, am I on the right track?" Dr. Warmer recounted.

"You've got it, doc. Keep on going. I'm impressed with your attention to detail," I flattered.

My mother was having a tough time to the side of me, but I refused to look at her. Her noises sounded like sniffles and her dark head was bent. She deserved to be shamed.

"Your best friend is Ginger Smith, the sister of Henry Smith, both of which live down the street from you. You have been inseparable for five years. On nights that the club partying gets to be too much for you, you climb in Ginger's bedroom window and spend the rest of the night with her. You've told me that it doesn't matter what time of the night it is, she will let you in. Her brother Henry is also your friend and has taken you back and forth to school on occasion. Am I accurate?" Dr. Warmer continued.

"Yes, go on," I permitted.

My mother had quieted for the moment. I was glad for that; her insipid crying was getting on my nerves.

"The next part I will discuss, appears to be particularly meaningful to you," Dr. Warmer paused.

Dr. Warmer must've had quite a reputation for serving a large helping of cheese in his sessions.

"Okay," I prompted.

"You have befriended one of the members of the Dutch Assassins, a young man called Bolt. From what you tell me, nineteen-year-old Bolt has taken a protective stance over you since the beginning of the school year. Bolt has found you walking back and forth to school and has given you rides on his motorcycle but, in all this time spent together, has remained a perfect gentleman. Am I correct?"

"Yep, perfect gentleman," I reinforced.

"At the time your father escaped the institution, he broke into your home, attempting to coerce you into helping him with a planned criminal activity. When you refused, your father physically attacked you, during which time Bolt intervened, resulting in the incapacitation and binding of your father. Your friend, Henry was there at the time, and privy to the plan to keep your father tied up until the return of your mother, days later. The reason for not calling the police, you stated, was to 'keep Bolt out of the spotlight of the law'. Am I keeping up with the facts, Nova?"

I was justified by Dr. Warmer's words. Everything he said was true.

My mother had remained quiet for the last couple of minutes, and I was glad for it.

"During the night, while Bolt was in the bathroom, your father escaped his bondage, coming straight for you. You escaped, running down the highway and hitching a ride with a truck driver to Kansas City. You checked into a cheap motel, where no one would ask questions and somehow Bolt was able to track you down. Your father also caught up with you in the motel, trying for the third time to force you into committing arson with him. Bolt was again able to thwart his plan, requiring this time for you to be the one to tie your father up. You and Bolt slept together in the same motel bed but, not once, did he make a move towards romance. The next morning you left, towards the office, to bring back breakfast for the three of you, but were met with a manager who appeared to be deceased," Dr. Warmer paused.

"All spot on so far," I interjected.

"You reported that the manager was still walking and talking...even though his face was melting off. The housekeeper also had problems; she was losing her hair. The two walking talking corpses frightened you, causing you to run back to your motel room where you found it to be empty. Bolt and your father were gone. That's when you destroyed the motel room. The police officers and our hospital staff arrived on the scene, taking you into custody," Dr. Warmer recounted.

I shot forward, almost leaping out of my warm plastic chair.

"No, no! That's where you get it wrong. I didn't destroy the motel room. Someone else did. I couldn't see who it was, but they kept shoving me back on the bed. You're not blaming me for that doozy. No sir!" I shouted back.

"Okay, Nova. We'll talk about that part later. I can see that it upsets you. I'm afraid some other parts of this session may further upset you so we'll take it slow. If, at any time, the discussion becomes too much for you to handle, we will halt the meeting and continue at another time. The point of this meeting is revelation. The sooner we come to know the reality, the sooner healing may begin," Dr. Warmer reasoned.

He was good. But too bad for him, I was smarter than most of the kids here. I could see through his intentions. He was obviously being paid by my mother with illicit money, to convince me that she was a good mother now. I could go along with it for a while until Bolt was back in my life. Right now, my shining knight was all that mattered to me.

"Fine, go on," I sighed with resignation.

My mother was now facing me, her healthy plump cheeks giving the illusion of her innocence. Her chestnut eyes were rimmed with pink rings of fake sorrow. I glared back at her, in disgust.

"Now that we have gone over what you have told me and have reconfirmed that you agree with most of it, I would like to begin introducing facts that I know to be true. Are you ready for that, Nova?" Dr. Warmer crooned.

I was almost touched by his warm and fuzzy tone.

"Yes."

"Okay. Now is the time, I will admit a central character in your report. I am going to bring your father into the room, Nova. He has been waiting outside for your permission to allow him to enter."
Chapter Thirty-Seven

"You're going to do what? You're going to do what?" I stammered, my heart pounding with adrenaline and anger.

My mother faced me now, her pink rotund face looking as if it would break. Her lip moved, as if she wanted to say something, but was held back by an unseen force.

"It's all right to feel that way, Nova. But let me reassure you, your father is not how you remember him. This is part of the discovery process. Finding out, through clear eyes, who people really are. Can we let him in, Nova?" Dr. Warmer requested.

I wanted to say no, but I knew that I would have to see him because that was what they wanted. What I desired was to get this over with and get out of here as soon as possible. So, I just needed to rip the band-aid off. If that meant playing along with them, so be it. Besides, no matter how scary he was, I doubted that they would allow my father to get very far if he attacked.

"I guess. But keep that lunatic away from me," I bargained.

"We won't allow any harm to come to you, Nova. I think you'll find, however, you have nothing to worry about."

The door behind me squeaked open, followed by light footsteps. A lofty shadow stepped to the other side of my mother, taking a seat in the empty brown plastic chair. I refused to aim my gaze at either one of them.

"Mr. Price, why don't you say hello to your daughter?" Dr. Warmer prompted, his hippie hair shining in the afternoon sun rays.

"Hello, Nova," my father offered from the side of me.

His voice was nothing like the wretched croak he had taunted me with, only weeks ago. It was solid, resonating with a unique tone that seemed rather familiar to me. Astonishingly, I was not traumatized by his presence in the room. Even so, I did not respond to his simple greeting.

Dr. Warmer continued his counseling: "Nova, while it is true that your father was diagnosed five years ago with schizophrenia, he was never institutionalized. He has been participating in therapy and keeping up with medication. He's been living at home with you and your mother the entire time."

I was furious at their blatant attempt to brainwash me.

"That's crap and you know it! How much drug money did they pay you to say that?" I seethed at them, teetering on the edge of my chair.

My father leaned forward, his countenance unashamed. His face was full and healthy like my mother's, and his hair was cut short for appearances sake. He looked a lot like the dad I had known before the age of ten.

"Nova, it's true, honey. I've been worried about you for some time, but I never thought you would develop what I had, especially at such a young age," my story-book father said in that confusingly-familiar voice.

Dr. Warmer was scoping the two of us, his lizard eyes darting back and forth from behind his thick lenses.

"Are we okay here?" Dr. Warmer implored.

"I'm fine. Well, I'd be better if people here would quit lying, "I retorted towards my parents.

Dr. Warmer didn't look at all bothered by my obstinacy. It was almost as if he expected it, as reflected in his calm owlish blinking.

Dr. Warmer leaned forward to speak: "When your symptoms of the illness came about, Nova, you developed some ideas and characters that are purely fictional. Your mind has created an alternate interpretation of the past. You see, when schizophrenia presents in the human brain, it alters senses to make the person believe what they are experiencing is real when, in fact, it is a delusion or a hallucination,"

I was getting tired of being thrown under the bus. It was as if they were all trying to say everything that happened was my fault.

A red-breasted robin alighted on a branch outside the picture window, enjoying its freedom. That bird didn't know how lucky it was.

"Oh, really? So, I made up my father being crazy and attacking me? That's nice. What else did I imagine?" I mocked.

Although, I had to admit, I was dreadfully curious to hear what other faultfinding tales they would spin.

"I will move forward, as long as you want to hear it. Agreed?" Dr. Warmer repeated.

"Yes, Dr. Warmer, you already said that. Please, do go on."
Chapter Thirty-Eight

"By all accounts, Nova, you are a fifteen-year-old freshman at Shaker Creek High, but the clique you spoke of doesn't exist. There is no Veronica Helmsley or Laila Burton. Most classmates describe you as a shy quiet girl, who keeps to yourself. Your neighbor is Henry Smith, who you occasionally spend time with, but he is an only child. Ginger Smith does not exist," Dr. Warmer revealed.

This accusation was a slap in my face. I wanted to hear all of it, though. He, of course, had more blasphemy to spout from his paid off mouth. I was beginning to hate his hippie face.

"Lies. All lies. But keep going, I want to hear how far you go with it," I responded with grace.

"Your mother reports having found you missing from your bed at night, at least twice a week for the past year. When asked about your whereabouts, you told her of having a best friend named Ginger that you spent all of your time with while away from home. Your mother believed your explanations, but could not understand why you felt the need to break out of your own window at night. Upon further investigation, your mother found out Henry did not have a sister named Ginger, and where you went at night...was a mystery."

They all believed I had no friends. How could I just make up my best friend? I knew every color in her eyes, every hair on her head.

"You're wrong. Ginger is real. Let me out of here and I'll prove it to you," I bargained.

I couldn't ascertain whether it was more advantageous to try and prove my point or just go along with them in order to get what I wanted.

Dr. Warmer studied me from behind magnified little windows, his lashes three times the size of they should be.

"Your point of view is to be expected, Nova. After all, you haven't been on medication long enough to reap the full benefits of the drug. Once it has a chance to fully permeate your system, you will begin to think more clearly. And, of course, therapy sessions will greatly help," Dr. Warmer reasoned.

I didn't like the thought of being drugged into believing their vision; however, I was helpless to stop them from going where they wanted with this sham.

"Is that it? I'm in here because you think I made up a best friend? Even though that's not true, lots of kids tell their parents what they want to hear, just to get them off their case; that doesn't make the kid crazy," I baited.

Dr. Warmer bit.

"Not only has your father been living with you for the past five years, but your mother has had absolutely no involvement with an outlaw motorcycle club. The outlaw motorcycle club, Dutch Assassins, does not exist. Do you understand where I'm going with this?"

I was enraged. I stood up, toppling my plastic chair over.

"Don't you dare! You want to take away everything that matters to me! I won't let you!" I yelled, standing in the spot my chair had been.

Dr. Warmer remained seated, but a male orderly in light-blue scrubs was quick to rush to my side. Dr. Warmer shook his head at the young blonde-haired man, indicating I was not yet a code yellow.

"She's okay. Just step back, there's no threat here," he soothed the gung-ho intern.

The muscles disappeared, leaving me a quivering mess standing beside my two traitor parents, my toppled chair now set upright.

"Nova, I understand that you have developed an especially strong attachment to a character called Bolt. According to you, Bolt is a nineteen-year-old member of the Dutch Assassins, yet, he has never participated in any illegal activities in your presence. In fact, in your world, Bolt has become a big brother of sorts, willing to protect you at all costs. Although he has never given you any romantic signals, you were in hopes that something would develop between the two of you. Unfortunately, Nova, like the other fictional members of the Dutch Assassins motorcycle club, I must tell you, Bolt does not exist."

I couldn't take it anymore. I began to blubber, no longer in control, no longer angry...because I knew what he said was true.
Chapter Thirty-Nine

Henry leaned across the flimsy card table, slamming his winning hand down for me to see.

"Read em' and weep, Price!" Henry gloated, his amber eyes glittering with mischief as he jumped in his rickety brown plastic chair.

I didn't mind being beat at poker, once in a while, by him. After all, he was the one character I had gotten mostly right.

Sometimes, I play our first conversation in my head like a broken record:

Henry comes in the crowded activity room unannounced on one sunny Sunday afternoon. Various societal rejects mill around; some have a purpose in mind, some are just vacant.

I'm embarrassed because he probably knows all of the stuff I involved him with, in my head...or maybe he doesn't. He looks pretty much as I remember: light-brown eyes, a dimple by his smile, and rust-colored hair that he can't keep out of his eyes. He walks over without hesitation, pats me on the shoulder, and says, "When you going to blow this joint? I've been missing my roadie."

One of the first questions I ask him (because I already knew the hurtful answers to most of the others) is: "Do you wear colored contacts, Henry?"

Henry grins, his dimple sticking out, and says, "Yeah I do...because my pupils don't match."

He doesn't even try to remind me of the time I saw him without his contact lenses in. I think he knows that I am still attempting to sort out what had actually happened, and what I had created in my head.
Chapter Forty

After spending three weeks in the hospital, I was able to look at my parents. My father visited me almost every day.

On one particularly difficult day, my dad stayed with me the entire time visiting hours were allowed: from four to ten p.m. He was permitted to visit with me in my room because I had displayed acceptable behavior for the last week. I sat up in my hospital bed wearing a deep-pink pair of matching pajamas that mom had brought me the day before. My dad sat in one of the many brown plastic chairs that punctuated the hospital corridors.

"I went through something very similar to you, Nova," my real dad began.

His graying blonde hair was short and soft, his eyes a muted blue. I thought he had a nice face; it was hard to remember my former mental transformation of his image and character. Because I could see the difference, I knew that at least some of what Dr. Warmer had said in that fateful meeting was right. I struggled, though, believing that I had imagined all of it.

"Did you take me to the Heizelman's house when I was ten?"

I could tell that my dad struggled with talking about his illness. Age lines, or stress, surrounded his eyes and mouth. But like me, and unlike most other people I knew, he was up front, too.

"You overheard me talking about it. I never actually made it over to the Heizelmans. You went and told your mother...she talked me into going for outpatient treatment. I've been visiting the same clinic for five years without another incident," my dad reported with his comforting voice.

"I keep finding out more and more how crazy I am," I complained at his revelation.

My kind old dad placed his broad (not claw-like) hand on my head.

"You're not crazy, Nova. You're sick, but you're getting better."

He wasn't big on words, but his presence was powerful. I felt awful that I had believed those terrible things about him. He wasn't a monster; he was my real dad.
Chapter Forty-One

Pretty soon, I will be leaving the hospital, and I'll have to go back to reality. Some things will be better than I remembered, like my parents and my living conditions. Other things will be difficult to adjust to, like knowing I don't have a best friend named Ginger, and that I'm nowhere near popular at school. It sucks when you don't know what to expect.

I made a real friend in here the other day. At least, I think we will be friends. Her name is Audrey and she has bipolar disorder. She came in the night after I did, but she gets to leave first because this isn't her first round here. She had what she calls a trip. When she gets high on the roller coaster, she does lots of risky things (like I did: going to that motel). They found her at a dance club downtown, dressed to the nine's, spending her father's stolen credit card on high-dollar booze and cocaine for adults there that she didn't even know. Two weeks prior, she had been unable to get out of bed just to go to school. I like her...she makes me feel... not so weird.

Bolt hasn't visited me yet, but I know he will. Some days I believe what Dr. Warmer tells me but, other days, I trust that he will come back. Even though I know my mom is not actually a crystal meth biker-bitch (she's kind of cool most of the time), and my dad is not a homicidal hospital-escapee, I still feel a mysterious pull to a young man in black leather.
Chapter Forty-Two

The first day of spring hasn't arrived yet, but the lemon-yellow sun shines through fast moving puffy clouds as I walk from the van to the front door of my home. I'm not wearing anything designer; in fact, I think my black yoga pants might be from Target.

My front door is not dilapidated or falling off the hinges. It is a cute, black-painted, wood door with clustered triangle-shaped windows. Henry walks across my dead lawn to greet me, his russet hair whipping in the warm wind. He smiles as if this is the thousandth time we've hung out at my house together.

For today, I don't think about my brain; it's all about blue skies and sunshine. He reaches for my hand, and I don't worry.

Self-preservation guide rule #10: Sometimes, it's necessary to forget everything that you know.
Epilogue

My eyes are weighted, but I open them, anyway. The moon is full, casting looming shadows across my midnight-blue floor. I don't bother to check the time because it is the same, since last week. Yawning, I extend my legs over the side of the bed and pull myself up with Bolt's help.

His face is obscured by the nocturnal glow at his back, but I perceive that he is smiling at me. He hasn't spoken to me yet but, maybe, tonight's the night.

Together, we navigate the dim hallway towards the front door. For some reason, I am unable to get the front door open, and I turn towards Bolt. His biceps flex and distend with his grunting effort, but he too is trapped inside.

The lights come on and we are found out.

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