 
Crescent Gorge
Part I

by Adrienne Gordon

copyright 2014 by Adrienne Gordon

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_Swic, swic, swic_.

It was that sound that Philip heard, late at night, as he was trying to get to sleep. It had been a long day of studying, as he had a major algebra exam the next day. He picked up his cell phone one last time and shook it, close to his ear, trying to see if it was the culprit. He didn't hear anything loose, so he opened it one more time and flashed through the menus, making sure there wasn't some alarm or chime he had forgotten to turn off. If it went off in the exam hall he would be tossed out, as per regulation, and whatever he completed on his final up to that point would be his grade. Her shook his head in frustration, let out a sigh, then reached over and put the phone back on the table next to his bed. It was after he put the phone down that he felt something like wet noodle surround his wrist.

"What the—"

Was all he could manage, before the wet-noodle thing constricted like an iron vise suddenly around his wrist. In under a second it sliced through skin, flesh and bone, and he watched in mute horror as what was his right hand fell to the floor. He tried to utter a cry, struggled to scream out, but found his throat had swollen suddenly, and he could barely breathe. He flailed for a moment in bed, struggled to leap out, but found he couldn't. He felt as if his limbs were the consistency of wet cotton. He saw something greenish suckle around his stump of a wrist, then felt a euphoria settle through his mind as he died, a parting gift from his unseen, unknown killer.

2

Many shoes tread lightly through the small, dimly-lit room that harbored a dead boy violently separated from his right hand. The camera flashes punctuated the silence, but they shed no light on answers to the questions all the men had in the room. They kept their chatter low, their faces long, and their hope buried deeper than the boy's eventual grave.

Then, the black boots came in.

"So, what do we have here?" asked the man in the black boots in a State Trooper uniform with Captain's stripes, his syllables rolling over one another in perfect precision. An early October snow had fallen, and he spent a moment wiping his boots on the rug outside the door. "Oooof! Wow does it smell like somethin' died in here." One of the other cops acted a guffaw, sarcastically mocking the Trooper's poor sense of humor before returning to his work. "So what is it—suicide? Murder? The line was mostly static and garbled when you called, Roger. I was under bridges and in tunnels most o' the way over here, doin' over ninety, setting off my sirens every time one of your dimwits tried to make his ticket quota offa me. I mean, you guys never had a damned murder 'round here? A drug deal? Or are those a little too hard to investigate and make too little money for your fair metropolis, so everyone 'o your boys gotta be on the road."

"Well, I—"

"Never mind, never mind!" cried the Captain with a dismissive wave of the hand. "What I do recall is someone said somethin' 'bout a hand on the floor?"

"Yes, Captain," said Roger Mealey, the local Sheriff, who was more than happy to finally speak. He gestured to a blood-covered hand lying next to the night stand, little more than a foot from the body, which was still in the bed, under the covers, as if the young boy was still asleep. "We think—"

"So did your guys preserve this crime scene properly?" demanded the Captain as he pumped off more questions as he surveyed the scene. "Who found him? How was it called in? Who got here first? Are you sure nothing was moved? Did you guys dust for prints? Who's taking the pics—I hope it's one of your best guys, not one of your highway boys with a cellphone camera." He took a breath, waiting for answers. "Well?!"

Mealey took a deep breath, resisting the urge to yell. After all, he did call in the Captain for help. The small town of Crescent hadn't had a murder for almost ten years, and with Senator Ford in town for the presidential caucus, he needed to make sure all 'i's' were dotted and 't's' crossed. "The area's sealed off, with all the other students confined to their rooms as soon as the first call to our desk came in. The Floor Monitor, a man named James Cusher, found the body. He said the door was open, and when he called in and got no response, he went in and found the young man like this."

"The door was open?"

"Yeah, it was open."

"So, if it was murder," began the Captain, as he ground his heel into the carpeted floor, "the killer left the door open when he or she left, hoping their handiwork would be discovered? Don't think so. Not at all. Someone else came in here, after, and was sloppy when they left."

Mealey nodded, then picked up the sheet with his pen. "Wonder why—"

"Not for us, not for us—at least, not now. What're those bloody tracks? Did your guys do that?" He threw up his hands, cursing under his breath. "Why couldn't this have happened in Des Moines, where I can trust that no one'll drag their pant leg through some blood and—"

"It wasn't us!" shouted Mealey, frustrated. "God Dammit Ted, people other than you know how to preserve a crime scene!"

A small, heavy set man next to Mealy cleared his throat quite obviously, flashing Mealey a disapproving glance.

"What is it, Larry?"

"Lord's name . . . in vain . . ."

"You sanctimonious little prick!" spat Mealey, happy to vent his rage on someone who wasn't his technical superior. "We're standing in front of a dead fifteen-year old, and you're chastising me for my choice of words? Well, if I wanna say 'Jesus fuckin' Christ,' or 'Holy shit,' the last thing that I want is shit from your damned asshole of a mouth! You got that? If and when you ever become Sheriff, and I become deputy, then you can bother me with that shit. As for now, _shut your fuckin' mouth!_ "

"If you two are done playing 'Laurel and Hardy,'" said the Captain snidely, "there _is_ a murder to solve."

"No one knows if it's a murder," said a voice from behind them, in the doorway. They all turned to see a tall man dressed in a very long grey wool overcoat, with an exhausted look of fatigue on his face.

"What's that smell?" asked the Captain.

"Dead body?" ventured Larry.

"No, smells like asshole. Federal asshole," replied Ted, as he shook the agent's hand. "Well looky here, a Fucked-up Bumbling Idiot has shown up on our doorstep. Here for the Caucus?"

Everyone in the room chuckled at his remark, which only brought a tired sigh from the FBI agent before them.

"Alright, guys, I know you hate me and all that, but I've had a really long day, and coming here is only making it longer." He was a broad shouldered man, with a thick grey beard and a wool overcoat that was saturated down to the most innermost fiber with the smell of cigarette smoke. "I'm agent Reynolds. Now, who's the lead here?"

"Captain Ted Parker, at your service!" said the Captain, as he clicked his black boots together.

"Thanks." Utterly unperturbed by the Captain's attitude, Reynolds unbuttoned his coat, and gazed over the scene, pausing not only to look at the placement of the lamp, table, chair and bed, but at who was in the room, and what they were doing. He stood with one hand on his holstered weapon, the other smoothing out his long, black tie. Usually a man with immaculate placement of all he wore, he had forgotten or lost his tie-clip sometime earlier in the day, and it caused him no end of annoyance. "Now, who actually knows all the facts?"

"I guess I do," answered Mealey, stepping forward. "As you can see, we have a dead fifteen-year old, name; Phillip Landsberg. He was discovered by the Floor Monitor. The odd aspect of this case is that his wrist has been severed, and the color of his skin and the general wasting aspect of his body suggest that he has lost much of his blood, though there is little on the floor. There was a trail of blood that was noticed when we came in, but it led to a table under that window, on which there is nothing now. By the dust and water stains, one could infer that a potted plant was once there. The killer may have put the murder weapon in the pot, to absorb the blood, so it could be carried out of the room without attracting attention. But it certainly couldn't have held the amount of blood that it appears the young man has lost."

"Thank you." Reynolds thought for a moment. "Any family?"

"None. This is a boarding school, and his records show that he was put here as a result of the will from his parents."

"Will?"

"Both his parents died," said another man, in a corner of the room.

"Who are you?"

"Steve Mackey, headmaster of this school." Steve walked in slowly, his anxious eyes darting back and forth from one badge to another. "Phillip lost both his parents five years ago, and stood to inherit their estate. But the will had a provision that he was to complete this boarding school before he would inherit the money."

"How much?"

"I'm unsure how much, but it's rumored to be around seven million dollars."

A couple of the men whistled in amazement.

"And who does the money go to now?"

"Charity."

"Charity?"

"Yeah. The lawyer for the family did check up on Phillip once in a while, and one time we had a nice cup of coffee and a long talk. He told me that the estate would all go to charity, with almost nothing going to him."

"What charity?"

Steve smirked. "It's a charity! They wouldn't—"

"Steve, I'm very tired, with a lot of things to do. What charity?!"

"The American Red Cross."

"The Red . . . why?" asked Reynolds.

"Apparently when this town was all but destroyed back in the thirties, the Red Cross set up a shelter that cared for the boy's parents. They wanted to give back to them."

Reynolds nodded to himself. "Alright, thanks Steve," said Reynolds, motioning to the door, "that's all we'll need."

Steve nodded meekly, and scurried out the door. Ted unsuccessfully muffled a guffaw.

"What?" asked Reynolds.

"We have our eyes on Steve," said Mealey. "He has a couple of problems, one of which led him to stripping down to his underwear in front of the Deli last year."

"A drunk?"

"Yeah."

"But he's got himself some help," offered Larry.

"You mean the AA across from the bar?" scoffed Ted. "Yeah, loads of help there."

"You think he's good for this?" asked Reynolds.

"No. He's good for a lot of things, but not this."

Reynolds nodded, coming to a decision. "And the Red Cross wouldn't go around slashing wrists for the little bit of money he mentioned. Ted, I'm going to need you to wash this one away."

"Wash it away?!" cried Mealey. "A boy just died here, and we don't know who did it!"

"Yeah, and we're on caucus night, with Senator Ford in town. If this got out – the mysterious way this boy died – the media would swarm around not only this school but the entire town as well. I think they call it a 'frenzy.' And even though Senator Ford has been involved in meeting after meeting all through the day and night, this would inevitably be attached to her name, and possibly ruin her chances of election. Now I may be an impartial government employee, but I do like her, where she comes from, and what she stands for."

"She is a good woman," said Mealey, nodding solemnly. "She grew up poor, just like me, and made it all the way."

"That's right," said Reynolds. "So no one's gonna miss this boy, and it appears no one will profit from his death. This is a suicide, and you need to delay reporting it for another couple of days, when the primaries are firmly planted in New Hampshire.

"But . . . what about _how_ he died?" pressed Mealey, reluctant to let it go. "I've never seen anything like this before."

"My friend," answered Reynolds, as he buttoned his coat back up, "I've seen case files on three hundred different murders, all in the past two years that can't be explained. Just plain weird stuff that boggles even our brilliant boys and girls. Stuff like this just happens—we can't solve everything. I don't like it, but we have other considerations. Now if another murder happens, and it's just like this, then you can always 'revisit' the case, and say you found new evidence linking the murders. But I think this is just a one-off, and your sleepy little town can go back to bed and not have to put on the nightlight."

"Oh . . . dammit," said Larry, as he backed away from something, his face white and drawn.

"Oh dammit what?!" demanded Mealey as he pushed Larry aside, and saw what he had done. "You dumb sonofa—"

"Wait a minute," said Reynolds, as he examined the scene. Larry had accidentally backed into the hand, stepping onto the stump, squishing blood and flesh on the carpet. "Maybe little dumber boy here's got the right idea." Reynolds yanked the body out of the bed, dropping it on the floor, and then stomped on the stump on its right arm. "Now, it looks like the corpse was mutilated, before you guys got here. The blood seeped into the carpet, which you guys will hafta throw away anyway. Right, Steve?"

"Yes. I think that's what would normally be done."

"'Course it would! Now let me get back to my Senator, and you guys back to whatever deli or donut shop gives you free shit. And call me, Mealey, if anything else goes wrong around here. I don't forget favors."

They watched as he wiped off his boot, and then rushed out the room.

"Fuckin' FBI—God's gift to the common man."

#

In the darkness, a girl was crying.

Stacey sat huddled behind her bed with the lights off, her arms around her knees. Next to her sat a small potted plant with a few blood stains on the rim of the pot.

_I just need to keep quiet a little longer . . . they'll leave, I know they will_. She glanced down at the plant, and cried even more, whimpering. _How could I do this to you, Phillip? I said I loved you, and now I've thrown it all away_. She reached out, and ran her finger along one of the leaves of the plant. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes, feeling a rush. _I've hidden you for so long; why do you do this to me now?_

Her cellphone rang, and her heart nearly burst. She fumbled in her pockets to answer it, bringing it close to her face.

"Yeah? What is it?" As she listened to the voice on the phone, her face lost much of its pallor. "Alright, I'll meet you. Yeah, that's fine."

Stacey swiped off her phone, and sat back against the wall. Suddenly, she wanted to see her mother, no matter how mean and distant she usually was. She was backed into a corner, and never felt more alone.

3

It was lazy and lonely at the Forum Deli, and all Bill could do to stay awake was linger near the small dining area and leer at the three college girls that were finishing their supper. The light snow had transitioned to a hard, cold rain, and the piped-in generic country music had sputtered out because of the storm, leaving their quiet conversation as the sole means of entertainment. He tried not to make it obvious, languidly wiping the counter near the register one more time, shuffling the stacks of magazines back and forth along their rails, but he knew and the girls knew that he was listening, and they made no attempt to hide their words. It was a tacit understanding they came to, and they both seemed to derive some pleasure from the deal.

"So when are we gonna get a ride in your new car?" asked the girl closest to him. He figured her name was Sarah, or Sally. She didn't come into the deli much, unless it was with one of her friends. She was a quiet sort, but with a bitter tongue that lashed out whenever he was a little sloppy with her change.

"Mmm . . . we'll see," cooed the prettiest one, that Bill always noticed. He knew her name; Patty Dillard, and she was a junior biology major at Zorrell. She was a regular; that is, she came in every Tuesday and Thursday during the past semester to get a pop and a candy-bar. He figured it was after a tough class, because she looked like she needed it. The deli was like some fairyland, where the college kids could buy all the food that was bad for them, and no one would see them eat it. Which is why the girls were sitting there at nine at night on a cold, rainy Thursday, eating tuna-fish subs slathered with cheese and mayonnaise, with an extra-large basket of fries jostled in-between tall cups of brown-colored pop. Of course the pop was diet, as it was a hard habit to break. Of course, they had to chronicle their adventure on-line, taking a photo and posting it on one of the temp photo sites, as if daring someone, anyone to discover their secret.

Patty leaned back in her chair, letting her hair fall a little down. Bill paused for a moment in his wiping of the counter, his eyes transfixed by the smooth patches of skin she revealed along her shoulder and arms. It was a brisk night out, but it was warm inside, and their coats hung sloppily on the metal chair-backs, leaving them in tight t-shirts or tank tops. Then he suddenly collected himself, as he could feel the amused eyes of the other two girls laughing at him.

"It'll make you sick to keep lookin' on somethin' you can't have—at least, not yet," said Greg, the owner, suddenly appearing in the doorway to the stockroom. Bill had thought he was still out at the caucus, but Greg could always move with a stealth that was admirable.

"One day," said Bill quietly, as he came over to Greg, who was taking out the few expired pop bottles from the cooler. "One day, I'll have a girl just like her."

"One day, I'll open another store. One day, I'll have some kids. One day," muttered Greg, as he flung another bottle into the waste, "has been the story of my life. You don't need to wait to find a girl like her. There's plenty of good one's in your class! I see 'em all come in here. You've got some real lookers."

"Yeah, but none of them look at me. I just need to get in shape, and lose these pimples. Then, I can find someone right for me."

"You think any of those people runnin' for President said shit like that? No, they know what they want, and they just take it. Senator Ford was at my caucus, and you shoulda heard her speak! Grew up poor, with a daddy that left and a mommy that didn't speak any English. What'd she do? Taught herself the language, worked two jobs to stay in school, and now look at her!" Bill just shrugged his shoulders. "Damned shame," spat Greg, a little angry and frustrated, as he slammed the cooler door shut. "You won't be nothin' in this whole damned life if you don't listen. Now throw this shit away, and put up the chairs. We're closin' in ten minutes."

He turned, and despite Greg's anger, Bill had to look once more on Patty—no force on Earth could have stopped him. She wasn't just a crush for him, for he had those all while he was in lower grade school. This was the first time his whole body wanted a girl, the first time he imagined someone without their clothes on, lying with him, doing things to him. There were times that she would just pop in for a candy-bar that he thought he was going to explode. He was too young and too dumb to realize she enjoyed playing with him, got a little thrill out of getting him all worked up just to leave him alone with himself. But he had a dull sense of it just the same, and as the long months of fall were turning to the longer days of winter, his lust was also cooling into a dull rage.

"Come on, boy; _get those chairs up!_ " yelled Gary from the stockroom.

"Yeah!" yelled Bill back. He forced himself not to look at her, and got the store ready for closing, knowing he would need to ring her and her friends out. Suddenly the door opened, and Bill cursed to himself.

_Damn perv_.

One of the college boys came in, another regular, except he never came for the food. The Deli was also close by one of the major interstates, and as such they made money primarily from four crucial commodities: food, cigarettes, booze, and porn. In his first days and weeks working at the Deli, not even Bill could resist the lure of free porn. When Greg, or Sandy (the other cashier there) would be on break or in the back, he would greedily flip through the four-foot long row of magazines. There were all kinds, from the tame ones showing women in various states of undress, to the hardcore, pseudo-sex mags. Then, one day Greg caught him looking a little too hard, and requested from his supplier that all the harder magazines come in an opaque wrapper. The truckers didn't care—they didn't open them until they got back in their rigs. But the college kids cared, and probably would've jumped Bill and beat him senseless if they found out who ruined their free fun.

Because the worst thing to do was to actually buy one—at least for the shy boys that tended to look at those mags. The smart ones just came in to browse, and they covered their true goal by opening a car magazine first, then putting the other one inside. Bill learned that trick the first time he had to straighten the rack; almost a quarter of the car mags had some porn mag inside. He cursed himself for not figuring out that trick before Greg caught him.

But the college boy in now was one of the few that actually bought the magazines. And he never came by during the day. He always came by just a few minutes before closing, when most times there was no one in the Deli. And the few times he was confronted with just this situation, with some of the girls from college still sitting, and he perused the car magazines, biding his time.

The three girls came to the counter, and Bill hurriedly rung up their sale.

"$18.04."

"Oh, wait," said one of them, glancing back to the boy looking at the magazines. "Ring me up separate—I think I wanna get another soda to take home."

"Don't forget where you are," said Sally, or Sarah. "It's 'pop,' not 'soda.' Everyone'll look at you."

"What- _ever_. You got it?"

"Ok," replied Bill. He took off her sale. "That's $12.35."

"I got it," said Patty, as she began to dig in her purse for her wallet.

"No, no," said the other girl, the Sarah or Sally, firmly, pushing Patty out of the way. "I've got it." She put her card on the counter, flicking it down with emphasis, watching as Bill's expression turned from joy to disgust. He picked it up quickly and slid it through, waiting for the approval code.

"So tell me . . . Bill," she said, after obviously glancing at his name badge, "how come we always find you here?"

"I dunno," he replied meekly, his eyes glued to the register that was taking way too long to give him the code.

"Don't you have other things to do? You still in High School?"

"Yeah."

The girl smirked, and flashed Patty a wide grin, who in turn began to walk away.

"What's life like for a townie boy? What's that school . . . Dubuque County High?"

The code finally came through, and Bill sighed with relief.

"Yeah, that's the school in town, but I don't go there," he said quickly, as he presented the slip for her to sign. He even put the pen neatly by its side, hoping she would just finish and leave. But she picked up the pen and clumsily twirled it in her hand.

"Then where do you go?"

"Alliance."

"The boarding school?!" She cooed, slapping her palm on the counter. "Oh Patty, this is a good one! You've got to have some money to get in there . . . don't you?"

"I don't know. My parents put me in there."

"Oh, I see," she replied flatly, the joy gone from her voice. She signed the slip, and handed it to him. She smiled at him, but this time with some actual compassion. "I've been there. See you later."

He watched as they left, wondering what she meant. The college boy finally picked out his porn mag, and brought it to the counter, but didn't notice the other girl that went to the cooler to get a pop, and as he pulled out his wallet, the other girl quickly and quietly crept up behind him. Bill was irritated by the college boy, and held up the magazine as he put it in a brown paper bag, guessing what she was after.

"What's that," asked the girl loudly, "a Cosmo?"

Bill almost burst out laughing, but with all the willpower he could muster, he kept a straight face as the boy in front of him blushed a new shade of purple.

"That's just sick," she continued, as the college boy got his change and turned to the door. "I shouldn't have to see that sort of stuff—can't you get a girl?!" she shouted, as she laughed hysterically. "I guess that's why you're here!"

After he left, Bill rung up her sale, and she slipped him a ten as the lights in the store went out.

"Guess you see a lot of that?"

"Yeah," he replied carefully. He was never good at direct, one-on-one conversation—especially with a college girl. "Here's your change. Have a good night."

"Thanks." She was about to leave, then she paused for a moment. "Sorry about my friend—she always likes to tease guys. I'll tell her to back off—you're not so bad."

She flashed him a smile, and ran out to join her friends. Bill sighed with relief that the day was finally done.

#

Greg locked the door, as Bill pulled his coat hood up. It was getting bitter cold, as the sun had set long ago, and the passing rainstorm left patches of ice on the ground. Yet Bill could see the three girls standing on a nearby corner, lighting up what smelled to be a few joints, before they headed back to school.

"Kinda funny 'bout people," said Greg, as he waited for the metal security gate to scroll down over the store front. He only put it on last year, after a few college kids threw stones through his window after being refused a keg of beer.

"What do you mean?"

"They're the lucky ones, going to college, with friends. And yet they're standing on a street corner smoking pot. Two of 'em might give it up when they graduate, but I've seen a lot of kids go by, and one of 'em's gonna end up doin' the hard stuff, fuckin' up her life somethin' pretty."

Bill saw what Greg spoke of but also saw, in the dim light of the stars and the moonlight faintly passing through the stormclouds, something he could only call beauty. He saw them smoke the refers, with a quick inhale them long, slow exhale. He saw them giggle and guffaw at boys they remembered, or girls they hated. He also saw them smile with a radiance he seldom saw. He saw their camaraderie, their joy in life, their hope for the future. He saw the balance in them was tilted more with goodness and life, then hate and death.

Suddenly a small motorcade pulled up in front of the deli, just as rain started to fall again, comprised of two large, bulky SUVs and a long limousine. A tall, burly man dressed in a long wool coat hurried out of the black limousine now directly in front of Bill and Greg. The man opened an umbrella, then opened the rear door, and the tallest woman Bill ever saw came out, holding her head proud and high.

"Is this the deli?" asked the man in the overcoat.

"Yeah," answered Greg, as the cold rain started to come down harder, turning quickly to sleet. He motioned both of them under the awning of the deli, and Bill came there as well. "But we just closed." He took another look at the woman. "Hey, you aren't—"

"Yes, I'm Senator Ford. I thought you might still be open—we heard you've got the best sandwiches for a hundred miles!"

Greg looked perplexed and confused for a moment, his mind racing. On the one hand, he wanted to open up, but on the other, he knew too many things were put in storage to get them something to eat quickly. He stepped forward.

"If you want it, I'd be glad to make you a sandwich."

She smiled, and shook her head in the negative. "I couldn't put you through that trouble. You had a long day, just like we did." She glanced over at Bill, whose eyes were glued on her. "I guess you're a little too young to caucus?"

"Yeah," replied Bill, his mind racing for something better to say. "I wish I could—I'd vote for you!"

Senator Ford laughed, and reached over to put a hand on Bill's shoulder. "Thanks for the kind words, young man. I certainly could use all the help I can get."

"I caucused for you!" cried Greg, as the sleet fell harder on the awning, bouncing off in a spray of white. "You've had some kinda life, Senator. I know you'll be a great President!"

Bill glanced over at the three girls on the corner, noticing they were focused on him, for a change.

"Friends of yours?" asked the Senator.

"I wish," said Bill, quietly.

"Don't mind him, he's still figurin' out how to be a man," said Greg, as he playfully pushed Bill. "But he'll learn."

The Senator came closer to Bill. "This life's a hard one, young man, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you've gotta take all you can." As she leaned forward to speak, the rain turned to hail and it settled into her hair, as her bodyguard was lax in shifting the umbrella forward. For some reason, Bill wanted to grab it from him and protect her himself, as if he owed her that and more. "No matter if it isn't offered to you, you've gotta grab it and take it and call it yours. Never, _ever_ do anything wrong, but too many people will tell you that going for something and taking it is wrong. Those are the fools of this world, and they will never mean anything to anyone."

"Don't you . . . don't you worry about losing?" tentatively asked Bill.

"No!" She laughed, and it was the most delicious thing Bill ever heard. She had a low speaking voice, but a musical, soprano laugh. "Honest! Look at the other people running. Look them hard in their eyes, and tell me they don't know that they will lose. They have the stink of indecision on them. I _know_ I will win. I spend all I can and more to get there, because I know I _will get there_."

Bill looked up into her eyes, and felt something . . . strange, for a moment. He felt as if there was something just out of sight, out of touch, that he needed, that he wanted. The girls on the corner suddenly seemed terribly small and unimportant. He shifted his vision ever so slightly, and caught a glimpse of Greg, and in that glimpse he saw all the petty sins that clouded up his life. Bill felt then that something was waiting for him, expecting him, at some point in the future. He looked back up at Ford's eyes, and smiled a knowing smile.

"I think I've reached you?" she asked coyly. "Well, it was good to meet you both. We have another long day, and I need my rest."

Bill watched her climb back into her car and drive off, out of sight. Greg playfully punched him.

"I think she liked you."

4

The local _Shop-N-Save_ reeled in the aftermath of the presidential caucus like a young girl that had too much to drink at Prom. In short, it was an utter mess; a store that had been used and abused then discarded for someone else to clean up. Confetti littered the parking lot, sticking to the silver street lamps and the employees' cars. Inside, the white tile floor was a brown shade of grey, with half-drunk bottles of pop strewn like so many pins after a one-two split at a bowling alley. There was a small platform from which Senator Ford spoke, on which even now a few of the last, lingering employees took pictures as they stood at the dais acting like someone who mattered.

The bakery had been on overdrive for the past few days, getting all the bread for the sandwiches made, crackers for the hors d'oeuvres, and two dozen cakes, including a massive four foot long one that bore Ford's likeness. Lizzie had worked side by side with Elma, the baker, in crafting the confectionary gem, and it paid off, with several pictures taken of Ford admiring the cake. But most importantly, to Lizzie that is, is that she got to take home a great deal of the leftovers.

To say Lizzie was fat would kind. Lizzie aspired to being 'fat.' She was sloppily obese, a girl who couldn't seem to keep all her flesh tucked into her clothes. Ever since her father was arrested for molesting her and a friend in sixth grade, she put on the weight without even looking back. She always felt she made her father do it, that she was too enticing a young girl, and her mother never helped matters. Her mother didn't even believe her at first, saying; ' _maybe he was trying to pull down your shirt—I told you not to wear one that short_.' Or even; ' _I told you not to bend over in front of him all the time! He's been having it tough at work, and when he gets home he's real tired_.' The way her mother looked at her was burned into her mind as if she was the criminal, as if her mother had done the foul deed. Her father always seemed absent when she touched him, as if he was going through the motions that someone else dictated.

Regardless, by seventh grade she had put on thirty pounds, and the way her mother treated her was noticeably different. Her mother wasn't fat, just somewhat overweight; 'curvy,' by modern standards. She couldn't play tennis, but if she ran for her life she wouldn't die from exhaustion in the attempt. But beside Lizzie she was rail-thin, and always got the eye of men who came near the two of them. It never occurred to her that she was jealous of her daughter, or even how wrong it was to compare the physique of a thirty year old to that of a thirteen year old. All she cared about was how men now looked at her instead of Lizzie, the quick glances back from men in the stores they shopped, the extra little attention she got from a tall, big man that worked at the diner. Her mother could go out in public with her again and not be worried about who was getting what attention.

She fed her daughter mercilessly, putting more and more butter into cakes and cookies, buying two liter, then three-liter plastic bottles of pop. And when she opened them, she would chastise her daughter for not drinking them quick enough, for after a day or two they would start to go flat.

So by tenth grade Lizzie was fat enough to officially warrant constant teasing from her classmates. It was as if she inherited the mantle of class buffoon, best loser in class, and most entertaining spectacle to jeer at. Her mother finally mentally woke up when she found her daughter trying to cut her wrists in the bathroom. Luckily they were so fat, she couldn't slash down deep enough to reach an artery. Her mother pulled her out of Dubuque High and put her in Alliance, hoping she would lose some weight—but not too much.

The first few weeks were scary ones for Lizzie, being confined to the school meal plan. Then job assignments came, and she drew the luckiest straw of all—assistant baker at the _Shop-N-Save_. Not only did she get to take home the two-day-old pastries, but for some reason the rep who serviced the chip and pretzel aisle thought she was a little cute, (in a maternal, barefoot and pregnant kind of way) and gave her a few of the expired bags of her favorite nacho chips when he came to damage them out. As she was heading out now, even after three days of work that would have seen other people lose weight, she had gained five pounds and had enough cake and cookies in her bag to give another couple more.

With so much confection in her belly, arms, and legs, you would think her disposition would be similar, but it was sadly the opposite. She was bitter to a point that to taste her would pucker one's lips to the wryest of smiles. And yet, for one so large, she was usually unnoticed by her coworkers. Even though she fit in with the others, as they also were mostly morbidly obese, they wanted nothing to do with her. She spoke like an Easterner, calling pop 'soda,' pronouncing the 'ow' in 'yellow.' but more than that, she dressed as a Goth, almost always in black (except for Halloween, when she purposefully wore a yellow and white dress with lace), with platform shoes and piercings in her nose and lower lip. She had a foul smell about her, one of musk and oil. At first most of them though her to be a little dim, but soon they learned she was amazingly quick and smart, just with a penchant for self-mutilation and immolation.

She stood at the front door now of the _Shop-n-Save_ , waiting to be let out. The store officially closed at eight, but stayed open until eleven for the caucus festivities, and it was now 11:15. For a while Lizzie was more than happy to stay in the store, chatting gossip with Elma. She and Elma had got along pretty good since she started working there, especially since Elma didn't care how many day-olds Lizzie took home. But Lizzie just got a text on her cell, and after saying good-bye to El (no one but the manager called her Elma) she ran to the front door, waiting for someone to let her out. Her temper grew short, so she kicked at it with her thick black platform boots.

"Come on!" she yelled, the switch having been thrown within her, taking her from calm and cool to a white-hot rage in under ten seconds. "I gotta go!"

"Now don't you go ruinin' a fine day, little girl," said the manager, as he sauntered up the aisle, jingling his keys. "We've all worked hard, and I don't know 'bout you, but I'm all tired out."

"But I need to get back _NOW_!" she yelled, and kicked the door once more. The faintest sound of glass cracking could be heard, and Lizzie went white as a sheet as the manager came up beside her, and examined the door.

"See what you almost got yourself into?" said Charles, the General Manager. An obsequious sycophant when his Regional Manager was around, he blamed any and all problems on his staff and wouldn't hesitate to fire an employee if it made him look better. But he was an able manager, and had a knack for hiring talented people who could put up with his particular brand of shit. "If this glass had broken, this would've been your last day, your last night here." He grabbed her bag and shook it at her face. "And where would you get all your little treats from now on?" He rustled through the bag, picking up a foil-wrapped hunk of cake, a small, clear plastic bag with over a dozen cookies. "Where would you get all this free stuff?" He picked out a king-size bag of the new flavor of the month of nacho chip that had expired two days ago. "Think 'bout that next time your little temper goes flyin' for no good reason. You're hooked, just like a damned junkie. And if I fire you, you'll never shop in here either. So the only other place in town to get your little ring-dings and cherry pies is the _Costsaver_ ," he said, chuckling to himself, "and you and I both know that manager hires all the cute little girls from Zorrell. You think you'll make the cut?" He handed the bag back to her, and she snatched it from him. "See! That's what I mean. Now what should you say?" he asked like someone's mother, leaning in to her face with his ear. "What do I need to hear?"

"I'm . . . I'm sorry."

He beamed like the new day sun. "Maybe you'll last a little while here, after all, my little piggy." He only called her that when they were alone, when he knew no one could hear him. "One day, maybe you'll even squeal for me." He opened the door, and she rushed out into the cold air. "Bye-bye!"

She ran across the parking lot, and down a small side-street that was her usual short-cut back to Alliance. Her face was a twisted cacophony of anguish and shame; at once bemoaning her bloated body, and hating the man who seemed to have such a firm grasp upon her. She stuffed her hand into the bag, and brought out a clump of cake and icing.

"Damned fucking _PERVERT!_ " she yelled to any that would hear, though none would. The streets were totally deserted—even the moon hung alone in the sky, with no clouds to keep it company. The storm was a fast moving one, ushered out with a blanket of cold that squatted over the town, intent on a long stay. Lizzie licked her fingers, then shut the bag, spinning it a couple of times to seal it, so she wouldn't be tempted to ruin the fun of eating it all once she got home.

Suddenly a dog barked at her from behind a fence nearby. She was walking down a dirt road in the back of a row of houses, and though she tried to move quickly and quietly, she was too big not to be spotted.

"Damned dog."

She kicked the fence with her boots, with such force that even though the dog jumped back, her foot and fence got him in the nose. It was a small terrier, with more bark than bite, so it yelped and ran back towards the house. Lizzie went white as a sheet again, her little brown eyes darting up to the windows above the porch, but thankfully no light came on, no window opened.

"Dumb ass dog." She trudged on, finally coming into the small city of Crescent. The _Shop-N-Save_ was a half-mile outside of town, just far enough that it didn't threaten the small, local grocery store – the _James Madison_ – that had been in Crescent since it was rebuilt back in 1955. Lizzie had stopped by the _James Madison_ on one her first trips outside of Alliance, drawn by the thick smell of chocolate chip cookies that would blanket blocks of the town around mid-afternoon. She had a long three weeks of dealing with the food from Alliance, and the small bakery at _James Madison_ was like an oasis. She bought thirty dollars of cookies that day, all chocolate chip—her favorite. But just as she opened the door to leave, she heard the clerk, a woman looking to be in her seventies, make a comment to her coworker.

" _Damned shame—such a fat, little girl. I feel guilty just selling her those cookies_."

And that was it. Lizzie hated the _James Madison_ , and would only shop at the _Shop-N-Save_ , even though its pastries were pedestrian at best, its pies too doughy and its cookies flat and listless (she knew she could bake circles around their baker, but just never felt like getting involved). No one there chastised her for eating too much. They just left her alone, and let her be.

So she always passed by the back of the _James Madison_ on her way home. After all, they couldn't sell all their cookies in one day. And even when they were cold and a little stale, they were the best in town. After a few circumspect glances, she pushed open the metal lid of the small dumpster that she probably knew better than the trashmen. Leaning in, she had to push up on her bosom, so she could clear the lip. It was loaded with bags, all covered with flour. She angrily tore through the plastic, glancing up now and again to make sure no one was coming. Finally, under ten others, after almost giving up, her hand ripped open a small green bag, and the faint smell of chocolate reached her nose. She rustled through it in the dark, brushing aside cakes and crullers, pies still in their aluminum pans and brownies that were hard as bricks. A wide smile settled on her face as she clutched some cookies. She pushed aside the other bags, then hurriedly cherry-picked out over a dozen. A few even had bites taken out, but she didn't mind. Her stomach could withstand almost any assault, bacterial or otherwise.

"You damned, stupid bitch!"

She froze in the dumpster, cursing that she dug her hand back in one last time. The voice, clearly a man's, was a little ways off, but Lizzie couldn't tell in what direction. She strained to hear something more, scanned the intersection nearby, trying to see movement in the shadows.

"-- but I always used protection!" screamed a girl's voice, one Lizzie swore she recognized.

Then, she heard a sound that almost any human instinctively knows. It was of a fist hitting a head, and of that head breaking free from the neck that held it. Lizzie knew in an instant whomever the man hit was dead, and his next word confirmed it.

"Shit."

Slowly, she withdrew her hand from the dumpster, and lowered its metal lid carefully, trying not to make it squeal. She wiped her hand on her pant-leg, then crouched next to the dumpster, in the shadow, and listened.

She heard a grunt, then a few footsteps, leading away from her. She tried to think of what was nearby, and could only figure that the man was somewhere near the Drug store, the Deli, or the Music store. She guessed the man went down the narrow alley between the Music store and the Drug store, for she heard a car start, then drive off.

"Wonder who that was?" she muttered to herself, as she headed back on her way, digging in her bag to munch on a couple of cookies. She shrugged her shoulders. "Doesn't matter to me."

5

The night may have come to a cold end in the town of Crescent, but throughout Zorrell College, things were just getting started. The past three months had been building to this day, the caucus, with various lectures and seminars not only on the political process, but on the ramifications of the presidential election at this time in history. The new president could make a profound global impact, building new relations with many the outgoing head of state let cool. And with Senator Ford as an alumnus, many rallies and voter registration campaigns were waged by the students. So, with the caucus over, and the results still a few hours from coming in, it was time to celebrate.

The campus was packed, with even the most reclusive of students out and about, looking for a drink, some pot, or an easy score. Seniors from Dubuque High were also infiltrating the campus grounds, eager to party, but most of them were eager to see The Mars Volta, who were playing in the Hubert Center. Even a few strays from Alliance were trying to look old and mingle.

"Did you hafta wear that?" angrily scolded Heather, as she, Rachel and Adrian made their way up the main hill separating the campus of Zorrell from the town. The trees were thickest at this point, and the dorms were on the far side of the campus, with the three main academic halls closest. The lights were all but gone, and dozens of shadows could be seen in the distance, pressing forward in their own battle plans. The grass was still wet from the earlier rain, and though the temperature had dropped quickly, it hadn't yet frozen the mud. Rachel had worn flat canvas sneakers, and was determined to keep her feet dry. "I _told_ you to wear your boots."

"Do you think the college kids are gonna wear rainboots? They live right next to the Center." Rachel paused, then jumped to a series of flat rocks. She was a rail-thin tall girl, with thick red hair that was almost larger than her head and feet seemingly longer than her forearms. "Why'd you guys even wear coats? You know we're gonna hafta ditch 'em once we get there." Rachel jumped to another rock, then suddenly stood still, feeling a chill come over her.

"What is it?" asked Adrian. His eyes were always on Rachel, hoping to catch an errant smile or glance. No matter how inane the errand, he tried to always accompany her wherever she went, even if it made him look like less of a man. Rumors floated around Alliance as to his sexual preference, and though he had some disturbing dreams on that very subject, the one thing he was sure of was his attraction to her.

Rachel glanced around her, suddenly drawn to the black trees bereft of leaves, dancing in the wind of winter. Robbed of sound, naked and cold, they seemed knit together by their shared condition, as a chorus signaling danger and death. Rachel brushed away the omen, and smiled back at Adrian.

"It's nothing—I guess I'm colder than I thought."

After a few more minutes of creeping through the trees, they came upon one of the main parking lots. It was filled with trash; everything from campaign flyers to beer cans, and even a few empty kegs lying around the side of the road. Senator Ford made her opening remarks from that parking lot, holding an impromptu press conference from one of her buses. Now, it was filled with dozens of mini keg parties as college kids and their dropout friends sat on the hoods and roofs of every manner of old car imaginable, each blaring music louder than the next.

"We gotta go around," fearfully whispered Rachel, terribly intimidated by the old college boys. "We'll never get through all them."

"Come on," said Heather as she pulled at Rachel, diving headlong into the lot. Heather was like a mirror image of Lizzie; both overweight, both with skin issues and thin, unkempt brown hair, with most people who met them for the first time calling them sisters. But while Lizzie was morbidly obese, Heather was more of a large per shape, with relatively thin shoulder and a petite bust that lead down to a spreading stomach and wide hips. In jeans, she could catch the eye of a few guys who were into 'curvier' women, but her abrasive attitude usually pushed them away. "It'll take too long to go 'round." Adrian followed, and they all tried to act old and cool, keeping their eyes to themselves, Adrian bopping his head to the beat of whatever music they passed by. Most of it was Mars Volta, but a few were playing heavier stuff, showing they were too cool even to play any Volta.

"Ain't you a little cute thing," said one of the boys they passed. He was leaning against an old dirty red Dodge Neon with dozens of small scrapes around its fender. A few of his friends sat on lawn chairs around him, while he leaned back and forth on one of the car's doors, enjoying the squeal of the door desperately trying to break free of its hinges. He looked like the other guys seated around him, but if one gazed deep into his blue eyes, one would find a darkness devoid of life. "You should come party with us!"

Heather giggled, just like she had seen her mother do a million times, then realized it wasn't her they were looking at.

Rachel nervously smiled, unused to so many male eyes on her.

_Orionblues_ was on their stereo, that is, their iPod hooked up to a docking station, connected to their car speakers.

" _Lonely livin', on backs of fools,_

_lonely drinkin', down in a pool of booze . ._ ."

"You like this song?" asked another of the other boys, his beer sloshing in his hand as he lumbered to his feet. He wore a pale yellow shirt that read ' _Fuckin' the World, One Bitch at a Time_ ,' though it was stretched to the limit around a stomach that looked to be hiding a dead body in its depths. They all laughed behind him. "You even know what it means?"

"Come on!" shouted Heather, dragging Rachel away. Adrian followed, keeping his head down.

"Such a damned waste," said the boy leaning against the Neon. "Gay guy with that cute thing. I woulda been all over her. Maybe one day, one day soon, I'll get my chance . . ."

They laughed even louder, as Heather led Rachel onto the path leading out of the lot. They stopped for a moment, so Rachel could collect herself and Adrian could catch up.

"And _why_ are we here again?" pouted Adrian, his ego bruised, but unable to vent on the college boys. "I think this was a bad idea."

"Oh please, Adrian, you'll be one of 'em in a couple of years," rebuked Heather, as she grabbed Rachel's hand. "You alright?"

"Yeah, I guess." She straightened up. "Come on; we're gonna be late."

The moved on, but Adrian was still in a foul mood.

"How are we even gonna get in?" he whined. "Won't they check ID's, or somethin'?"

"I know someone," said Heather proudly. They rounded a corner, and for a moment, they all stood still, almost in shock.

Hubert Center was a mob scene, swarming with kids making their way inside. The Center itself was lit up brighter than usual, with two enormous spotlights at the entrance banking back and forth, illuminating the night sky. Around the periphery a few fights could be seen flaring up, the inevitable result of having a polarizing candidate like Senator Ford on the campus for even a short period of time. The liquor flowed freely as the sun set, washing away responsibility and circumspection, fueling the mindless, pathetic rage of the college student.

A few police cars could be seen arriving, as the campus police began to break up the fights and put the most egregiously drunk in handcuffs. As one of the cars passed by, Rachel saw what looked to be a twelve year old boy in the back seat, his hands still in cuffs behind his back. His face was covered in sweat, and he was bald—another thing she thought was terribly odd. As the car sped by, his expression was imprinted on her mind, as surely as if it were a billboard for all to see. He wasn't just scared. He was terrified, his eyes betraying an utter hopelessness, as if he was being carted off for slaughter. She felt he wanted to cry out for salvation, but something he had done earned him that place in the car, sealed the doors shut for his journey into a waiting hell. Rachel suddenly felt it difficult to breathe, as guilt over past transgressions resurfaced in her mind, threatening to drown her very soul.

"Where should we go?" asked Adrian. "We can't get caught by those cops."

"The south entrance," stated Heather triumphantly. "Just keep it cool, and we'll get into the Center."

"They don't even call it the ' _Center_ ,'" whined Rachel, with a mocking laugh, as she shook off her unease. "They call it 'Hubert.'"

Heather harrumphed, and led them through the crowd. A couple of kids glanced at them, but for the most part everyone was too involved with each other to even take notice. They smoked their pot, popped their pills, giggled, danced, leaned against the cold air with faces of resignation and indifference, and preened in the best their mommies and daddies could buy them, railing against the unseen, unknown world for perpetuating the same old ills they knew nothing about. They stood as the inheritors, the motivators, the small, petty engines of tomorrow, waiting for their guilt to fade so they could use and abuse what of the world is left to them. Behind their overgrown stubble and matted-down dreadlocked hair lay eyes filled with fear, shrouded in a blazé swagger every high-schooler found irresistible. Heather looked on them with awe, Rachel fear, and Adrian with a blush of defiance, reluctant to become one of that particular herd.

Finally, they got to the entrance, taking their places in a line that stretched out from the Center to the outer doors of a nearby dorm.

"Almost there," whispered Heather in Rachel's ear. "Aren't you glad you came?"

"Yeah," she whispered back. "Still, I just—" suddenly her cellphone went off, with her ringtone she downloaded from the Hannah Montana website. Rachel cringed in embarrassment, hurriedly fumbling for it in her jeans' pocket. She opened it, and read a text message, going white as a sheet.

"We need to go," she said.

"Oh, no, we came too far for this!" yelled Heather, not wanted her fun spoiled. She hoped to be right next to Rachel all during the concert, and if she could get her a drink, all the better, for she was working up the nerve try to kiss her, or at least figure out once and for all if she even liked other girls. "We're almost in!" She frantically looked around, and saw the junior at the door, who waved to her. "We'll never get this chance again!"

"We've got to go," said Rachel, unperturbed. "Philip's dead."

Heather snatched the phone from Rachel and read it herself. "Fine time for him to die," she snapped, swiping off the phone. "Alright, let's go back."

6

Alliance was one of the most reputable boarding schools in the country. That is, few people heard of it, because of how little trouble seemed to happen there. It was a small campus, with a central building for classes and two dormitory buildings adjacent. One of the dorms suffered a terrible fire a year back, and as a result, all of the juniors and seniors lived in ten houses one street back. They tried to rush construction, but for some reason bad luck seemed to inhabit the new building. The foundation was found to be ruined, as it turned out that in the old town of Derrymore there was an oil storage facility that leaked most of its tanks into the ground during the devastation of 1933. So it took eight months for a hazmat crew to soak up all the oil, and declare it safe. Then, as soon as the plumbing was laid, it ruptured during the first winter, destroying the concrete that was poured.

Devastations seemed to be the story of life in Crescent, or 'Derrymore' as it was once called. Small catastrophes happened prior to 1933, involving tornadoes that seemed to skip every other town but hit squarely on Derrymore, or floods that could be contained except where the Iowa river passed through the town. But 1933 was by far the climax of the town's woe. A cluster of tornadoes—thirteen in all, pummeled Derrymore, in advance of a massive series of thunderstorms. The tornadoes leveled over half the buildings in the town's small center, then jitterbugging over the residential section. A heating Oil company was spared, only to be hit repeatedly by the approaching lighting storms, setting off a series of massive explosions that triggered a fire that ended up engulfing the entire town. Out of the forty-five hundred residents, two thousand and fifty died in the cataclysm.

When the ash settled, it had to be decided whether or not to rebuild the town. Derrymore had no investments to speak of, and the primary carrier for most of the residential and commercial insurance folded shortly after the Great Depression. The town sat as a stain on the Earth, until shortly after WWII.

General Motors bought a parts supplier near Dubuque, and decided to rebuild Derrymore to house its workers. The name was up for debate, as those who survived the devastation of 1933 claimed the name brought bad luck. So the town was named after the only canyon in the state of Iowa, which lay just outside its border—Crescent Gorge. GM, to great fanfare, resurrected the town within a year, christening it Crescent.

Sadly, times changed, and parts could be had cheaper across the border. GM sold rights to the town to a union of meatpackers. They, in turn several years later, sold the town to a Steel conglomerate. Crescent faded quickly from any national headline, and sometime in 1996 it was sold again, this time to parties unknown. Minor disasters still occurred within the town's borders, but something seemed to be appeased, and lay slumbering, only waking intermittently to exact some small penance.

#

"Gotcha!"

"Damn!" yelled Ethan, slamming his thick, meaty fist onto the cushion of his armchair. He threw the controller to the floor, folded his wide arms over his leviathan chest, and pouted like a child deprived of his favorite sweet.

"Don't do that," rebuked Paul, who struggled to contain his joy as he picked the controller off the floor and slowly examined it. "You'll break it. Besides, you usually win."

"Yeah, well, I didn't this time." The image of the buxom barbarian holding the head of Ethan's titan faded off the TV screen as the PS3 reloaded, beckoning to be played again. "Besides, I own the damned thing; I'll break it if I wanna. Why do you always play the women anyway? You know it always distracts me."

Ethan did indeed own the controller, the console, the TV—everything in the basement of the dorm house. While such technological pleasantries were strictly forbidden by Alliance, Ethan's father was good enough to purchase the house for the students, after the dorm burned down. As such, they granted his son a great deal of leniency, and Ethan in his infinite generosity, shared it with his friends. Though he did hold it over their heads each and every day.

Ethan was one of the fattest, widest eleventh graders ever to exist, while still able to walk and move about in the real world. A few more hamburgers, hot dogs and cherry Pepsis, and he would surely have been bedridden, condemned to be removed by a forklift after his death. He loved to eat, loved to watch TV, and more than that, loved his consoles. They were all stacked one on another, their cords swarming over the shelves. An Xbox, a PS3, a Wii, even a PS2, a Sega Genesis, and tucked in back, a watercooled PC with a $800 SSD, two $500 video cards and two eight-core processor overclocked to 4Ghz. Of course, he did none of the computer work. While he was mildly adept at playing the games, he had absolutely no computer skills whatsoever. His best and only friend Paul did all that work.

Paul was the near opposite of Ethan. Ethan was white, Paul black. Ethan was obese, Paul almost frighteningly thin. Ethan was socially inept, getting and keeping friends mostly because of the toys he had (it had been like that ever since childhood, with his friends ignoring his awful belches and noxious flatulence because he owned the largest collection of _Legos_ and the most _Hot Wheels_ they ever saw) while Paul had an easy going humor, almost self-deprecating, and rarely challenged his friends on anything they said.

And their talk was usually ignorant of racial pleasantries. They would moan about the drug-dealing blacks in the inner-city, moan about the woman-hating gansta rap, mock some of the Zorrell basketball players they knew while speaking in a mock stereotypical tone. Paul took it all, knowing he was too alone to fight them and too immature to teach them otherwise. He suffered in silence, biding his time, waiting for the day when he would be truly accepted.

Paul sat back in his chair, waiting for Ethan's hurt feelings to mend. "Are they comin'?"

"Yeah, I texted 'em all. Still can't believe 'bout Philip. I just wish they could've told us how the asshole died."

Ethan lunged forward and put another disc in the PS3, while Paul fought a little war with himself.

"Phillip wasn't so bad," said Paul cautiously. "Didn't he tell you about _Hellgate_? That turned out to be a good game."

Ethan sighed, reluctantly letting go of the anger. "Yeah, he did. And he had that sweet-ass girlfriend."

Something clicked in Paul. "Have you seen Stacey? Did she answer your text?"

"No," replied Ethan absently, acting a little bothered, as another game started up. "You gonna play?"

Paul grit his teeth, and glanced back at the door to the cellar, trying to will someone, _anyone_ to come through. He was never good at handling Ethan alone. He fared much better when there was a consensus, when he didn't have to fight alone. When he came to Alliance, the first person he was actually friendly with was Rachel. It was only to keep in company with her that he even deigned to speak with Ethan. But when Rachel's parents visited, and Paul felt their cold shoulders when she introduced him, he knew he would have to make other connections, find other anchors to keep him grounded.

So they played for another hour, Ethan building up a sweat, Paul struggling not to throw up. Sometimes Ethan would go a few days in-between showers, as did many boys at his age. But boys his age were seldom as heavy as Ethan, and there was only so much of the stench of Ring-dings, Twinkies, pies and cakes coupled with the rancid odor of overactive masturbations that Paul could take. Finally, the cellar door burst open, and Paul anxiously turned to see Adrian, Rachel and Heather tumbling down the stairs.

"So how'd it happen?" asked Heather, plopping down on the sofa next to Paul. Though they never spoke much, she certainly knew of his attraction to Rachel, so she usually delighted in playing the role of spoiler. "Where's his body?"

"Would you shut up?!" shouted Ethan, as he leaned forward, hammering on his controller. "I almost got this level."

Heather squinted at the screen. "What, you're still on twelve? I got up to fifteen yesterday."

"You fuckin' lie!" cried Ethan, laughing in derision. "Not even Paul's gotten up to fifteen on this one."

"Yeah, but Philip did," ventured Adrian meekly, sitting on a small chair near the sofa. "Weren't you there when he broke it, Ethan?"

Ethan paused the game and sat back. "Yeah, guess I was. Where's Bill?"

"And _Lizzie_ ," pressed Rachel. She always had to remind him Lizzie even existed, even though she felt they would make a good couple. She thought that since they were both fat, that they would at least have something in common. "You text her?"

"Yeah," sighed Ethan. "She shoulda been here by now."

They heard the outside door slam upstairs.

"There she is!" proclaimed Heather. They could hear her stomping, heavy footsteps as she went into the kitchen. "Probably puttin away her food. So all we need is Bill." Heather looked back, and saw Rachel had gone around the sofa to whisper something to Paul. There were days Heather would look on Paul with such extreme hatred that spots would dance over her eyes. When she snatched the phone from Rachel to read the text, she did so hoping Rachel misread it, and it said "Paul" instead of "Phillip".

"You guys want anything?" yelled Lizzie from the doorway to the cellar.

"No," most of them yelled back, though Heather muttered something under her breath.

"Come on, Lizzie!" yelled Heather. "Mackey's gonna be back from the police station any minute. Is Bill up there?"

"I don't—wait, here he comes." They heard the door open again. "Hey!'

"Hey, Lizzie," he answered, as they both came down into the cellar. "So, Phillip's actually dead?"

"Yup. Cops took him out in a big black rubber bag a couple of hours ago."

"Who did it?" asked Lizzie, as she sat on 'her' chair, a wide recliner Rachel purposefully set up next to Ethan's. Seated next to each other they appeared as king and queen, lording over a land of potato chips, cheese twists, and game consoles. "And where's Stacey?"

"Dunno. She didn't reply to my text," said Ethan.

"Alright!" shouted Heather, as she leapt up, and stood before them. "Do you wanna see it now, or after Mr. Mackey gives us his 'consoling/grieving' speech."

"See what?" asked Bill. "You hiding somethin'?"

"Maybe . . ." she glanced at Rachel, who for the first time was completely focused on her. "It's in my room. But you all gotta keep it secret!"

"You mean I gotta get up?" demanded Ethan, twisting to muffle a fart. "I just got comfortable."

"You've been too comfortable," rejoined Rachel. "You need a bath."

"Yeah -- sure do!" added Paul enthusiastically, immediately regretting it after seeing Ethan's face contort into various shades of fury. "Come on, who knows who might come through that door! It might be some gamer, who --"

"Whatever." He let out a long sigh. "So, whaddya got?"

"Well . . . no, you've all got to --"

They heard a car pull up, and the engine turn off.

"Damn, Mackey's back."

"And you know it's gonna be a long night. 'What are you feeling?'" mocked Bill in his best imitation of Steve Mackey, complete with a lazy drawl and slight nasal whine.

Rachel snickered. "And 'are you scared?''

They all laughed, until they heard the backdoor slam.

"Well, turn off the game, Ethan. Don't think you'll be coming back to that for a while."

7

Lee ran like he never had before, not even when he scrambled down the sidelines for the touchdown in the game last week against the Hoosiers. He darted through back alleys, down side-roads wet with mud, scrambling up sudden hills and over chain-link fences. The rain had eased into a thick carpet of water, smothering the sky in an ominous grey, punctuated by brief flashes of light. Lee hunted for an umbrella in his beat-up Passat that died earlier, but figured one of his friends took it.

As he ran along Route 30, a ball of fur in a ditch caught his eye. Even though he needed to get on as quickly as possible, for his life depended on it, the small dead thing stopped him as if it were a wall he couldn't pass.

"What happened to you?"

He knelt down, in the mud and rain, and carefully turned what looked to have been a small dog over. Its paws were wrenched out of their sockets, and its limbs twisted unnaturally. Lee never could take the sight of death—not in the movies, and certainly not in real life. Even when his grandpa died, and he went to the viewing with his mother, he kept his eyes averted away as they passed by the coffin. And though he normally would haven't even taken a second look at a dead animal, for being in Iowa, he had passed his share of roadkill, his hands were drawn to this poor lost soul, who most likely died in excruciating pain. He saw himself as that dog, yelping in the roar of rain, desperately hoping something stronger and kinder would happen along to help, but ultimately taking joy in the end of life, the end of pain.

"And I am in pain."

He pet the dog's head once, then ran on, his body freed from whatever hold the corpse had over him. He ran out of Crescent, ran along a road that became loaded with bush and tree, where tall walls of rock buffered him against the howling wind. As he came to the summit of a small hill, the rain had stopped, leaving him shivering in the cold, his clothes wet and foul.

"'Bout time," said a figure seated on a park bench next to a tree, letting out a long stream of smoke from his cigarette and swishing a bottle of pop around and around. "Where's your damned car?"

"Died on me again," moaned Lee, as he sat across from the man. He always felt intimidated by this man, and struggled to put on a show of bravado just to keep his self-confidence. "Got a smoke?"

"Not for you—where's my damned money?!" yelled the figure, after taking one more look around. "All you got is wet clothes and a damned foul stench of fool about you."

"She never showed, Greg!" barked Lee, slamming his fist down. "I waited and waited, but she never showed."

"Not my fuckin' problem" spat Greg, angrily emphasizing each and every syllable as he spoke. "Way I see it, she did ten dicks, you owe me one thousand. I don't give a shit if she showed or didn't. You're my boy in charge; you gotta deliver. Or I find another boy who wants a free fuck every other day for the little bit I'm askin' for." He chuckled. "Think I'll find any?"

"No, no, Greg." He sighed. "I've got it. I got enough in my account. I'll bring it by the Deli tomorrow, and—"

Before Lee could blink, Greg whipped around the half filled bottle of pop in his left hand and slammed it against the side of Lee's head, bringing forth a pathetic yelp.

"You stupid or somethin'?" yelled Greg. "Never bring _anything_ by my Deli— _DON'T EVEN MENTION IT!_ Why the fuck do you think we meet all the way out here? Damned you're stupid. For a fuckin' college kid, you are some kinda _STOOPID_."

Lee swooned on the ground, stumbling back and forth, trying to regain his balance and focus. He felt blood flow down his scalp, and for a moment, an image of the dog flashed in his mind. And like the dog, he knew no one stronger and kinder would come along to help him.

"Alright Greg," said Lee, as he slowly regained his balance. Lee was actually a perfect physical specimen who worked out religiously two hours each and every day. While others on the team took some kind of steroid or growth hormone, Lee didn't need it. He could bench press 250 pounds for an hour, then run full-bore for another, and then go on to practice, and still outclass the entire team. So while most times he would defer to Greg, this time his finely-tuned muscles cried out to be let lose, to show their power.

Greg could see it in his eyes, and laughed.

"So, you think you wanna take me?" asked Greg, as he carefully placed the bottle of pop on the ground and took another smoke. "Don't blame you. After all, you _are_ the quarterback; one tough piece of shit. I've seen you on the field! You tear through 'em like you was a linebacker, brushin' off guys almost twice your size without even flinchin'. Yet somehow, you've always known I was out of your league. Oh, you might know I used to play, and that a back injury stopped that shit cold. You might think that all it would take is one perfect punch, one hammer on the right point in my back, to bring me to the ground in a hail of tears."

"Well, you might be right," continued Greg, as he took another drag from his cigarette. "Maybe I still got a weak spot, an 'Achilles heel,' somewhere on my back." He crushed his cigarette. "On the other hand, you've seen me lift. You've seen me punch. And you know that for all your six-pack of abs, for all your killer shoulders, I got arms that will break you down without a second thought. I will break you, little boy, not just because I got stronger arms, but because I've been at it a long time. I've had dozens of boys just like you get tired of me demandin' things, and decide to try to take me down. Maybe you heard of 'em; Jeremy Franks? Bruce Donner? Victor Scevenetza? They all got tired of me – they all tried to fight me. And they all, somehow, suffered a career ending injury. Supposedly it happened on the field. But really, it happened right here, and they were smart enough to suck it up, walk straight, and make everyone think it was the game that got 'em."

Lee took a step back, as he had heard all those names before. Star quarterbacks of Zorrell, who got injured during a game, never to play again. The disturbing thing was how long ago a couple of them played.

"So you've heard the names, eh? Well that's good. Now, you will _get that money_. Take only enough that you need to fix up that dungpile you call a car—you see, I'm not all bad. But get the rest to me. And if somethin's happened to your little Miss Stacey, if she happens to turn up dead in the back of my Deli in a pool of her own blood, then you just take it in your stride, and find another bitch to milk for the money. Got it?"

"Yeah, Greg," he said, now white as a sheet. The moon was high, and it seemed to turn Greg's eyes into pitch black pearls of tar. Lee knew he had never faced such evil before, and more than that, he knew that there was no way out for him, that he had to suffer for another year and a half, until he graduated, and hope he made it out in one piece.

"I like you Lee. I think, more than the others, that you get what your position is. Don't worry, I won't hurt you needlessly. I didn't like hittin' you upside the head, 'cause I know you get access to all those fine little sweet things because of what you do on the field. But if you fuck with me, _I WILL FUCK BACK!_ "

Lee stumbled back onto the grass, trying to run away.

"Now get outta here!" he yelled laughing. "Run, you stupid sonofabitch, _RUN!_ "

Lee ran back the way he came, down the road now turning into a sheet of ice, hiding from the few cars that did pass by. He remembered where the dead little dog was, and wished he had buried him before the ground froze.

8

A new day dawned over the city of Crescent; cold, yet optimistically sunny. It wasn't a bad place to be. There was no litter, no graffiti; the inhabitants were friendly towards one another and to the college kids. In return, the college kids held fund-raisers for the small population of poor within the town, holding plays and classical music concerts that the townsfolk could get some culture from. And in general there was little crime. Besides the occasional drunk-driving arrest or underage drinking bust, there was little friction, even between the high-schoolers and the college kids.

But none of that rosy picture appeared in Mealey's mind, as the body of Stacey was brought into the small hospital on the edge of town. There was no morgue, no Medical Examiner's office, as they just hadn't needed one before. So he stood in one of the cadaver rooms as Doctor Harget examined her body, looking down at a girl he had seen too often for his liking.

"Looks like blunt-force trauma to the head," he said, as he turned her head this way and that. "One blow. It spun her head around so hard that it severed her spinal column. Death was near instant."

Mealey resisted the urge to stroke her hair, to give some comfort to a girl he shouldn't have known. "So . . . it was murder?"

"Yup," said Harget, with a nod. He took off his gloves, and put his massive hands on the cold steel rails that ran the length of the examining table. He was a strong man, stronger than even Mealey believed, as he learned once when he watched Harget perform an autopsy on a linebacker from Zorrell who dropped dead of a heart attack on the field. Mealey had rarely been scared in his life, but watching Harget pry open the big boy's chest with such calm, deliberate ease sent shivers through his spine. Harget took a deep breath, and said; "you should also know that when she came in, we took a blood test, which is standard when examining a possible murder victim."

"Something special?"

"She had AIDS, Mealey. She wasn't even taking anything for it, so it seems to me like she was infected recently."

Mealey nodded. "She was Philip's girl, you know. The boy who was killed over at the Alliance dorm."

Harget lifted an eyebrow, intrigued. "You know, she was a lot of boys' girl."

"What do you mean?"

He pulled down the cloth covering her body, to expose her crotch.

"I checked her, just in case she might've been raped. She wasn't, but she has extensive tearing down there. I used to work in Chicago, in a hospital that saw all kinds of things. And what she's got looks like what some streetwalker women I knew had. Extensive abrasion and tearing, consistent with regular sex with different men using too little lubrication. She's a prostitute, Mealey, and she was a prostitute with AIDS."

Mealey nodded, feeling an anxious fear creep up his spine. The first time Harget said it, Mealey didn't quite register the immediate danger to him. But now, even though he knew he was always careful, there was still that chance . . . "Did you test Philip?"

Harget shook his head. "Not enough blood. That kid was drained dry. I'd hafta peel him all the way apart to get anything."

"No sense in that."

"But you got a real problem, Mealey. I've seen stuff like this happen before. A hooker gets infected, but either doesn't know it, or doesn't care. She sleeps with some men, and one of them is the paranoid type. He gets tested, finds out, and knows the only place he could've gotten it from. He gets angry, angry enough to kill."

"So what's the problem?"

"How many others has she slept with? How many will they? This is a college town, filled with kids who think they are one step away from immortality. She was a pretty little thing, and obviously very popular. I think you need to spread the word, and fast, and get as many people tested as possible."

"Do you know what would happen if we did that?" demanded Mealey, for the first time irritated at the immense increasing pressure he was getting under. "Let's say you're right; she was a hooker, and ten other people are infected. Think of the uproar! Parents would pull their kids outta Zorrell so fast, it would collapse the college and the town. A permanent stink would be over that college."

"What's your other choice?! Let those infected ones infect others, until you truly have an epidemic on your hands?"

"Now, now, most of these kids are smarter than that. I talk to Harry on a regular basis, and if there's one thing his pharmacy does great business in is condoms. He needs to order in bulk just to keep up! So, I think we need to just move quickly, but quietly, track down who she might've been with, and quietly test them. We might only have one or two infected, or none at all, especially if you think she got it recently."

"But who'd she get it from? A John? She doesn't look like a bad kid, and neither did Phillip. I heard about Phillip—he wasn't popular enough to be sleeping with many women. Where did it come from?"

"Don't know," said Mealey, as he pulled the sheet over her head. "But the more pressing matter is who killed her, and why was it someone close to Phillip."

#

It was an odd friendship, between Sheriff Mealey and Father Grey. Friends of convenience rather than comfort, they had known each other since they both went to Dubuque High. They grew up in the same block, were in the same classes -- even at one time held the same job. They both had a faint desire to help others after they graduated H.S., Mealy because of an uncle that got shot in faraway Philadelphia, and Grey because of a couple of cousins who were abducted and sexually assaulted. Father Grey sought to heal, while Mealey sought to apprehend and bring to justice.

But as all ambition tends to fade in the face of large dinners, quiet nights and a willing spouse, so both their noble desires dulled over time. They each rose to positions of respectability and prominence, Grey as the pastor of the only church in Crescent, Mealey as the Sheriff. They were each tied into the community, in both fair and foul ways. And they still maintained their friendship, if only because sometimes Mealey could persuade Grey to nudge a suspect to turn himself in, or Grey could nudge Mealey to get rid of a source of temptation. They sat together, on this Thursday, hours after Mealey stood over Stacey's dead body, eating dinner with both their wives.

They had gone through the dinner as most went, chatting about their kids and how they were doing. Mealey and his wife Sarah had a young girl in the fifth grade, while Grey and Maggie had two young twin girls, both in the seventh grade. Grey went on a long diatribe about sex in the school, about foul language and the general degrading of morals of the young. But he did it in such an animated, engaging way, that none could ignore him or be frustrated with him.

Grey was unlike most other priests, in that he was a strong, garrulous man. Not only could he be the life of the party, moving though church functions on his electric smile, but he could adjust, and give the sedate sermons necessary for middle-America. While he was Hispanic, his features were sufficiently European that none held it against him, though with some of his closer friends, like Mealey, he let his guard down. He had his wife learn to make Mexican and Spanish food (especially after a little prompting with the back of his hand on her face—only where it wouldn't leave a mark), and for their dinner they ate simple chicken, bean and rice burritos with a green salsa, while a lively recording of a Cuban band played in the background.

"Who is this?" asked Sarah, tapping her finger to the beat. "I think this is my favorite out of all you've played."

"Why thank you, pretty lady!" cried Grey. "It's the Buena Vista Social Club, a bunch of men not quite out of their prime, getting back together to make some beautiful music. If you'd like, I could e-mail you a copy."

"Now, wouldn't that be illegal?" chided Mealey, struggling to finish his plate. He was always a steak and potatoes guy, more than happy with typical Midwest fare, and not eager to experiment. "And immoral, my friend?"

"Oh Mealy, you can be truthful with me. Admit it; you just don't enjoy Cuban music. Well, when we're back in your house next week, you can regale us with the musical stylings of Hank Williams and Dean Martin."

"I can't help it," replied Mealey slowly, "good music's just good music! Dean'll be listened to in a hundred years—not your 'Social Club.'"

Grey smiled and nodded, adept at he was at turning the other cheek. "So, all pleasantries aside, I understand some trouble has befallen our youngest?"

"Yup." Mealey took a deep breath, as he knew this would come up. "Two murders, in two days."

"Two?" asked Sarah. "I knew about Philip, but who else?"

"His girlfriend, Stacey. We found her behind the deli just this mornin', with 'er head bashed in."

Grey rapped his finger on the table, thinking. "Suddenly this town seems a whole lot bigger, with big city problems. Any motive for the girl's death?"

"No, not as yet. I did just get word that she had AIDS."

" _AIDS?"_ cried Grey and Sarah, almost at once. Maggie was noticing, over the recent dinners, how often they were prone to do that. "What're you gonna do?" asked Grey.

"Whaddya mean? I'll do my job, and find the murderer."

"What about the AIDS? If she had that, who knows who else she gave it to."

"The doctors at Midway think she only recently contracted it. She wasn't on any medication, and didn't display any symptoms."

Grey nodded. "What about Philip? Did he have it?"

"There . . . there wasn't enough blood to test."

"What do you mean?" asked Sarah, getting worried. She was fine having a sheriff as a husband, so long as it didn't actually involve anything too dangerous. "You didn't tell me about this."

"Well, it wasn't a pretty sight. Sometimes . . . I just don't like to tell you all about my work. It's kinda . . . depressing."

"Yeah, but this is a murder! You've never had to deal with a murder—least not as sheriff."

"Well Mealey," said Grey, "I certainly don't want to pry more than our friendship would allow. What I would like to do is raise AIDS awareness, work with Zorrell and Dubuque High to spread pamphlets, promote abstinence, and—"

"Abstinence?! To a bunch of college kids?!" Mealey let out a loud laugh. "Do you even know how young kids are havin' sex? Thirteen. And most of 'em ain't even havin' it in the back of a car, like when we was growin' up. They do it in their own bedrooms, in their parents' house. And the parents even know! They do it in plain sight at High School dances – if you look hard enough, in the dark, you'll see 'em bumpin' and grindin', and _not_ to the music. You know I respect what you do, but you're sorely out of touch on this one. You go into college preachin' masturbation and frigid kisses on the cheek, and you'll be laughed out quicker than a life insurance salesman at a cheerleader pep rally."

Grey grew indignant and irritated at Mealey's tone. "And what would you have me do? Sit by, and watch as our most cherished children fall to this evil plague?" Grey drew up straight in his chair, putting both his hands on the table, revealing the breadth of his chest and shoulders. He was a massive man that hid under the black cloth of his office, with a taut stomach and thick arms. And as he did that, Maggie stole a quick look at Sarah, who stared at him, her mouth open, panting a little like a dog in heat. "This is just what we prepare for—to fight the good fight. To educate those who would rather not be educated, to save lives. I would rather be laughed at as a fool then cursed as a sloth."

Mealy shrugged, never much for prolonged confrontation. "Suit yourself. Just don't forget neither of those kids even went to Dubuque or Zorrell. They went to _Alliance._ "

"Mmmm . . ," moaned Grey, "I never liked that school. Mackey refuses me to even come in and speak with the children, much less have them attend services. But of course they'll come to me to help them bury their children. They all come back to God, in the end. I only hope for their sakes that it won't be too late."

It was the one thing Mealey and Grey had in common—a vengeful streak. Whenever they disagreed the most, or grew distant in philosophy, something would happen that would remind them both how kindred a sprit they both were. Even now, as Grey uttered that word, Mealey smiled, and nodded his head, and Grey, after looking at him laughed.

"But now is not that time!" cried Grey, with a loud clap of his hands. "We should enjoy the music and companionship God has given us. Care to dance?" he asked, of Sarah.

"Of course!"

They got up, and danced the next song together, close, but not too close. Maggie took a seat next to Mealey.

"Are they doin' somethin' behind our backs?"

Mealey shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. And as long as I don't know, I don't care."

Mealey has recently admitted to himself that he no longer found his wife attractive. She wasn't too fat or thin, or even ugly, but he had gotten sick of her body. She was a woman who sometimes acted more like a man. She belched, burped, picked her nose, farted, even forgot to flush the toilet when she left something brown inside. She had a perpetual slump to her posture, and wore dirty sweatpants when they were at home, letting her breasts sag down low, free from a bra's gentle cradle. He had lost the desire to kiss her, lick her, or put anything of his inside her.

Maggie took a good look at Mealey. He hadn't the bold, bodily carriage that Grey had; rather, he had a small gut, a balding head, and the bloom of old age in his eyes. But even with all that, there was a strength, a firmness of conviction. Maggie turned back to watch her husband dance, with his perfect posture and morality, and realized she had gotten tired of living up to his expectations. She worked out every day with him. She went to his services, helped him on the multi-city charity tour, raise their children as the kind, devoted mother.

"You know, that little girl was a whore?"

"You don't say?" answered Sarah, surprised. "How do you know?"

"The docs over at Midway said her . . . vagina," he said with great difficulty, unused to being so frank around women, "showed signs of frequent use -- close to abuse. They speculated she had multiple partners, having sex without much lube. She had gotten around, and that virus may have gotten around with her."

Sarah nodded. "But I'll bet she had some fun."

Mealey glanced at her cock-eyed.

"What?" she whispered, with a sly wink. "I just know that before I die, I wanna have some fun. _Real fun_."

Mealey glanced back at Grey, who was dancing a little closer to Sarah. "He looks like he's a lot to handle."

"Oh he's all bombast and bluster, but with more quantity than quality. I wanna man that knows how to take his time, who tries to make _me_ feel good, instead of making me live up to _his_ unreasonable expectations."

Mealey nodded, as the song ended, and a new option took shape in his mind. Ever since he learned Stacey died, he wondered how he would work out his pent-up frustrations.

9

Shuffling along in worn, brown slippers, Ethan guzzled down the last few sips of his Grape Pepsi. It was a new flavor introduced a few weeks ago -- Crescent was part of a swath of test-cities for new products, and he couldn't get enough. A few days before Ethan had sworn off soda, and had just stocked up on two cases of Crystal Light tea. Often he would try to diet, try to eat healthy, usually after some off-hand remark someone carelessly made. Comparisons between he and Lizzie always grated on him, and the insinuation that they should go together always kindled the urge to diet within him. But, inevitably something new and sweet and cheap would come along to derail his noble ambitions, and send him drowning once again in a bottomless void of high-fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated oils. And the short-term satiation would turn to long-term simmering anger, resulting in a blow-up over something simple and stupid.

He crumpled his soda can and threw it hard in the trash, and it made a squishing sound. He peered over the lid, and recoiled in disgust.

"Shit if that isn't sick!" he yelled. "Who put their used bloody, filthy maxi pad in the hall trash?!" Rachel and Bill were sitting in the common area nearby, watching morning TV, and bore the brunt of his indignation. "I mean, why do we even have separate bathrooms?" He tentatively sniffed the trash. "Damn does that stink!"

Rachel shrugged. "Wasn't me."

Bill threw up his hands comically. "You got me – I did it."

"Don't be _stupid_ ," snapped Ethan, as he dragged the can through the hall towards the girls' bathroom. "I'm sick of this shit happening." He punched open the door, and whipped the can around and inside.

"What're you doin'?!" yelled Lizzie from inside. "Get out!"

"I'll bet it was you who threw it in there anyway," he snapped, with the door still open. "That shit's disgusting."

There was a flush, the slam of a stall door, and before Ethan could back away, Lizzie was in his face.

"Got somethin' to say?"

"Don't you wash your hands?"

"You don't – why should I?"

"How do you know what I do or don't do?

"You mean like stayin' up late jerkin' off? Your fuckin' bed hits the wall so hard I get a _HEADACHE_!"

Bill and Rachel both snickered, trying to keep quiet. Ethan blushed a deep red.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Besides, what do you care? How could you hear anything anyway with so much food stuffed in your mouth?!

"Enough!" shouted Heather, as she threw open the door to her room. "God, I can't even get a full night's sleep without you two lovers fighting."

Lizzie flashed Heather a dirty look, while Ethan took a step back, out of the doorway to the bathroom.

"Hey Heather, didn't you have something to show us?" asked Bill, generously offering to change the subject for Ethan.

Heather leaned against the doorframe of her room, letting her bathrobe part just a little. She always wore a bathrobe, usually until late afternoon if she had no classes. A pajama top and bottom were always worn underneath, but that didn't stop her from teasing the boys by acting as if she wore no pajamas.

"Yeah, 'suppose I did." She tossed Bill a seductive glance like a candy-bar wrapper; flashy, but ultimately discarded and forgotten. "Come on –"

Suddenly, someone threw open the door and ran up the stairs. It was Paul, and he stopped in front of them, gasping for breath, sweat pouring off his face.

"What is it?" anxiously asked Rachel. She came close to him and put her hand on his back, as he was hunched over, trying to get his breath back. "Take your time – calm down, it can't be all that bad."

Paul stood up straight and moaned, "yes it is! I just found out – Stacey's dead."

"Dead?" They all gathered around him. "How?"

"She was found murdered in back of the Deli. I was in the Ben Franklin, and I overheard a cop talking about it with one of the register girls."

They all muttered the word ' _dead_ ' to themselves, a few feeling sad, a few angry, and one utterly terrified at the ramifications. Down below, Mackey's car could be heard wheezing into its parking spot. After he came in and closed the door, he yelled; "gang, I need you all to come down here. I've . . . I've got some bad news."

"Looks like your secret's gonna hafta wait a little longer," said Bill. "We've got a long couple of days of grief counseling to go through."

10

At the corner of Race and Main there used to be the Circle Diner. Built in 1925, it weathered the Great Depression, Two World Wars, and the pullout of GM. But alas, it couldn't weather the twin scourges of Starbuck's and Subway. A Starbuck's opened two blocks from school, right near the onramp for I-9, and the Subway opened two doors down from the Circle Diner. Rich Bullock, the owner, tried in vain to fight the rezoning of the land to allow the Subway to open, but he had made too many enemies on the tiny city council. They gleefully signed the death warrant for the Circle Diner, and two years later it passed without so much as an obituary in the local Pennysaver.

So the Subway became the default meeting place for cops and truckers, students and dropouts. It even had a partnership with Baskin Robbins, allowing people to get their meal and dessert too all in the same location. Mealey sat at one of the tight, preformed plastic tables with a tall pop and a bag of chips. Greg came in and sat across from him.

"You know I hate meeting here," said Greg, making a mental note of anyone he knew sitting nearby. "This place has eaten into my profits far too much."

Mealy shrugged. "Such is progress, and capitalist competition. They always say competition is good, but all it does it end up putting people out of work and breaking up families. I mean, could you imagine working for that fucking Wal-Mart?"

Greg sat back and simmered. "Why are we here?"

"Just give it a minute. We're waitin' for our last guest."

A faded yellow Neon pulled up outside, and a tall, lanky boy wearing a Zorrell jacket sauntered in. After a few minutes he sat at the table directly in back of Mealey, wolfing down a sandwich and sucking on a pop.

"Great," said Mealey. "Now, you know there's been another murder."

"Yeah, what of it?" scoffed Greg. "Little bitch had it comin' to her."

The lanky boy chuckled in-between bites.

"That may be true, but it has brought some unneeded attention on our fair city. Trooper Joe is stickin' 'round for a little longer, to supposedly give me a hand figurin' out who killed her."

"Trooper Joe needs to get _laid_ ," said Greg, leaning back, eliciting more chuckling laughter from the lanky boy.

Mealey leaned forward. "Did you do it?"

"Really? Fuck, and leave the body right behind my Deli? I might've been a simpleton in college, but I ain't no more."

"I had to ask; if you did, I could help you."

Greg leaned back with a wide grin. "If I did, I would've taken me one last bite of that sweet, soft fish-cake before I killed her."

"Dammit Greg; she had _AIDS!_ " he yelled in a harsh whisper. The lanky boy stopped eating altogether. "We found out in a preliminary autopsy. She wasn't taking any meds, so she may have just gotten it."

"Maybe that's why she got killed," said Greg. "Maybe, if some boys got a disease from her, they might see it as a just reward that she died."

"The question is; how many boys are we talkin' 'bout? She was one of your more popular ones, wasn't she?"

"Yeah, she had a sweet tongue, and was always up for anything. Even older men," said Greg, staring Mealey in the eye. "So the question is; how many of _them_ did she get infected?"

"Thankfully, us mature gentlemen know how to take precautions, especially when dealing with college whores." Mealey leaned back, so the lanky boy could hear. "I need things to cool down, for a while. It's almost winter recess, and I'd like to have things quiet through New Year's."

"A man's got _expenses_ ," stressed Greg. "And these college kids are none too reliable. Between them wasting all my profits up their arms or nose –"

The lanky boy coughed,

"--I'm just gettin' by. I mean, this Recession's cut into my business."

"Yeah, well, for as long as you've had that business, I'm sure you've got stuff squirreled away. I mean it – it's gonna take enough to get Joe outta town; I don't need other shit complicatin' matters." Mealey leaned back again. "I'm gonna be doin' some raids on underage drinkin' parties, doin' spot checks on cars sittin' 'round too long. Anyone who doesn't need to get in trouble, should be told about that stuff."

The lanky boy cleared his throat.

"Of course, all this would go away – and quickly too – if I had a suspect in either murder. The longer they stay open, the tighter things'll get."

"If I find one, I'll bring him right to ya," said Greg with a mock drawl, saluting with his hand.

Mealy stood up, and glanced one last time at Greg. "Hopefully no one'll start lookin' too hard at our little utopia. I'd hate to see the apple cart tipped over at this stage of the game."

He left, leaving Greg alone in the booth. He got up, and before he left, leaned over the lanky boy.

"How can you even eat this _shit?_ " he asked, in a loud enough voice that others could hear. "I mean, if this isn't the dreariest, pastiest, watered-down lookingest shit I've ever seen, then I just don't know."

11

It was the day after the students of Alliance had been told about Stacey's murder. It was a surprisingly beautiful October day, with brilliant multicolor leaves dancing on strings, twisted and turned by an ocean of air. Some had already succumbed and fallen, littering the grey concrete of the small city of Crescent in a carpet of lingering life. Paul tread carefully over those leaves, with Rachel musing in anxious silence at his side.

"Was Heather hitting on you again?" he asked.

"Yeah," moaned Rachel. "First thing this morning."

"I can't believe it, less than 24 hours after we find out Stacey's gone, 48 hours after we saw Phillip's body being carted out, she's looking for sex."

She squeezed his hand. "Don't worry about it – I can handle it."

Paul sighed, and smiled, looking deep into her chestnut-brown eyes. Her thick red hair swirled about her face in the strong autumn breeze, making her appear as some goddess dropped from the summit of Mount Olympus. She was thin yet dense, with muscles heard-earned from years of playing High School rugby. She had one cut under her right eye, and though she was terribly self-conscious about it, always covering it up with makeup, it somehow made her all the more beautiful and fragile. He loved walking with her – they both loved to hold hands, and walk close to one another, close enough to feel each other's body heat. At least, that was, until a group of town kids came into view.

"Damn."

He let her hand go, and they both allowed some distance between them, as four High Schoolers passed on the opposite side of the street. While no one in the college cared about interracial couples, the townsfolk were much less liberal, and usually let unwary couples know, especially mixed-race or same-sex. It was all the same in their eyes; a perversion of what was natural and right. The message of intolerance was pushed hard in Father Grey's church and punctuated by the small gathering of Klansmen from Dubuque that held bake sales on the church lawn. No white sheets were ever involved, but everyone knew just the same.

Paul grit his teeth as he heard the kids across the street laugh a little louder and shout profanities at each other. He could feel their eyes were on him, hoping for a response, but he maintained his gait and focus straight ahead. Paul wished he didn't have to worry about things like that, but those who excel in physics usually don't excel in physical fitness, and he was no exception. More than once Rachel had been able to keep him pinned in bed, and while he may have liked it, he wouldn't go around bragging to anyone about it.

Finally the kids had passed, and they linked hands once again.

"What did you think about Stacey?" asked Rachel.

"Who would murder her? I just don't get it."

Rachel moaned a little, gazing helplessly at the sky. "I think the saddest thing is that no one seems very upset about it. I mean, it's been only a day, yet no one's crying, no one's . . . I don't know."

"Yeah, I see what you mean. Even this morning I was studying for a physics exam, when Phillip's room is right next to mine. I didn't even think about him."

A yellow Dodge Neon swerved around a corner, and darted by them on the street, its muffler dragging on the road, making sparks. They both stood still and watched it pass, turning into the main parking lot of Zorrell College. Rachel turned to Paul and said; "sometimes I think a lot goes on around here that neither of us will ever know."

#

As Rachel and Paul headed out of town to the _Shop-N-Save_ , Heather peeked out from behind a building across the street. Her small blue eyes followed Paul and Rachel as they crossed the street, and she mouthed several select profanities as they clasped hands once more.

"She's never gonna get a clue," she whispered.

"What?" asked Adrian, who sat reluctantly beside her. "Why are we even following them? I feel like some damned perv." He pulled out his phone, and cued up a racing game.

"Would you put that shit away!" she snapped, as she yanked at his shirt to pull him up. "I know you like her."

Adrian pulled his shirt away, and anxiously glanced back and forth, glad that no one saw him being thrown around by a girl. He opened his mouth, about to say something.

"What?" snapped Heather.

He wanted to say that he knew she liked Rachel as well, but saw the murderous rage behind her placid blue eyes and thought better of it. Yet, her eyes transfixed him, as they were open, and revealing. He saw Heather's memories inside them, of a girl who struggled with identity for all her life. He saw her father who kept wishing she was a boy; a mother who was strict and beat her with a thin iron pipe. A father who betrayed; a mother who killed in revenge, covering it up so well that only Heather knew the truth. He saw Heather's mother abstain from the pleasures and company of men, heard the rants about all the men who betrayed her in her life. He felt Heather's arm being yanked away as she spoke to a cute boy, heard the rebuke from her embittered mother. He saw those same blue eyes covered with tears when she found out her mother died suddenly from cancer, and felt the yearning she had to feel safe in a woman's arms again.

And though normally Heather would have turned away, she didn't. For the first time since before her father became corrupted, she was entranced by the gaze of a man. For in his eyes Heather saw her own reflection; a faceless thing in orbit around Rachel. Her eyes drifted, becoming cloudy, and she sensed other faceless things in Rachel's orbit. She wondered why a girl as unassuming, as unremarkable as Rachel would have so many who desired her. The longer she regarded her reflection, the deeper into her subconscious she sank, and the more was revealed. She saw her and her friends as pieces on a giant board that undulated like water in the ocean, a board that threatened to knock those pieces off. She could feel some would be left standing, and those pieces would resolve, and become defined, and go off into the sky to ascend into the light.

"Ohh, look at the lovebirds," cooed a little girl as she passed by.

They both snapped out of their reverie, and each felt they had learned something that they couldn't quite recall.

"So . . ," began Heather, "when are you gonna make a move?"

"What do I have that Paul doesn't?"

"White skin."

"That's fuckin' _stupid_ ," said Adrian with disgust, as he stepped back. "I don't think like that."

Heather shook her head, wordlessly communicating how naive she thought he was. "Whether or not you think like that is immaterial; her parents think like that. She can barely hold his hand in public; do you think she could ever take him home to meet them? And if she did, do you think they'd allow it to continue? Paul's smart, but he can be beaten, not with raw intelligence, but with cunning and guile. With strategy. Outmaneuver him, corner him, and he'll break down."

"How . . . how can I do that?"

"I can't tell you _everything_ to do, but I can tell you that it _can_ be done." Heather crossed her arms, and gazed off to where Paul and Rachel once were. "She's a prize; I can feel it. Can't you? There's something about her that is as a trophy is; gleaming and pure, symbolizing the strength and focus of the competitor that wins her. And I tell you she's in your reach."

Adrian nodded. "But . . . what's in it for you?"

Heather shrugged. "I hate Paul, and I don't want to see him win."

"Why do you hate him?" he asked. "What did he \--"

"Not for you to worry about," she said, abruptly cutting him off. "All you need to worry about is reminding Rachel how unsuitable he is for her in the long run. Then everything will sort itself out."

12

The football game at Zorrell College was a blast for all who attended. It was cold outside – only ten degrees – yet no one seemed to mind. The townies were used to the weather, as well as the juniors and seniors. So all the freshman and sophomores could do was suck it up and pretend they didn't mind. Almost two-thousand people crammed into the stadium to watch the final game between the Zorrell Hellions and the Madison Chargers, and they delighted in roaring as loud as they could, so even God would cover His ears.

Bill and Greg sat at a table farthest from the window in the Deli, watching the light, powdery snow fall down. Even with the heat on, Bill wore his down parka zipped all the way to the top. Greg lounged in his chair wearing only a polo shirt, looking as if he couldn't have cared if it dropped another ten degrees.

"We're gonna lose two hundred dollars today," moaned Greg.

"Why?"

"All the bread's gonna go in the trash, along with most of the stuff we cut. That's why I told you to cut a third what we usually do."

Bill nodded. "You ever think of doin' delivery?"

"Yeah, a lotta people been askin' that. But you just take a look at the pizza boys' cars. They're all dinged up by the spill-outs. You ever drive in weather like this? There's so much black ice out there you're truly taking you life in your hands. And even when you finally get there, late, you gotta put up with all the irritated pretty boys 'cause their sandwiches didn't arrive in time for kickoff. No thank you."

"You remember Senator Ford?" asked Bill, wistfully.

"You mean the one who's gonna be _President_ Ford?"

"Yeah. I was just thinkin' 'bout how she spoke to me."

"Yeah. She told you to reach out for what you want and take it." He leaned forward. "You finally decide?"

"I . . . I really want a girlfriend."

Greg nodded with a smile. "You know, girlfriends ain't all they're cracked up to be. They're expensive, and you gotta buy 'em things and go to their stupid gay movies and notice their hair and clothes."

"Whaddya mean?"

"I mean that if you're gonna put out the money, why not make it worthwhile? Why not make it into what it's supposed to be; a night of good fun."

Bill shook his head. "Nah, I really want someone to listen to me. Someone to care about my day, about what I did. Someone to sleep over."

"Ain't that fuckin' _sweet_!" cried Greg, and he punched Bill in the shoulder. "Sounds like you've got someone in mind."

"Yeah, but she likes someone else."

"Yeah, well, it's always like that. Who is she and who does she like?"

"It's a girl named Rachel, and she likes Paul, another of my friends. He's . . . he's black." Bill clumsily blurted out the last word, not understanding why he even felt the need to mention Paul's race.

"Black, eh?"

"Yeah . . . so?"

Greg chuckled to himself. "Bet her parents won't like that at all. You think she's got the backbone to date him?"

Bill thought back to the many times he saw them together, and how she always pulled her hand away whenever they got in mixed company.

"No, but she's lasted this --"

"Then there's your answer," said Greg, cutting him off. "Ask her out to movies. As her anywhere -- I'll bet she'll be glad to go somewhere where she doesn't have to hide who she's with. It's a pathetic world that we can't accept things like that, but you gotta play to win, no matter what the rules are."

"I don't know, Paul's my friend, and --"

Before Bill could blink, Greg lunged out his chair, and pinned Bill's head on the table. At that moment the lights flickered off, leaving only the reflected light of the snow outside to illuminate the room. Bill whimpered, but Greg pressed harder. He struggled to move, but Greg had an unmovable grip that had the weight of ancient strength. Bill felt like he was pinned under a stone of the pyramids; something that had been around exponentially longer than he had, and had weathered storms too intense to be believed.

"You feel this, boy?" hissed Greg, with breath that was musty and old. "This is me taking what I want. It ain't pretty, it ain't right, but I got what I want." Slowly he stood up, releasing Bill's head as the lights came back on. "When you have the balls to do that, Rachel or any other woman you want'll be yours. And when you take that first step, the rest of your life will open up in front of you. If not, then people like me will keep on pressing your head against something hard and keep taking what _we_ want."

13

The night was cold and spirits drew close together for warmth. Zorrell was hunkered down for the night, as not even the most daring of drunk freshman would dare to challenge the chill outside. Alliance was the same; in the basement the kids hung in front of the cold glow of the LCD screen, playing something overblown and bloody.

The door opened and closed, and after a short while Bill made his appearance.

"How was work?"

"Boring," he said, flopping on the floor next to Heather. "Nobody came in, nobody ordered anything."

"Just you and Greg?" asked Paul.

"Yeah," answered Bill, not able to meet Paul's gaze.

"He's kinda strange," said Ethan, as he maneuvered his controller to the far right. "He always looks like he wants to beat someone up."

"Yeah, but --"

"Okay, okay, now that we're all here," interrupted Heather, "I've got something to show you. Just wait right here!"

She bolted up and thundered up the stairs in her stockinged feet.

"What do you think it is?" asked Rachel.

"Who knows, who cares," said Lizzie, with her mouth full of jelly donut.

Back down she thundered, carrying something wrapped in sheet.

" _Move!_ " she angrily shouted, as she pushed Ethan's heavy feet off the table. The others gathered gasped in fear, as few challenged Ethan down in the basement.

"This better be fucking good," he grumbled, pausing the game.

"Alright -- here it is!"

She whipped off the sheet, revealing a potted plant. No one quite knew how to respond.

"It's . . . a plant," said Bill, flashing an ingratiating smile to Rachel. "Something new?"

"I know," replied Heather snidely, "it looks like just a plant. But this was in Phillip's room; don't you remember?"

"Oh yeah, it was," said Paul. "I had forgotten about it."

"Well, after he died, that morning I found it in my room. Now, I know you're all going to think I'm crazy, but something's different about this plant."

" _Whatever_ ," stressed Ethan, as he resumed the game. "Like I'm supposed to give a shit about a damned flower."

Heather reached over, and in a lighting motion yanked the power cord out of the XBOX. Everyone there dropped their jaws and stared, as Ethan slowly got to his feet.

" _Dumb damned little bitch!_ " he yelled, as he wound back his hand. "You had this comin' for a long while!"

Paul leapt to his feet and held his arm. "No, Ethan; don't do this."

Ethan snatched his hand out of Paul's, and after flashing him a hateful gaze, reluctantly flopped back down into the chair. "A damned _plant?_ "

Heather was stunned for a moment, her mind suddenly focused on Paul's selfless act. She knew Ethan was going to hit her; she had braced herself for the impact. But Paul, so much smaller and weaker than Ethan, stopped it. She saw the simple goodness within him; his selfless nature. She felt as when she gazed into Adrian's eyes for a moment, and saw that his future would be one of a kind wife, loving children, and it curdled her blood. The thought of him getting what she was denied was intolerable to her, so she pressed on.

"This plant is different," she said, refocusing. "You remember how bad I was at chemistry? Well ever since I had this plant, I've gotten hundreds on tests without even studying!"

Bill nervously laughed. "So what? Maybe things finally clicked for you."

"Just come over and touch it."

They all stared at first her, then the plant, with none of them moving.

"If it's just a stupid plant," pressed Heather, speaking to Ethan, as she knew he really was the weakest of them all, "why don't you touch it? Just put your finger on one of its leaves."

Ethan slowly moved towards it, with Paul trying to stand in front to slow him down.

"Move aside, Paulie -- I'm just gonna do what she says."

"Let him go, Paul -- he'll see," said Heather.

Paul warily stepped aside, and Ethan came to stand over the plant. He reached down his hand, as if he was going to touch a leaf, but instead he grabbed the whole top of it and wound it back.

"Let's see how special your stupid plant is now!"

But as he went to throw it, he found he couldn't release it. Hs arm just went back to his side, limp, yet still grasping the plant.

"What the --"

As he pulled up the plant, he found the leaves were wrapped around his fingers.

"What is that thing?" yelled Paul, as he went to pull off the plant. " _Get it off him!_ "

"Wait!" yelled Ethan, "it's alright." Gently he put it down, and slowly the plant unfurled its leaves from around his fingers. Ethan slowly raised his hand, examining it.

"Well," asked Heather proudly, "what did you think?'

"I feel . . . different; more than I was." He looked back down at the plant, with a subtly different aspect to his gaze.

"What's it like?" asked Lizzie, as she came next to him. "How do you feel?"

"I feel like I could stop eating."

At those words, Lizzie lunged for the plant, but before she could reach it, Heather snatched it out of the way.

"Uh-uh," she said, wagging her finger, "it's my plant, and only _I_ decide who gets to touch it."

"So you'd let the gaming walrus touch it, but not me?" snapped Lizzie, feeling the anger surge to full bore inside her.

"What'll you pay me?"

"Come on, Heather," said Bill firmly. "Don't act like an ass."

"Fine. Come on, you can all try it."

Lizzie harrumphed. "Who needs your stupid shitty plant anyway. I got better things to do."

She stormed out, leaving the rest to gather around the plant. They stood in silence watching, waiting for something strange to happen.

"You need to touch it," said Heather, motioning them forward.

Adrian looked over at Rachel, then at Heather, who nodded and gestured to him to touch it. He reached a hand forward.

"You sure about that?" asked Paul. "I mean, this thing was in the room with Phillip. It must have been involved in his death, and I'd hate to think that we're profiting over his death."

"It's a _plant_ , Paul!" cried Adrian. "You might know about physics, but that's about it."

"And you know nothing about that!"

"Fuck it! I'm tired of playing it safe."

Adrian reached out and touched a leaf. It curled around his finger, and suddenly Adrian felt like he understood so much more about the human condition. He could see through all the petty deceptions people made; all the lies they told themselves and others. He suddenly had supreme confidence; not necessarily in his own abilities, but in the knowledge of the shortcomings of others.

"Not bad, not bad," he said. "You gonna give it a try, Rachel?"

"No," she answered firmly, "I'm fine without it."

"How do you know?" asked Heather. "I can't tell you all I've gained since I touched it! Don't be afraid; don't be a coward!"

"She's _not_ ," said Paul, stepping in front of her. "I'm not touching it either."

"Figured you wouldn't," muttered Heather.

"You sure about that, Paul?" scoffed Adrian, flashing eyes of defiance. "You sure you don't need a little help? I mean, you might be doing alright in physics, but you're no superstar. You don't come from money, so how do you expect to pay back the big bill that's waitin' for you at the end? Teaching?" he said, laughing. "We all see the cars our profs drive. No, Paul, you're going to need to be something very special to make people colorblind."

"Wait a minute!" yelled Bill, shoving Adrian back. "That's a load of _shit!_ I can't believe you said that."

Adrian harrumphed, as he folded his arms across his small chest. "Believe it, 'cause Paul knows it's true, deep down. We all might live with one another inside these walls, but the outside world is a very different place."

"Well I'm not touching it either," said Bill, trying to look strong and independent, though his mind was filled with thoughts of power and prestige. "Not if it makes me say things like what you just said."

"The plant'll be here," said Heather, "so you three don't need to make up your minds right now. But for all any of us knows, it could wither and die tomorrow. I know I'm going to make the most of what it's given me; be a shame if you couldn't do the same," she said, letting her eyes rest on Rachel. "And Paul, I won't forget what you did for me, earlier. My door's always open for you. Come in anytime, and join us in our radiant splendor . . ."

14

The night had taken a turn to absolute zero, and while most of the adult population of Zorrell retreated to the warm interiors of their homes, the college kids broke out their parkas and frolicked under the clear starry sky. Finals were only a few weeks ahead, and most wanted to burn off their anxiety with a couple of kegs, loud music, and using their bodies to keep their hands warm.

Mealey hovered his hand over the cup of coffee he just bought at the _Shop-N-Save_ as he sat in his patrol car, a block from his house. He was used to late nights in the cold; he wore his thermals, a fleece sweater, and one of those silly wool-lined hats with ears that flapped down. There was never any running during a stakeout anyway, just intelligence gathering. He mapped out the routes the kids took to buy drugs long ago, knew the owners of the houses that sold pot, crack, and pills. He did stakeouts to see if anyone new was trying to muscle their way in. It always amazed him how bold out-of-towners could be; even though he never used an unmarked car, he was ignored just the same. He always got a thrill turning on his sirens just when they looked the most complacent, though the shit-stained pants they cane into his car with made him want to retch.

But this night when he pulled out his binoculars, it wasn't to see who was coming in from out of town, it was to see if his wife had finally crossed the line.

Only one car was in his driveway; hers. The lights were on, but there wasn't any activity. He pulled out his phone, and flipped through Facebook posts that had been cued for him from the department.

_Two posts about killing Graves, the Statistics teacher? Damned man, if you only knew how many girls want to blow away your head_. Graves never could keep his eyes focused on the lesson plan instead of his students' blossoming bra sizes, and had even let his hand slip a couple of times. _Two posts about holding-up the Shop-N-Save. Man, if you only knew what the night manager packs under the counter. And one post about a guy bragging about how he made his girlfriend finally have sex with him_. Mealey shook his head. _See, this is what happens when we take away the sanctioned prostitution; guys go all crazy. If you had just got a magazine from the Deli, or downloaded a scintilla of the free porn on the internet and used your hand, I wouldn't have to arrest you and kick you out of college. But we only get the really pretty ones here because of our reputation, and I'm not about to let some frustrated fool bring it all to pieces_.

The sound of an engine got his attention, and he turned off the phone and picked up his binoculars. A silver Honda drove past his car, turned off its lights, and pulled into his driveway. Grey got out, looked this way and that, then went in through the back door into his house.

_Man of God my ass_.

For the next hour, Mealey watched as they flirted over dinner in front of the television. Grey put his arm around Susan, only to have it pushed away. He stood close behind her as she loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, only to be pushed playfully back. Finally, he saw Grey stand in front of the window, looking out, his face twisted in pent-up lust.

Here it comes.

He turned to block Susan as she crossed the living room. He grabbed her by the waist, and planted his lips on hers. She tried to push him away, punched him on his back twice, before throwing her arms around him and twisting her leg around his hips. He watched as they made their way into the bedroom, his bedroom, and she brought out his spare pair of handcuffs. Mealey saw her lie on the bed, out of sight, but saw her reach up her hands to the headboard so Grey could handcuff them there.

_All the years we've been together, and you've never let me do that, damned bitch_.

And yet, despite how angry he was becoming, he was also getting firm, and had to rub his crotch. At that moment, he heard a rap at his window. White as a sheet, he turned to face the stranger, and found a familiar face.

"Sarah?"

He opened the door, and she awkwardly clambered on top of him, running her hand between his legs. There was no sound of words exchanged, only that of the door being slammed closed and the moan of two people consummating their lust. In fact, they were so focused on each other's pleasure, that they didn't notice the flashes of light coming from just a few feet away. And the very observant eye would have also noticed a faded yellow Dodge Neon parked just half a block away.

15

Several flashes of light distracted Paul for a moment from his studies, but the glass was too fogged over to see anything clearly. So he went back to his tablet, and tried to work on solving the formulas given as homework for his Physics II class.

Paul was one of the few people who actually understood chemistry and physics, which is saying a lot, for most students couldn't make it through the Electricity portion of Physics I. But understanding is a long way from having a working knowledge, and most times Paul felt like he could understand what was spoken, but just couldn't make any sentences of his own.

He always felt the loner. He was brought up in an upper-middle class neighborhood, one that was racially monochromatic. So he learned to be self-sufficient, using his imagination to fill in the long nights when his friends would be gathered at a party, focusing on solving problems while his classmates hung out during recess. He firmly believed that if he excelled at physics, if he could solve things others couldn't, that it would be the opening to make new friends. And while it did bring him into a circle of people who shared his interests, he found he couldn't really trust anyone. Perhaps it was the couple of private conversations he accidentally walked in on that jaded him, or the few times people remembered his birthday, or remembered to invite him to parties. Either way, lately he had felt like he was coming to the end of his rope, the end of his patience. From time to time, depression would swamp his very soul, and since it's a very private disease, no one would notice or ask him if he needed help. But Bill had been his roommate for quite a while, and when he got back from the shower he noticed his friend seemed distant.

"You still up?" asked Bill, as he pulled on his shorts.

"Yeah," answered Paul morosely. "Still got some homework to do."

"What did you think of today?"

Paul shook his head. "Don't know what to make of it." He sat down the tablet, and took a deep breath. "No matter what the plant may or may not be doing when someone touches it, two people are dead."

Bill sat down. "Phil and Stacey."

"And no one knows who killed Stacey, or how Phil died. And yet, no one seems to care. When a kid dies over at Zorrell, they hold candlelight vigils, and memorials, and lay flowers. Us? We play video games and play with flowers."

"We just don't matter," said Bill. "None of us, in here, matters worth anything. We're either orphans or rejects. "

"And that's why that damned flower is so appealing. The chance to be something, someone special. I oughta just burn it, or take it to the Science Division and give it to Dr. Henderson to dissect and examine."

Bill shook his head. "It won't let you do that; you saw what happened when Ethan tried to throw it."

"Ethan's weak."

"And you're strong?"

Paul sat back, hurt.

"I'm sorry," said Bill.

"No, but you're right. I don't even know how I got up the strength to ask Rachel out in the first place."

Bill had never broached the subject of Paul's relationship with Rachel, but now that it was out, he had to investigate.

"How did you?"

Paul shrugged. "I had enough of seeing her and not being with her. I couldn't sleep, and I knew if I wanted to get some sleep, I'd have to find out one way or another."

They both sat for a while in silence, as Paul relived his moment of triumph, and Bill stewed in his constant failure.

"Do you remember when Phil got the plant?" asked Paul.

"What?"

"When was the plant brought into his room?"

"I don't know. Last thing I would even think about was a plant."

"And don't you think it's too much of a coincidence that Phil and Stacey would be killed, when they were seeing each other? I wonder if they knew something they shouldn't have."

"It . . . it would be on her phone," said Bill, suddenly having an epiphany. "She texted everything to Phil. He complained to me how it was like he was being used as her diary; she'd even text what she thought about him."

"Weird. I can't even get Rachel to open up about how she feels about me."

"Really?"

"Yeah," said Paul, with a tired sigh. In an instant, Paul realized why he was feeling depressed. "I swear she's gonna leave me. She never wants to talk about the future, and she makes excuses about not meeting her parents during the holidays."

_Greg was right!_ thought Bill. _She isn't strong enough to stay with him . . . what am I thinking; he's my friend . . ._

"Maybe . . . maybe it'll just take a little time for her to commit."

"Or maybe Ethan was right. I'm not making it in these Physics classes."

"What do you mean? You're taking a sophomore college physics class, and you're in the eleventh grade!"

"Yeah, but . . . it just isn't clicking. I've hit a brick wall lately, and . . . Rasi is trying to have me kicked out." He sighed, as a few tears came out. "Physics is all I have! If I can't graduate with a Physics degree, what will I do?"

"I don't know; English major?"

"And what job will I get; retail? How can I hold onto Rachel? How could I ever face her parents?" He swiped off the tablet, and stuck it down next to his desk. "The sooner I end it, the sooner Rachel can find someone who she really deserves."

As much as those words were the ones Bill wanted to hear, his nature as a friend trumped his desire. _I can't, won't be like you, Greg_. "You know, we've all been through a lot together, these past few years."

"Yeah, we sure have."

"Why wouldn't we go through this together?"

"What?" asked Paul.

"They've touched the plant; we should too. How can we call ourselves their friends, if we let them go through this alone?"

Paul wiped his eyes. "You'd . . . you'd do this, for them?"

"Wouldn't you?"

Paul nodded. "Let's go to Heather's room."

As they walked down the hallway, Paul began to have second-thoughts.

"What about Rachel?"

"What about her?"

"She won't have touched the plant."

Bill nodded. "I think it's right that she stay out of this, for the time being. Let us take the responsibility. If it turns out good for us, then she can do the same."

Paul nodded in agreement. "And . . . how do I know I'll get better at Physics?"

"Ethan has lost the desire to eat, Adrian's gotten confidence; I think you know it'll give you what you want."

As they got to Heather's door, Paul asked; "what does it want in return?"

Bill thought for a moment and said; "well, put yourself in its place. What would you want? Safety. You give a little, so we don't hand you over to the scientists who would dissect and kill you. The plant just wants to keep on living, and it'll give us a gift to do it."

The first thought that came into Paul's mind was; _is that what happened to Phillip? He decided to get rid of the plant? Could the same thing happen to us?_ But he remembered how many touched the plant, and felt safety in numbers. He remembered how alone he felt, and how desperate things were becoming. Paul put his hand on the doorknob. "No turning back?"

Bill nodded. "No turning back."

16

When the morning came, and the new initiates of the plant awoke, all seemed within their grasp. Ethan went downstairs, opened the wide, cool fridge that was probably his best friend, and just stood there, looking at the waffles and bacon, frozen cupcakes and cookies, two-liter bottles of pop, and just smiled. He reached down, pulled open the small white drawer underneath his bacon, and pulled out an apple and orange. He sat down at the breakfast table, crying as he sliced the apple into quarters, finally feeling some hope come into his life.

Lizzie bounded down and pulled out the bag full of frozen cupcakes. She turned on the oven, and set eight of the little soldiers in two rows on a stained aluminum baking tray.

"You still feel like eating, after touching it?" asked Ethan.

Lizzie laughed, and said; "I didn't touch it."

"What, Stacey didn't let you?"

Lizzie popped the cupcakes into the oven and closed the door, and with a smug, aristocratic air said; "I didn't ask."

"Why not? I might've helped you to stop eating and . . ."

"And what?" she asked, her gaze suddenly calm and focused. "You ever ask _why_ I eat? Why I've done this to myself?"

Ethan went to work peeling the orange. "No, I assumed you're like me; hungry."

"Well yeah, I get hungry once in a while. But I do it for self-defense."

"Self-defense?" scoffed Ethan, as he broke the orange into segments that he slowly popped into his mouth. "Defending yourself from what; the cookie monster?"

Lizzie leaned back against the kitchen cabinet, as her gaze went blank. "You know, I never liked the cookie monster. What was he, or it, anyway? Some undefined mass of fur that ate anything in its sight."

"It only ate cookies, Lizzie."

"So it found something that it couldn't get enough of. It could open its mouth, and devour the entire world if it was made of cookies. It would just keep on going, mindlessly, consuming for all eternity."

"Where's this going?"

Lizzie shook her head, and woke up. "Nowhere. It's just . . . the plant might make you able to resist temptation, or have confidence that you didn't before, but can it really fix anything? Can it undo things that have happened? Can it make up for all the lost time, and lost living?"

"Maybe it can make it so everything's so much better in the future. Or if someone's pissed you off, or done something bad to you, it can give you power so you can beat them."

"Oh, I want to beat them," said Lizzie, "but maybe I want to do it on my own terms. Maybe I want to do it with my own power, my own strength. Maybe I don't want the easy way out."

"You were real quick to take the easy way out, the first time Heather showed the plant. I remember you lunging for it, and would've touched it, if she hadn't have pulled it away."

Lizzie sighed. "We all have moments of weakness. I'm glad she pulled it away, so I could reconsider my choice."

Ethan shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, as he gathered the orange peels and threw them away. He picked up the apple and said; "you know, I'm full. I'll save this for later."

As he walked out the door, the timer sounded on the oven, and Lizzie reluctantly pulled out the cupcakes and began to feast.

#

Adrian was a smart boy; few would question that fact. It just was so difficult a fact to take as that magnificent brain was swaddled under a ink-black mop of greasy, shiny hair that sat atop a pale, pimple face which bobbed stupidly on top of a too-small body that hid behind a long black leather overcoat. He loved anime, and superhero movies, and he swore that he looked bigger and cooler and stronger with his overcoat. He couldn't see in his reflection what others saw; that he used the overcoat as a crutch, as a shield, as a security blanket.

Everyone knew he made money, but none wanted to be his friend because of it. He even began to resent the fact of his wealth, because no matter what he bought, he never gained any traction with anyone outside of Alliance. And even inside Alliance, he knew he was tolerated rather than appreciated.

Which is why when Lee, star quarterback of Zorrell, came up to talk to him, that Adrian almost crapped in his pants.

"You go to Alliance, don't you?" asked Lee, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Yeah," answered Adrian, as he stood up straighter. Lee's car was parked nearby. "Nice car."

"Thanks. It's been giving me a lot of trouble, but I finally got it working. You wanna go for a ride?"

Adrian thought for a moment, wondering what was happening, but ultimately deciding it was too good an opportunity. "Sure!"

They got into the car, and after a few tries with the starter, Lee got the motor turned over. They sped out of Crescent, heading out along I-9.

Adrian sank down into his coat, unsure of what to do or say. The window was open, and his collar kept flapping back and forth, hitting him in the face. Adrian sat up, and glanced nervously over at Lee, and suddenly noticed how tense he was. Adrian saw the bags under his eyes, the fear etched into his face. It only took a few seconds, but suddenly Adrian knew he could be in control of this situation, that Lee, no matter how good on the field, was nothing compared to him off it.

"You're Lee, aren't you?"

"Yeah," answered Lee nervously. "I play \--"

"You're the quarterback for Zorrell. I've seen you. You're _great_ on the field!"

"Thanks. You get out to the games much?"

"As much as I'd like." Adrian sat back, knowing he was more in the driver's seat than Lee. "Sometimes I feel like the company of others, listening to the shouts and cheers, feeling the press of bodies as they are united in a common dream. Other times I like my solitude, my own thoughts, so I can plan out my future."

Lee nodded. "You seem smart for a High School kid."

"And you seem scared for a college quarterback. What inspired you to give me a ride?"

"Listen, what's your name?"

"Adrian."

"Adrian, I'm Lee."

"I know, you're the quarterback; we've been through this already."

Lee glanced over at Adrian, checking to make sure it was really him, because for a moment he could've sworn it was Greg he was talking to.

"Yeah," said Lee with a weak smile. "Anyway, I'm kind of in a bind." He sighed heavily. "I need some money, and something tells me you might be able to help me out."

Adrian leaned back a little more, liking the way the conversation was progressing.

"How much?"

"A thousand dollars."

"And . . . what would you do for this?"

Lee pulled the car over to the side of the road. He had driven well out of town, and no houses could be seen either in front or behind.

"Just about anything," he said, sheepishly meeting Adrian's intense gaze.

"Just about?"

Lee leaned against the side of his door, looking absently at the ditch along the side of the road. "Anything."

There was a time, before the touch of the plant, that Adrian would have demurred and just given Lee the money. Or he would have asked for something simple and stupid, like going back to Alliance in Lee's car so the girls and boys could see how cool he was. But now, Lee had an understanding of how much money a thousand dollars was, how difficult it was to come by, and consequently how deep the shitpile was that Lee must have been in to come to a reject high-schooler for the money. So he sat back, thought very hard, very quickly, and told Lee exactly what he wanted. And he wasn't surprised when he got it.

#

"Class, I'm rather disappointed that none of you have any suggestions."

They all sank into their chairs, including the most socially repressed and intelligent of the group, dreading on Professor Rasi's gaze. He had just given them all back their midterms from last week, with only one person managing to score above a '45.'

"Seriously? None of you can tell me what the Gravitational Constant is? After all the work we've done this semester, all the times I've spent my good time telling you . . ."

Paul hated Rasi. He hated how Rasi never should have been made a teacher. Oh, Paul knew he was quite intelligent. But he also had no knack for human interaction. If not for the economy, he probably would've stayed in his research position, but instead he was here. Paul also knew how tight he was with the French teacher, wondering if she wasn't the reason Rasi even got his job.

"Paul, what about you? Would you like to redeem yourself for your poor performance on the midterm? I know you're just in high-school, but there's no preferential treatment here."

Paul grit his teeth, as the kids around him sunk even further into their chairs. Paul heard Rasi was the only prof who mentioned scores of his students aloud, always embarrassing those who didn't pass. Ad he never missed an opportunity to remind Paul that he wasn't a college student, implying that he didn't really belong there.

"Now come on, Paul. I want you to get up here and stand in front of this whiteboard, and write out the equation leading to the gravitational constant."

Paul slowly got up, feeling the stares of his classmates. Rasi had embarrassed him three times before in this semester, and each time Paul choked, even though he knew the answer. But this time, Paul grasped the marker with confidence.

"So, you'd like the equation leading to the gravitational constant?"

"Yeah," said Rasi with a sneer. "And how long will it take you?"

"Not long. But speaking of gravity, let's say we wanted to cross the space between galaxies?"

"What?"

Paul drew two points on the whiteboard. "Yes, suppose we wanted to cross between Earth and a point within Andromeda, and we wanted to do it within fifteen years. We would need external forces to accelerate the craft, as engines that massive would collapse under their own weight. Perhaps . . . a path of collapsed stars." He drew seventeen black circles. "A 'starbridge.' And the ship would pass in-between those singularities, drawn from one to the other by their gravitational pulls. Now, what equation would give you the exact path of balance? Do you know, Rasi?"

"Now's not the time for science-fiction, Paul, it is . . ."

Rasi shut his mouth, as Paul wrote a twenty-line equation on the whiteboard. When he finished, Paul said; "this is an equation that would that could be used to navigate a precise path between multiple singularities."

Paul stood for a moment, as Rasi stared at his work, slack-jawed. Then, in an instant, Paul grabbed the eraser and wiped it all down.

"No! No!" shouted Rasi, as he tried to stop Paul. "What are you doing?"

"Maybe in a thousand years you'll be able to remember what you saw. But you don't deserve it now. You're an awful teacher, who has killed the desire within each of us to become physicists. You've got a lot of smart people in your class, but they need encouragement and nurturing, not insults and ridicule."

His classmates cheered him, his professor cried at what was lost, and Paul, for his part, for the first time felt like he could control some aspect of his life.

#

Paul walked home, after a great day, to see Bill asking Rachel to go to the _Shop-N-Save_ with him. She looked back at Paul, and all he could do was smile and shrug, as she walked out the door.

He flopped down on the old worn sofa in the common area, in front of a blank TV screen. Heather came in and sat beside him.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I think . . . I think it's over, between me and Rachel."

"Why?"

"She's hanging out with Bill now."

"Bill? I didn't think he was interested."

"He's still a fucking virgin; every girl interests him."

"Not me," she said, sitting back.

"You don't even like guys."

"Well, still, it hurts my feelings that he's never even looked twice at me."

Paul managed a weak smile. "I suppose, but I don't feel hurt 'cause Ethan's never asked me out."

They broke into laughter, and Paul started to feel a little better.

"I creamed Rasi today."

"What do you mean?"

"That plant . . . it made me so much smarter! I wrote an equation on the whiteboard, one Rasi or any other physicist could never come up with, and then wiped it all away. He looked like a pile of shit when I was done."

Heather nodded. "Do you know what year it is?"

Paul looked at her funny. "What kinda question is that?"

"What _year_ is it, Paul?"

"2014."

"And we have these things called _cellphones_ , right?"

"Yeah. And?"

"And everyone has these cellphones, right?"

"Yeah, and?" demanded Paul, getting irritated.

"They all have _cameras_ inside, Paul! And in any given class, at least twenty-percent of the people have it out, and you know how quick we can pull up the camera, right?"

Paul sank back, realization sinking in. "Right."

"So maybe everyone was amazed at what you did, and didn't have the presence of mind to take a picture."

"You don't believe that any more than I do."

"And if that picture gets out, posted on the internet; on Facebook or Instagram, how long before someone who knows what that equation is all about starts digging? Starts looking for you. Maybe it's a company that wants to hire you and pay you all this money. Or maybe it's the government, and they want to abduct you and use you."

"You're saying I was stupid."

"No, you were angry," said Heather, with an understanding smile. "I get angry too, Paul, and I do things I regret later. I think you need to be more circumspect about how you show your new talents. You need to think about what it can get you, and who it can control. The more you can control, the more can keep you safe. You no longer have to think about Rachel, and what she might say, or do. You can focus on yourself, and one day a thousand Rachels will beg to be with you."

"And it won't matter what color I am to any of them." Paul sat back, and examined her. "You know, I always got the impression that you didn't like me."

"I didn't like you with Rachel, in fact, I _hated_ seeing you with her. And now that Bill's with her, I'll hate seeing him with her. Maybe I'll even come to hate him as well. But now, you and I are alike. We've each touched the plant, and neither of us has her. So maybe we can be civil to one another, and start helping one another get ahead in this crapful world."

"You know what I want out of this world; what do you want?"

Heather got up, and absently stared out the window. "I think a lot goes on in the world that we don't know about. I think . . . I think I never want to be in the dark again. I want to know things, everything. I want to know the pulleys and pistons that drive the engine of the world, and I want the ability to stop them all."

After Heather left, Paul turned on the television. A David Lynch movie was on; Inland Empire. The movie was a bit of a jumble to him, but he sat through it, mesmerized by the character's journey. But at the end, when the woman sat down next to the black homeless characters, he became very angry and very focused.

_I think I'm going to take over the physics department_.

17

The build-up to Thanksgiving at the _Shop-N-Save_ was always a difficult one. The small stockroom was overflowing with plastic bags, aluminum foil, stuffing, cans of cranberry sauce. Cardboard shippers littered the salesfloor, strategically positioned around vendor-made displays of product stacked to look like a turkey, or a football, or Santa's head.

Lizzie had a long day of making pies. While it was tiresome work, it did mean that she had some peace and quiet; Charles had to babysit his Regional Manager all day and couldn't afford to spend any time torturing her. The displays they put up for Thanksgiving also formed a barrier around the ovens so no one could see her work. As she pulled the last of the pies out of the oven, she glanced around to make sure she couldn't be seen.

_Can't believe I'm really gonna do this_ , she thought with glee, as she reached down into her panties. She was at the beginning of her menstruation, and her flow was typically fairly heavy. She pulled out her blood stained finger, and positioned it over the first pie. _No one will even notice_.

Lizzie was someone whose low self-esteem meant that she hated everyone else. She felt as though the world had always been against her, that no one had ever done her nay favors, so she was within her rights to exact vengeance upon it whenever she could. Often she had put things into the baked goods; whether it be spittle, or mucus when she was sick, or even a little smear of brown under the brownies. No one ever noticed, and no one ever caught on. It made her feel a little better, when the tall, thin woman fresh from the gym would glance at her with disdain, or when the twelve-year old brat-boy snickered as he passed her by.

A noise startled her; it sounded like someone dropped a carton of eggs. She looked up, and caught her reflection in the Plexiglas barrier that surrounded the bakery. She couldn't look at it, so she averted her eyes, glancing instead out onto the salesfloor.

A woman was walking by with a baby in a stroller, and a friend pushing a shopping cart. What they looked like was irrelevant; whether they were fat or thin, black or white, straight or gay, for they represented the average mother with child who walked and shopped the _Shop-N-Save_ on a daily basis. the woman said;

"Did you hear what the Pope did?"

"The what?" asked her friend, as she swerved the cart to avoid a stackout of cinnamon rolls.

"The Pope; Pope Francis, or whatever. Anyway, he's totally doing things different. He's actually paying attention to the poor people for a change."

"Yeah, right. No one does stuff like that unless they want something later on."

"Yeah, I know what you mean, but he seems different. He's washing people's feet, Joan. He's paying his own bills! I mean, I'm not real religious or anything, but stuff like that . . . . well, I don't know, it just gives me hope."

As they walked off, Lizzie looked down at her blood-stained fingers. While she wasn't terribly tuned in to current events, for some reason her ears perked up whenever the new Pope was mentioned, and she remembered.

_What if he walked in here, right now, and looked at what I'm about to do. A man without fault, who lives his life the right way. What could I say to him? Whatever happened to me, gives me no right to do this to other people. Why . . . why am I doing this?_ she asked herself. _I don't even know these people. How will this make me happy?_ She wiped her finger on her apron, and brought out her cellphone from her front pocket. She slid it on, and browsed the photos which included Mealey having sex in his patrol car, as well as a dozen other choice shots. _Why did I take these? What would I do with them? What kind of person am I too have done this?_ She sighed, and had to sit down, as she suddenly felt the immense weight she had been carrying for many years. _I just didn't realize how bad it's gotten_.

Lizzie leaned back, and let a few tears run down her cheeks. She was still hidden from what went on inside the store, and sobbed in silence. A memory of her mother came back, of one of the few times her mother actually acted like her mother. They had left the doctor, where she had been diagnosed as being 'obese.' Her mother sat with her outside the office, as they waited for the bus, and said;

" _I know you're better than this, Elizabeth; I just know it. We've both been through a lot, and I'm sorry I haven't done all I could to stop this from happening. But I need your help to change the path you're on. I love you so much, and it breaks my heart to think you might turn out like me_."

Her mother hugged her then, and Lizzie had felt her tears fall down her neck, and she had cried with her. As she sat next to the rack of cooling pies, Lizzie felt hope for the first time in many years. She knew it would take a long time and a lot of work to slough the terrible weight off her back, but she felt that if just one man could live so simply, so honestly as the Pope, then maybe she could as well. She wiped her tears and went back to work, resolved to stay on the new path she had set for herself.

#

The night was dark, cold and quiet. A late fall breeze tinged with winter's breath swept across the desolate streets, audibly rushing past the metal dumpsters and storage containers. The trees had shed most of their leaves, leaving their branches as thin black lines against the starry sky.

Lizzie sat down on a concrete wall and leaned back against a metal fence. The dumpster she usually raided sat as a golden jewel, emitting the tantalizing twin fragrances of cookie and cake. Yet Lizzie remained seated, not interested in its treasures.

For several hours, her mind held the promise of a new future tightly in its grasp, like a hungry man would hold a fresh-baked loaf of bread, inhaling its smell as a form of sustenance, delighting on the joy it would eventually bring. Her classmates at Alliance pressed on her thoughts as well, and she was eternally grateful that she didn't touch the plant.

_Yet that isn't enough_ , she thought _. I need to break them of its spell as well. I knew the minute I saw it that it was wrong, that it was evil. Now is the time that I do something about it_.

The door behind the Deli opened, and Greg stepped out. He stretched his long limbs high, appearing as an echo of those naked trees. Lizzie leaned back against the fence, trying not to be seen. She and Greg knew each other, though she had desperately tried to forget.

"How odd to find you here, now, at this particular time," said Greg, to no one in particular, though Lizzie knew it was meant for her. "And I see the dumpster lid is closed! Don't you know they're throwing out the cakes they made for Thanksgiving?"

Lizzie sighed, and put her hands in her pockets as the wind whipped up harder. Greg didn't seem to mind the frigid temperatures; he stood in an open shirt that exposed his lean, muscular chest.

"Maybe you've gotten yourself some self-control? You know, I've seen men try to change their habits. Stop looking at porn, stop stealing, stop lying; everything. And yet, they can never give it up. the mind rationalizes the body back to its habit. And they usually gorge themselves when they return. So it's best to keep up the bad habit, just in moderation. After all, what's life without a little sin?"

The sound of a creature rustling in the trash floated to Lizzie's ears as Greg opened the lid of a trash can.

"Well looky there, a kitten! If that isn't just the sweetest little thing I've ever seen. Even wallowing in the trash, it's still cute. I remember another little kitty I played with, a long time ago. The kitten tried to scratch me, but its claws were so small and they barely hurt at all. And now that kitten is more like a cat, with claws that can shred the carpet and rip up the sofa, and it wonders if it's time turn the tables on the master."

Greg turned to look in Lizzie's direction.

"Except I'm a tiger, fully grown, and just one of my talons can eviscerate you. Oh, I'll play with you first, just like before. Except this time I won't let you go. I'll _SMASH_ you head, and _CRACK_ it open, and rip open your rib cage with my teeth and suck out what's _SWEET!_ "

"You can huff, and you can puff," said Lizzie, scared yet determined, "but I'll swear I'll never give in."

Greg laughed. "What a clever retort! And I must give you credit; I'dve thought you'dve been the first to touch the plant, to become something other than a morbidly obese self-loathing little girl. But, I give you credit; you resisted temptation, which would've been noble an all, except that you forced it on your friends."

"I didn't _force_ it on them," she angrily snapped. "It was Stacey, and her plant. I walked away."

"You didn't try to stop them," said Greg coolly. "You didn't hide it from them. you didn't say or do anything to dissuade them from touching it, from giving themselves over."

Lizzie shook her head, as a few tears fell. "I'll make it right. I'll get them off it. I'll --"

Greg laughed out loud. " _OH PLEASE!_ I've had so many stronger than you fail; broken people who actually had a scrap of self-worth. Why are you even here? Why aren't you face-first in that dumpster; did you have a moment of introspection, or of doubt? Did you find one person on this pathetic, broken husk of a world that had a scrap of self-respect, and you suddenly think you can too? How childish of you; how _FUCKING_ naive. Let me tell you that it's all for nothing. The game is stacked against you, so high that you have no chance of winning. Do you remember the day I took you? The night I came into your mother's house, drank her into a stupor, and plowed you like there was no tomorrow? Did you even cry out for me to stop? Did you even put up a hand in protest? Oh, you were so thin then, with skin so soft, and meat so sweet . . . or did you know that I was unstoppable, that I was inevitable? How can you even sit there and think to oppose me?"

"I . . . I have faith in myself."

Greg snickered. "Don't worry; like indigestion, it'll pass. And if you don't believe me, well, I hope your last conversation with Rachel was a good one, 'cause you won't be having another with her."

The kitten Greg found in the can began crying, and Greg picked it up.

"You see, I let this thing live, and it starts irritating me." As he held it by the scruff of its neck, he used his other hand to violently twist its head in one fluid motion. The sound of tiny breaking bones floated over to Lizzie's ears, reverberating deep inside her soul. "There. All better." Slowly, he walked over to the dumpster, opened its lid, and dropped the kitten's body inside. "Maybe I was too soft in my younger days, letting annoying kittens live." Greg pulled open the back door to his deli, grinning in the flood of fluorescent light. "But, I guess we've all gotta find our own paths, no matter if they lead to the yawning abyss. You should stop by my deli sometime; you know I'll always give _you_ a good discount . . ."

After Greg disappeared inside, Lizzie pulled her legs in and began to cry, wondering what happened to Rachel. Her tear-filled eyes drifted to the dumpster, and she knew she would have to lean on what lay within as a crutch to help her through that terrible night, despite the broken body of the kitten that lay slumbering within.

18

For the first time in many years, Bill felt proud walking down the sidewalk, as Rachel was at his side. He wasn't worried because he wasn't walking someplace alone. No one thought he was gay, or a homicidal sociopath, or a pervert trying to look in the windows of the homes. He was normal, with a pretty girl at his side. A couple walking with a little girl didn't look concerned as Bill passed by, for he was like them; in a relationship. He understood how crushing social norms could be, now that their weight was lifted from him. He always wondered if people thought he was dirty, or had a disease that he wasn't with a woman. He wondered if people thought he masturbated a lot, or spied on young girls, or boys for that matter, because no one helped him shop for food. The weight of solitude twists the mind, bending it to self-destructive thoughts, and up until that day, Bill was waging a war against them. But a truce had been called; no more thoughts of suicide, of using a hooker, of rape, of murder. No worries about when he might get laid, or if he'd be able to kiss a girl, if he'd be able to fondle a girl's breast. So much opened in his mind as a result of walking with Rachel that he felt positively lightheaded.

As they came to the corner of Eighth and Walker, and had to stop at a streetlight, a convertible pulled along beside them. In it sat an old woman and man. As Bill looked on them, they returned his glance with a wide smile.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" asked the woman.

"Yeah, it is," replied Bill, for the first time saying it with conviction.

The old man nodded. "Never know though, when a storm might kick up." He reached over and pressed a button, and out of the trunk extended the hood. "Gotta be prepared for anything."

Bill watched as they drove off, their interaction striking a discordant tone in the middle of a pastoral symphony.

I won't let anything ruin this.

He reached over to hold Rachel's hand, and she let him, but she didn't turn to face him, to acknowledge his gesture. Instead she ceased to speak, and they followed the path out of town in silence, her eyes covered by her hair.

"You know, Rachel, I like you."

"Yeah, I know," she replied softly. "You touched the plant, didn't you?"

Bill was shocked by the frankness of her question, and confused as to the response. While he knew he couldn't lie, he didn't want to seem like the only one who touched it, but he wasn't sure about betraying Paul.

"We all have, now."

"Paul too?"

"Yeah," he replied reluctantly. "Paul too."

"I guess the difference is that Paul asked me out a while ago, before the plant. I know what he wants."

"To be better at Physics?"

"To become someone my parents will accept. I'm not that naive that I don't know how the world works."

"Then you must know that a lot of people will never accept you and he being together, no matter what he achieves."

"Are you saying that I'm so shallow that I won't be able to accept that?"

"No, I'm saying that love isn't forever."

His words shut her down for a time. They continued to walk, in silence, hand in hand. The sidewalk had become broken and filled with debris. The path leading out of town, to the _Shop-N-Save_ , was one that led down tighter streets with more vacant houses. If driving, they would've just taken I-30, but it had no sidewalks. Most students from Zorrell took that route, though they had no company as the shortened winter day began to turn dark.

Slowly, she pulled her hand from his.

"That's a cold thing to say, Bill."

Before he touched the plant, his stomach would have twisted into so tight a knot he would've needed to evacuate his bowels. Fear would have smothered his senses; fear she would never want to see him again. But now, her rebuke glanced off him, or rather it was absorbed into the blackness that was his soul.

"But it's true," he said calmly. "You have to sacrifice a lot to be with him, and there's only a little chance that it will last. What if you have a kid by him? It'll be half-black, and everyone will know what the father looked like. No white man will be with you."

"Why not?" she asked, her voice breaking, as she began to cry. "Why wouldn't they?"

Bill couldn't help but smile, knowing he was slowly but surely breaking her down and bending her to his will.

"Because men are men. We want what's ours, and we want it to be _all_ ours. We _don't_ like to share," he said, taking a step closer to her.

Rachel nodded as she wiped her face. "I can feel what the plant did to you; you're different."

Bill harrumphed. "I'm _smarter_ , Rachel; and I don't mean the book smarts that Paul has. I have the confidence to say what needs to be said."

"But you'll never know now if you would've gained that confidence later, when you'd have the wisdom to use it properly."

"Does it matter? You need to hear this now," he said, grabbing her hand. "I'm here with you now!"

"And what does that mean," she demanded, as she angrily snatched her hand away; "I hafta be with you 'cause you're white?"

"No, 'cause I like you, and you like me. 'Cause we get along, and 'cause you know it'll be good between us. We have something in common, something you and Paul can never share."

Rachel took a deep breath. "I know that, Bill, but I also know how Paul feels about me. He cherishes me, Bill. He writes poetry to me. He texts me during class, and listens to me. He is always there for me, never yells at me, never forces me."

He resisted the urge to smile as he knew just what card to play. "So when are you gonna take him to meet your folks?"

She came to a stop, and shook her head, her eyes moist. "I . . . I just don't know. The way dad talks sometimes is . . . awful. I don't think he even knows how bad he sounds. But I . . . where are we?"

Bill glanced around, and found they had walked to the edge of a very wide field, one he hadn't seen before.

"Did we take a wrong turn?" she asked. "I . . . I don't even remember how long we've been walking."

Bill took a step forward, and felt a shiver go up his spine and a tingling in his fingertips. He inhaled deeply, and the air smelled of electricity, of power.

"Bill, look at this," said Rachel as she knelt down. "This looks like the plant Lizzie has."

Bill didn't need to look down to know it was. As he looked harder at the field before them, he knew it was filled with those plants. They grew taller near the center, and Bill took a step forward. Instantly, the small plants along the edge grew dramatically in size, to where they stood up to Rachel's knee.

"What are they?" yelled Rachel, as she backed away and tripped over something, falling awkwardly on her side. "They . . . they make me sick!"

She moaned for a few seconds, trying to hold it in, but lost the battle and suddenly vomited over herself and onto the ground. Bill watched dispassionately, his mind consumed with thoughts of where they were.

"Wait here," he said, "I want to see what this is all about."

" _No!_ " screamed Rachel, as she wiped her mouth, "you know this is wrong! That plant is wrong, everything it's doing is wrong! I can feel it, Bill; nothing good will come of this. Just . . . just turn away. Just come back to me, help me, up, and let's go back to school, back to the way it was."

Bill thought on the late nights in the deli, watching guys buy porn. _Is that me, for the rest of my life? Unable to muster the courage to build a real relationship with a woman? I might not end up to be that man, because of the plant. What else can it give me?_

Bill pressed on, as Rachel still begged for him to stop. The plants grew higher and higher the further into the center he walked, until he couldn't see more than a few feet ahead. Yet he strode confidently through the undulating mass of green, drawing power from each touch from their leaves. And with each touch, so the physical boundaries of his body seemed to expand. No longer was he a thin, weak youth; he suddenly could feel thousands of leaves and limbs at his command, ready to grasp, ready to squeeze, ready to rip flesh from bone.

After what seemed to be a lifetime of travel, the plants diminished in height, revealing an ovular clearing. In the middle of that clearing stood a small figure, with arms that swayed in the light breeze as if they were made of straw. Bill moved closer, drawn to the figure, the leaves of the plants parting to let him through. As he came closer to the figure, he saw it resembled a young boy whose legs were rooted into the ground. His skin was covered with the same colored leaves as the plants, and stalks substituted for veins. His eyes were formed by dark shadow, and though Bill knew there could be no lungs, it seemed to breathe just the same.

The leaves rustled around him, distracting, and when he looked back, he saw a crude mouth formed in the motley visage with long, grey thorns for teeth.

"It's a great little place you've got here, ain't it?" asked the young plant-boy, his limbs slowly dancing to an unheard rhythm. "I used to like it."

"What are you?"

"A different version of you," said the plant-boy, his voice like the hissing of leaves in a storm. "One day, you'll take your place right beside me."

"No -- never!"

Bill began to back away, but the plants joined together to form an impenetrable barrier.

"Everyone must pay the price for their success," said the plant-boy, "in their own way. And you will be very successful. And you won't be alone -- if you plant them now, they will be here to keep you company in the long, dark sleep. This planet is goin' places, and we mean for men like you to lead it there . . ."

The plant-boy gestured to where Rachel would be, standing far on the other side of the mass of plants, and Bill could feel in his mind what it asked him to do.

"I . . . I don't know if I can kill someone."

"Well, you've gotta learn," said the plant-boy, "because you're gonna need to, one day. But as for your friend, she won't die. This is nothing but a field of the living. She'll just . . . change, as I did and as you will. After all, happiness loves company."

The plants behind him parted, making a path that led to Rachel. Bill walked briskly down it, and when he reached her, he helped her to her feet.

"I . . . I just felt something there," she said suddenly confused. "I . . . I can't see, Bill! What happened," she cried, as she rubbed her eyes. One minute I was looking up at the clouds, the next, everything went dark."

"I . . . I don't know; maybe the stress or shock of being here."

She began to cry, wiping her eyes with her filth-stained hands. "Help me away from here, please . . ."

Bill put his arm around her shoulder, and gently guided her forward.

"What brought us here in the first place?" she asked.

"I don't know, but we're almost out of sight of the field," lied Bill, as he led her down the narrow clear path leading deeper into the field of plants. "Just a little bit more, and we can turn a corner, and be back home in a few minutes."

"Great," said Rachel, sighing with relief. "But those plants," she said, her hair still covering her eyes. "They felt so evil, so wrong." She pushed her hair to look up at where his voice came from. "Promise me you'll never bring me back there."

"I promise . . . because you'll never leave."

Bill quickly backed away, as the ground opened beneath Rachel's legs. She sunk quickly into a mass of vines and leaves that swirled around her form. She screamed and tried to run, but the plants shifted under her, keeping her off-balance. Still, she was strong after many years on the rugby team, and managed to claw her way out of the pit that threatened to swallow her.

"Bill -- help me!"

Bill backed away, consumed with fear over what might happen if she made it free. He saw the police getting involved; saw him being blamed for Phillip's murder. He felt the need to grab her, to hold her in place, but was unable to move, though no plants held him still.

" _YOU'LL PAY WHEN I GET OUT OF HERE!_ " she screamed, as she slowly made her way to the edge of the field. "You _KNEW_ this would happen! What kind of person are you? _WHAT KIND OF PERSON HAVE YOU BECOME!_ "

Somehow, even without sight, she managed to pull herself free from the twisting vines of the plants and make her way slowly to the edge of the clearing. Bill was amazed at her strength of will; she had determination he knew he would never posses. Though she still couldn't see, she seemed to divine where Bill was, and used all her strength to make it within an arm's reach of him.

"I can smell you, you filthy traitor!" she screamed. " _I was your friend!_ "

"I'm . . . I'm sorry," muttered Bill, as she strained forward to dig her fingers into his flesh. "I'm really sorry."

"You're a sorry waste." She opened her eyes, and though she couldn't see the world around her, Bill knew that she could see straight into him. Her sightless eyes pierced into his soul, and he felt weak and vulnerable. "I see you now, Bill; I see what you were, and what you'll be come. You're gonna be --"

At that instant, a thin hand of what looked to be bone reached out and closed around her leg. She pulled on her leg twice, thinking it to be just another plant, but as she reached down to pull it off, she felt the brittle, hard bone and went mute and white with terror. The plant-boy wrapped his arms around her as she went into shock, slowly pulling her through an ocean of leaves back to the center.

"I'm disappointed in you, Bill," said the plant-boy, as it ripped off her clothes. "I was gonna save her for you, but now, I think I'm gonna take her for myself." She tried to scream, but the plant-boy shoved his leafy hand in her mouth. The plants helped to spread her, as her lower body sank into the ground. "Now get outta here Bill -- you've still got work to do."

Bill watched for a moment as the plant-boy writhed on top of Rachel, before turning and running as fast as he could back to Alliance.

