 
The Curl

By Jillian Kulp

Distributed by Smashwords

Copyright 2017 Jillian Kulp

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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For Maddy K.

Ant and I will always be your friends

CHAPTER ONE: INTRODUCING THE CURL

Tom

Well, isn't this a trite little plot in my life? Not only my own, but in general. It's been done so many times before, been told so many similar ways. Stories, books, movies, telly shows – same old song and dance. The new student in a new school, surrounded by new people of his own age, fighting to fit in or whatever. And for me – well, I've become used to it now. I've come to enjoy the constant change, actually. I love the upheaval, the new beginnings, the unfamiliar faces and loads of opportunities in all sorts of areas. I doubt I'll ever want to stick around for more than six months at a time, which will most likely fuck with any future relationships – but for now, who cares? I'm only sixteen, not worried about "settling down" at all.

Besides, as with every other time I've gone through this cycle, I'm sure this'll end up the same way: loose contacts, vague interests, but no one to really merit shed tears once we shift environments again. I suppose I've not had one solid, stable friendship with anyone since before hitting double-digits age-wise. Not that I mind either – I'm perfectly capable of entertaining myself, of staying interested in life and the world, as a loner, even if I do quite enjoy others' company.

More easily put, I'm a thoroughly easy-going sort of bloke. I adjust easily and happily, I adapt if and when I need to, and this is probably why so many have told me I have some kind of strange charisma that draws people in.

I just put it down to the belief that I hold that people should, well, be nice to each other. Novel concept, eh? But really, it isn't as hard as one might think.

So I have very few enemies. On the flipside, because I remain distant – however conscious or unconscious this distance is – I have very few friends as well. Real friends, I mean, not just kids I hang with or go to parties with. (Though there's always a fair bit of that as well.)  
Like I said, people tend to just like me. As well as, they tend to just like me.

I wish I could say that I'm glad at least for my parents, but we disagree on loads, and they've never exactly been "parents" in the traditional sense of the word. I may not want for anything material, but I'm not exactly looking out to get a job that'll allow me the same carefree lifestyle that I have now either – having that non-worry to support us all these years has led me to not care so much about wealth. But my father insists on boring me a few times a month with his endless spiels on why a high salary should be my top priority. Mum can get more than just a bit loose with the booze and false-faced socialising. She's never quite been much of a real mum, and in fact, in the recent past, has been nothing but downright scary in my opinion – not quite what one would call a "good mother." They were never real coddling, kid-loving types, and that was never more apparent to me than during events from the previous year.

To be brutally honest, the most I saw them be parent-like was when my mess started a few years ago and they both got round to noticing I wasn't all there. Of course they managed to take a delicate situation like that and morph it into their own problem – they had failed at being parents, it was all their fault, blah blah blah. Not that they went and changed themselves afterwards. If anything, they've only gotten worse. But they still stick that on me somehow.

Even at my most detached, I felt like shaking them and shouting, "Would you let go of your ownership of this? It's my head you're talking about, no one else's, so let me have it, to myself, please!"

Ah, but they don't know any better. Besides, I managed to actually frighten them at the time, and I hadn't even been trying to for once. After all the stupid pranks and poor jokes, the fake spiders and falsely shaved head, the only time I really scared them, unlike when they didn't notice my acting-out for the sake of attention, was just losing it. And that's when I didn't want their attention.

Life's funny like that, I guess. Giving a happy, laid-back guy like me a weird brain, while a wealthy, surface-pretty couple like them got a fuck-up for a son. But all in all, devoid of sarcasm, I'd say I think it's pretty funny.

As is my constant re-introductions whenever I start at a new school – one I know I won't find close mates at, since by this age everyone else pretty much knows each other and has their little cliques. But I'm all right with being the odd-man-out, you see, because then people don't expect you to be a certain way or to hang with certain groups – it's a bit easier to be a ping-pong ball without the grief from old mates who think you're abandoning them to become someone else. I enjoy being a chameleon, I've done it so often.

So it comes as second nature when the teacher in homeroom asks me to stand and introduce myself to my new classmates; I already have a uniform speech memorised that changes only minutely with each year:

"My name is Tom, I'm sixteen years old, this is my eighth school in seven years because my father is apparently an avid banker on a mission to find the uselessly largest house he can afford, and insists on dragging my mum and myself along with him, so the only actual constant in my life has become my love for music, which has developed into an obsessive passion, and is the sole point in my life that I take seriously. Other than that, I'm just here for a laugh, really, but don't worry, as you'll probably only have to put up with my presence for about half a year or so before we uproot and move on again. To sate your curiosity, yes, the accent is real – I am originally from Birmingham, England, a rather ugly industrial smudge on the British map – and yes, the hair is real – who in their right mind would do this to themselves on purpose? I'm not fond of long walks on the beach, as every bird known to mankind mistakes this bush for a ready-made nest, and I'd love a day out in the sun if not for my inherent pale nature and my own paranoia about skin cancer, so I'm currently working on perfecting the art once begun by the Damned – that pale night-time look – so I can go to goth clubs and pick up hot chicks in black leather to make cry over my evidently inexplicable personality quirks, but again not to worry – I usually tend to stay indoors and mind my own business."

It draws a congenial chuckle or two from the others present, as well as a rolled set of eyes from the instructor, and I can guess he's already thinking, "Oh, he's one of these types. Fantastic."

The remainder of homeroom period is spent looking around at the rest of the students – my classmates, my "peers" – and wondering about their lives. I like to play games where I'll make up a completely ridiculous backstory for each of them, and later try to find out just how wrong I am.

Before I can even start this, however, my attention is drawn to a pair of students in the back corner of the room – literally so ostracized, it seems, from the rest of the class that no one else glances their way...even though the slightly smaller, dark-haired one is clearly holding onto a lovely acoustic guitar whilst the blond beside him fixes the first bloke's long, bony fingers over the strings.

Honestly, it's more intriguing to me that they have a guitar than the blatant fact that no one else pays them any mind. I feel an urge to go to them, to, say, share some common interest in the instrument.

Alas, my consideration is barreled over when the classroom door opens and my homeroom instructor calls me to the front of the room. As I approach his desk, a large figure looms beside it – definitely my height, if not taller (which is rare), but far more filled out, though his slightly premature facial stubble cannot hide the considerate and openly friendly grin which greets me.

The teacher introduces him as Topher, the class president, who has taken it upon himself to chaperone me around the grounds today and introduce me to new teachers and the like. A rather cordial – however unnecessary – tact which I quite appreciate. No other school has ever shown me this much courtesy, so I gladly shake the proffered hand in front of me and introduce myself – with a fair less verbose explanation than I initially shared with everyone else, mind you. And then, before the first bell even rings, I am whisked off by the nearly adult student to be given a brief tour of the second floor of our school, where many of our first half of the day will be spent in different classes.

This Topher fellow seems such a likable character that I instantly feel relaxed around him. Not that I experience anxiety with these "first days" anymore – I've had too many "first days" to even care by now. But he alleviates some of my initial concerns quickly, boring stuff like where classrooms are, when I'll find time to stop at my designated locker, where my designated locker is, how I'll obtain textbooks, etc. He is a veritable schoolboy handbook when it comes to rules and regulations – and how to bend them ever so slightly in your favour. For instance, he manages to get himself and me out of the first fifteen minutes of our respective first period classes because I "wanted to know where the boys' lavatories were on both floors," and, as class president, he "was obliged to steer the new student in the right direction."

I rather like the bloke. We have lovely little discussions – over cigarettes in the last stall by the open window – in both lavatories we visit, before he walks me to my first class, about the more social aspects of the school – the clubs, the cliques, the athletics – and, apparently very high on his list, which "birds" are more prone to "opening their wings."

It's all very insightful – but not very interesting to me, per se, although it does make me laugh quite a lot.

The teachers are accommodating, even if I am starting in the middle of the year, and even a few other students are helpful. A bloke I almost mistake for a girl, named Anthony – a small, fragile-looking thing with doe-eyes, strange hair and a sweet, soft voice – shares a textbook with me in Physics when the befuddled instructor is appalled to find he has no extras on hand. I attempt to stay slightly more invisible for Calculus, as a book is available (even though Anthony is as well – two advanced courses in a row? Is this bloke-chick smarter than me? I wonder with a smile), and I usually use my first few days to observe and mull over my experiences. But even I am getting restless when no one raises their hands to the teacher's questions. So, to spare the rest of the class from being picked randomly, I offer my own answers when they are appropriate (good thing I've already studied the section they're on in my previous school, so I don't look like a fool – just a teacher's pet). I notice once in Calculus that I inadvertently save the dark-haired boy from homeroom with the guitar from being petrified when he becomes a victim and, before the teacher can rag on him some more for not doing the previous night's reading, step in – and as the boy's flushed face gradually loses its red hue, he offers me a grateful nod.

President Topher must be milking his position for all it's worth, because as soon as every class finishes, he's right outside the door, waiting to escort me to my next. By third period, I assure him I don't need an escort, I'm pretty sure I've figured out the place.

To which he merely shrugs and points out, "I think you're fine too – but that won't let me get out five minutes early, or allow me to be five minutes late." Said with a twinkle in his eyes.

I can only laugh and shrug back, relenting, "Well, if I'm not the burden here, then have at it."

But upon seeing my next class, he groans in frustration. "Oh, but we have Literature next – together."

I feign a sigh. "Oh dear. I suppose no sneaky slip-outs for you this time."

He quickly scans the rest of my schedule, brow furrowed in serious concentration, then finishes by looking up at me with a grin. "Yeah, but that's the only one, besides P.E. twice a week at the end of the day."

I cock my eyebrow at him. "You do realise, I'll have this down cold by tomorrow. I won't need a chaperone for the rest of the year."

At which point we've reached our room and slip into adjacent seats as he pleads, "Can't you pretend to be mentally deficient or something? Say you need a buddy for at least another month or so?"

I wave my stick-like arms in the air helplessly. "I doubt they'd believe me now."

He scrunches his face as he takes another glance at my schedule before tossing it back to me carelessly. "Yeah, guess not, with all those advanced and honours classes. Bloody hell, how d'you manage that with eight schools in seven years?"

I shove my schedule back into my pocket and glance around myself, the epitome of aloof.

"Dunno. Certain schools go at different paces. I've gone over the same thing three times in one year, whilst missing something most people learned three years ago. I guess I compensate by reading a lot at home."

He looks ill for a moment. "Independent study? What a load a' bollocks."

"Well, when you're bounced around more than a rubber ball, y'gotta find somethin' that'll stick to ya eventually. I guess." I trail off thoughtlessly as my gaze drifts around the room, studying my classmates now that I'm not too late to a class to do so thanks to Topher's secret attempts at cutting ("ever so slightly shaving"). I recognise a few faces from my homeroom and previous two classes so far – including the bashful-looking Anthony, who catches my eye and smiles slightly at my blatant, full-on wave of the hand. Like he's embarrassed at my attention, but thinks I'm worth the embarrassment to respond with a tiny chuckle between the pen cap he's chewing on.

Then I catch, just out of the corner of my eye, the duo from this morning's homeroom – once again, far in the back corner, as if they're a ceded island from the rest of the Continental Student Body. But I don't get much of a look – or a chance to embarrass them by a giddy wave – as the instructor takes over and all my attention is focused on her.

Hey, I may be weird, but I prefer to know what's going on. Usually.

After a brutal fifth period of Civic Studies (never been my favourite course), the beasts are finally released for a short resting, roaming and socialising period. Oh, and food, of course. I believe this is what most schools call "lunch," although strolling through the grounds outside, the ever-present Class President stuck on my arm, I hardly see anything which looks remotely like food.

Ah! I spy Anthony in a lone corner behind a berry bush nibbling on what appears to be an actual berry. Not only is it odd to encounter him, even if from a distance, testing the school grounds' wildly grown flora, but it shocks me at all that the boy eats.

Mind you, many would say that about myself, but other than the ManApe with high intelligence beside me and some pub thugs sprawling this tiny little town on the British map alone, I've come to the conclusion that overall, Britain practically is a third-world country – are we all starved or what? Seems every third schoolboy in this entire yard needs a good home-cooked meal...

Except Topher, of course. I'm a little perplexed, but don't dare ask a question, when I turn my head away from the cowering pixie sampling the berries to the brute beside me, only to find my new mate's got an honest-to-God turkey thigh in his mouth. Beefy hand on a thick bone and all.

"Ehhhmmmm..."

He blinks over at my lifted, pointed finger and tilts his head to the side in question. Then he blinks again, as if something has just occurred to him. "Sorry," he mumbles around the meat in his mouth, and he produces a napkin from his pocket to wipe at his greasy lips. "Tend to get sloppy when they don't serve it off the bone..."

I sigh and shake my head as we pause for Topher to wipe himself down. He chucks the now bare turkey leg into a bin as I plunge my hands into my jeans pockets and survey the land like Columbus discovering America.

What manner of other creature lay before me? Where can I possibly wreak havoc for a few months before jetting off to a new city? When the hell did I start plotting these things like a villain in a Bond film? I need a white cat. And some serious bling.

(Whatever the fuck that is.)

My thoughts are interrupted by a faint strumming sound, and I quietly move towards it, away from Topher as he cleans his hands with more napkins. I slightly round a corner and look past a tree to find the two blokes from homeroom sitting in their usual cut-off island of paradise – well, as much of paradise as one can find in this place during school hours. Again, the blond stops the brunette from playing an awful-sounding chord in order to refix the long fingers on the strings, and then the chord comes out once more lovely...hesitant and uncertain, but lovely. The toothy grin that follows, beaming at the blond for what must be some kind of approval, only makes the other roll his eyes and look away. He catches me staring and narrows his already narrowed eyes even more, tensing up when he knows they're being watched.

But before any confrontation can take place, a walloping hand on my arm nearly sends me to the ground as Topher pulls me back away from the tree.

"Aw'right, mate? I can show you where you can hang out during lunch, now that I've finished mine--"

I pause, even as he tries to drag me, and gesture over my shoulder to the tree. "Why not back there?" I ask.

Topher does a double-take, like he hasn't heard me correctly. Even mutters, "P-Pardon?"

"Back there?" I repeat, trying to walk back in the direction of the pseudomusicians and being jerked back to the class president – rather ungracefully, but then, I'm often compared to an overgrown chicken on speed having a seizure, so this is nothing.

"Ohh, those guys?" he asks, sputtering with a laugh of disbelief. "No, no, no – no, mate, you don't wanna get mixed up with those guys..."

"Why not?" I ask as he continues his laughter and tries to pull me along towards a group of other kids our age – all congregating on the cement steps of the back doors to the school, chattering and passing around colas and chips and crisps. "They seemed pretty interesting--"

"They're not," Topher sputters again, "believe me, they're really not. Best to just stay away from them—"

"But they had a guitar--"

"Don't matter," Topher insists, the laughter fading from his voice as he realises I'm not relenting and we come to a stand-still halfway between his group of friends and the two blokes I want to go see. (Strangely, it's dead center on where the berry bushes are that Anthony is still milling around, poking at more berries and watching the scene with a rather detached intrigue, I notice over my shoulder.) "They don't want you there, mate. Better just stick with me."

Oh, well, now he's gone and told me that, I have to go say hello. That's just how I am. You know: male.

"Why not?" I hedge, inching backwards a bit. "Are they, like, really private people or something? You know, sometimes the most private individuals secretly want to be known – and they can often be far more worth getting to know than the average popular crowd who're more outgoing and social."

He notices the gesture I make with my chin towards his group of friends and clears his throat, squaring off against me now. "They don't really care, actually, is what I'm trying to tell you. They're simply not very, er...friendly. Or, at least, they're not easy to get along with. Believe me, mate, some of us have already tried."

This piques my interest even more and my eyebrows lift unconsciously. "Oh? They're quite rude, then, are they? You're sure you just didn't get them on a bad day?"

Topher hesitates momentarily, glancing away, then admits haughtily, "Well... I personally think they're quite daft, to be honest. Nick seems a little more with it mentally, but doesn't seem to like many people. Matt... Well... He's just in his own world, I guess, more than rude. But still... Best not to feed the animals, if y'know what I mean."

I find this rather bold assertion of his own view of fellow classmates to be quite demeaning, not to mention off-putting. And I don't try to hide my disdain for his wording as I give him a glaring, condescending stare. "Oh really?" I say thinly, backing away from him slowly. "Well, that's quite a harsh word to use on others your own age, don't you think? Forgive me for assuming, but maybe you simply don't know them very well."

Topher sighs, holding out his arms helplessly. "Look, mate, I'm just bein' honest - y'know, tryin' to help you out."

"Help me out?" I scoff, smiling a bit. "Mate, I know you mean no offence towards me, but believe me, I don't need that kind of help."

He tilts his head to one side, saying casually, "Hey, that's fine. If you really wanna start off on the wrong foot here by being seeing with the likes of them, by all means, you're welcome to it. But I'm warning you - knowing them won't help your reputation any."

I laugh outright this time. "What do I care about my reputation? I've only just started here, and truthfully, I don't think I'll be around long enough for anyone to notice me. Besides, anyone who judges me just by whom I choose to hang out with isn't worth my fleeting time anyway. Wouldn't you agree?" Said with a fair amount of ease and nonchalance, but also with a slight edge of sly arrogance.

Topher's shoulders slump and he rolls his eyes, waving me away. "Eh... Whatever, mate - like I said, help yourself, but I'm not interested really."

I nod, waving in return at his dismissal of me. "Ah. Cheers, then." And I happily saunter back towards the tree he just dragged me away from.

Before I make it there, however, a diminutive figure pops up in front of me from out of nowhere, it seems - although really he was just hiding behind one of the bushes before I got to him.

"Jesus Christ," I gasp, grasping a small shoulder in my hand as I steady myself. "Um, Anthony, isn't it? You sure fit into some small places, don't you?"

He regards me placidly, round eyes glued to me fervently, but only says, "They're really like that."

I blink at him in confusion. "Uh... eh?"

He gestures with his head to the other boys I'm headed towards. "Those two. They really are how Topher describes them."

I furrow my brow, smirking a bit. "You're a believer as well, are you?"

"No, it's fact. It's just that..." He ducks his head slightly, averting his eyes, and smiles a bit. "It's just... they don't mind me so much. But they're not the kindest people either."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "So how did you get in their favour then?"

He shrugs as I let go of him and starts to slink away, hands hidden in his pockets and skinny arms sticking out like a baby tree's branches. "I'm a bit of an acquired taste myself, I suppose." And he continues on until he disappears again, literally like vanishing in the blink of an eye.

With those two warnings in mind, I shrug to myself and continue onward to the pair. And as soon as I'm there, standing above them and smiling my friendliest smile at them, Topher and Anthony's words become apparent within moments.

"Cheers," I greet them as the duo stare up at me, the dark-haired one looking stunned and the blond suspicious. "I'm Tom."

Warily, the blond nods at me. "We know," he says in a deadpan voice. "We were in class today, you know."

The boy with the darker hair continues to stare at me, fascinated, it seems, that I've dared to come within a few paces of him. "Uh...hi," he starts uncertainly, glancing at his partner vaguely, as if for approval. "Uh, I'm Matt." He offers a hand, but with a sharp cough from the other's throat, Matt drops it, along with his head, and pretends to fiddle with the guitar strings.

"Of course," I say, shaking my head like I'm the bloody stupid pratt here. "Yeah, you were there. So you know I'm a bit of a music lover myself, right?" I squat down in front of them and gesture to the guitar. "What kind of guitar is that, Matt?"

The brunette hesitates, his gaze raking up and down the body of the guitar for some telltale sign. "Uh...I'm not sure, really," he blurts suddenly, hopping from his arse onto his knees and lifting it between us so I can study it as well. His voice instantly becomes more animated, almost hyper, as he barrels on excitedly, "It's not mine, really - me dad, he bought it for me brother a few years ago, but he weren't too int'rested in it, so I, like, sort of, um, borrowed it off him..."

I smile knowingly at him, pleasantly surprised by his immediately grabbing personality. "I take it `borrowed' means you nicked it from the confines of a stifling closet space or something."

He shrugs and nods spastically at the same time. "Yeah, basically." He bobs his head towards the blond and goes on, "Nick's just been showin' me some chords on it, I ain't too good yet, but maybe if I keep at it..."

I nod in agreement. "Never hurts to try."

The blond - Nick, I'm assuming - sighs heavily and narrows his eyes directly at me. "What do you want?" he asks sharply - his voice remains cool yet scathing at once.

But I'm not that easily put off. Making myself comfortable on the grass in front of them, asking no one in particular, "So, what does your afternoon look like? I've managed to find some ace elective courses I never counted on finding in a high school--"

"Right!" Matt pipes up immediately, his grin taking up half his face. "I know! I always thought this place was a drag, but when I saw there was an actual prep course for university level film, I was like--" He stops dead suddenly, mouth hanging open and eyes wide as saucers. "Oh shit!" he gasps, slapping a hand over his mouth, and without so much as a Cheers, mate, he's up on his feet and running towards the school, guitar just barely grazing the ground as he lugs it along behind him.

I blink in astonishment – then turn back to Nick, who doesn't look nearly as confused as I feel. In fact, he looks bloody bemused. But when he catches me looking, he stiffens his face back to it once stoic appearance.

Still, I won't let his initial stonewall demeanor push me away so easily. Instead, I cock an eyebrow at him and point to myself. "Something I said?"

"He's supposed to hand in a paper today in that class at the threat of detention – it's not that he doesn't like the class, he'd just forget his head if it weren't stuck to him."

I relax a bit and let my shoulders slouch. "Ah. So why doesn't he just hand it in and be done with it?"

Nick actually lets a smirk betray his otherwise uncaring exterior as he mumbles, "Hard to hand in a paper that hasn't finished writing itself. Even when it's two days overdue."

I nod in understanding. "Oh, I see. So I'm not the one who scared him off, directly – I just reminded him of something he didn't want to think about."

"Like I said, it's not that he doesn't like it – he just forgets things. He'll have a pristine paper done in ten minutes – he just needs someone to remind him to do it. On the other hand," he adds flippantly, "you're new...and you have curly hair...so it could've been you too. He's a strange little bugger. The most banal things can scare the shit out of him."

I don't miss how he emphasizes the specific word, and retaliate with a jovial grin. "Well, that's good to know. I thought he could just tell I didn't shower this morning."

"It'd never be that," Nick scoffs, rolling his eyes to the sky. "I have to remind him to brush his teeth."

I grimace at the thought. "See, that, I couldn't stand. Call me a bit of a nutter when it comes to hygiene, I'll own it..."

He swivels his head a certain way and glares at me out of the corner of his eyes. "Why are you doing this?"

I feign misunderstanding and shrug. "Doing what? Sitting here? If you want, I'll move to where he was--"

"Don't bother," he snaps back instantly, then goes on, "Talking to me. Why are you talking to me?"

I shake my head slowly, glancing around as if the question takes me aback – as if I haven't been "warned" already by Topher (and, in his own cryptic way, Anthony – though Anthony didn't seem to mind the "bad reputation" Nick and Matt have). "Um...That's normally what humans do to communicate--"

"No, why me?" Nick demands.

I lift my eyebrows as I eye him back and say nonchalantly, "Because...you're there?"

"Is that all that qualifies me?" he hisses, as if discovering some heinous secret of mine. "You came over here. What is it you want?"

I shrug again, gesturing towards the building Matt just disappeared inside. "He had a guitar – I was interested--"

"Well, he's gone now and he's taken it with him, so you can leave me alone now."

I put on an obviously false hurt expression. "But we were having such a fascinating conversation about hygiene--"

"Look, Curly," he bites out, sitting up straighter to look me straight in the eyes. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear: Go away."

I pause for a moment; he certainly said it with such intensity that it would have frightened off someone else.

I shift my position to where Matt was sitting – putting me even closer to Nick.

"What d'you think you're doing?" he deadpans, clearly not amused.

"Resting my legs? Warming my arse? He's already made it nice and cozy for me--"

"Aren't you done bothering me?" Nick snipes, throwing a handful of grass at me.

I lean back on my elbows, legs splayed out in front of me, and bask in the (rather dim) sunlight that manages to break through the clouds. "Am I bothering you?" I ask, as if he hasn't already made it clear.

"Is this an Answer a Question with a Question game?"

I catch his gaze again and quirk an eyebrow at him knowingly. "Could it be?"

He leans forward, slouching over his lap to lean against his fists – probably trying to get as far away from me as possible without giving up his claimed spot. "Look, just go back to your class president," said with a particularly nasty snarl, "let him feel like his title is actually worth something already, will you? Quit nagging me. I've got better things to do."

I let a few moments of silence pass, allowing the idea to sink in that perhaps there's more to this little secret saga than just clashing personalities – Topher did say that some people had tried to get along with Nick and Matt and it just hadn't worked out. Maybe he was speaking from personal experience. Maybe that's why Nick sounds so personally offended by my initially being around "the president."

Finally, I blurt out, "Do you play guitar?"

There's a confused twist of Nick's head and he asks, "What?"

I lift myself from my elbows to sit upright again. "Do you play guitar?"

He studies me cautiously, like there's a catch or a joke coming. "...Why?"

I shrug, glancing towards the school where Matt is probably feverishly scribbling away in some dark corner before his next lesson. "Well, he was the one carrying the guitar, but it looked like you were the one showing him--"

"I know enough," Nick cuts me off. "Why do you care?"

"Well, I'm a musician myself—well," I chuckle, "`musician'--I like to play, rather. Hopefully one day I'll be good enough to have that title, but until then, I'm just working at practicing and such..."

"Why the hell are you talking to me? About this? Not for advice, I assume--"

"Well, no, but if you play, or he does, maybe we could jam together sometime. It's just interesting to see someone showing up at school with a guitar, carryin' it from class to class—I think it says a lot."

He stares at me again for another silent moment, then utters, "Are you takin' the piss?"

"Huh? Why would I--"

He seems dead set on believing no one would casually walk up to him of their own free will and start a conversation – he looks positively furious as he leans in closer to me and sneers, "I said, go...away."

He's met his match, then. I smile calmly back and reply, "No."

Nick blinks in surprise. "What?"

"It's an answer to—"

"That wasn't a question, it was an order--"

"But I'm not a waiter," I correct him. "I don't take orders. I consider requests..."

"Then I request that you go away."

"...but I don't always agree to them – as I'm refusing to agree to your request right now."

Somehow, just by being my same old self, I'm making Nick flustered and baffled – I'm guessing he doesn't know what it means to be nice to someone because you want to be. Even if they spit in your face. That's what makes him so interesting, in fact.

"What makes you think you can act like that!?" he nearly yells in my face.

I shrug, trying to explain, "I'm not trying to be obnoxious, I'm just--"

"But you're pulling it off anyway!"

"Look, you're putting this all on me, and that's fine – yes, I'm choosing to stay here and be verbally abused by someone I barely know. But I think it's very telling that you get so upset that someone's actually trying to talk to you. Besides, you could just as easily get up and walk away as I could. If it bothered you that much."

His lips pressed into a thin line, he sputters out, "But this is my spot."

Ah – a territorial issue, is it? "Your spot?" I glance around us, pretending to look for something. "Is there a tag somewhere?"

"I always—we always sit here," he corrects himself. "Can't you tell? It's the very space everyone else avoids. Doesn't that tell you something?"

I smirk and nudge his arm. "People avoiding you? Can't be your charming personality driving people away, can it?"

He throws some more grass at me. "Sod off!"

"That's the spirit!" I giggle, tossing some of the grass back. Then I continue on with my real business – this childish banter about whose spot we're sitting on is starting to bore me. "So, d'you want to jam sometime or what?"

He heaves a sigh and lowers his head, staring down at the ground between his legs. "What."

"I said, do you--"

"I heard what you said," he snaps again. "That was my answer."

"Ah. Okay then." I get to my feet and wipe the grass off, pulling a pen and my schedule from my pocket as I do so. "Your mate – his name's Matt, yes?"

He snorts in derision as I write my number on the back of my schedule, tearing off that section of paper. "He can barely play yet--"

"Practice can help that," I remind him. "And practice is more fun when you do it with other people. Here," and I reach down to grab an unwilling hand, shoving the paper into his tight fist. "Give him this for me..."

As I fix myself up again, he stares down at the number and then up at me, giving me an expression of false pity. "You're one of those strange types who don't register rejection when it's offered, aren't you?"

"...and tell him to call me if he wants to jam sometime."

I adjust the backpack on my shoulder and run a hand through my curls before glancing down at him with another sly smirk. When he doesn't answer or give any sign that he's willing to do as I ask, I inform him, "Oh, and I'll probably run into him again and just as him myself, seeing as I'm in that film course with him that was mentioned earlier, so you may as well not bother tossing it out."

Nick's sneaky smile withers and he pounds his fist holding my number into the ground. "Wanker."

"You're welcome to join us if he's up for it," I offer sincerely.

He lifts his head again, assuring me quite politely, "Think I'd sooner vomit blood, thank you."

I nod, ignoring his attitude – I've got enough of my own. "Nice to meet you too. Cheers, then, mate."

And as I walk away, still in my happy-go-lucky mood I've been in all day, I hear him mutter behind me, "Bloody psychopath, this one is."

Hm. He may have a point there. It makes my smile come a little easier.

As the bell announcing the end of lunch period rings, I note that Topher is nowhere to be found to escort me to my film class. I smile to myself and find my way to the correct room on my own, pleased to find Matt already seated at a desk - a little flushed, with a typed paper in trembling hands, but he's there all the same. I slide into a seat beside him and nudge his arm.

"Oi," I greet him, and he gives me a shy, crooked smile. "Finish it, did you?" I nod to his paper.

"Yeah," he snickers, shaking his head. "Didn't think I'd make it, but just barely... Sorry for running off like that, I just, well, y'know..."

I shrug nonchalantly. "No bother, mate. Nick explained it to me."

His eyes grow wide in shock as he stares me down. "Nick did?"

I nod.

"Y'mean he... He talked to you?"

I cringe, tilting my head to the side. "Eh... I think that might qualify as talking, but yeah, just barely. At least, I got that much out of him, between some interesting name-calling and threats, anyway..."

Matt groans and slumps in his seat. "Aw, blimey... I'm sorry for him, mate, really - I mean, it's just how he is, all cautious 'n all, but still, he needs to be a bit nicer--"

"Don't apologise," I assure him quickly. "Not your job to apologise for someone else. Besides, I get it - it's just how he is, as you said. He probably has his reasons for being that way, and it's not my responsibility to judge that. That's fine. Not everyone has to be Mr. Nice Guy."

"But you din't even do nothin' but say `hi'--"

"Well, for some people, that's enough to put them off."

He scoffs and straightens up some. "Well, despite him not being the kindest bloke around, he is a good friend. To me, anyway," he corrects himself falteringly.

I chuckle at this, nodding, "Oh, I'm sure he is. To you."

Matt hesitates, then glances at me uncertainly. "He didn't, like, freak you out or nothin', did he?"

"Why?" I ask immediately, unfazed. "Is there a problem between you and me if he did?"

Matt bites his lip, wincing. "Well...not really...I hope..."

I sit back in my seat, stretching my arms and yawning. "It takes a lot more than some surly teenager to freak me out, mate. I've seen worse stuff in me head than what he could hurl at me." He's silent as I relax; I can feel his questioning eyes on me. Instead of furthering that part of the conversation, though, I turn to him and ask outright, "Oi, you think you'd wanna jam sometime?"

Matt's quizzical stare morphs to disbelief. "Eh?"

I motion to his guitar, now tucked behind his chair, and inform him, "I play a bit too. Just thought maybe you'd like someone else to practice with."

"Uhh...Nick's been showing me - well, trying to show me--"

"That's fine," I assure him. "He can come too if he wants - though it seems he'd rather swallow broken glass at the moment, according to something he mentioned at lunch..."

Matt whimpers and looks ill with sympathy, which I laugh off.

"No, it's no bother. I was wondering if you'd like to. I've got some pretty nifty guitars..."

"Guitars?" Matt repeats, flabbergasted. "Did you say, guitars? As in, plural?"

"Uh, yeah. It's sort of payment for me behaving, I guess you could say," I cough, and rub discreetly at the metal bracelet hidden under my sleeve. "Anyway, I've got those, and we've got a piano as well."

At this, Matt's jaw drops, and he gapes at me with unhidden awe. "Do you? A real, like, piano?"

I chuckle, adding humourously, "Well, and a toy xylophone, if you want to get specific--"

But he doesn't hear my teasing. "'Cause I started out on that! I loved playing! I know more about piano than guitar, really, though I do want to learn guitar, but if you've got a piano..."

I giggle at his rapid-fire response and try to cut in again, but he keeps rambling before I have a chance. Hey, I guess it pays to have friends with shiny toys, right? But I kid...

"We used to have one too - well, before me dad left, I mean - had to sell it last year to pay rent, I was devastated, I was, but I still remember..." He trails off, ducking his head shyly. "Oh, um... I mean... We had to, um...make space...for the hovercraft..."

I roll my eyes and wave away his discomfort. "Oh please - a hovercraft?"

He shrugs lamely. "First thing that came to mind..."

I lean closer to him and assure him quietly, "Oi, mate, it's no bother. So your family ran into some trouble - happens a lot. No need to be ashamed."

He swallows hard, lifting his head slightly. "It's just, you said before, well... Sounds like you come from...uh...some money..."

I blow a raspberry and lean back, crossing my hands behind my head. "Technically, yeah, I come from a wealthy family - but believe me, mate, that ain't all grand pianos and fancy guitars neither. Apparently it includes a sleazy drunken mother, but I hadn't known about that when I asked to be born to a coupla richies."

He quirks an eyebrow at me and I laugh outright. "No, forget it. Just...don't make no difference to me if you're sellin' stuff to make rent or feel like a bloody lost speck of dirt in a uselessly big house. I just wanna play music with someone. You up for it?"

He hesitates again, and now the classroom is filled up. As the instructor walks in, I drop my arms to my sides, wince when the clang of my bracelet hits the metal bar on my desk, then release a breath of relief when Matt doesn't seem to hear.

"I'm not very good," he whispers, and I shrug as if to answer, So?

Instead of leaving the loaded question up to him to decide right away, I reach over and grab a notebook from under his arm, scrawling my number on it as the instructor starts his lecture, then hand it back to Matt with a smile.

"Gimme a call when you're up to it," I whisper back, then direct my attention forward.

There. No real pressure or nothin', right?

Matt

I'm not even listening to Nick rant about why he got another detention in his last period today as we walk home. Most of my books are tucked away in my backpack, and I've got the guitar slung over me shoulder too, but in my hands I hold the notebook this new bloke Tom wrote on in Film Studies a few hours ago. I stare at the number and mull over the thought of calling him tonight while Nick gripes about the bloody treacherous witch who didn't appreciate his witty remarks about her fat arse after she criticised him for not having his homework done today. I've heard this story about twenty times this year so far anyway, I know the ending. He'll go to detention, it'll be boring, and then he'll work out the new plan for his next one.

It's useless to talk him into the idea that a stack of detentions to fuel a badass reputation isn't quite as worth the effort as actually doing the homework and maybe getting into a quality university someday. So I keep me mouth shut and continue considering whether I should call Tom tonight or tomorrow...if at all.

Which brings me to my next dilemma. When there's a pause in Nick's feisty monologue, I lift my head finally and ask, "Hey Nick?"

"Hm?" he grunts, empty hands tucked behind his head as he stares up at the sky - he knows I haven't been listening, but as I've given up trying to talk him into something good, I suppose he's given up trying to actually get me to pay attention to something for more than two minutes.

"Is it all right if I..." I hesitate, swallowing hard, before finally squeaking out, "...like Tom?"

There's an empty silence, and he looks absolutely puzzled when I dare a glance sideways at him. "Huh?"

"Tom," I go on. "That new bloke at school?"

He looks exasperated at once. "I know who he is, Matt."

"Yeah. Well, him. Can I like him?"

His paces slow and he turns to look at me too - like I've just gone mad. "What on Earth are you talking ab--"

I know where he's going with this, so I cut him off before he can start with the whole You're an alien, aren't you? spiel. "Well, it just seems like you don't really, like...like him very much..."

He scoffs, shrugging his shoulders with exaggeration. "I barely know the psycho, why should I like him?"

"Well," I hedge, trying to put the insult towards Tom to the back of my mind, "see, thing is, um, I kind of do like him. An' I was just wonderin' if that was, like, okay with you."

He stops in his tracks fully and stares dully back at me when I follow his lead. "...You know you're completely insane, don't you?"

I slump my shoulders. Everyone's insane in his mind, I guess. "But is it--"

He throws his arms back up in the air helplessly and nearly yells, "Yes, it's all right! Jesus! You don't need to ask me if you can like someone, ya know!"

I lower my head - partly because I feel stupid, and partly to hide my sneaking smile. "Oh... Well, 'cause, like, you seemed a bit angry when he came up to us today--"

"Look, Matt," Nick interrupts in his deadpan voice, like he's talking to a child and getting bloody sick of it, "just because I'm not fond of someone doesn't mean I'm going to stop hanging out with you if you are. That's just stupid, y'know?"

As he starts walking again, I try to let this sink in, then slowly follow after him. "Oh. Okay. I just wanted to make sure--"

"Why?" he asks sharply, but with a dour chuckle in his tone. "You think I'd ditch you for something like that? What kinda idiot do you think I am?"

I catch up to him and lift my head, throwing him a shit-eating grin as I answer smartly, "The kind of idiot who dislikes someone for coming up and saying hi."

He glares back at me with narrowed eyes, but says nothing. His lips press together in that thin line that means he's actually feeling bitter now - not just acting like an arse, but is about to become one.

"What?" I taunt him. "It's true! All he did was introduce himself--"

"I just don't trust people who're overly friendly right off the bat, okay?" he mutters, the bitterness abating as he looks at the ground and actually speaks honestly. "I dunno if I like him or not - like I said, I don't even know him."

"But you don't want to even try to," I point out.

"What?"

"You don't seem like you want to get to know him - it's like you've already written him off. You never even gave him a chance--"

"Look," he huffs, "I just don't go for all that friendship, male-bonding bullocks. You know that."

I consider this, and I know by now it's true - he's not one for bearing his soul or anything. But still, some things just don't fit into place. "But what about me then?"

"What about you?" he mumbles, kicking some dirt-sullied snow into the air.

"Well, why'd you decide to like me then?"

He smirks and glances over at me briefly. "I never said I did, did I? You just never went away."

Oh, you bastard. Pullin' this one on me again, eh? I stiffen my whole frame and start walking faster, snapping over my shoulder, "Thanks. Cheers, mate."

As I put some distance between us, I can hear him whining behind me. "Oh, come on, Matt -- you know I'm kidding--"

"How do I?" I shout back, still moving at a faster clip. "Sounded genuine enough to me, so I'll just stop hanging 'round and bugging you then--"

"Oh, stop it," he sneers, but I can hear him jogging to catch up to me now. "Matt... Matt! Where're you going!?"

I just realise now that I've passed the street we usually turn on to get to our houses, but I don't care - I keep going. "I dunno!" I call back angrily. "But if I'm that annoying, why should you c--"

A hand grasps my shoulder and spins me around, nearly causing me to drop my guitar on the icy pavement. Nick's giving me another You're losing it, mate, look, but at least he seems a bit more alarmed than usual.

"I wasn't serious, you twat! Let's go back, eh, you're being stupid--"

I drop my backpack off my one shoulder (but am careful not to drop the guitar) and wave the notebook in my hand at him accusingly. "You're being stupid!"

Aren't we just the most mature young adults there ever was?

He holds his arms out helplessly again. "I was being an arse on purpose, you dolt! It's what I do! You know that! I didn't mean it!"

Both of us huffing to catch our breath, I eye him up warily, letting my arm fall to my side again. "Really?"

"Yeah, really! God!"

I slowly, reluctantly, pick up my backpack and start walking back with him. After a few steps, I hazard, "So I'm not a pain?"

"Of course you are--"

"Oh for--" I drop my bag again and whirl around.

He grabs my arm and keeps me from marching away again. "But I don't mind it! Christ! That's just who you are, y'know? I accept that about you!"

I roll my eyes and jerk myself away from him. "Oh, fuck you!"

Nick reaches out and yanks my coat sleeve in the direction we're supposed to be heading, even snagging my backpack for me. "I like that you're a pain, okay!? God!" And he starts pushing me forward to the proper street, like I'm some bawling toddler who doesn't want to go to bed but Daddy's had enough and is taking charge. "Make me get all soppy, why doncha!? Yes, fine, I like you, I like you hanging 'round and making an arse of yourself, like this very second! You wouldn't be you otherwise."

I try to turn around to glare at him, but he forces me forward again. "That's not very complimentary," I sniffle.

"Maybe," he grunts. "But at least it fits with me being a mean little prick, huh? We don't fit anywhere else, Matt, that's why we're a good match."

I sigh, clutching my notebook to my chest. "'Cause no one else wants us 'round, is that it?" I hope Tom's number hasn't been smudged away.

"Partly," he concedes. "But also 'cause..." He hisses wordlessly, then growls, "Oh, Christ, you're gonna make me say it, aren't you?"

"Say what?" I ask innocently.

We've gotten back on our steady pace again, round the corner to the street where our houses are. "We balance each other out, okay?" he finally confesses with a snarl. "If you didn't have me watchin' out for you and tearin' you down all the time, you'd be way too out there to stay grounded in this world. You'd, like, walk into a bus because you're in a rage or somethin', like just now."

Really? There was a bus? Thank God I didn't see it, I'd've wet meself.

"And," he goes on, "if you weren't hangin' 'round all the time, I'd... I'd just..."

I cock my head to the side curiously. "What?"

He really does not want to say this. So I'm biting my lip to keep from smiling as I wait for him to say it. "Man... Well, I just wouldn't give a shit 'bout anythin'. Okay? Is that mushy enough for you? You make things easier, even when you make 'em harder, which is somethin' I'll never understand, but yeah, there you go - you remind me of why I should care."

I turn my face to him and let him see my smug grin.

"Oh, shut up," he snaps.

"You like me!" I giggle.

"Sod off."

"You won't say it outright, but you do! You like me!"

He shoves me by the shoulder, and as we've reached our side-by-side houses, he chucks my backpack at me as well. "Shut it!"

I snicker as he leaves me at my stoop and continues on to his own without looking back to check on me. "Okay, okay, fine," I call to him. "Have it your way."

He pretends to ignore me as he hops up to his front porch and unlocks the door.

"But I do know now--"

"Fuck off, wanker!" And he slams the door - proverbially - in my face.

Well, good to know I've still got one friend. Now I wonder if I can make a second.
CHAPTER TWO: THE CURL'S TWISTS

Tom

I awaken on the morning of my second day of school with a splitting headache. I recognise this pain. I've had it before. Too many times. I hate it when this happens.

It's too early for me to be awake, really, but the throbbing and stabbing in my head is so terrible, I can't return to sleep for another two hours. Instead, I cover my face with my pillow, screaming into it as the tears roll down the sides of my face - screaming does not help a migraine, but sometimes, it's all I can think of to do. After twenty minutes of this torture, I stumble to my bathroom and dry heave for a while into the toilet in the dark, then grope around for my as-needed prescription meds. Praying they'll start working as soon as I take them - which never happens. I gulp them down shakily, then crawl back to my bed on my hands and knees. For the next eighty minutes, I stare at the digital clock beside me, focusing fiercely on the lights ticking away the minutes until 7:00. I try to keep my mind blank, but the thought that this can only have happened because I forgot to take my bedtime pills makes me furious with myself. I try to blame it on all the homework I did last night, my first bout of real work in two months after moving here, but I know that's not the real reason.

I'm still shaking when I finally get up and dress, but by the time I reach the kitchen and find my mother in only a slip and silk robe, long, lithe limbs draped carelessly over a chair by the table (with a half-empty bottle in front of her and a full glass in her fingers), I'm almost feeling like myself again. I sigh at the state of my mum and pull some juice and bread from the fridge, plopping them down in front of her \- just loud enough to make her cringe.

"Liquid breakfast again, Mum?" I quip as I put some bread in the toaster. "I knew when I gave you that Mother Of The Year mug last year for your birthday, you'd just start to coast."

She glares up at me and I can see the dark circles under the same green eyes I inherited from her.

"Don't make me remember my bloody wonderful birthday last year, love," she hisses, then reaches out her free hand to me and opens her fingers, revealing my forgotten nighttime meds. "No need to judge, Tommy," she sneers, and places the pills beside my glass of juice. "No more games. I want to see you take them this time. No repeat of last year, right, love?"

I return her glare, my hands on my hips, and not even the sound of the toast popping up several long moments later makes either of us twitch.

Finally, I let out a weary sigh and do as she asks. "Fine," I say sharply. "But believe me, I don't forget on purpose, you know. It's not like it's fun for me when someone goes and hides them."

She scrunches her oh-so-pretty nose at me in response. Before I can give in to my desire to punch it into her head, I calm myself and offer, "Thank you, by the way, for at least letting me have access to my migraine medicine. It was so bloody kind of you."

She returns to glowering at me and sips her wine. I pound down my juice as fast as I can, then grab my toast and try to hurry past her.

At the last moment, a hand clasps my arm, pulling me back. For a second, I have the dumbest delusion that she's calling me back for a hug, or an apology.

But as I turn to her, all she does is tug the cuff of my shirt up a few inches - and I yank my arm back, scowling at her.

"Just wanting to make sure we're being safe, love," she murmurs as she takes another sip of wine. "Don't want anymore ugly little situations cropping up again without some fair warning to others."

"Right," I snipe as I tuck the cold steel bracelet back under my sleeve. "And what exactly are you telling others about your freakish baby boy?"

Without waiting for an answer, I whirl around again and head for the front door. Just to be an arse, I call back to her, "Please put the juice and bread away sometime today if you're able to stumble to the fridge - thank you so much, love," before slamming the door extra hard - I can hear it echo even as I stand outside and smirk.

We usually do have a much better relationship...or maybe that's just what I fool myself into thinking when we're not around each other. Good thing my father is barely around. Can't imagine all the lies I've imagined between us.

Oh dear. Where on Earth did I inherit such a dripping sarcasm from? For a moment, I could swear I'm a past-her-prime beauty queen nearing fifty with an alcohol problem, an obviously cheating husband, and a psychotic son. No wonder I'm such a bitch.

Once I get to school, the stand-off with Mum is a faded memory, and I grin and wave when I see Topher amongst a group of his friends. He waves me over, but a wary look is in his eye.

"What's up?" I ask casually, double-checking that my bracelet's safely hidden.

"So?" he asks back.

"So...what?"

"Did I tell you right or what?"

I gasp, finally understanding. "Oh - you mean Matt and Nick!"

"Yeah, them."

"Oh, boy, yeah, you were right," I chuckle, shaking my head. "Christ, were you right."

He smirks, patting me on the back. "See, I knew you'd get it once you had a taste--"

"Oh, but I'm still gonna hang with them when they let me," I continue nonchalantly.

Topher gawks at me as I offer a simple grin.

"Don't have to choose between mates, now, do I? No rulebook to making friends, is there? And to hate one person because another person does -- well, that'd be downright childish, wouldn't it?"

Maybe it's the way I say it, so flippantly, like any grudges between them mean shite to me (which is true), but Topher slowly relents and reluctantly shrugs it off as well.

"Hey, if you insist," he sighs, as if giving up. But then he perks up and pulls a laptop out of his bag. "Oi, look at this - found an ace porn site last night I think you'll appreciate: chicks-with-dicks-that-play-guitar!"

I squint at him. "Er...is that really so unusual?"

"It is when they play with their actual dicks!"

Okay - this has to be genius.

Nick

I know Matt has a class or two with the weirdo in the morning, but that doesn't mean I have to be exposed to the nuisance. So, just to be safe, when lunch period rolls around, I urge Matt to come sit with me at the tables outside, just around the corner from our usual spot on the ground – but far enough that one can't be seen from that same previous spot.

"What's goin' on?" he asks me dumbly as he munches on some crisps. "What're we doin' here? I miss our spot..."

"Shut up," I snip at him, biting into a banana when my teeth manage to stop chattering.

He glares at the banana, his hand holding a crisp frozen in mid-air. He growls and drops his hand to the table suddenly, muttering angrily, "Dammit, now I want that instead."

I roll my eyes and swipe the bag of crisps away, shoving the rest of the banana into his open hand. "Happy?"

He grins widely and nods, taking almost half the bloody banana in with one bite.

I groan and shove some crisps into my mouth. Watching Matt eat is sometimes like sticking a finger down me own throat.

He pauses in his chewing to ask, "Hey, Nick, if it's winter, why do we always eat outside?"

I sigh and glance away from him, cautiously surveying the bit of the schoolyard we can see from the tables.

"I mean, it's kinda stupid, init?" he continues when I don't answer. "It's really bloody cold out here—"

"Fine," I grumble around the mashed crisps in my mouth. "Tomorrow we'll eat inside – try to fight our way to a table where they'll let us sit without throwing shit at us."

He pauses again, reconsidering, then shrugs and pulls his coat around him tighter. "Well, it's not that cold..."

"Oi, mates," comes the jovial voice above us, and I nearly smash my face into the table in aggravation when I see the freak standing there – appearing from out of nowhere, it seems. Same annoying cheery grin. Same annoying curly hair. He's got his hands planted on his hips, not even bothering with a jacket, and looks too damn comfortable without one.

"Oh God," I moan, turning away.

"What happened?" he asks, and I cringe as Matt happily slides over to let him join us. "Not sitting in your spot today?"

"Nick wanted a change of scenery," Matt answers helpfully.

"Yeah, so you can have the bloody spot all to yourself," I tell him deliberately. "Go on, go take it."

Tom laughs and leans in over the table. "That's all right. It's not the spot that matters, but the company."

"Exactly," I agree thinly, glaring over at him.

Matt and Tom barely register my annoyance – no, in fact, they don't register it at all. Instead, Matt's babbling away to the new kid about how he was going to call him last night, but he got caught up watching some documentary about penguins and forgot.

"That's all right," Tom tells him, too bloody agreeable for my taste. "There's always tonight – or even tomorrow. Hell, there's every night plus the weekend, right?"

I roll my eyes again with another groan as Matt chuckles at his words.

"Oi," Tom says suddenly, "You guys ever see a tranny playing guitar with her own cock? Chicks with dicks? Putting their appendages to good use?"

I cringe at him in disgust, even as Matt laughs absurdly. "Christ!" I sneer at him. "Is this your new way to try and endear yourself to us?"

Tom takes in my shock placidly, then shrugs. "Someone showed me a video. Made me laugh. Anyway," he barrels on, still speaking to both of us at once, "so I was thinkin', if the workload tonight ain't too bad, you guys can come to my place after school and I can find that video for you. I can drive us so you won't have to worry about findin' the place. That sound okay to you?"

Matt nods eagerly, but I gawk at him outright, scoffing, "Excuse me, but I don't think so – I've got better things to do than watch stupid videos online with the likes of you."

"Oh, I'm kidding – forget the video, we can just jam—"

I slam my hands down on the table, startling Matt, and glower at the curly-haired freakshow. "I said I'm not interested..."

But it seems my frustration isn't nearly as pressing to Tom as something else that catches his attention over by the side of the school. His cheery demeanor melts away as he sits up straighter, strangely and perfectly arched eyebrows furrowing in either concentration or dismay.

Matt and I follow his gaze – we can't help it, even me, as it's rare for him to go so suddenly silent after yammering on so stupidly like that beforehand. Well, so it seems.

"What is it?" Matt asks, leaning forward to see around Tom.

When I catch what he's watching so intently, my shoulders involuntarily slouch. "Oh man," I grumble, trying to hide my face. "Not again..."

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind little Ant hanging around me and Matt, but I hate it when these things start up. I feel an urge to go help him out but then reality checks in to remind me there ain't a goddamn thing I can do about it.

Anthony is slowly walking along the side of the school building, almost clutching it for dear life, as four blokes and a bird I usually see hanging out with our illustrious class president crowd him in, two of them poking and prodding at the boy's black silk jacket with the three-quarter sleeves and the blue flowery blouse he has on underneath. I can hear them sneering and taunting him, though I can't make out the words exactly, and poor Ant looks about ready to crumble – not into tears, per se, but just pass out or something.

"Aw no," Matt echoes my previous lament. "Not again..."

Unlike the two of us, though, Tom isn't shriveling up with pity and dread. He swiftly stands from the table, saying absently, "'Scuse me, guys, think I found somethin' distressing to deal with at the moment."

And without hesitation, Tom starts striding directly towards them.

Matt and I glance at each other in confusion – and then, without a word of discussion, we drop our crisps and banana peel and follow after him curiously. Careful to keep our distance, of course.

It's clearly not a fair match here. Ant's even smaller than me and Matt, and that's saying something. Besides that, he just has this natural air about him that confuses people – so tense pricks like the guys teasing him now get all flustered if they think they see a pretty girl, only to find out it's just a very delicate, effeminate bloke. Blimey, not even bloke is a proper term for him. He's just...well...Ant.

As we get closer, we can make out some of the taunts – the two bigger and more daring bullies asking if he raided his mum's wardrobe for his clothes, wondering sarcastically if he can dress their girlfriends for the rest of the year, even asking when his drag show is running in town.

Tom must hear all of this too, though he doesn't stop for a second in his long strides (and I briefly feel a surge of jealousy for those long legs of his), just marches straight up to them - but even if he's taller than them (which would normally be frightening), they're far more built than his twig-like frame. It doesn't seem to bother him any though.

"Oi," he barks, walking straight up and yanking their hands away from Ant's trembling form, startling the meatheads, if only for a moment. "Excuse me," he demands, nearly sounding like a teacher, "but what you think you're doin'?"

The oafs exchange glances with each other, then turn back to Tom, smiling with amusement.

"Well, what's all this then?" the first one starts, nudging Tom by the shoulder. "You come to rescue your little boyfriend?"

"Whether he is or not isn't your business," Tom says clearly and loudly enough for all of them to hear. Not a tremble to his voice or a waver in his uncharacteristically serious face. "But down to the point here, it looks like you lot are just bored with your own menial lives and rusted brains so you're taking it out on someone a bit more interesting and challenging than yourselves."

The bullies hesitate, not sure what to make of the words coming from Tom's mouth. Stupid twat – does he really think they can comprehend his meaning? All they probably got from that was Tom not answering directly if Ant's his boyfriend...

The first bloke does whatever he can come up with – he shoves Tom backward and hisses, "Oi, who the hell d'you think you are?"

Classic line, of course. Pointless and redundant, but classic, I suppose.

But this also confuses me a bit – I know I just saw Tom hanging out with these blokes and Topher earlier this morning. And now they don't remember him? Or maybe they just don't care...

Tom steadies himself easily and steps back up to them – now seeming to tower over them, his slight frame be damned.

"Who I am isn't important," he informs them calmly. "All that matters is you're clearly takin' out your intellectually deficient frustrations on someone who doesn't deserve your shit. What's he ever done to you, eh?"

The oafs sneer at him, the second one actually finding an answer: "He wears those bloody ridiculous clothes – I don't need to see a fuckin' tranny fairy lurkin' 'round when I'm tryin' to eat—"

"If it bothers you that much – which is just plain moronic, who cares what someone wears? – then just turn your head and look away. Novel concept, I know, but it does work, mate."

Tom gets another shove and the first idiot snarls, "Don't call me your mate, you pathetic loser! You're nothin' 'round here, y'hear me? So stuff your preachin', I don't wanna hear it—"

Tom uses this chance, as the muscle twit fights to form words, to make a grab for Anthony's arm and urge him to get behind the much taller shield. His half-exposed frail arms fold over themselves as he clutches himself tightly, sheer edgy nerves causing him to start rubbing them a little too hard. I exchange glances with Matt – he nods at me because he clearly sees it too, how badly our sorta-mate is shaking, and probably not just from the cold. Finally finding some courage...Matt steps away from me and loops an arm around Anthony's back, pulling him away from the confrontation as Tom and the two bullies face off.

Me...I'm still standing back, watching, not sure what – if anything – I should do.

Meanwhile, Tom is attempting to stay cool and calm while still tearing the "bigger" dudes down with mere words. Personally, I gotta say, he's not doing too bad. Could do with a bit more cursing, though.

"Look, I ain't lookin' for trouble meself, but to be honest, it looks like you are. I don't think it's fair, you draggin' some innocent bystander into your problems, especially if it's just 'cause you don't like his clothes. How sad is that?"

"Why the hell are you even talkin' to us, you twat?" Bully #1 spits at him, shoving him back some more. Funny – I know I've said the same thing to Tom, essentially, but for some reason I'm not happy about watching this brick shithouse do the same thing. And with extra physical contact, too – that's just unnecessary, really. "You jonesin' for a beat-down or what?"

"'Course not!" Tom laughs, taking the physical force with surprising grace. "I ain't gonna fight you – I'd lose, no contest! But I still can't just turn my head and pretend I don't see it when you go after someone who's done nothin' to you – I mean, really, what could he have possibly done to piss you off enough to hassle him? Nothin' I saw..."

Another shove, harder this time, and Bully #2 threatens, "Get your fuckin' prettyboy face outta my face now before I do some permanent damage, you twat – who d'you think you are, tellin' us what to do—"

"Hey, hey, hey!" comes another voice suddenly, and everyone freezes up before turning to see – oh, to what do we owe this pleasure? – the class prez himself, loping up to the small crowd, a puzzled expression written all over his own oafish face. "What's goin' on here?"

"Topher!" one of the bullies calls. "Oi, mate, come put this freakshow psycho back in his place, eh?"

I immediately tense up – not only because the last time something like this happened, I was stupid enough to be in Tom's spot, and it only got me grief; but also, I feel a little miffed that someone else has gone and called him that. For some crazy reason, I wanna hit the bastard...because I feel like...well...I'm the one who gets to call him that! It's a slight to me to take that privilege away from me, you brainless scum!

I glare down the class president, watching him as he takes note of everyone involved (including me), and wonder with a brick in my gut at what he's going to decide to do this time...to humiliate us.

Oddly, as he approaches Tom and the two thugs, there's a wary, contorted look on his face. The others immediately start yammering on about how Tom started nagging them and insulting them. Tom, however, stays silent and waits for the others to shut their traps. Which doesn't happen until Topher tells them to shut up. When they obey, he shocks all of them by turning directly to Tom and asking, "What's this about? You're picking fights?" Said with an air of disbelief. Almost laughter.

Tom merely gestures behind himself, to the timid creature he and Matt have been protecting.

"I saw and heard these...people..." and he says the word like it's hard to label them as such (and for once I have to smother my proud smirk at his gall) "...harassing Anthony for no other apparent reason than the fact they don't like his wardrobe." He sighs and looks over at Topher, daring to give the class president a withering scowl. "I know they're your mates, Topher, but could you please try to keep them in line a bit? Not just as their only intelligent friend, but isn't it your duty as the president to help keep all of the student body safe? No matter how much you personally agree or disagree with it?"

Topher stares back at him, shockingly with no scathing retort or hint of disagreement. In fact, he looks downright pissed when he rakes his eyes over to his mates. He sighs heavily and turns to them, not even acknowledging how he's basically just been told off by some new kid.

I suppose Topher sees something in Tom – just like Matt does, and evidently like Ant does too, as he clutches Tom's arm from behind like he's afraid his "hero" will get shoved again. So Topher must actually have some respect for the psycho. Imagine that.

"Oi, listen up," Topher calls to them, "next person I see – or even hear of – givin' Anthony, or Matt, Nick, or Tom any trouble at all, you're goin' for a trip with me to see the headmaster. And don't think just 'cause we're mates I'll cover for you. I don't take harassment lightly."

I blink in astonishment – oh, he doesn't? When did that happen!?

"I will tell him exactly what goes on. That goes for teasing, taunting, bullying, giggling, tryin' to start shit, and—" Here he snags the two thugs' hands, making it perfectly clear that he isn't blind – "—tryin' to shove someone around." He drops their arms and glare around at all of them. "You pricks got me?"

There's a chorus of reluctant acknowledgements, then they all start to move down past us when Topher orders them to get goin'. They barely glance at us as they leave, and when they're gone, Topher turns to us and sighs, "Sorry. I can't control 'em all, but I hope that settles 'em down a bit for a while..." He catches my gaze and pauses, opens his mouth to say something – but then looks away. I wonder if it's my own smoldering glare that clams him up. I don't even realise I do it anymore, it's become so natural for me towards people I don't trust. Or like. Or think anything of.

"Hey," Topher is saying, and I'm stunned by the gentle tone of his voice. I blink myself out of my stupor to see him speaking directly to Ant.

"You all right now?"

Ant barely looks up, just nods and moves closer to Tom.

Topher sighs wearily, telling him in the sincerest voice I've heard from him in ages, "Look, I'm sorry 'bout those morons. Don't let 'em get to you. And I mean it, Ant – any one of them, or anyone else for that matter – starts givin' you a hard time again, you come find me or Tom. We'll handle it. Okay?"

Ant finally manages to lift his head a wee bit, and he nods mutely.

Topher turns to Tom next, shaking his head. "Thanks, mate."

Tom shrugs limply. "Din't do nothin' big, just tryin' to keep me mate from bein' fuckin' terrified."

"I know – no, I mean, no – it was good of you. This is part of my responsibility, and it could've been worse if you hadn't had the guts to step in."

Tom sticks his chin out and replies haughtily, "I believe you mean `balls of pure steel.'"

There's a moment of stillness between them – and then Topher breaks up laughing, causing Tom to smirk too.

"Yeah, you're right," Topher agrees. "My mistake. Oi, you may be a giant vertically, but mate, please don't stick your scrawny arse in danger like that again, eh? Scare the shit outta me..."

Tom shrugs. "No promises. I mean, they may be your mates, but they ain't gettin' into Oxford, are they?" Without awaiting an answer to that rhetorical question, he turns to talk to Matt and Anthony.

As he starts to pass me on his way down to the courtyard, Topher hesitates beside me. I can feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to look back at him. There's something on his mind – but he can't get it past his lips. So I speak instead.

"When the hell'd you get so bloody diplomatic?" I dig at him without making eye contact.

I hear him take in a deep breath, but just as he says my name, I stomp away, back to my real friends. Thankfully he doesn't follow me and push the matter.

When I reach the other three, Tom is tugging at Ant's arm.

"Would you stop that? You're bleeding!" he scolds like an old hen. "And this ain't even somethin' they did to ya – you're doin' it unconsciously."

"Huh?" Ant doesn't even realise he's been nervously rubbing his skin raw – a tic I caught onto last year. No wonder he's always got a variety of scrapes, cuts, bruises and gashes all over his arms, sometimes his face. Nervous picker, self-mutilator – seems to fall right in with his somber personality.

"You gotta take better care of yourself, mate," Tom's chiding him. "Look – now you scratched it open!"

Ant looks perplexed, but nevertheless tells Tom and Matt, "Thanks... y'know... for that..."

"Anytime," Matt assures him, rubbing Ant's covered upper arms vigorously. "but you've really gotta get a heavier coat – you're shakin' like a leaf out here."

Ant glances over at him with huge eyes like he doesn't know what Matt's talking about.

"I doubt it's the cold," I interject, then poke at Ant's flower shirt. "Besides, not to be judgmental, mate, but c'mon – you don't deserve it, but you wear girls' clothes, you gotta expect some flack for it."

Ant lowers his eyes shyly, admitting softly, "It's all I got... Only got an older sister – lot older... Mum died and Dad got hurt in an accident, so he couldn't work – so, well, we don't really have the money to get me new stuff, and I'm small anyway, so... I get the hand-me-downs from her."

I wince a bit, feeling the heated glares from the other two on me accusingly. "Oh," I cough, clearing my throat loudly. "Um... Well..." I help straighten his shirt instead of trying to think of something to say that'll make that little faux-pas less embarrassing. "There, then, that's all right," I mutter.

But then I catch Ant smiling at me sweetly. "It's all right. Y'didn't know."

"I did," Matt pipes in, holding up a finger. "But that's because I, like, talk to people and get to, y'know, know them..."

Tom snickers at that, but grants me the kindness of not adding to it himself. I shove Matt's hand down and keep my attention on Anthony. "Sorry anyway," I mumble.

"Besides," Ant sighs, "to be honest, I rather fancy girls' clothes better – it's just harder to tell that to them blokes."

I wince again and nod at him. Strange kid. "Yeah – stick with the dead mum and poor family hand-me-downs – no need to go further."

Matt swats me over the head. "He wasn't makin' that up," he hisses.

I shrug, gesturing to the kid. "Well, I'm sorry, but there you go, he's fine with it, right, Ant?"

He chuckles faintly and I stand back to give him a once-over. I nod approvingly. "Aw'ight. Look fine and put together. Now – oi – oi, Tom! Quit messin' with his elbow, Christ!"

Tom, who's practically bent in half trying to reach Ant's arm from his height, fusses back at me as he presses a tissue (don't ask me where he got that) to the back of Ant's arm. "I'm not fuckin' kidding here, okay!? He's bloody well bleedin' here!"

"Oh," Anthony murmurs, pulling his hand back to reveal red-stained fingertips. "Uh...oops..."

I roll my eyes and sigh; Matt pats his other arm sympathetically; Tom, however, takes charge once again and stands straight, hooking an arm around Ant's shoulders and pulling him away.

"C'mon, I've got some supplies in my backpack," he urges as he leads Ant towards the school doors. "I'll fix y'up in no time..."

Ant tries to turn around and give me and Matt a stunned and pleading expression – a cry for help, perhaps. But we merely smile and wave as he's dragged away by the skinny giant.

After a beat, Matt turns to me, smiling smugly, and asks, "So? What d'you think of him now? He's got balls of steel, don't he? Not such a bad guy, right?"

I catch his gaze with my own narrowed eyes and scoff, "Bloody stupid, reckless twat almost got himself beaten to a pulp – what's so heroic about that?"

And as I start towards the back doors to the school myself, I can hear Matt scoffing with indignation behind me.

Okay. So beneath my cynicism, I gotta admit – that was pretty bloody cool. My respect and curiosity for the bloke has gone up a bit. Just the way he charged in there with no hesitation, no care for his own safety, only because he saw poor Ant and that horrible injustice... And I truly don't think it was for his own glory, trying to be "heroic" – he wanted to help. More specifically, he wanted to help Ant, who we all...well...like. It's more than I could've done.

But just try to get me to say that to Matt. Or even worse, Tom. No bloody way. It'll take more than that for me to cave.
CHAPTER THREE: THE CURL'S ADVENTURES INTO FRIENDSHIP

Tom

The following two weeks go by in a blur, and not only am I pleasantly surprised to find the bullies from that second day have laid off poor Ant, they've actually started getting used to me hanging around their group. I have Topher to thank for this of course, as he and I have kept our connection tight since that first day, and his friends all respect him – but for some reason, he seems to respect me, so I'm safe by association (though I really hadn't planned it that way). The bloke's a riot. He shows me absurd videos online in the mornings, asks my advice on assignments in Literature, and has chats with me on our walks to our respective cars after school.

He isn't even daunted by the fact that, many of those times after school, I'm joined by Matt, who shyly tries to stay mute as he follows me to my car – like he's still a bit afraid of Topher for some reason, but wants to come to my place after school hours to jam, and he's willing to sacrifice those five minutes of discomfort to do so.

Not that I like to compare, but if I had to, I'd say I've probably become closest to Matt – he's usually around Nick, but the bitter blond seems to have come to a resigned acceptance of my presence at lunch period as well, because even if he doesn't always join in my and Matt's conversations, he's stopped telling me to bugger off. But he still refuses to join us after school.

Which is a shame, really, because Matt and I really have great times. I hadn't mentioned the drumset in our furnished basement where all the music equipment is, but – once he gets over the initial shock and awe of what I personally believe to be a monster eyesore of a house – he settles into the routine of chucking our bags to the side in the hallway before racing down the steps to see who gets dibs on the drums. It hadn't been a part of our original music conversation, but when he sees them, all shiny and perfectly set up, he instantly becomes a greedy devil and dives for them.

Over the weeks, however, he may improve on his guitar techniques (which I help by not helping him, just encouraging him to play what feels and sounds cool) and impress me on his already remarkable piano skills – but he still can't play the bloody drums. Well, nothing very tremendous anyway. He can keep a beat if he tries, but he mostly just gets a kick out of making a racket on the cymbals, like a toddler banging on pots and pans.

I'm very crafty, I believe, in how I work the home visits as well – I always make sure we get there between three and four, even if we stop for food first, because I know that's when Dad's at work and Mum is passed out in bed after an early afternoon of heavy drinking. Matt wonders after a while if I even have parents, since so far he's never seen either. I always call before I'm five minutes from home to make sure no one answers. Twice, unfortunately, Mum's picked up, so I'd hang up without speaking and somehow talk a very reluctant Matt into going to his place instead.

And he sure was reluctant – almost terrified. I knew what it was, though I didn't care. It's purely down to the fact that, after seeing the veritable mansion and fancy musical equipment I have, he was embarrassed by his own home.

But I saw no reason for him to be ashamed, and I told him so. As soon as we walked in the door of the much smaller – much cozier – house, his mum greeted us and a cat nudged my ankle. Matt cringed when his mother hugged him, and when he started to put up a fight, I shoved him aside and welcomed her friendly affection as he introduced me.

So I'm a bit deprived. I think we've already established that.

Matt tried to sneak us up to his room, but his mother swayed me into sitting down for a home-cooked meal (very harshly – as in, she asked, "Wouldja like a biscuit or two?" and I sat down for a full plate). Matt was halfway up the steps when he realised I was still downstairs, and he rejoined us with a red face. The food was delicious, his mother was a delight, and the cat eventually found a comfortable place in my lap to take a nap.

Shortly after we sat down for supper, the back door opened and we were joined by Matt's older brother, who apparently had been busy at work in the garage out back. He managed, in his own attempt to embarrass his baby brother in front of a new friend, to get grease marks on Matt's face, and their mother just laughed as she threw a towel at him to wipe it off.

Somewhere in there, Matt's mum asked where Nick was, and Matt just said that he had loads of homework to do – which made his brother laugh, claiming that "Nick may be naturally smart, but I don't think that kid knows the meaning of the word `homework'."

Despite Matt's sheer humiliation, I found it to be a wonderful family meal, the four of us – okay, mostly the three of us, Matt being the exception because of his shyness over showing me his life – talking and laughing and enjoying ourselves.

It was what a family meal – or an actual family, for that matter – is supposed to be, in my opinion. So when his mum finally let us go and he nearly shoved me up the steps to his room, I let him know I didn't know why he was so embarrassed.

And the next half hour was spent sitting on his bed, him lamenting about the humiliation he'd just been put through, apologising for his "smothering" mother and "grease monkey" brother. I insisted it was nothing to be ashamed about – who cares how big my stupid house is or if I've got my own music room filled with special toys? I reminded him he'd never met either of my parents – and that there was an actual, legitimate reason for that. Not because they'd be "smothering" or "affectionate" - in fact, the complete opposite.

He took this to mean they're quite smart and sophisticated.

I laughed outright and corrected without thinking, "No – it's 'cause Mum's a drunken whore and Dad's up his own arse."

To which he stared back at me, stunned that I'd see my own parents in those ways.

That was when I got uncomfortable, and urged him to get his guitar out to change the subject.

That scenario played out a second time the following week, only that time we had Ant along with us, whom I'd finally talked into joining us as well – Nick may have scorned my offers on principle; Anthony is merely shy and private, needing to be coaxed and reassured that he's wanted. He's so painfully shy that, even when the three of us are babbling over lunch about the dumbest things (extraterrestrial waste, the difficulty of switching from major to minor chords without cramping your fingers, how big my mum's tits are), he just sits there and observes us all with a cute little grin. Like he's just happy to have friends at all, no need to spoil it with words. Or something.

Ant was the same way at Matt's house – apparently he'd been there before, as Matt's mum called him by name and gave him a hug like she'd known him all his life – even though, I'd learned by then, the family hadn't moved here until Matt was twelve. Nick, Ant and Topher have all lived here since birth. Turned out, even if Matt hadn't arrived until four years ago, his mother had been born and raised here, and she and Anthony's mother had been friends. Even Matt's brother nodded at the little guy when he joined us for another (forced) supper, then asked how "Andie" was. Apart from a simple, "Good," Ant didn't show any inclination towards elaborating.

When I glanced at Matt quizzically, he explained, "Andie is Ant's sister. She was in her last year of uni when my brother was in his first at the same school. They kinda knew each other from there, but she moved away from Teignmouth before we even came here. She got away from this heap as soon as she could. As any sane person would," he added dully.

"Oh, stuff it, Matthew," his mother scoffed. "I was born here, and the seaside is lovely--"

"It's so bloody boring here, Mum," came the inevitable whine. Even Ant coughed, a smirk on his face, to agree with Matt.

"Well," I put in, if only to further ingratiate myself with his mum, "it doesn't matter where you are, but who you're with and what you do."

"See there, Tom's got the right spirit!" his mum gushed.

Matt and Ant both gave me bored glares, knowing exactly what bullshit I was up to – but Ant was actually the first one to bust up laughing, mumbling under his breath, "Suck-up."

Yeah, all right, so I was a suck-up. But I didn't care. I loved Matt's mum. She was a proper mum – looked at you when she spoke to you, took the time to speak to you at all, was actually interested in what you had to say, made delicious food to eat along with a fun conversation, gave out proper hugs and pats... And even though Ant was the one to accuse me, I could tell from his tiny grin that he understood why I liked being around a proper mum – apparently he'd been quite young when his died, so it must have been equally fulfilling to him as it was to me when he first met Matt's mother. (Don't even mention the fact that the two had been friends – that just made Matt's mum gush all over Ant like he was her own.)

And deep down, I knew Matt appreciated it too. He may have made his faces and blushed over the "Mama's Boy" title he'd inevitably get from anyone else, but I saw how he hugged her back, and to be honest, his version of "Mama's Boy" was far more comfortable than the one my mother used to try to push on me, back when I was really ill and she took a stab at being a "mum."

Needless to say, her fumbling attempt crashed and burned gloriously after only a few months.

But anyway, now within the third week of these budding new friendships, it occurs to me that Matt and I have ended up spending almost every single weekday after school together, and two weekend days at my house because my parents had been out of town so I didn't have to maneuver around their schedules. Anthony was included in almost half of that – and it was a bloody good thing too, because once he got on my drumset, I made an authoritative decision and made him stay there...if only to keep Matt from crashing around so much. The boy was actually good.

The reason why it occurs to me now is somewhat of a shock.

It's Wednesday afternoon and Matt and Ant are coming over later – they're working on a project together and want to get it finished before jamming tonight. They said they'd take the bus over to my neighbourhood after. So when there's a knock on the door as I polish off a sandwich in the kitchen, naturally I assume it's them and go to let them in.

But when there's only one lone blond figure standing on my porch, looking a bit intimidated by the house itself, I have to come to a full stop and stare almost bug-eyed at Nick.

After a long, silent moment between us, he lets out a breath and mutters faintly, "Bloody hell, thought you were just squattin' the place whenever they came over...make you look cool or somethin'..."

I cock an eyebrow at him, clearing my throat. "Ah, no – it's true. I do live here. Not that I had any choice in the matter. Nothin' to brag about, really – waste of space, if you ask me. Better use would be to house four other families for less money."

He blinks, like he's startled I heard him.

I cross my arms over my chest, leaning against the door frame, and eye him up suspiciously – my, how the tables have turned, eh?

"All right, Nick?" I nod at him.

He shrugs, still a little breathless from seeing the place. "Y-Yeah...You?"

"Fine, fine." I glance around behind him, thinking maybe it's Matt's plot to get him here. "Um, is Matt--"

"He's not here," Nick confirms. "Came on me own. He told me where you live before, I guess I just didn't...believe him."

"Ah... Um..." Not sure what to make of that – he thinks I'm lying about my family's money to seem cool or attract attention? Or I'm much too scruffy to belong in a place like this?

Well, honestly, the second one is pretty accurate.

"Well," I start, standing up straight again, "to what do I owe this little, um... Could it be called a pleasure?"

He winces for a bit, hesitates, shifts from one foot to the other, then finally sighs, "Look," and shoves his hands into his pockets, eyes darting around nervously. When he speaks, his voice is small and quiet, and becomes even quieter as he struggles to say the words. "Maybe I was...well...a bit...wrong...about you..."

I lean over slightly, holding a hand to my ear. "Sorry? Can't really hear you there."

He glares up at me, then coughs and repeats more clearly, "I said, maybe I was wrong about you."

"Wrong?" I drop my hand to my shoulder, shrugging. "About me?"

Nick bites his lip, looking ever so strained and fussy, and hisses, "Can we go inside or something? I just... I need to talk to you."

I could keep up with this teasing nonsense, but seeing him so genuinely upset like this, I simply can't keep up the game. Don't have the heart if he really means it – and it seems he does this time. I relent, having mercy on him, and open the door wider to let him in. "Sure, of course. Y'want a drink?"

He closes the door once he's inside and I gesture for him to follow me into the kitchen – outside the foyer, through two other huge rooms with high ceilings that don't seem to serve any purpose but holding immaculate furniture I can't even stand to look at, let alone sit on.

Well, I may lead the way, but he follows after quite slowly, gawking at the enormity of it all like he's never seen such a place. And honestly, I wish I never had. I can't wait until I have my own place. Tiny little apartment above a grungy pub. Doesn't take fifteen minutes to get from the bedroom to the basement. Isn't so open and empty that you have to wear a coat inside during winter. A place with some real warmth.

"What's up?" I ask when he finally appears in the kitchen doorway. I've already pulled out some cola and glasses, setting them on the island in the middle of the room.

Nick pulls himself together and comes closer to the island, standing across from me. After struggling with his thoughts some more, stumbling over a few false starts, he finally says, "Look...I thought before that...that it didn't matter, y'know, and I'd be fine as a loner. Matt's always just been there, mind, but I never really...thought of him as a...um..."

I watch him blankly, no idea where he's going with this.

"The thing is," he sighs again, looking upwards, away from my gaze, "I thought you were...sort of...barging your way in, trying to take over, all that sort of stuff...I thought you were just, like, using us in some way...But..."

I raise my eyebrows expectantly when he trails off. "But?"

He focuses his attention on me again and says sincerely, "Well, I know now that you weren't. Y'know, you're not just jumping from one social scene to another, tryin' to prove you can win everyone over..."

"Well," I sigh with exaggeration, "the greasers don't like long hair, and the cheerleaders aren't keen on curls--"

But he's not just playing our usual game of tearing into each other. He's serious. I suppose I should take that into consideration.

"I'm saying I'm sorry," he puts out plainly, no trace of sarcasm to his voice. "I'm sorry. For misjudging you. For judging you so quickly at all. You didn't deserve that, and...and you're a better person than I would've guessed."

I'm actually too stunned to reply to this. All I can do is stare down at him silently.

"Here I thought you were trying to...cut in and steal everyone's attention or something," he starts rambling. "Not that I had much of it myself, or even wanted it...But I was a bit worried...about Matt... But I figured, he'd do what he wants. And, well...he did. He started hanging out with you because...he wanted to. And not because you're a way into the popular crowd or whatever – apparently, a lot of them either don't even know who you are or just kinda know you're there as Topher's friend... I guess you've not been crashing all of their parties after all... So I guess you and Matt... You've just been hanging out here..."

I nod slowly. "Here or his place..."

"What I mean to say is that... I know that you aren't just another prick trying to trick him into some humiliating charade. And quite honestly...I've really noticed...how he's not been hanging out with me so much... Mainly because he thinks I don't like you..."

I smirk. "Well, you've not exactly been the most chipper lad to speak with, no..."

He cringes, pressing a hand to his forehead. "I don't...dislike you," he admits, as if confessing to being a nazi. "I just...didn't trust you very much...because, well... People have screwed us over in the past, okay? Let's just say they...they weren't what we thought. But...after seeing Matt so happy after hangin' out with you...and after what you did for Ant...I think I might...be able to give it a go...if...if your offer still stands. If it wouldn't be too uncomfortable." He peers up at me from under his own fist, as if afraid of my answer.

"What?" I ask slowly, startled that he's actually saying it. "You want to hang out with us? You're asking if it's okay?"

"Uh...yeah..."

I let out a relieved sigh and swipe at his arm. "Of course! I didn't mean to, like, split your friendship up or anything--"

Nick nods. "I know. I know. You're just being you, and um... Matt really likes you. So...you're quite important to him, and if someone's important to Matt...they must mean a lot to him," he murmurs softly, a strange look in his staring eyes.

"So...you're basically saying...either you approve of me, which is a bit condescending...or you're lonely – which simply isn't you, is it?"

He glowers at me suddenly, spitting out, "Well, if you're just gonna take the piss, forget it--" And he starts to turn away.

But I can't let him leave now – I grab him from across the countertop (and I catch a faint glimpse of his astonishment over how long my arm is), stopping him, and laugh, "Oh, come on, Nick. I'm just teasing. Of course we don't mind. Like I said before, if you really want to, if you feel like it, you're always welcome here. And of course you know Matt and his family, so that wouldn't seem odd to have you over. First time I went there, his mum asked where you were."

He smiles and nods a little. "Yeah. We kind of..."

"Stick together," I finish for him.

His gaze reaches mine and he nods again, more firmly. "Yeah. And...And he's been with you all this time..."

"Don't worry," I assure him when I start to see a small glimmer of panic in his eyes. "I promise I haven't changed him too much – except he's probably exceeded both of us put together on the guitar in just a few weeks, which I'm not sure whether to be proud or jealous of."

He rolls his eyes and groans, "Oh great. He's gonna rub it in our faces like nothing else."

"I'd expect nothing less from him. Just to prepare you."

"Thanks for the warning."

It's almost nine on a Friday night, and after jamming noisily for three hours, the four of us have retreated to my bedroom to stuff our faces with junk food, critique each others' musical progress, and bitch about the week's events.

Actually, by now it's come down to me and Nick, flopped on the floor on our backs, having another of our usual back-and-forth banter sessions over a subject I'm curious about but not clear on, while Matt sits on my bed and continues strumming an unplugged electric guitar, and Anthony wanders around my room, studying the various posters and randomly unpacked knick-knacks hiding in sprawling boxes.

Yes, I've been here three months. And what did I accomplish?

Well, I made four good mates, at least. So what if my action figures still lie hiding in a cardboard box under randomly tossed dirty clothes?

I have my hands up over my head, absently toying with the curls as I stare up at the ceiling and ask, "Well, what exactly d'you mean when you say you don't like him?"

"What's there to say?" Nick scoffs, munching on some Twiglets. "You either like someone or you don't."

"Is it really so cut and dry as that though? Aren't there people you know who you do like but you're just not fond of some things about them?"

Nick chuckles, glancing up at Matt on the bed, but then shakes his head. "I guess, but that's getting specific. Some people you just do or don't like."

I tilt my head to the side, propping one leg up on the opposite bent knee. "You can't get too specific when it comes to this. There must be a reason – if you dislike someone by decision, what's that decision based on?"

"It's not a decision, mate, it's just a feeling."

"Not some thought-out reasoning behind why someone isn't up to your standards? Not, like, disliking someone because of the music they listen to, or the shows they watch--"

"That's so superficial!" Nick snorts derisively.

"Is it?" I challenge. "But isn't what they like indicative of what they value? What they enjoy? Whether they'll admit it or not? So in that way, it could be considered a reflection of themselves--"

"What the hell are you on about?" Nick groans, banging his head softly on my carpeted floor. "You're doing it again, Tom. Who cares about that?"

"Well...I do," I say matter-of-factly. "Not `care,' really, but I'm curious to know other people's perspectives."

"I don't give a shit what he puts on his iPod."

"So it'd be all right to dislike him even if he likes putting on Rage?"

Nick almost chokes on his Twiglet before he coughs out, "The class president is not a Rage fan."

"How d'you know?" I ask, tilting my head back so I can look at him upside-down.

He shrugs nonchalantly. "I can just tell – he's too clean-cut for that."

I squint at him. "Now you're just judging by your perception of his personality – would Rage stand for that?"

"Trust me, he wouldn't get it," Nick tells me, a sharp look in his eyes. "People like him wouldn't get music like Rage."

"And you would?" I untangle my fingers from my hair and twirl around onto my stomach, propping my head up in my palms to face him. "When was the last time you were persecuted for the colour of your skin? When were you wrongly imprisoned for a crime you didn't commit? When were you--"

"Judged negatively by someone else and made to feel like I'm shit for being myself?" he cuts me off suddenly. "Every goddamn day I have to go into that bloody school and face people like Topher who hate me for what I am."

"How do you know they hate you?" I press, tilting my head forward now. "Maybe your cold exterior just drives them away. Maybe they dislike you not for what you are, whatever that is, but how you come across."

He scoffs again, holding out a hand helplessly. "You expect me to go in there smiling my bloody face off, lying to everyone about how my life is so damn fun and easy like theirs?"

"But theirs may not be so fun and easy as you say--"

"Bollocks!" he exclaims. "They've all got the money and the prestigious families, just like you, so what've they got to complain about?"

I pause, glancing around randomly to keep the words from tumbling out right there and then. I discreetly pull at the cuff of my shirt, making sure the bracelet is far enough down my arm to not come slipping out into sight.

"Everyone has their own sets of problems," I continue when I've gained control of my voice again – aloof, pondering, wondering...but not challenging. "There are those out there who have it worse than you – you're not starving, or freezing to death, or stuck under some tyrranical rule by a fascist pig. But that's not to say being rejected by peers isn't a valid problem. Just like a kid born into a family with money may not want for any material possession – but maybe they could do with some actual parents in their lives. Maybe they could do with some real friends who take them seriously and give a shit what happens to them. Christ," I laugh, "maybe just the pressure of staying on the honour role is enough to make them pissy – it's all relative, mate, but it doesn't mean one's more miserable than another because of it. It's down to an individual, isn't it? Some people's endurance levels are higher than others'--"

"You're rambling again," Nick sighs, closing his eyes so he doesn't have to see me looming above him. "And frankly, it's quite annoying."

My head falls to one side and I add airily, "Then there are those of us who never think we speak as much as we do – a terrible burden to bear."

"I'll bet," he mutters.

"So maybe it's not very productive to think about these things that are out of our hands," I continue, pushing myself up into a sitting position now, legs crossed under me, "or talk about them as if we think we can control or change them if we blab about them enough. But it's more interesting than sitting at home alone, staring at the bedroom ceiling and dreaming about being a rock star, isn't it?"

One of Nick's eyes pops open and he gives me a faintly bemused look. "You're a weird guy, you know?"

I scratch my chin, puzzling over that statement. "I've been told that before, but I dunno – I think it's weird to hang around on the seafront and get pissed with people you barely know or like, when you could be doing something a bit more positive and entertaining. Something more creative. Something like playing music--"

But my poignant ending is lost in Matt's sudden flurry of Oh, oh, oh!!! as he stumbles off the bed and onto the floor beside us, guitar still in his lap.

"Let's make our own religion!" he blurts out loudly, and quite boldly.

Nick's eyes both pop open now, and he lifts his head awkwardly to stare at Matt. "What?"

My head twitches the opposite way. "Well, that was a bit random, but go on, please."

Nick jerks into a sitting position, holding out an arm to try and stop the madness before it can begin. "Don't encourage him," he hisses at me.

"Yeah! Let's do it!" Too late. Matt's already fully into his idea in his head, and now he's trying to force it out of an opening that's too small to hold all of his thoughts. "Let's make our own religion! There isn't a lot of spirituality around here – maybe that's what this place needs. Maybe that's why it's so bloody boring here – it feels like hell because it really is hell – hell on earth!"

I consider his proposal, shrugging. "Hm. Could be a bit dangerous, but could be interesting too."

Nick shoots a glare at me. "You're only feeding his psychosis, y'know."

That phrasing makes me laugh out loud, but Nick doesn't know why, and Matt doesn't care – he just keeps going.

"We could start by having small group meetings, and, like, make up some spirit or something to worship – and then we could, like, make a bunch of rules and conditions to live by, see what we can make other people do, see how devoted they are – it'd be like an experiment!"

Nick narrows his eyes and cringes over at Matt. "A religion with you as head priest? That is dangerous territory."

"Okay, then, maybe not a religion, per se, but, like, some kind of group thing or something..."

I hold up a hand, adding, "I quite liked the religion thing – I could do some psalms on the guitar or piano--"

"No, I wanna do the music!" Matt wails.

I nod at him. "All right, then can I do the long-winded speeches on how people are sinners and aren't living correctly?"

"You're on the right track already," Nick utters out of the corner of his mouth.

I tsk and give Matt a warning look. "Maaaaatt – I don't think Nick is keen on our new faith."

Matt whirls on him, then gasps accusingly, "Niiiiiiiick!"

Nick gives me the look of death itself. "Oh, you're so funny, you know that? Thank you so much."

I give him a small bow with a twirling hand. "I'm here to help."

"C'mon," Matt's still whining, intent on making this come to fruition. "It'll be cool, you'll see! Now, what should we call it? The New Church of the Sacred Philosophy of...um...Matthew?"

Nick groans and flops back to the floor again. "How 'bout `The Church of the New Twits'?"

I wrinkle my nose. "Not catchy enough. We need a hook... Ah! `Worship with us and get a free glass of wine!'"

"Yeah!" Matt bellows, pumping a fist in the air. "I'm all for that!"

Nick slaps his hands over his face. "So basically, all you're aiming to do is start this town's future Alcoholics Anonymous?"

I shrug. "I could do..."

"Oh, can we please stop this already!?" Nick begs, arms falling to the floor as well now. "I'm getting a headache!"

"All right then," I concede, "fine. Let's go back to my original point then, shall we? I just think it's a shame you and Topher don't get along."

Nick moans despondently – he's dying to talk about something else, I know he is. However, a beat later he startles me by pushing himself into a sitting position as well and peering at me curiously. "Why would you say that? I don't feel a gap in my life not knowing him – in fact, I feel better for not knowing him."

I point a finger at his face. "You may think otherwise if you did."

He grabs my finger and tries to bend it backward. "Doubtful."

"How would you know?" I challenge him, twisting my hand free just before he can manage to break a bone. "If you don't give him a chance--"

"Who says I wouldn't?" he hisses, now actually starting to get worked up. "He made the initial rejection, not me – fine."

I raise my eyebrows in intrigue. "Ah – did he? Then I guess it's his loss."

"Exactly."

"But...you probably never made an effort to sway him otherwise."

"Why should I? For someone who writes me off so quickly?"

"How quickly is that?" I fire back. "A few words exchanged when you first met? Or several years of tip-toeing around each other before you had a blow-out? And by the way, not to be petty, but I must point out that I could say the exact same thing about you – but I thought you'd be worth knowing, so I didn't listen all those times you said to fuck off, now, did I?"

He starts to say something, then stops suddenly, snapping his mouth shut. He looks at me closely for a long time, then smirks a bit, shaking his head as he averts his eyes again. "Okay, fair point. But...as for me and Topher...I just never liked him either."

"So it was just a feeling?" I urge him. "An intuition?"

"Look, like I keep saying, some people just weren't meant to like each other, okay? Some people hit it off right away; some people – like you and me – it takes a while for them to warm up to each other..."

"That would just be you," Matt interrupts with a mouth full of food. "Tom was ready to be friends with you his first day."

Nick stares at the obnoxiously chewing mouth, shudders, then goes on, "And, some people just clash, rub each other the wrong way. Besides," he adds flippantly as he reaches for more Twiglets, "I don't care for homophobic pricks."

I fold my arms over my chest as Anthony finally decides to join us – physically, anyway. He merely comes over and sits between Nick and myself, casting Nick something like a sympathetic glance.

"So," I nod, "there is a distinct reason behind it, other than you just don't like him as a person."

Nick makes stabbing gestures in the air towards me with a Twiglet as he snaps, "Well, wouldn't you dislike someone who hates you because you dig men? Or would if you did--"

"I suppose I wouldn't mention it if I hang around them, no," I admit as I consider the thought. "It would feel awkward to have to censor myself, so I don't blame you for your avoidance of them then. But some homophobic people have their good points, even if they blindly believe alternative sexual orientations are morally wrong. I wouldn't go running towards them, of course, if I knew they hated me for that, but if it's not brought up, why not like a nice guy if you stay ignorant to his ignorance?"

There's a pause between us all, and as I munch on my snacks, I realise Nick and Matt are watching me cautiously. I blink between them both when I notice them staring and ask, "What?"

Nick smirks a little, not nearly as pissy as I thought he would be. Then he asks outright, "You weren't thrown by that at all, were you?"

I stare at him dumbly. "By what?"

"Our preferences, mate," Matt enlightens me. "The reason why most kids at school hate us."

I shrug again. "Takes one to know one, mate. Well, sorta. Maybe not staunchly one or the other. I like variety. But that phrase...it's not too far off." I reconsider this, then squint into space. "Mmm. Usually. That could be a false statement. But it's a cliche, and there's usually a grain of truth to cliches, right? Oh well. As for the subtext in this conversation – no, I'm not thrown. Not that you exude some kind of homosexual vibe, but it'd be a stereotypical explanation as to why you make him uncomfortable. He's just not very open to that, I guess, if he blew you off because he thinks – knows – you're gay. But as long as you don't gossip about whose arse is hot, why should it bother anyone? But I know it does – him and you – I just don't think that way myself." I gesture to him with my snack-filled hand. "Obviously."

And as I fill my mouth with what's in my hands, I realise that the other two are still gawking at me. I pause in my chewing and stare back.

"What?"

I suppose I'm so giddy from the excellent conversation and being able to finally make Nick laugh out loud without trying to hold it in that I'm not thinking clearly when we leave the room to head out. Naturally I'm more than happy to give them all rides home, but first I demand their help with taking the remains of our binge back to the kitchen.

Completely slipped my mind that my mum would most probably be in there, lurking around with another of her almost-finished bottles of wine. Most probably not expecting to see three extra teenage boys in her house at night. Most probably traipsing around in something much skimpier than Matt's mum would dare to wear...

So I freeze in shock when we enter the kitchen to find her leering into the open fridge, bottle in one hand and steadying herself with the other, and all I can think is, I'm not sure whether to be happy she's at least got a slip on, or relieved that at least these blokes would rather turn and run screaming than have that thing groping them...

She hears us in the doorway and turns her head, tousled curly hair falling over her shoulders, and I draw in a deep breath as I lead them to where the snacks need to be returned. Without words – in fact, because the room's gone so awfully silent – I know that the others are stunned to find the floozy in the barely-there half-gown draped all over the appliances like they're her secret vibrating friends. I clear my throat and direct the others to hand me what's in their arms one by one as I put the food back. I try not to make eye-contact with my mum at all, but I can see the others glancing away, probably embarrassed for me. The entire time we're in there, I pray repeatedly in my head that she stays over by the fridge.

Finally, I herd the other three out of the kitchen with a low, "Okay, let's get goin'," and they obey me without a fuss. Not one word from Mum either – that's a good sign.

After a bit of an awkward silence as we all head out to my car and load inside, Matt breaks the ice by fiddling with the stereo and I take the chance at a laugh to scold him for it. Nick pipes in by asking Matt why he's always got to play with others' radios, and so on and so forth, until we're all giggling likes idiots again by the time I reach their respective houses. Not one of them mentions the sight of my half-nude, inebriated mother rubbing herself on the refrigerator like she hasn't had a husband for years, and for that, I'm grateful.

But once they're all gone and I'm alone in my car, I blare the radio and enmesh myself in the drive home, all laughter gone from me.

When I return to the house, I head straight for the kitchen, and there she is again, still in nothing but that transparent slip. But now, she's standing at the counter by the sink, cutting up ingredients for a salad.

Time for some payback. I need to thank her for toning it down, after all.

I lean on the opposite side of the island counter and whistle in amazement. She pauses in her slicing of a carrot to glare over at me.

"Wow, Mum, I'm impressed," I dig in, raising my eyebrows in mock intrigue. "May not be fully clothed, but you're actually making something to eat? All by yourself? Without the chef? You may be close to earning another Mother of the Year mug after all..."

She chops at the carrot furiously then, barking at me, "Thomas, go to your room."

"I would," I grin at her, "but I've got some books in the drawing room I want to get. Plus you have my nighttime pills. You know how I get without them...or do you prefer me that way?" I stand from the counter and walk around the island, inching closer to her. And I push even further. "Weak? Impaired? Confused? Vulnerable?"

She gestures at me to back off when I'm within a few paces of her.

I obey, muttering, "No, you're a good mummy now. You wouldn't hurt your own son like that, right? Getting better all the time. Even more astonishing, I just paraded three of my mates around in front of you, and you didn't come on to a single one! Now that's progress!"

"Thomas--"

"I mean," I chuckle lowly, "they're three very attractive young men as well – even I know that – and I believe you know why I know that - much to your dismay. But not one little hint of an interest for a shag from any of them, Mum? I'm so proud of you!"

She ceases her chopping to whirl on me, pointing the knife right at my head. "One more word, Thomas--"

Oh, but I'm not done.

"What was it, Mum?" I taunt her. "Were they just not your type?"

Her eyes squint at me. There's a fire in them. But not one that can match my own.

"Were they not tall enough? Wrong eye colour?"

The knife is gouged into the wooden cutting block, sticking straight up. She's still glaring daggers at me, though. So I grin back at her wickedly.

"Maybe they just don't meet your genetic standards."

"Thomas!" she yells, her voice echoing throughout the house.

That shrill shriek does not scare me one bit.

"Oh, what? You owe me for life, remember? We had an agreement."

She shrivels up, then, slouching over her cutting board and lowering her head.

I slink away from her then, swaggering lazily and slowly toward the drawing room.

"By the way, have you been to that doctor yet?" I ask casually, and she tenses up again. "You know – the one you promised you'd go see...a little over a year or so ago? One that might help you with your drinking problem, and the bad choices it leads you to?"

She clenches her hands into fists, uttering my name again like a threat, and reaches for the nearly empty bottle of liquor in front of her – always in front of her.

"Oh, okay then," I say scathingly. "Dr. Booze again, is it? Your favourite doctor of all – the kind that lets you forget all kinds of shit, let you pretend none of it ever happened – you lying bitch--"

Before I even finish speaking, she spins around and hurls the bottle at me – but I reach the door to the drawing room and slam it behind me just in time to hear the glass shatter and fall to the ground, though the noise doesn't cover her own screeching curse of my name.

Before...last year, maybe...I would have felt bad. But, bloody hell, she still hasn't lived up to her side of the bargain for my silence – so I'll keep tormenting her without guilt until she bloody well does.

I'm already nuts, apparently – the memory of that little "incident" doesn't help. And I wonder where I got the crazy from.
CHAPTER FOUR: THE CURL'S FUN WEEKEND

Tom

No nightmares plague me as I feared Friday night, but I certainly don't sleep well. And I'm not at all up for seeing Mum in the morning, though I truly don't have a choice. But as soon as I wake and dress, I grab my backpack and coat, rush to my parents' room, and knock until I see her sleepy, puzzled visage peering out at me.

I anxiously hold out my hand. "Pills," I demand flatly. "Please," I add to at least seem pleasant.

I stand outside the door, fidgeting uncomfortably as she disappears to collect my medicine. When she returns, she seems slightly more alert and warns, "You know I prefer to see you take them—"

"Bugger off, Mum," I hiss as I bustle quickly towards the staircase. "Like I could really stand a migraine right now – already get nauseated just lookin' at you."

I ignore her huffing reply, whatever it is – like I just said to her, I don't care, and I'm far more interested in my own health at the moment than to listen to her whine.

I rush to the kitchen where our chef is already preparing breakfast.

"Master Thomas," he greets me, more than a bit startled. "It's barely nine o'clock on a Saturday – it's unusual to see you awake—"

"Yeah, yeah, lovely to see you too, Sam, smells delish," I ramble as I head to the fridge, never stopping, legs keep on moving.

"Will you be joining your parents for breakfast this morning, sir?"

I snort as I swipe some toast that's just popped up and smile at him. "What, and ruin their appetites? Not to mention this awesome spread. Really, Sam, looks practically gourmet—"

He narrows his eyes at me. "I am a gourmet chef, Master Thomas..."

"Right, `course." I stuff one piece of dry toast in my mouth with my pills, down it all with a few deep gulps of juice straight from the bottle, then return said bottle to the fridge before loading up the second dry piece of toast.

Sam looks positively ill.

"Cheers, mate," I mumble around the remaining toast I've crammed into my face. "Bloody brilliant." I give him a double thumbs-up as I continue my non-stop marathon back around the kitchen table to return to the doorway. "Like I said, delicious."

He looks back at me, boredom and exasperation etched on his squat face. "You can thank the toaster for your meal, Master Thomas."

"Yeah, whatever, bye."

And as I huff it to the front door, I hear him call to me, "I assume this is one of your so-called `manic' phases, is it, young sir?"

"Sam, tell yourself whatever y'like," I yell back, and practically throw myself out the front door.

But as soon as I'm out in the chilly, dreary morning air, I wonder if he isn't just dead-on about that.I mean, sure, I'm jittery because Mum was creepy and vile last night again, causing me to want to get the hell out of here as soon as humanly possible. But as I pause to swing my jacket on over my shoulders, my legs don't want to stop moving. I drop my bag and pace around the porch, feeling like there's electricity buzzing around in my body, keeping me from calming down. The meds will surely kick in soon and help with that, but I still feel an inordinate amount of restless energy.

So when I get my coat on, I swipe my bag up over my shoulder, then proceed to dismiss my car all together and continue on foot. To where, I've no bloody clue, but at least it's not in that bloody house with that bloody demon woman.

But now, it's all I can bloody think about. That horrible night just over a year ago. So I'm grateful for the distraction when, as I'm walking along lost in my own thoughts, there's a honk next to me that nearly sends me out of my skin. When I jerk around to see the familiar car following beside me slowly, I wonder vaguely how long it's been there, and just how out of it I've been to not realise its presence.

The car halts as I do, and I lean over as the passenger side window slides down.

"Oi, mate," Topher grins at me from the other side. "What're you doin' out this early?"

I shrug carelessly, grunting, "Eh...couldn't sleep."

"An' where's your car? Why you walkin' all the way out here?"

He gestures around us, and when I glance around, I come to the realisation that...I've no bloody clue where I am. Just some random country road lined with trees.

"Uh...Guess I just...needed to walk," I answer deliberately, trying not to seem as confused as I am.

Luckily, Topher just laughs at my answer and offers, "C'mon, get in. I'll give you a ride back to town. Maybe grab a bite to eat on the way."

I obey without question, though I'm really hoping he doesn't start grilling me about what's on my mind. I'm really not up for chatting about that.

After a few long silent minutes in the car, as I stare out the window and watch the scenery go by, he finally asks, "So...what's goin' on? Have a fight with your folks or what?"

I jerk back to reality once again and blurt out, "No, just needed a walk. Why're you up this early?" I challenge, desperate to get the attention off of me.

He looks pained as he admits, "Eh, I take me mum to her hairdresser's every Saturday morning. She doesn't drive, and her hairdresser's an old friend who lives out here in the woods – real country-lovin' old biddy, I guess. Anyway, while she's there, I go out for breakfast. Hungry?"

I give him an absurd look. "Just how much hair can grow in one week?!"

He chuckles, shrugging helplessly. "I think it's less the hair than it is the visit."

"Ah," I nod in understanding. "That makes more sense."

"Yeah...Hey, speakin' of mates hangin' out, you free tonight?"

I blink over at him, puzzled. "Uh...Not sure, really. Don't think I've got anythin' goin' on...Unless the others weren't too creeped out to come back," I add under my breath.

He doesn't catch my last uttering and goes on, "Well, I'm havin' a little get-together at my house tonight, thought maybe you'd like to drop by."

I eye him up warily, asking, "A little get-together? You mean like..."

"A party," he laughs outright. "Yes, I'm havin' a party. My folks are goin' away from this afternoon till tomorrow, and they even said I could have it, so are you in or what?"

I hesitate, thinking about the others, then hazard, "Um...Would it be too awkward if, uh...I brought some people?"

Topher is quiet for a long moment, and as I study him closely, I notice that he's having real trouble with this one.

Finally, without looking over at me, he relents, "N-Nah, don't worry. Sure, the other three are welcome to come too...if they want to..."

I relax in my seat and smile. "Cool. Then I'll just have to talk `em into it."

He cringes a bit, but says nothing as he pulls off the road, into the nearly empty carpark of a tiny little restaurant.

We have a rather nice breakfast together, though he notes that I'm not my usual chipper, talkative self today. Honestly, I can't quite taste the food either, and I'm sure it's nothing to do with the cooking of the meal. I simply tell Topher that I didn't sleep well – which is true enough. I could grill him about the situation with Nick like I was doing last night to Nick. But right now, I just don't care enough. Too wrapped up in my own problems to care why two idiots won't just get over themselves. There are a lot worse things out there than silly grudges, or whatever they have against each other. A lot of sick people, twisted perverts. People having kids who just bloody well shouldn't.

God, I hate myself right now. And I think it's starting to show.

It must still linger hours later, after Topher drops me off at home and the other three come over for a jam session. It surprises me that they've come at all, that they haven't been scared off by the slut in the kitchen, and I say as much when they first show up. They assure me – however timidly – that it wasn't that out of the ordinary (such bad liars, but I appreciate the effort) and that they were there to play music and hang with me, not my embarrassing mum.

However, they put up a bit of a fight when I suggest going to Topher's party later. Nick in particular, I should say, is ridiculously against it. He keeps whining and fussing over why it's a stupid idea – until I finally lose my cool and yell, "Look, you don't have to come if you don't want to, but I'm bloody well sick of being here in this God-awful house with the world's worst parents just above me head, so I'm going because I have to get out of here before me head explodes, all right!? If you're not in, I'll take you home, but I'm bloody well going, whether you like it or not! I have to get the fuck out of here, is that all right with you, Nick?"

My very uncharacteristic rant must shock them all into submission, because as we all pile into my car then and I ask who's going home, not one speaks up. So they're all daring to tread into "enemy territory" for my sake? That's a first for me. So, halfway to Topher's house, having calmed myself down some, I thank them for understanding.

Topher seems happy to see me when he opens the door, and the party already seems to be going. I recognise random bullies, cheerleaders, jocks – yet, surprisingly, I notice some other kids I would not have expected to be here either. Brainiacs, nerds, prudes, kids who essentially wear rags to school... It certainly is a mixed bag. And to be honest, I'm quite pleased to see this. Whatever the class president had in mind for his party, he didn't just invite "a few friends". Maybe it's his way of getting back at his parents for one thing or another.

Matt's also pleasantly surprised to find some kids he likes from various classes, and instead of cowering in a corner from the athletes and bullies, he joins the brainiacs and starts up a lively conversation. Even better, no one gives him any hassle about this.

Ant seems to disappear as soon as we enter the house, but I don't sense him in any distress.

Nick, on the other hand, winces at the amount of people – and especially at Topher's beefy hand clamping down on my shoulder immediately to pull me off somewhere for a drink.

As the others are either missing or enmeshed in conversation within minutes of arriving, uncomfortable Nick has no other option, it seems, but to follow after me and Topher.

Topher pulls me into his kitchen, which must be a lot bigger without all the random students milling around with plastic cups in their hands. He fills a cup full of some kind of urine-coloured liquid and hands it to me before filling one for himself.

"Cheers, mate," he offers, starting to hold up his cup to mine – then he stops, glancing at the shorter blond beside me. He hesitates, then asks, "JD aw'right with you, Nick?"

Nick eyes him up cautiously, but says nothing.

"Or just a lager?" Topher asks.

Nick glances up at me, rolling his eyes, and I smile uncertainly back at Topher. "Sorry, mate – don't think Nick drinks, and, uh..." I discreetly nudge my own cup back towards him. "Well, cola's good for me."

Topher cocks an eyebrow at me, producing a nearly full bottle of rum instead. "Ah, one a' these—"

I shake my head, leaning closer to call over the loud music and din of others, "I can't drink, mate. Kinda...I'm allergic," I lie – though it's not a total lie.

Topher balks at me."Allergic? How can someone be allergic—"

"It is possible," Nick cuts in, and grabs a bottle of Coke from the edge of the table. He fills two cups for himself and me, then offers Topher, with a slight sneer, "Believe it or not, these things happen. And some of us aren't that keen on gettin' shit-faced all the time. Thanks for the booze, but no thanks."

And he turns to disappear into the crowd of people behind me.

When I turn back to Topher, he cringes.

"Well, it weren't the best apology, I guess, but...at least he came."

I narrow my eyes at him, urging, "Apology? What for?"

He shakes his head, waving it off. "Nevermind. Anyway, c'mon, I got some videos to show you..."

 jilligorNick

Can't believe this bollocks. Here I thought Tom was someone I could finally trust and respect, and what's he do? Goes and drags us all to a bloody party, with all the very people I despise...

But, well, Matt wasn't gonna say no – I could tell because Tom hasn't been himself today. Hasn't bitten at any of my taunts about his money, or his friendship with Topher, or even his hair. Just acted like he couldn't hear me and tried a different chord.

So when he proposed the party thing, I was sure he was being sarcastic. But after he blew up like that...Well, bloke's got his reasons, I suppose...

And Matt was not going to let him come to this thing alone when he'd just shown the first sign of real anger since...well...since we'd met him. Aside from sticking up for Ant, the guy's smile's barely disappeared from his face. But today he's been quiet...distant...so no wonder he wanted to come here – get away from home for a bit.

I guess, in some small way, I can see where he's coming from. I guess it's possible to feel claustrophobic in such a big, empty house...and I guess his mum kinda embarrassed him last night. I could see that.

Me, though, I really want to go home. But seeing as Matt and Ant aren't speaking up to bail out, neither will I.

Still, after only five minutes or so inside, I have to get out of here. No way am I walkin' home in this dark and cold weather, but I gotta get away from all these bloody people. So I go out back to the deck, where a few others are hanging out to have their smokes. It's almost bitingly cold out, but it's more of a damp chill than a frigid one, so I can deal.

I pull out a cigarette from my pocket – not something I do a lot, but at the moment, I could use somethin' to calm me.

Don't know how long I stand out here, leaning on the far ledge and staring out over a cluster of trees illuminated by the moonlight, but all the others have given up and gone back inside, leaving me alone for several long minutes.

Then I hear the glass door slide open and shut again, and without him even having to say anything, I know who it is as he leans next to me, no coat on his skinny limbs. Nutcase.

"Why're you out here?" I mumble as I take a drag on probably my fourth cigarette. "You don't smoke."

"Not really, no," he admits. "I did once or twice with Topher, but actually, no, I don't. But you do."

"Look," I sigh, "just `cause we all came here together doesn't mean we have to stick together. You're the one who wanted to come anyway, you should be in there with all your new friends." I make sure to stress the last word with a particularly harsh amount of venom – which he either doesn't catch onto or doesn't care about. "Havin' fun with Topher?" I push, trying to get some kind of reaction like he gave this afternoon – it was a bit more interesting to see his rougher side, but now it seems like he doesn't want to acknowledge that he had one at all.

"Yeah," he says airily, dismissively. "I know. It's funny to watch the videos `n all. But it's not the same as jammin'. Matt's certainly enjoying himself, though – havin' some great discussions about aliens with other nerds who are convinced of it..."

I scoff, "Matt could enjoy himself on an island in the Bermuda Triangle with only Amelia Earhart's corpse for company."

Tom cringes, then sputters with laughter. "Ew...Don't want to mention the gruesome images that conjures."

I chuckle when we're on the same page again, then turn to him and demand, "Why do you always have to do that?"

He shrugs innocently, turning around to lean his back against the ledge. I notice him playing with his wrist again – just like I was able to catch on to Ant picking at his scabs and such last year, I've noticed Tom tends to have a nervous tic of absently toying with his left wrist whenever he gets nervous – or is just babbling and not paying attention. "Do what?"

"I'm perfectly keen on being bitter and antisocial," I whine, "even daring to dislike you from the off, but then you have to come along and say something or do something that makes me think you're not such a bloody wanker after all."

He smirks, switching his hand to the back of his neck. "Oh. Sorry if that troubles you. I'll try to be less likable from now on around you."

I nod my approval. "I'd appreciate it."

He turns back around, hand clamped on his wrist again, and leans forward on his arms to look out over the scenery I was just admiring moments ago. "Why do you choose to separate yourself so much, Nick? I mean, being a loner's fine, but there are people in there who like when you hang around."

I narrow my eyes at him, challenging, "Why do you?"

He shrugs. "Well, you're funny, and underneath the obnoxious exterior personality, you do care—"

"No," I cut him off. "I mean why do you separate yourself from them?"

He blinks, startled at the observation. "Me? Well...I don't, really...do I? I try to be friendly—"

"Friendly, yeah," I point out, "but you're not that close to anyone. You said so yourself in your intro speech, remember? You can be as nice as you like – but no one really knows you. Christ, today was the first time since I've known you that you were actually agitated about something. That's bloody interesting. Why do you try to hide it all the time?"

He hesitates, his fidgeting hand getting more tense as he speaks – refusing to look at me. "Well...I guess I just don't see the point in getting too deep into anything besides havin' a laugh. And we've had some laughs, eh? I mean, we've gotten to the point where we enjoy each other's company, right?"

I tilt my head to the side. "Yeah. But...I still can't say I know you all that well. I take it you keep it that way because you're always moving."

"Yeah," he sighs. "It's just been easier not to count on other people to confide in or be myself around – I'm not worth getting to know, actually," he chuckles, raking his twisting hand through his hair. "I'll be gone just as you may start to really trust and like me – best to just keep it light. Less feelings get hurt that way."

I consider his reasoning – but then challenge him again, "Maybe – but whose feelings? Have you benefited from being like that?"

He stammers for a moment, then holds out his arms. "Well, I can fit in almost anywhere I please, it seems."

"`Seems' being the key word."

He finally returns my gaze and asks, "Meaning?"

"Meaning..." So he's been trying to analyse me all this time? Time for a little friendly analysis of my own... "You seem like a cool guy who can be friends with anyone...but you're really just a fake."

To my surprise, instead of becoming flustered or irritated, he peers at me curiously, as if he's genuinely considering my perspective. He doesn't say anything, but I'm obviously reaching him.

"You'll be whatever a group wants you to be just so you can have it a little easier for the amount of time you're around," I continue quickly, not just pulling it all from my arse, but finally having the chance to state my opinion is causing me to spill it all out at once. "It's all right to pretend now and then, because no one's ever going to know who you truly are, right? So you push away anyone who tries a little bit harder, because they'd make it more difficult to keep switching those masks..."

He bites his lip, then tries to explain, "If it isn't in me, it isn't in me. If I can do it, obviously there's a part of me that can, so it's still there, and it's genuine. If it wasn't, I wouldn't be able to—"

"Bollocks," I scoff, unable to keep my haughtiness covered anymore. "Just because you can doesn't mean you should. That's where free will comes in – and you don't seem to have any. Or you won't let yourself have it. Just `cause I'm gay and have a cock doesn't mean I'm running `round fucking every guy I see that I like."

He pauses, thinking over my words as if I spoke them about someone else – a scientist, a theorist – not just some bloody kid who'll get emotional if you accuse them of being a fake.

"Interesting," he says slowly. "You know, I think you may have something there..."

And as he mumbles, he starts meandering away from me.

"So what is it?" I ask, trying to stop him from leaving.

Tom pauses, but doesn't seem to be about to bawl his eyes out to me. He folds his arms over his chest, scratching at his chin, and asks, "What?"

"What is it you're hiding?"

He tilts his head to one side, asking again, "What?"

I slump my shoulders, sighing heavily as he reaches up with his opposite hand and rubs his wrist again. "What are you trying to hide from everyone?" I demand. "Why are you so afraid of being known?"

He squints his eyes, looking genuinely puzzled. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

We stand there for a long time, staring at each other blankly. Until he finally shrugs and heads back inside.

"Right," I huff, reaching for another cigarette. "You're just so clueless." Tough luck, Tommy. You may have everyone else fooled, but not me. I don't buy it.

Tom

After my cryptic conversation with Nick on the back deck, I'm shivering when I can finally get back inside. Away from his probing questions, where it's safe. I'm glad he doesn't follow me, because some of this trembling isn't just from the cold. Funny, but here I've been trying to figure him out, while all along it seems he's been doing the same thing to me. It's quite perplexing - scary, rather - to be on the other side of the microscope. A surprise, too, as most kids our age are usually so into themselves that they prefer to talk about their own lives than listen to someone else's.

I need to find stable ground now, so as soon as I walk back inside, I start hunting for Matt. Strangely enough, I don't find him, but I catch Anthony sitting on one of the high stools around the counter where Topher is mixing and passing out drinks. And as I come over, Topher laughs, pointing at the tiny pixie with an amused grin.

"Oi, mate, you and Nick may not be into drinks, but how come none of us knew your little buddy here was such a lush?"

I blink down at Ant, startled to see him holding a half-empty bottle of red wine. He clutches it to his chest possessively and smiles up at me, the picture of innocence.

"I tried to offer him a glass," Topher chuckles, "and the little bugger snatched the whole bottle!"

I clear my throat, subtly trying to catch any hints of inebriation to the little guy - with his size, he has to be at least buzzed, if not totally fall-down drunk, by this point. But his eyes are as big and alert as ever, and he bows a thank-you to our host for his hospitality.

Eying him up warily, I hazard, "Uh, you okay there, Ant?"

He shrugs slightly, takes another long swig (which makes Topher giggle), then nods to me with a sweet, funny grin.

I'm pretty stunned, actually, I'll admit it. Never would've pegged Ant for being much of a drinker, but then...people can still surprise me, it seems.

"Uh, have you seen Matt?" I ask them both, as I don't see him in the little cluster of alien-believers he was with before.

"Uh, not sure," Topher says absently as he pours another lager for a friend who sidles up to him with an empty cup. "He was over there for a while, but I lost track of him... Maybe he went to the loo, or upstairs..."

Ant tugs on my shirt sleeve to get my attention and points towards a slightly open door across the room.

"He went in there?" I ask.

Ant nods, pointing to the floor.

"Downstairs?" I ask. "Like a basement?"

"Oh, yeah," Topher interrupts. "He may be down there. It's a finished basement with some junk stored there, maybe he went down there... Oi, mate, hold your cup still..."

I can see Topher has his hands full, so I thank him and start towards the door - but then Ant is suddenly in front of me, leading the way, even though it seems the large bottle of wine is tipping his body to the left a bit.

I follow Ant downstairs, and sure enough, not even halfway down the staircase, I can hear the tinkling keys of a very old, slightly out-of-tune piano being played. When we reach the bottom, I see that some others have come down here as well, but none of them are paying attention to us - or to Matt's playing. They're all couples cuddling together on furniture in vaguely dim lighting, and if I look any closer than that, I'm sure I'll get yelled at to piss off.

Ant swaggers across the room to where Matt sits on a wooden piano bench tucked away in a dusty corner, a bit further from the amorous couples. He taps Matt on the shoulder, and when Matt turns to him, Ant holds out the bottle.

"Cheers, mate," Matt smiles, and takes a few gulps of the proffered wine before handing it back and noticing me over his shoulder. "Hey, Tom, look! He's got one too!" He flinches as he hits a few keys, and I chuckle to see him so disappointed. "Well, it's pretty old, not nearly as good as yours. Needs a tuning. Guess they just shoved it down here to get it out of the way. Shame, init? I could take it off their hands, tune it up, maybe keep it in me bedroom..."

He shifts over to allow room for me to sit, as Anthony reclaims his bottle and flops into another random "stashed" chair, this one full of mismatched pillows, beside the piano, and gulps down more wine - making me suddenly worried about alcohol poisoning...

But the little elf hardly seems affected - he starts studying his pale fingers quite attentively, but at least he's not falling out of the chair.

For a while, Matt and I just play quietly on the piano, improvising as he takes the upper half and I take the lower. A few times we come close to sounding out an actual song, but then one of us inevitably screws it up and we start laughing, ruining the whole image that we know what we're doing.

Finally, Matt's fingers slow on the keys, and in a low voice, he says, "Hey, uh, Tom? I...I have a question."

"Okay," I shrug easily. "Shoot."

He hesitates briefly, then stammers, "Well...it doesn't really have anything to do with music."

I shrug again. "That's fine."

"And actually...it's really rather personal..."

I glance over at him curiously, noticing the way he's biting his lip and focusing on the keyboard, even though he's barely playing.

"Oookaaay..." I drawl slowly, unsure where this is heading.

"Is it still okay to ask?" He tries and fails to catch my gaze, looking away quickly when he sees me already watching him.

"Sure."

"You mean you...don't mind?"

I snicker. "Well, if I do, I'll either not answer or lie."

"Ah. So...how will I know if you're lying?"

"I don't know. They say everyone has a `tell' - a small signal that shows when they're lying. Unless they're really good liars."

He raises his eyebrows at this, actually looking at me for once. "Can they beat lie detectors?" He sounds genuinely intrigued.

"I don't know. But someone also told me once that one way to tell is that someone who's lying often looks to the left first."

He's skeptical now. "Really?"

I shrug again. "Well, it's only what she thought, or heard, but apparently that's the theory."

He hesitates, staring up at the wall behind the piano - he has a very important point to make. "Um...the liar's left or the person they're lying to?"

"Y'know, she never really said," I sigh, reflecting on the very situation I'm telling him about.

"Or what if someone asks, `What's that over there?' and points to something to the liar's left?"

"See, that's a fair argument," I concur. "But I think she'd just roll her eyes and storm off in a huff if you ask her that."

He wrinkles his nose. "She doesn't sound like a very pleasant person."

"No," I laugh outright. "She wasn't. And I know because that's exactly what she did when I asked the same question."

"No wonder you said it was a fair point."

"Well, great minds 'n all. What did you want to ask me?" Might as well at least try to steer us back to the point.

Matt hesitates again, fidgeting in his seat a bit. When he speaks, his voice is even lower as he takes note of the others across the room.

"That...thing...you said to Nick last night - the part about having to be one to know one?"

I instantly know what he's curious about and keep my attention on the keyboard as I play softly. "Mmm-hmm?"

"Well, it's... Is that...true?"

"What, that theory? Or that I am one?" I ask bluntly.

He's watching me carefully now; I can feel his eyes boring holes into the side of my head. "Are you?"

"Ah - sort of," I answer honestly, smirking.

"What d'you mean, `sort of'?" he hisses, leaning closer to me. "How can you be `sort of' gay? What, you like cock but nothing else on a guy?"

"No," I sputter with a giggle. "Though that's a new way of thinking about it... No, I mean I'm bi."

He pauses, scratching at his head. "Oh," he mumbles, then drops his hand to the keys as he scoffs at himself. "Oh. Yeah, of course, then `sort of' does make sense."

"Yeah, that's how I usually answer when asked that question. If whoever asks me is straight, they usually don't get it."

"Um...but I didn't get it...at first..." He trails off in confusion.

"But you've already said that you are," I remind him.

"I'm what?"

"Gay."

"Oh. Yeah, but...I mean, I - well, yes. But that means I should've gotten it."

I chuckle and pat him on the back reassuringly. "It's just a cliche, Matt. You can be gay and less sinister-minded too."

There's a long silence on his end, until he lets out a puzzled, "Hmmm..."

"What is it?"

He takes his turn to shrug. "I just...I dunno...I never liked that word."

"What? `Gay'?"

He cringes, tensing up. "It's just used so derogatively these days. The negative connotations to it are...unsettling. Like you're not really human if you're gay \- you're not really a man if you're gay."

I snicker again, pointing out, "But if you are gay and you like men, you'd have to be a man. If you liked females, you'd have to be a female."

He gives me a sideways glare and mutters, "I know the prerequisites. But I guess that's one big reason I hang around Nick so much - not just that we live next to each other, or that we've been friends since I moved here. But the two of us always sticking together, like, me and him against the world... I never have to be subjected to being called a gay fairy `round him, y'know? 'Cause he calls me lots of things, but that'd be the only thing that would really kind of..."

"Hurt?" I suggest.

Matt tilts his head sideways, swallowing hard. "Um...yeah," he admits sheepishly.

"Because it's kind of true? Not the `fairy' part, of course, but the other--"

"I just wish there was a better way to say it," he cuts me off, "that gives the meaning, but doesn't have all the other rubbish attached to it. These days when kids think something's stupid or ugly, they call it `gay.' I never understood that."

I consider this, but have to be logical. "Pretty difficult to find another word, since that other rubbish is what makes it so sickly amusing to other people - like it's a joke to feel desire. That's where the supposed humour comes from, and even if you found another word, they'd eventually use that one instead. It's the lifestyle itself that's a joke to other people who don't understand our viewpoint. You'd never hear on telly, `Ew, look at those straight people holding hands!' and get the same laughter in response. It just wouldn't be a big deal."

"Exactly. And I just... That's it, though - I like making people laugh, I love a good joke as much as the next guy. But that's just...not very humourous to me. I don't see why it would be."

I nod my agreement. "Well, neither do I, but then, I'm a swinging door, so I go either way on the subject. And neither is very funny to me as well. You just fancy who you fancy and that's that. After eight schools, you'd be surprised how many kids our age, even younger, know themselves well enough to declare it outright, openly, despite the threat of bullying. They know that, that's just who and what they are, and to hell with everyone else's opinion."

"Yeah...but try and get the rest of the world to agree," he groans.

That makes me scoff again. "Oh, the rest of the world can't even agree on whether we're at war or not. I don't trust the rest of the world - I go by my own instincts. And if my instincts don't correspond to other peoples', then I guess it's best to remove myself from their presence."

He peers at me oddly. "But you still hang around Topher."

"Eh? What's he got to do with it?" I ask, a bit thrown.

"He's not keen on us, if you haven't noticed," Matt mumbles, glancing around the basement with a sour look on his face.

Again, I scoff, "All I've seen is Nick has some problem with him, and he avoids Nick like the plague. Well, apparently he has done in the past, but lately he seems to be trying to give a go at being nice--"

"There's actually a reason for it. It's not just Nick being difficult. I dunno if it's a good reason, but it's a reason. For them being kind of...cold to each other."

I do a double-take, startled that Matt's bothering to bring this up at all - and at Topher's party, no less.

"Really? Nick's never said so before - and we've talked about it a lot - all he says is he just doesn't like Topher--"

"Well, it's bollocks, really," Matt sighs. "They were friends before, but he's just saying that because he was protecting me when it all changed."

Now I'm very interested. I raise my eyebrows. "You? Nick protected you?"

"Yeah," he admits sadly, like it was his fault. "Topher and Nick were pretty much mates before, until last year - and Topher really only bullied me before, because of how I am."

I turn to look at him squarely, squinting. "You mean he...Nick's not gay? He was just putting up a front to protect you?"

"No, no," Matt corrects. "He is. We both are. But Topher didn't know Nick was until he stuck up for me last year and sort of...let it slip. Since then, Topher's been really nasty to him, like he's always been with me."

I scratch at my chin in thought, trying to imagine the two blokes actually getting along... "Funny," I muse softly.

"What?"

"Well...Topher never struck me as having a problem with you at all, just said that you're kinda spacey. He's always hinted that Nick's the one who's trouble."

Matt shrugs. "Dunno. Maybe it was a one-off thing last year - like he was just startled to learn something about Nick after knowing him all their lives that he never suspected. And in front of a bunch of people, they both probably felt stupid - Nick for letting it out, and Topher for not knowing. I guess. Maybe he's grown up since then and decided I'm not so bad - or maybe he doesn't consider me a threat compared to Nick - or maybe he doesn't consider me at all anymore. Any one of those is fine by me. But yeah, he and I had it out last year, and he basically outed and humiliated me in front of a huge group of his friends. Nick stepped in and made it a bit too obvious why he took personal offence to what Topher was calling me. So everyone sort of knows, y'know... And I think maybe that's part of why Nick acts the way he does now - in general and towards me specifically."

"Hm," I say thoughtfully. "No wonder Topher never mentioned it. If he told me the first day to stay away from you guys, he must feel really bad for what he did and was afraid I'd find out. Not to boast, but it seems like he has some kind of respect for me - probably just 'cause he saw my course schedule the first day and noticed I was in all advanced courses despite some obvious setbacks like school-jumping and being out for months at a time... He probably didn't want to seem like an arse."

Matt glances up at me furtively, hazarding, "Um...does he know...well...about you?"

"No...No, I guess he doesn't. Well, I guess since I'm bi and I have shown genuine interest in some girls, he must not realise it..."

Matt ducks his head again, clearing his throat as he suggests, "Or you hide it well."

This silences me suddenly. I think back over the last several weeks and wonder if he's right - if Nick's right - if I've just been wearing another mask, hiding my true self to avoid rejection.

"Would you tell him?" Matt interrupts my thoughts.

I'm truly stumped. And for once in all my years of "faking," as Nick would say, when I look at Matt, I can't possibly cover it up. Can't cover up the fact that I am a faker, can't cover up the fact that I'm now fumbling with this.

"I...I dunno, really. I mean, it's not exactly something one feels the urge to broadcast, especially when amongst people you're pretty sure won't like it...and especially now you mention that..."

He smirks. "Would you look to the left if he asked you straight out?"

"...No," I say deliberately, actually feeling breathless at my own daring - and the conviction I feel when I say it. "No, I don't think I could lie about it if he asked directly."

"Even if he rejected you for it?"

Startled by how in-tune he is with my own thinking, I snap my head around to look down at him in confusion. "Y-Yeah," I stammer. "I think so... It'd be hard to accept, but... I guess some people can be that narrow-minded still."

"Bollocks," Matt hisses sharply.

"What?"

"I said, bollocks!" he nearly yells, then lowers his voice again when he remembers there are others nearby. "If he really likes you, then he ain't worth rationalisation if he tosses you off for something like that. So I say bollocks! Fuck 'im! If he judges by that standard, then you shouldn't waste your time on him. If you can't be yourself and be comfortable with him, why be friends with him at all?"

"Well," I reason desperately, "even if he's homophobic, I still believe he's got a lot of other good qualities to him--"

"Like what? White supremacy!?"

"Oh, now that's a bit much--"

"What, it's okay to bash in heads of queers, but not blacks?" he spits out, starting to stand.

"I didn't say that!" I protest, grabbing Matt's arm and pulling him back down to the bench.

"Why do you bother with him!?" he argues, even if he allows me to pull him down. "He's a bastard--"

"A bastard who stood up to his own mates when they were teasing Anthony," I remind him. "Everyone deserves a second chance, y'know. Especially if they've done something horribly stupid in their childhood - they're kids, they've got the rest of their lives to remember being that immature - why not let them learn from their mistakes instead of tossing them off straight away for being initially ignorant? Wouldn't you rather teach them not to hate, not to be afraid of something they don't understand? Turning your back all together - that's just like him writing off all `fags'. D'you really want to become what you yourself hate? Living your life with blinders on to people who automatically stereotype you just because you're not in their image? You need to tell them, show them, that we're not bloody labels, but human beings - who just happen to feel differently than themselves. It makes you the real man to stop the cycle."

Matt stops, obviously uncomfortable with the suggestion, but at least he considers it. "I never thought of it like that before..."

I shift closer to him, asking gently, "D'you think, if you had the opportunity, you might try to give Topher another chance?"

He makes a few weird faces, shrugging awkwardly, and finally admits, "I dunno."

"It's not an offer - purely theoretical," I assure him.

"Um...I still don't know...I might... But...he did hurt me pretty badly," he answers bitterly.

"I know... Well, now I know, I mean. But maybe he feels like an idiot about it too - and that's why he doesn't approach you \- because he's ashamed of what he's done."

Matt mulls this over for a bit, shaking his head slowly. "He wouldn't... He wouldn't feel like that...would he?" he asks, suddenly look at me for an answer.

"He's still a bit rough around the edges, but we've both seen him be friendly to people you wouldn't expect. Right?"

"But what if...what if that's all just an act? Just his way of seeming like a good guy? To be accepted..."

I smile, assuring him, "Then there's a chance for real improvement - because if he's willing to play nice to people he may not actually care for, it means he's flexible. If he were staunchly against it, well, he wouldn't bother at all."

He tilts his head the opposite way, relenting, "Okay...that makes some sense."

I gawk at him, groping at his shoulder. "Really?" I gasp, almost giddy over his words. "Oh good, I'm improving!" Just to get further confirmation, I turn to Ant and ask, "That made sense, right?"

He raises his eyebrows and nods.

"Cool! So, uh...what do you think of Topher, then?"

Ant's so bloody adorable - and easy to please. He sits up slightly in the chair and answers carefully, "He's come to me every day in school since that one time to ask if I'm okay and if anyone's bothered me. It doesn't matter who's with him either. He doesn't seem to care what they think, and if they start giggling, he just glares at them and tells them to knock it off. And he gave me my own bottle of wine. I like him."

I turn to Matt. "See? Maybe he's changed for the better after all."

Matt rolls his eyes.

"An' i'ssss bloody good wine, too," Ant slurs, hiccupping slightly as he takes another swig.

"Well, that settles it," Matt drawls dryly. "If Ant likes the wine, the bloke can't be that bad."

I think Matt's been hanging around Nick too much - that's obviously sarcasm. But at least it seems I won this round.

I've lost track of time by now, but when Nick finally finds us in the basement, Matt and Ant have switched places. Matt sits in the overstuffed chair, taking intermittent swigs of wine (not that Ant's left him much) between bobbing his head to the music and pausing to ponder our conversation, whilst I sit back on the lower end of the piano and attempt to offer some back-up as Ant, swaying drunkenly to and fro, plays the shit out of the thing. However out of tune it is, he somehow makes the piece of junk sound...well, awesome. With his eyes closed. I can barely keep up with the little tart – I've no idea what song he's playing or if he's just improvising, but he definitely sounds like he's got it under control.

Sneaky bastard, keepin' secrets from us...

We get so into it that the music steadily grows in volume, to the point where several of those annoying couples slither upstairs – like the music up there isn't as noisy (or unpredictable) as the kind down here. To the ones who do stay, I say kudos! They're either really into the music – or really into each other. I love passion like that.

Nick at least has the decency to stand behind us and watch for a bit, allowing himself to be impressed, before finally giving into his own urges and cutting in, insisting he'd like to be taken home now.

"You're perfectly welcome to come back if you want," he tells me as Ant continues his song obliviously, "but I need to get home. It's a bit late."

I have to check the watch on his wrist he points out to me, as I don't wear one, to see that it's almost one in the morning. Not that that concerns me, but I'm pretty sure Nick and Matt's parents are a bit more attentive when it comes to this sort of thing.

Who knows about Ant's dad? But the way he was guzzling that wine without a care earlier makes me think not.

I nod my agreement, and as the three of us start to get moving, we realise Ant's still stuck at the piano, playing his little heart out. I laugh at his dedication, but from Nick's exasperated expression, I'm guessing he's not quite as amused. So, with a heavy sigh, I hook my long arms around the little guy's middle and slide him off the bench, away from the keys. He struggles a bit, mumbling, "No, don' wanna..." but ultimately, I'm twice his size, so of course I win the battle.

Keeping an arm around him to make sure he doesn't escape, I drag the now utterly blasted elf out of the basement, even at the slurred protests he manages to let tumble from his mouth. Matt, a little buzzed himself (at least Ant left him that much), giggles at the show, but Nick looks blatantly annoyed.

"He'd better not throw up in the car," he warns.

"Oh, it's my car anyway," I fuss back. "What d'you care?"

"I don't want him chucking up on me."

"So he'll sit up front with me and you can sit in the back behind my seat – so anything he does chuck up that doesn't make it out the window will go back to Matt instead. Cor, Nick, lighten up!"

"Erm, hey," Matt protests weakly, but nobody else hears him (or we pretend not to).

Nick glares at the back of my head as we reach the first floor. "Someone should've been watching him."

"Not my job," I deflect easily. "The boy's already got a father, he doesn't need another."

"He obviously doesn't know how much is too much, though," Nick snips.

Suddenly, Ant spins out of my grasp, coming face-to-face with Nick (well, face-to-throat, more like), and says in a surprisingly rational and even (if still a bit slurred) voice, "It ain't like I never drank before, me li'l moppet." He reaches up to pat Nick's hair, smiling like the Cheshire cat – and even if he's shorter than Nick, he still seems more like the master shushing his barking dog with a smooth, calming tone. Actually, come to think of it, he sounds almost seductive...and pulls it off far better than I expect. "I know me limits – an' this ain't e'en close, lad."

And when he twirls back around, he leads the way to the counter where Topher is hanging around with his mates – walking perfectly straight, with no sign at all of even being tipsy. He leans over the counter and thanks Topher for a lovely evening, then gestures with his head for the rest of us to follow him out the front door.

Bloody little tart! It's all I can do to manage a meager wave goodbye to Topher – because I'm too busy laughing at Ant's new personality, and the stunned look on the others' faces, to remember how to form words.

Back in the car, however, the personality shift has gone back to the quiet little guy we all just barely acknowledge, and the scene in the house is forgotten as Matt starts nagging everyone for a breath mint or some gum.

"Oh please," Nick groans, "your mum won't care if you've had a little wine – you get some every Christmas and New Year's."

"Yeah, but we've all been stuffed in a car with Ant for ten minutes," Matt whines, "everyone's gonna smell like a brewery!"

"Winery," Ant corrects softly. "Not fond of beer."

I try to keep my eyes on the road, but even if the others seem to have brushed over the sneaky display, I can't push it out of my mind. I can't help but glance over at the normally bashful guy, still stunned by how well he holds his drinks. Even now, the only way I can tell he's drunk is that he looks a bit tired, his eyes half-closed – that's rare, even when he's not shocked or scared or baffled by something; his eyes really are just naturally that big. But right now, he doesn't even seem ill.

I drop the bickering couple outside their side-by-side houses, making sure they both get inside their respective front doors before pulling back into the street. It's another eight or so blocks to Ant's house, in the "wrong" direction, I suppose it could be said, and the snow on the streets has frozen up a bit this late at night so I keep the speed slow.

"Oi," I start, thinking maybe now that we're alone, he won't curl further into himself as he usually does, "something's been nagging at me, and I wonder if maybe you'd gimme your opinion."

"Yes, I think they're meant for each other."

I blink, nearly skidding on the ice, and do a double-take at him. Regaining control of the car, breathless from trying not to laugh, I clear my throat and stammer, "Ah, um, well, that's sweet, Ant, really – but not quite what I was getting at..."

His eyes regain their normal circular shape and he mutters, "Oops."

"Anyway," I chuckle, "what I was going to say was...well...Y'know, we're always hanging out at my place, or sometimes at Matt's. What would you say to going to Nick's eventually?"

He shrugs faintly. "Pretty much the same as going to Matt's."

"Okay...And, just to be fair, when can we all come to your place?"

Flatly, without missing a beat, he sighs, "When I win the lottery."

I squint over at him briefly, but am quickly distracted by a dark patch of ice and slow down the car even further. "Um...It's only fair, Ant. I mean, so what if you don't have as much as the rest of us – I think we'd still like to spend time—"

"No, you wouldn't," he answers for me, sitting up straight in his seat now and staring out the front window with a fixed glare.

I see he's not willing to bend on this, at least not at the moment, and concentrate instead on driving for the rest of the way to his street.

It strikes me as odd, how the other two have known Ant for years, yet none of us really know the kid very well, except his mother's dead and his family's poor. Not a lot to go on, really. Like how he got so good on piano, how much he can drink without falling over and then easily act like he hasn't had a drop, his own rather easy acceptance of Topher while the other two are so stubborn – as much as I like him, and as much as the other two intrigue me, I notice now that Ant may just be the biggest mystery of all.

Especially considering the fact that, as usual when I drop him off, he makes me pull over at the corner of a block of downtrodden rowhomes, practically condemned tenements, and gets out right there, waving at me to go before I can see which house is his. If Matt was so afraid of letting me see where he lives, Ant must really be ashamed.

But tonight when he gets out, I turn off the car and join him on the sidewalk.

He looks startled to see me, automatically asking, "Your car okay? It just stopped."

"Yeah, that's `cause I turned it off."

He gives me an absurd expression. "Why?"

I gesture at him to start walking. "I wanna make sure you get home all right."

He isn't budging. "Uh...why?"

"Why?" I laugh, waving at him. "You nearly finished that entire bottle yourself, mate, and you're about the same size as a thirteen-year-old girl! There's no way I'm leavin' you to walk home alone—"

"I'm fine," he tells me dully, still not moving.

I stop in front of him, practically bowing my head to look down at him. "C'mon, Ant. You're drunk."

"So what?" he sneers, for the second time since I've known him letting a bit of attitude slip out. "I still know how to walk. I don't need a babysitter."

I bow dramatically and gesture with my arm towards the houses. "Okay, then. Go on."

Watching me warily, he starts walking away, his feet certainly not stumbling but my actions throwing him off enough to cause him to keep checking over his shoulder. After several paces, he turns back and asks, "You gonna hang out there all night? Stalker?"

I shrug, leaning back against my car. "I don't have a curfew. Like I said, I wanna make sure you get in okay. I don't have to be with you, but I'm not leaving until I see you inside a house."

He shrugs helplessly. "If I take forever, you might get mugged," he warns. "And as you keep pointing out, I'm far too delicate – I wouldn't be able to help you at all."

I fold my arms over my chest, repeating firmly, "I'll leave once you're in your house."

He rolls his eyes and starts moving again, but then stops a few meters further to turn back to me. Even from this distance, and the dim light of the street lamp just barely illuminating both of us, I can feel him staring straight at me.

"You think that's why I don't invite you in," he states – not a question, but like he knows what I'm thinking.

"Why?" I challenge him. If he's drunk, he's probably prone to talking more than usual. As he's already shown. Still cryptic as hell, but it's still more.

"You think I give a shit what you think of my shitty house?"

"It's only fair we all take turns hosting, right? Matt and Nick don't seem to mind, so what's your problem?"

He doesn't move an inch, not approaching me or turning his back. He says simply, "It's a shithole. But I don't care `bout that. It's embarrassing, sure – but why bother bein' embarrassed? You wanna come see? Me dad's prob'ly passed out by now – I wouldn't mind..."

I shove myself off the car and come towards him. "Ahh," I say with satisfaction as I get closer. "Now I've got it."

He squints his eyes as I reach him and stop, waiting to be led. "Got what?"

I point to him. "You're like me, in a way – it's not the shithole house. It's not being poor. It's none of that. Because we already know all that."

He shrugs. "Yeah. So? What's your point?"

I drop my hand, giving him a sympathetic look. "It's your dad, init?"

Ant hesitates, still watching me like a hawk.

"He's what embarrasses you, am I wrong?" I press. "Just like I hide us all from my mum, you don't want anyone seein' him. Am I right?"

Ant's quiet for a long time; I can practically feel his discomfort filling the air between us.

Finally, he looks away with a sigh, waving at me to follow. "He should be asleep," he says despondently. "Should be all right."

I follow him silently about halfway down the block to his stoop – and his stoop really is a stoop: like most of the tenements around here, all it's got is a dying piece of yard out front with a cracked step or two before a door. Most here come with a screen door attached, but his is hanging halfway off the hinges, so it makes a creaking noise when he jostles it open (not that it was shut to begin with). He pulls a key from his pocket – no keychain or fancy tags, just a single key – and unlocks it, not daring to look back at me as he enters. He leaves the door open for me, but I hesitate in the doorway – as he steps inside, he flicks on one dim overhead lightbulb, and I can already make out heaps of boxes and bags nearly blocking the entrance. Talk about a fire hazard. Ant steps around it all expertly, like he could do it if he were blind; I, on the other hand, have to navigate my way into the brick building like I'm stepping around a field of landmines.

And Matt was embarrassed because his place is small? All this "house" is, is a long, narrow corridor cluttered with junk – papers peeking out of one box, canned food in another, women's clothing falling out of yet another. There seems to be no furniture, no organisation – barely any light or room to breathe. Some of the boxes have actual pieces of broken plaster falling on them, and I can tell it's from the wall because there are gaping holes above them where the plaster should be. Some rustling beneath part of the mess suggests either mice or roaches.

"This way," Ant calls to me, and he's halfway down the corridor, where he flicks on another light – the cheap fluorescent kind that hurts the eyes.

When I finally get to him over all the other rubble, I'm startled to find him standing in a shockingly pristine kitchen – floor and tiles all clean (but for some broken and mismatched patterns), countertops neat and tidy, tiny table set up like a fancy restaurant...

I walk in, dazed, and stare around like an idiot.

"He only lets me keep this one as nice as I like," he says dourly, and I spin back to him as he leans on the cracked door frame, staring down at the floor dully. I follow his disapproving gaze to the uglier tiles and he sniffs, "Well, as nice as I can, anyway. But, my room aside, which is really just a closet, he refuses to let me fix anything else up. Been this way since after Andie left. He keeps sayin' he'll go through stuff and get rid of it to free up some space, maybe let me have a real bedroom, but he doesn't. And he won't. Won't let me either. Prob'ly somethin' stupid about a man's pride or somethin'. Wouldn't you be proud to live in this shit?"

Recovering myself, I suggest, "Maybe it hurts to look at your mum's stuff..."

Ant shakes his head. "He done that right after she died. My gran has all the rest of my mum's stuff she wanted to keep. This is all shit he's left out since then. Andie kept it in line a bit when she was here, but when she left, it all went to hell. Did y'notice the `I'm freaking out and saving food for Armageddon' stash out front?" His smirk, usually adorable, in this light makes him look a bit mad. "Bought it all when I was ten. Prob'ly all expired now, even if it's in cans. Food for my friends, the rats."

He sighs and drops his arms to his sides, waving to me to follow again. "There's that, then," he says, and steps gracefully over more crap as I stumble over it further down the corridor. To the same side as the kitchen, there's another door a few metres down, and he pauses outside of it, listening intently. He glances back at me and nods, holding a finger to his lips to stay quiet.

At the very back of the house, past the door behind which I can hear obvious snoring, there's another door, one that slides, and when he opens it, I have to stifle a gasp.

Usually when people say they live in a hole in the wall or a closet, they're exaggerating. Not Ant. His "bedroom" literally is a medium-sized wardrobe closet, with half a mattress crammed inside for his bed. (Lucky he's small – otherwise there's no way a normal teenage boy could fit in that.) He pulls himself into it, sitting on his crossed legs, and turns on a lamp behind him before turning back to me.

"Beautiful, init?" he asks dryly. He points to a box at the other end of the wardrobe. "There's me clothes. Also me books for school. Think I got me keyboard in the box – in case he goes on a rampage and smashes into the box, it's protected."

I bite my lip, unsure of what to say. I try to scrunch inside, but even if I'm thin, I'm far too tall to fit on the mattress with him. So I kneel on the floor in front of him.

"Think Nick and Matt would dig it?"

I sigh drearily, glancing sideways at him. "Okay, I get it."

He shrugs helplessly. "Just wanted you to get the idea."

"Okay – so we can't hang out here then. Is the kitchen up for grabs?"

He gawks at me, stunned that I'm still pushing this. Finally, he answers, "No! That's where me dad does his drinkin' `n food-shovelin'! He don't work, we're on the dole, so if he ain't in his room sleepin' off a hangover or watchin' telly, he's in there. An' like y'said, he's the one I don't want around."

I shake my head in wonder. "How'd you ever fit a sister into this place?"

"She had a partition in the front room – back when it had space. If you wanna call that `space.'"

"Where's the loo?"

"There's one connected to his room – good luck if y'gotta go `n he's accidentally locked his door."

I let out a breath and hunch over, rubbing my temples. I've known people to live in some pretty shitty places – but this truly is living in squalor.

After a long, silent moment, I lift my head. For no apparently reason, I feel the urge and ask him, "Ant...what d'you wanna be when you're older?"

He grins, finally looking a bit drunk. "Y'mean when I get all growed up?" he chuckles.

"Yeah," I answer seriously. "Like, what would you go to uni for?"

He scoffs. "I ain't goin' to uni. No way in hell."

I raise my eyebrows. "No? But...you're in all my advanced classes..."

"Other than becoming another alcoholic in a long line of `em," he bites out acidly, "there ain't a chance in hell I'd turn out as anythin' else. Look where I come from – you come from shit, you turn into shit."

I eye him up cautiously, noticing how he can't look at me straight when he spits that out of his mouth. He's angry – as angry as he'll allow himself to get, apparently.

"What about Andie?" I remind him gently. "Where is she now?"

He ducks his head, rubbing at his forearms fiercely and rocking slightly. "Where she is don't affect me—"

"Quit talking like that," I hiss at him, groping at his hands to make him stop scratching. "You speak properly, now. I know how you really talk. And start talking realistically too, because you are not shit."

He freezes in his anxious movements, but can't seem to lift his head. Or answer my earlier question. He just shrugs.

"I don't know," he says after a while, his voice cracking a bit. "It's just too much..."

I tighten my hold on his arm. "What's too much?"

"Just too much," he finally blurts. "We had enough money from Mum to send Andie to uni, that was it. Me...All the hassle and moving and him not wanting me to go...It doesn't matter how hard I work. I'm not leaving this place except by a miracle."

His voice is so soft, I can barely hear him. But, though his words sound like a speech that would precede a crying fit, his eyes aren't brimming with tears either. He's simply...resigned. Accepted his doomed fate.

Too far gone even for a hint of emotion? No – not our Ant.

"But you do work hard," I remind him. "Your grades are..."

"Force of habit," he sighs, trying to subtly snake his arms away.

But when I see him giving up so easily, my reflexes kick in and I clutch his arm tighter – perhaps a bit too tightly, as he winces, hissing wordlessly, and jerks it back to his chest, holding onto it like I just sliced him open.

His abrupt action makes any words that were on my mind die on my lips. But when I try to hold out a hand, silently asking to have a look at whatever is hurting, he shakes his head.

"Ant," I say firmly, "have you been cutting yourself again?"

He snaps his head up, glaring at me – finally, a true emotion, a feeling. But it's not really one I want to see. That shocked loathing, utter insult.

"Who told you I do that?!" he growls, and lifts a foot to kick me right out of his... "room."

"Ant," I plead, scrambling to get up as he tries to slam the door shut. "It's okay – Nick mentioned it to me – you don't mean to, it's a subconscious thing—"

I catch the door with my fingers just before he can shut it.

He peeks at me through the crack. "Fuck off!" And he literally slams my fingers in the sliding door, making me snatch them back with a yelp.

As I nurse my sore fingers, kneeling there at his door, I have to wonder what on Earth he means by that...the way he said it, the wording he used... He was definitely insulted...but we've all seen the cuts and scabs, the scratches he has under the long sleeves. We've all seen him rub his arms, or hug himself when he gets nervous.

I finally chalk it up to the fact that he's drunk and doesn't want to face the truth – angry about his life, his situation...and his rich friend seeing the state he's in.

After a long time, I dare to knock quietly and say through the door, "Ant...I'm sorry. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe Nick got it wrong. But whatever about that... I'm gonna go now, but I hope by the time I see you again, you'll forgive me for being so pushy. Okay? I... We really do care about you, Ant. So...please don't let my mistake push you away from sticking with real friends."

There's no response, so with a heavy sigh, I push myself to my feet and start to tiptoe back around the clutter towards the front door.

I don't make it halfway down the corridor before Ant slides the wardrobe open, tears now obvious on his face, and asks plainly, "What's the bracelet for?"

I nearly trip over a box in my jerking start as I spin around to face him. He's sitting sideways on his mattress, watching me with his typical wide eyes, but it's a penetrating stare through messy tears.

"W-What?" I ask, feeling breathless and nauseated by his words. "What brace—"

He shoves himself out of his "box," stomping up to me like a lightning bolt, and snatches my wrist in his hand. He yanks my sleeve up in one fluid motion before I can react, exposing that bloody metal atrocity to both of our eyes.

"This bracelet," he hisses, turning the plate upwards to face me. He's not looking down at it – but he's trying to make me look. "What is it?"

I try to pull my arm back, smacking my shoulder into the wall with the force, but he's tenacious, following the flow of my movements without letting go.

"Tom," he says calmly, and now our roles are instantly reversed – me being the one in denial and him being the prosecution. "I've been in hospitals before, mate. This is a medical alert bracelet. I know that much. You know I'm no idiot, you pretty much said it yourself. I won't look. You tell me what it says. In exchange, I'll tell you where it all comes from. And neither of us says a thing to anyone. I promise."

I'm near hysterics now, terrified that he'll look – hyperventilating, turning into a panicking baby as the half-pint takes full control. His words hardly reach my ears, but finally, I blurt out, "Only if you promise not to—"

"I said, I promise," he repeats, in that same uncharacteristically husky voice I caught at Topher's house. It's enough to sooth me into submission, and when I stop struggling, he drops my hand.

Clutching my wrist to my chest now, I avoid his gaze, backed against the crumbling wall and breath coming heavy and ragged. "It says...schizophrenia...."

His eyes stay glued to me, even if I can't look at him. But in the corner of my vision, I see him nodding slowly, as if not even thrown by my words.

"If I had one," he confesses softly, "it would read `self-mutilation.' But I don't start it myself. I just make it worse with my nervous tics." He tilts his head to the side, putting a hand on my shoulder and leaning forward into me. "So how do you like that? We're both kinda nuts."

The longer he stands there, so readily accepting my secret, the more I realise how much easier it is to breathe. When I finally do look at him, he's watching me with that familiar shy smile – and I'm relieved to see it.

He suddenly presses himself against me, hugging me gently. For once, being this close to someone...isn't that uncomfortable. I melt into the embrace and hold onto his tiny figure shakily.

"Don't matter where you're from," he says lowly, pushing some of my curls back to whisper in my ear. "You can be fucked at any price range."

It's hard for me to leave Anthony's house that night, for so many reasons. Sure, it's not the most comfortable place – but he has to live there. That itself is tough to let go of, to just leave him in that place when I know I've at least got a warm, full bed for myself at my own house. But after our little encounter in the corridor, he heads back to his wardrobe/"bedroom" to go to sleep without another word. I hesitate a bit, but eventually realise he's fallen asleep. All that wine must have helped.

But it's hard to leave for other reasons too. Like the selfish fact that he now knows...about me. Something I was hoping to keep hidden as long as possible. Well, I guess this is as far as that "possible" goes. I'm worried, slightly panicked, but at 1:30 Sunday morning, there's not much I can do about it. He said he promised...but how much do I trust that?

Better get home to take my pills before the paranoia starts to get really bad.

But then there's what he's just admitted to me. I wonder if he's even registered he's said it. So we know he doesn't take care of his wounds – we nag him for that all the time. It runs deeper than just a nervous tic, though, I'm sure. Probably likes feeling that pain in some way, with how blunted his emotions usually are.

But something else doesn't add up. It's like there's something he's not telling me. And he expects me to just walk away and leave him here? With that big question just hanging in the air between us? I have a feeling, a harsh, demanding feeling, that he's not the only one who hurts him.

But he made me promise not to tell...

What am I supposed to do?

I sit outside the wardrobe for a long time, listening to him sleep. That heavy, rhythmic breathing that's not even strong enough for a snore makes me even sleepier.

Reluctantly, I finally decide I have to go – just so I can get home and take my pills, as I gradually start to feel my head shifting to a rather unpleasant space. If I'm even a few hours late, I can start to feel the effects...and I need to get home before it gets too bad for me to drive. Best not to operate heavy machinery with a skull-crushing migraine and mental confusion...

Of course, when I do get home, Mum and Dad are both fast asleep – or maybe just pretending to be – because no one answers my knocks on the bedroom door. After five straights minutes of intermittent knocking, I give up and go to my room, downing a bunch of migraine pills before trying to get some sleep.

The pills work a little too well, and when I wake, it's Sunday afternoon. Another dose missed. I start to panic and race to my mother's room – where she's alone in bed, still sleeping off her own drinks from last night. I have to search around her drawers and the loo before I finally find the familiar white and tan bottles. After taking my morning dose at 2 p.m., I know I'm going to be screwed up for a few days. But I did kind of do it to myself.

Then again, I think sourly, if she'd give control over my meds to me, I wouldn't have this problem...so I grab all the bottles and sneak them past her out of the room, hiding them in the medicine cabinet in my own bathroom instead, along with my migraine meds.

The rest of the day I spend down in the basement, working on songs to try to forget what happened last night. Even if a small part of me – a very small but very tenacious part – doesn't want to. There's no doubt I can't forget, but I wish I could go back, maybe just leave him off at the corner as usual, so none of that had to happen...

By nighttime, as I trudge wearily up to my bedroom to try and sleep, my stomach is churning with the thought of going into school tomorrow. Wondering if Ant's kept his promise. If I should keep my end of it to myself...I weigh the possibilities in my mind, wonder if I should go to someone older, someone who could actually help him...

I almost go to bed without taking my pills again – and when I catch myself, I shuffle to my bathroom. For some reason, I heave a sigh of relief when I see that all the bottles are exactly where I left them this afternoon.

That paranoia...not sure if it's my own illness, or a valid fear that she'll try something sneaky again just for some twisted sort of revenge.

I gulp down my meds and settle in for a quiet night's sleep.

It doesn't happen.

I manage a few hours, but ultimately I'm up most of the night, worrying. I consider calling Ant a few times, but each time I have to remind myself I don't have his number; I don't even know if he has a phone. I don't recall seeing one at his house, unless it was buried under all the rubbish. And he's never hinted that he has a cell phone.

I get a few hours of half-sleep, then I'm up and barely awake. Dragging myself through the motions as I get ready for school. I take my meds and eat my usual dry toast and juice alone in the kitchen, then sluggishly drive myself to school – lucky I don't hit any cars on the way.

The buses are letting off students as I arrive, and while I usually huddle around Topher's laptop at this time, or run into Matt and Nick, instead I go in search of the little guy I left on Saturday night.

"Tom!"

I twirl around once inside the building when I hear my name, and see Matt and Nick rushing up to me – Matt all smiles and giddy like a kid on Christmas, Nick swaggering along after him with an impish smirk.

"Mate, check it out!" Matt says breathlessly as he shoves some papers at me. "Nick and me, we were up all night Saturday, after the party, just got on a roll and couldn't stop – finished it last night. Look! Look! What d'ya think?"

Confused, I rustle through the papers, realising they're self-made music sheets. "Wha..."

"It's our song, mate! We wrote a song! Our own song, not just some cover or messing about, but an actual, real song! We did it ourselves!"

I flip through the sheets again, my mind still trying to wake up, and I struggle to comprehend what he's saying – making me wonder if my meds are, in fact, working at all. Maybe Mum knew I'd try something like what I did and switched the real pills for sugar pills. She probably knows all about it and is torturing me...

Or maybe I'm just tired.

"Um...cool," I say distractedly, eyes fluttering to stay open. I really want to congratulate him, to be as enthralled as he is about it, seeing as how he's so excited and all, and I don't want to let him down...but my body, my clouded mind...I just can't think straight... "Wow, this is, um...really great, Matt," is all I can manage to slur out of my bumbling mouth.

"I know, right?" Matt babbles, as if not even noticing my disorientation. He grabs the papers back from me, as if I've even had enough time to look at them, and rambles on, "Now maybe we can start to do this, y'know, work on our own stuff, like a real band, instead of just four guys mucking about on instruments, and – hey, mate, you look awful!"

I blink down at him, forcing back a yawn, and instead offer a shrug.

"Real smooth, idiot," Nick coughs, pushing him to the side to study me closer. "Seriously, Tom, did you get any sleep since...New Year's?"

I try to blink again, but my eyelids don't seem to want to work as a team right now. "Huh? Oh, um...Hey, you seen Ant?" I ask, back to focusing on my original mission.

"Uh, not yet," Nick answers deliberately. "He gets the bus in, but I haven't – oh, there he is," he points suddenly, and I turn just as the little guy's about to reach for my shirt sleeve.

Ant pauses, eyes wide (as usual) like a deer, startled that we've seen him first. He snaps his arm back sharply.

"Ah, there you are," I breathe with relief. "Look, I need to talk to you—"

"Y-Yeah," he stammers, his voice back to its quiet, solemn nature. "I was just coming to look for you..."

I take him by the shoulder and tell the others I'll see them in homeroom, then steer Ant to a quiet corner everyone else seems to have abandoned. As soon as we're as "alone" as we're going to get, I lean over and whisper, "Oi, look, I was just wonderin'—"

"No, no," he cuts in, any trace of his saucier self from Saturday obliterated, now all frayed nerves and timid glances. "Let me go first – I just...I just wanted to talk to you—"

"About Saturday," I nod. "Yeah, me too—"

"It's all bollocks," he blurts out.

I stare down at him, stunned into silence.

"The stuff about hurting myself – it's all...it ain't true, is what I wanted to tell you."

I blink at him, taken aback by this claim.

He averts his eyes shyly, muttering rapidly, "I just, y'know, I was drunk and angry, and, well, really I do do it to myself – but, I mean, I don't do it very often, and there's no reason for it, and I promised myself I'd stop, so I did...kind of..."

As he continues on, I sigh heavily, completely understanding his sudden denials.

"I'm just clumsy, really, and once in a while – really not that often at all – I just get in my dad's way by accident, and it's not a big deal – just a bump here and there, I'm sure you can understand, bein' in such a small place, we're bound to run into each other now and then – but yeah, I do have some issues I'm working on, like the cutting—"

"Yeah," I interrupt wryly, "and I wear this bracelet `cause I think the words are pretty."

He presses his lips together tightly, looking up at me with hope in his dark eyes. He clears his throat a bit, then hazards, "W-What're you..."

"Your dad," I say bluntly. "He hits you, doesn't he?"

His eyes widen noticeably as he gawks at me, but no words come out of his mouth.

I lean in closer and take his arm – the particularly sore one – and when he winces, I say softly, "You don't have to cover for him. He hits you, Ant – you can't hide that from me now."

Lowering his gaze again, he stutters, "He...He doesn't...He doesn't mean to hurt me... It's...He drinks a lot...Who can blame him, really? I mean...His wife dies, he gets hurt and can't provide for the rest of his family, I'd be mad too..."

"Yeah, I get it," I hiss, squeezing his arm slightly. "But that's still no excuse for this."

Tears welling in his eyes now, he looks to me pleadingly. "He doesn't...mean to," he insists stubbornly. "He cleans me up himself and apologises, and it ain't like a beating – just once in a while—"

"You said you've been in hospitals before," I remind him tersely, "that's how you recognised my bracelet. When was that? When he broke your bone or somethin'?"

Suddenly, Ant's face clouds over and he snatches his arm back. "When me mum was dyin'," he spits at me acidly. "Takes a while for someone to die of cancer when no treatment's workin'."

I drop my hand immediately, inhaling sharply. "Oh...I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking of that—"

"Of course not," he snaps back. "When I say `young,' I mean I was eight – not old enough to really get it, but plenty bloody old enough to remember."

I nod slowly, running a hand through my hair. "Okay...I-I'm sorry I assumed—"

"He never broke any of my bones, just hits me once in a while. And he always apologises, and it's not like I don't think he loves me. My dad wouldn't... He loves me, okay?" he finishes breathlessly. "I just wanted to make sure you understood that. So you don't go runnin' off to some teacher, or child services or somethin'..."

I tilt my head to the side, watching him carefully as he fusses at his shirt sleeve and tries to collect himself.

"Why?"

He does a double-take, startled by my question. "What you mean `why'? Because I do—"

"Why do you want to tell me that so badly? You think I don't know? Or are you trying to reassure yourself?"

He struggles with this for a moment – then suddenly deflects, "Well, why did you wanna talk to me then? Huh? Make sure I'm not blabbing to everyone that you're certifiable?"

I cringe, rubbing at my wrist. I duck my head and confess, "Well, honestly...yeah. It...It scares me, y'know? And...Not just other people finding out, but actually...actually being like this...It puts people off if they know, but...but mostly they forget that...I'm the most afraid of all of `em...I hate bein' this way, always havin' to be extra careful... Makin' sure I take my meds on time every day, and even then, who knows if and when they'll stop working? I don't...like being this way. Other people might look at me strangely if they knew – but I'm terrified of losin' it again. I feel like...like a time bomb...and I don't wanna go through that again..."

I trail off sadly, thinking of the last year, of those horrible months spent in bed, writhing around and just wishing someone would put me out of my misery...of the few "friends" I'd made in the last town, and how alienated they became when I started having...issues...

I nearly jump when I feel Ant's hand on my wrist, but this time when I look at him, he's watching me sympathetically.

"I promised not to tell," he assures me softly. "Even if you didn't know `bout me...I promised. And you ain't scarin' me away neither. You can trust me on that."

I discreetly brush my fingers over his hand and smile. "Thanks... Good to know, since I can't even trust meself sometimes."
CHAPTER FIVE: THE CURL, TRAPPED

Nick

The snow starts falling halfway through the schoolday. Light and pretty at first, but soon it grows heavy and hard. The kids act like they've never seen it before – as if there hasn't already been snow on the ground for the past month. And with all the technology today, the computers and cell phones and routes to information, none of us saw it coming. Well, "us" as in me, Matt, Tom and Ant. Seems none of us really bother with computers, and though Matt, Tom and I all have cell phones, we seem to forget they're there. But apparently, this is the "big storm" everyone else has been expecting since the weekend.

No wonder kids our age toss us aside – we are so behind.

But I'm not nearly as concerned about the snow – except that it keeps us from having lunch outside, the four of us crammed into a corner of the cafeteria, trying to keep out of everyone else's way – as I am about Tom. He truly looks out of sorts. Or, well, completely bummed by something we don't know about. His energy is non-existent, he doesn't have an appetite (hence the meek fight he puts up when Matt brings him a packet of crisps from the lunchline anyway), doesn't look like he's shaved since we saw him last (wow, one of us can grow facial hair!? Cool!), his eyes are glazed, and all he really does is sit at the table and stare down at it, barely touching his crisps. Usually he's the instigator of our conversations. Today he just seems...tired. He's been tired before, or so he's said, but he's never seemed this...detached.

So instead, we are regaled with the twisted stories and thoughts from Matt's hyper mind. It's a bit like a snake eating its own tail – we're never sure where one thought ends and another begins. Or sometimes like a patchwork quilt – jumping from one image to a completely unrelated one within moments. And all any of us can do right now is sit back and let the monster go. I'm not even sure the other two are listening, but I am...just barely. I can't quite keep up with his jumbled brain, the inquisitions about our opinions on theories of other universes, then barreling straight into the mystery of how our brains can interpret music from random, clashing sounds, without even waiting for us to answer his previous questions.

It's annoying as hell...and pretty fucking mind-blowing at the same time, how active this kid's mind is, how curious and imaginative he is all around. And why have I only ever seen his musings as the ramblings of a flake, when, if I actually listen to him, I've been overlooking just how smart my mate is? When I actually shut up and listen to him, without trying to tear him down or brush him off with a wry comment, he starts making more sense – at least, the bits that are supposed to. The other parts, where he's the one wondering about unanswerable questions, are logical ponderings and sound curiosities – not just babbling rhetoric or gross contradictions.

Seeing Matt now, after half a lunch period of giving the bloke a chance to talk (even if he's simply talking at us), I start to notice tiny things about him that I've not seen or given much thought to before. Like how crooked his teeth are, but how it's not disgusting – in fact, it's quite charming; or how he can just barely say his R's, and if he really gets on a roll, they come out as W's. And when he gets absorbed in what he's talking about, his hands wave around maniacally, like they're telling half the story for him. He nearly knocks over Ant's soda at one point, but the small(er) fella swipes it up before tragedy can strike. And his stuttering when he's trying to think of a certain word – it's not so much irritating, like usual, as it is...kind of cute, actually. At one point it literally causes me to stifle a chuckle. He gives me a gape of insult, like I'm laughing at what he's saying, but I can't just blurt out what I'm thinking – which just happens to be Goddamnit, Matt, if you were any cuter I'd have to put you on a keychain and carry you around in my pocket like girls do – so all I can settle on is averting my gaze and waving at him to go on about...well, whatever it is he's on about.

This is when I take notice again of how sullen Tom seems, and I catch the concerned look Ant gives him from across the table. Apparently he can't figure out what's bothering the guy either, or else he knows but just doesn't want to share. Maybe there's something going on between those two... No, I'm quite sure there is, with how they were both looking for each other this morning. I'm especially sure when I see Tom glance up briefly at Ant, tries to offer something like a reassuring smile, then gives up pretty quickly before looking down at the table again like he's going for first prize in a staring contest.

"And that's why I think Mr. Shepherd is actually borne from llamas."

I blink and turn my attention back on Matt, shaking my head. "W-huh?"

So goes my theory that he's actually quite brilliant – a cute face can make you believe anything, apparently.

He sits back, arms folded over his chest, and announces smugly, "Nothin'. I was just checking to see if anyone was really listening."

I roll my eyes. Childish tart.

"I've never really gotten String Theory," Tom mumbles, and Matt jerks around to him, startled. "I get the concept, I suppose, but not the application. Once I try to wrap my head around it, I lose the meaning."

Matt grins over at me haughtily. "Seems someone was listening."

I groan and plead with him, "Aw, c'mon, Matt, I ain't in all those advanced courses like you guys – I'm trying to get through school without needing to take Physics, okay?"

"It's really rather fascinating," Ant puts in as he scoops some ice cream out of a small cup. "The ideas these theorists worked out almost a century ago, without the same technology we have today – and we still can't find ways to prove it, but the logic behind it is--"

I gawk at him – not for his sudden and irregular contribution to a conversation, but for what he's holding in his hands. I point to the cup and exclaim, "It's the coldest bloody day of the year and you're eating ice cream!?"

His face reddens slightly and he gives an awkward shrug. "Um...Was in my dream last night...Been craving it ever since..."

There's a hollow chuckle from Tom's now smirking mouth. He tries to sound chipper as he quips, "You're an odd little man. Probably eat wasabi on its own on the hottest day of the year too." But he still sounds as morose as he looks.

"Okay," Matt huffs before Ant can even respond to that, and he turns to Tom. "You've been weird all morning. What's wrong with you?"

Tom dares to look startled. "Hm? Who, me?"

"No, the ice cream fetishist over here," I drawl. "Yes, you, you freak. Where's all that useless energy and all those pointless grins you're always wearin'? It usually makes me wanna punch you but now that you're all mopey, it doesn't feel right."

Tom blinks, looking a bit dazed. "Uh... Dunno," he finally murmurs, averting his eyes and looking almost ashamed. "Just having a low day, I guess."

"And why's that?" Matt demands. "What happened to bring you down? You were fine Saturday night. Did you have a fight with your mum?"

"Your folks were pissed you were so late the other night?" I suggest. "I know my mum was giving me the evil eye all Sunday morning."

Tom shakes his head slowly. "No... It's not... I'm okay. Just a bit slow. Kinda tired..."

Peering at him again like I did this morning, I nod. "Yeah, you look it."

"You been drinking at night?" Matt asks suddenly, and I almost want to swat him over the head – except he may just have a point I haven't thought of yet. "I hear if you're hungover, the best cure is to drink whatever it was that got you drunk the night before." He cringes at his own words. "Though honestly that just sounds sick to me."

Tom actually manages a soft smile finally, assuring us, "I've not been drinking. I don't drink at all," he says, and I remember Saturday night when he said as much to Topher...and for some reason I found it a bit odd. I guess I'd just expected him to go along with everyone else, but no, he hadn't touched a drop.

Ant suddenly clears his throat quietly and offers, "It's okay – everyone's allowed to have an off day now and then."

We all peer at him quizzically – and he turns uncomfortably back to his ice cream, clearly regretting speaking up.

But then Matt shrugs it off, agreeing, "Yeah, I know I just don't feel like talking at all some days. Hate it when that hits me."

I sigh heavily. "Any chance of that hitting you again soon before I do?"

Before the last period, the snowfall has become an all-out blizzard. Kids are whining about school staying open at all, but my guess is they'll make up for it later. Possibly a free day tomorrrow then?

It's probably more an issue of it being impossible to get all the buses back early enough before the snow is really heavy to warrant an early dismissal, so there's really no point. And it ain't like we've never had snow like this before. But it's coming down so hard by the end of the day that Tom, despite his unusually low-key demeanor, forbids me and Matt to walk home. Ant takes the bus anyway because he lives about another kilometer out from us, and being nearer to the school, Matt and I don't have bus rights, so those of us doomed to walk in this storm would normally be shit outta luck.

Unless we have a friend with a car.

For once I don't feel any envy or resentment, only relief as Tom drags us along to the carpark, insisting it's not so out of his way to take us home.

But the ride there is so slow-going and treacherous that it takes us nearly an hour to get home, whereas it usually takes us only fifteen minutes to walk. But with the dangerous streets, slow traffic and very little visibility, it feels like forever until we're at our almost conjoined front porches. At least we're not all wet and soggy and freezing from the snow.

Once we reach our houses, Matt argues that it's coming down too hard right now for Tom to make the trip back to his own house – in this weather, his usual twenty to thirty minute ride to the rich part of town will take him at least another hour. He resists at first, but then finally gives in, admitting that he can barely see what's in front of him, and it would be smarter to wait until the snow lessens.

After tossing my things into my house, I join the other two over at Matt's. His mother makes a nice hot home-cooked meal and even hot cocoa isn't too childish for me right now, if only to get over the chill outside.

By eight o'clock, the three of us sit in Matt's front room, watching in amazement as the storm only worsens outside. Tom wonders softly if he made the right choice.

He actually seems quite tense as he stares out at the blizzard, chewing on his lip and muttering that he should have gone home hours ago.

"Oh, loosen up," Matt tells him easily, as if not even seeing the distant look in Tom's staring eyes. "It's no problem if you need to crash here tonight. I doubt they'll open the school tomorrow. Just stay in my room." He grins impishly. "I promise I don't bite."

But Tom isn't smiling. In fact, he looks down-right worried. "But I...need to get home," he murmurs softly, probably thinking we can't hear him. "Schedule's already screwed up..."

I don't think Matt can hear him – but I do. When I lean closer and ask, "Why?" Tom nearly jumps, shooting a startled glance my way. "What schedule?" I urge him.

"Huh? Oh, nothing. It's nothing. Here's fine..."

And the way he gulps and looks away quickly to avoid my questioning gaze only makes me more suspicious.

Yeah, there's definitely something he's not telling us.

By eleven o'clock, I'm back home, having left the two "geniuses" an hour earlier so they could discuss more bloody Physics theories in peace. (And even though Tom looked like he was going to pass out, he kept going like he was up for a debate.) My folks and sister have long since gone to bed, and because it's obvious there won't be any school tomorrow, I've been allowed to spend my night down in the living room – a treat only saved for special occasions such as this, as that's where our only telly is. Usually Mum isn't keen on me keeping it on all night, whether I'm awake to watch it or not, but she's letting me go tonight.

Not long after eleven, as I'm dozing in and out whilst holding a half-empty bowl of caramel popcorn on my chest, I find my attention drawn from whatever program is on telly (I'm not really watching) to the continuing snowfall outside. Not nearly as heavy now, but still coming down non-stop. I stare at the scene outside the window, past our front porch, watching lazily as the flakes steadily pile up higher and higher against the house.

Yeah, this'll be a bitch to shovel tomorrow.

But just as I'm ready to roll my eyes and turn off the telly to fall asleep on the couch, something else outside catches my attention, and I have to blink, sitting up straighter, and look even closer – like I'm not sure I actually saw what I just saw.

A small, dark figure, rounding the corner of the opposite side of the street, hesitating, then limping heavily through the unplowed piles of pure white. I sit up further, setting the bowl of popcorn aside, and crouch in front of the window. I squint, trying to see past the falling snowflakes, but the dark figure has now disappeared behind a car parked across the road.

This has to be an illusion. Maybe a trick of my sleepy mind. But then the little black form is there again, between two cars, stumbling and rolling over the snowbanks that have built up between them. There's a small respite for the figure as it straightens up in the space of the street the plows have cleared (slightly), and it hesitates once more before limping closer to my front porch.

This could be something straight out of a horror movie – except that the shape seems familiar, and I'm still gawking as I watch him come into the light of our porch. I'm somehow startled when there's a frantic but timid knock at the door, as if I'm not looking out the window and watching him do it, but I guess I still just can't believe my own eyes...

I rush to the door and yank it open to reveal a very cold and wet – and very bloody – Ant, slumping in my doorway, gasping and shivering like mad. And I look at him like he's mad.

"Ant, what the f--"

"Nick, is it... Can I... Would it be okay..." He stammers through ten different failed attempts of a question before I kick myself into gear and blurt out, "The fuck happened!? Get in here!"

He sighs gratefully as I pull him inside, and I wince as I touch his freezing shoulder. I almost slam the door to keep the cold out, but remember my family sleeping upstairs and manage to catch it in time. But when I turn around, I'm faced with an even more pressing concern.

"Ant, you look like someone's taken a pipe to your head, what the fuck!?"

Literally shaking from the cold, not even hugging himself is helping right now. The blood on the left side of his face isn't frozen, but his clothes are soaked with melted snow. And I realise he's only wearing that thin black shirt with the sleeves that come down over his hands.

"Christ, where's your coat?" I ramble on before he can answer my previous question. "Why are you even out in this shit? God!"

As I babble, I throw the blanket I'd been using on my legs around his shoulders and sit him on the couch.

"Stay there, I'll be right back," I order, and with a quivering nod, he huddles in on himself as I dash up the stairs to my bedroom. I quickly grab the warmest-looking sweats from my dresser and a big towel from the loo, then hurry back down to where Ant hasn't moved an inch from his spot.

"Here," I say, tossing him the towel and putting the clothes next to him. I turn my back to him and direct over my shoulder, "Get your soaking wet shit off – all of it – and dry yourself, then put those on. I'll put your clothes in the dryer downstairs, but for now you need to wear something warm – even if it's big on you."

"Ok-k-k-kay," he chatters, and I can hear him moving about.

"Once you're in dry clothes, I'll clean you up."

"Ok-k-k-kay."

"Bloody hell, mate, what the hell're you doin' out there, in this weather, at this time `a night?!"

He must be having a hard time moving, because he takes a while to answer, his teeth chattering as he finally does. "W-w-was on m-me w-w-way h-home f-from th-the park an' I g-g-got j-jumped."

"Jumped?"

"Y-Yeah... H-Happened too qu-quick... D-d-din't r-really know w-what h-happened..."

"The park? Why were you at the park? Didja notice it's kinda snowin' outside!?"

He chuckles faintly, then jokes, "J-j-just w-wanted t-to s-see th-the...the s-s-snow... It's r-real p-p-pretty f-from your b-b-back on the g-g-ground..."

I pause, screwing up my face. "Hang on – the park is that way," I correct him, pointing in the direction I'd seen him come from. "And it's closer to your house. Why didn't you just go home?"

There's another pause, then he taps me on the shoulder and I turn to see my sweats swallowing him up. He holds out his clothes and the blanket in a bundle to me.

To my surprise, though there's blood on his face and neck, he's still shivering like crazy, and his hair is still dripping, his expression is shockingly...normal. A bit tired, but otherwise neutral.

"I wasn't at that park," he answers finally, and points in the opposite direction, towards the school. "The one up that way."

I take the now damp blanket and clothes, still staring at him like he's gone mad. "And why were you at that park? That's even more ridiculous than goin' to the one near your house."

He shrugs nonchalantly. "I didn't go home after school. Had to go to the town library."

I squint at him. "And you were there for...how long?"

"Few hours. School project. Then I started walkin' back home."

I shake my head in disbelief. "When? The library closes at five, mate! You mean you just spent the last six hours outside in the park, in this blizzard!?"

He glances away briefly, smirking a bit. "Well, I got stuck there for a bit. They had to get a plow out. Got started by nearly six..."

"Still! That's five hours! And where's your coat? And your bag--"

"I cut through the park to make it shorter, but these guys jumped me..."

I blink, my eyes not wanting to close even minutely. "In this blizzard!? Are they insane?"

He sighs heavily and slumps down to the couch again, trying to dry his hair with the towel and wincing when it touches his face. "Yeah... I guess so... Took me coat too..."

"And your bag? You were working on somethin' for school, right?"

He hesitates, glancing around rapidly without answering.

I stare down at him, feeling a lump forming in my gut. This just does not seem right. At all. And when I dare to look a bit closer at him, leaning over a bit, Ant huddles in on himself even more, like it hurts to be seen. So doing what I do next is cruel, I guess, but I can't stop myself. I grip his arm and start firing questions at him.

"Well, what'd these guys look like? Were they blokes we know? Maybe from school? How many of them were there? Did they take your bag? Or anything else? You were at the library for hours – you must've checked out some books. Did they take them? What'd they use on you? Weapons or just fists? And how could you have come from the direction of the school when I saw you across the street? You were over there, Ant," I challenge him, pointing towards the corner I'd seen him come around. "You came from the direction of your house. Was it really at the other park and you were too afraid to go home? Why'd you run all the way here when your house was closer--"

"Fuck, Nick, I dunno! Just shut the fuck up!" Ant suddenly shouts, his voice breaking as he shoves me away – not sounding at all like himself. He sounds...terrified. Like someone really did come after him. Maybe my instincts were wrong.

I sink slowly down to my knees and peer at him cautiously, but he refuses to meet my gaze.

"I don't know," he repeats, voice still cracking like crazy. "They...They were just there...and they hit me and then they were gone, okay? Just...Just shut up, okay? Just leave it alone. Just please...leave it alone and just...help me, please," he finishes, the last few words coming out on the verge of tears, even though he's covering his face with the towel now. His chin planted firmly in his chest, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Christ, the kid's scaring me...but I don't know what else to do...

It's bollocks. That's what it is. Utter bullshit. This whole getting jumped in the park thing – I know it's bollocks. But he's obviously not going to tell me what's really going on. Especially now I've tried to interrogate the poor thing when he's so scared. For some reason he won't tell me.

I think...if I let myself go that way...I might know what's going on here...but I can't possibly bring it up right now.

Especially when he asks, in that quiet, shaky voice of his, "C-Can I..s-stay here tonight?"

The state of him right now is just so pathetic, not even I can stand to push it. So instead of badgering him with more questions, I put the wet clothes aside and move closer to him on my knees, gently urging him to let me take the towel from his face. I don't even question him when tears start falling with no explanation, just clean the blood from his head and face, and tell him softly, "`Course you can. You can stay in my bed. I'll sleep down here. I was going to anyway. Might as well make some use of my bed, right?"

That seems to be enough to keep him calm, and he nods slightly without another word.

Whatever really happened, it sure did shake the kid up. Fuck the blizzard – even if it were warm and sunny out, I wouldn't let him leave now.

Tom

Matt tries to be congenial and offers his bed to me, but I already know I won't be able to sleep tonight. I don't tell him this, of course, but insist I'll be fine on the air mattress he pulls out of his closet. After trying to stay up a bit more and concentrate on a conversation about where we might be heading with "the band," I'm quietly relieved when Matt finally fades away to sleep.

So begins my actual torture. Only three consecutive doses of my meds since Saturday, and even those taken at careless times, and now I'm deprived again. I could kick myself for deciding to stay here, even if I much prefer "here" to my own "home." Problem is, my own "home" is where my pills are – and where I am not. I've clearly been feeling the effects of the withdrawal, trying to catch up to my regular schedule, and this has now thrown me off even more. Hell, I'll be lucky if I can even drive straight tomorrow...

And in the quiet darkness of Matt's bedroom, the pounding starts up in my head again. I've somehow been able to fend it off by focusing on other things all day, even if it took such effort that I feel exhausted – but now with the migraine creeping up, I couldn't fall asleep if I had my meds to take anyway. Too little too late.

I hold my head in my hands, breathing deeply, pressing my fingers harshly into my scalp. I try closing my eyes; the nausea hits me like a brick and I gasp, holding my breath and trying not to make another sound. I grind my fingertips into my head, opening my eyes and staring up at the ceiling. I try to focus and unfocus on certain spots, but what little relief each attempt brings disappears within seconds. I curl up tight into a ball and concentrate on Matt's steady breathing.

That works for a few minutes, but just as I think I'm starting to drift off, the pounding turns to throbbing, so much that it feels like I can hear my brain expanding and contracting inside my skull. Feels like jagged waves of metal scraping over me, from my head down my neck, making me shiver – and the movement worsens the nausea. I unintentionally let out a pathetic whimper and try to gulp down a second, breathing harshly. Sweat is dripping down my face and back, I can feel it dampening my clothes. I stifle a sob of frustration, tears collecting in the corners of my eyes – but crying only makes my head hurt more. The strained, unspoken moan caught in my throat radiates to the back of my skull, up and over, the metaphoric scraping metal shifting towards my forehead...

God, I can't fucking take it!

I hurl myself off of the mattress, stumbling to the door to Matt's room. I manage to find my way through the dimly lit second floor to the loo, locking myself in and throwing up all that wonderful food his mother had worked so hard to cook for us tonight. Once my stomach is "empty," I dry heave for a bit – not helping the migraine at all, or the sore throat. I have to get control of this, even a little bit. I'm wiping what feels like pints of sweat off my face, over and over, before I finally make it back to the hallway. But instead of going back to the bedroom, I tip-toe as quietly as I can (which is difficult, considering I'm so dizzy that I give the railing a death grip) downstairs and out the front door.

As soon as the blast of cold, snowy winter air hits me, a wave of relief washes over me, and I whimper to myself, nearly bawling over how good it feels. I step out onto the empty porch in my bare feet, letting myself shiver from the cold meeting my sweat-dampened skin. Maybe it's the shock of the weather, but my head stops aching – at least for a bit.

It's a good few minutes until I start to feel the stomach pains and throbbing in my head again. And when this happens, I shuffle over to the red brick column just by the porch steps and press myself against the freezing architecture.

Some more relief – but again, only briefly.

When the symptoms start returning, I'm at a complete loss... so, giving up with another pathetic whine, I hold onto the column with my hands and start gently pounding my forehead against the cold brick. With every throb that drowns out my hearing, I retaliate with a firm but not too dangerous thump to my forehead.

I don't know why... but this seems to work. For a bit.

And then I hear a voice behind me – and the hand on my arm nearly sends me out of my skin.

Nick

I suppose it's not so bizarre that someone else is awake besides me, but after putting Ant to bed with an icepack on the left side of his face and stepping outside for a cigarette, I find it more than just a little weird that Tom is on the other porch...in only his jeans and a t-shirt...softly banging his head against the brick column.

Okay, tonight is just not making any sense to me at all.

I try to get his attention first by clearing my throat. When that doesn't work, I reach inside the house and flick the porch lights on and off a few times. Still no reaction – just continues hitting his head. So instead, I say his name – but I'm pretty startled when even that direct approach fails. I try it a few more times, but Tom seems utterly lost in his own...banging head.

Finally, I lean over the railings separating the porches and grope for his arm, nearly shouting at him, "Oi! Tom!"

He suddenly snaps out of his little spell, though the way his gapes at me when he whirls around looks like he's never seen me before and is shocked to see anyone else around him at all.

"What?" he hisses threateningly, stepping back out of my reach.

Faltering, I blink a few times. "Um...Hey, I just... What're you doin' up?"

He squints at me, then blinks harshly, shaking his head like snapping back to life. "What?" he repeats, this time sounding more like himself, but very confused.

So I feel a bit more comfortable being myself. "The fuck, mate? You gone mad? Why you hittin' your head? And Jesus, doesn't anyone believe in coats anymore?"

"Hm?" Tom seems distracted, and even if he's stopped banging his head, he still sways back and forth in his spot. He reaches his right arm around his back and clasps his left wrist, staring out at the falling snow as he seems to mentally drift further away from me.

"Tom?" I urge, stepping closer.

He jerks around to face me again, as if he forgot I'm right here. "Oh... Got hot..." he mumbles, suddenly remembering my comment. "I just... needed to... get some air..."

At this I feel an inexplicable flush come over me, a thought taking shape in my head that I don't want to acknowledge. But it's there, growing bigger and bigger the longer there is a silence between us. I glance out at the snow briefly, then back at him. "Hot?" I repeat, and inside I feel myself trembling a bit. It's unfair, really. Why should I be the one to feel uncomfortable here? But I can't not know anymore. I've always suspected, what with the way Matt goes on about him, and how easily Tom's smile comes whenever Matt speaks... Okay, so, apart from today, his smile comes easier than an American on Viagra. But still, the idea in my head, the fact that Tom is staying there tonight... And now, he's out here, cooling down...

Fuck.

"Um... Hey," I begin, clearing my throat awkwardly. "Uh... You and Matt weren't, by any chance... you know..." I cringe at the mere thought of it. Not that it makes me cringe, but the thought of Matt... With anyone else...

Oh, hello. Where did you come from, sudden and strange thought?

To my great – and confusing – relief, Tom whirls to me, looking utterly blown away by the suggestion. "What? Me `n Ma—No! No, no, nothin' like that." He squeezes his wrist tighter and winces. "No, not interested in him like that, mate. Besides, he's been asleep since eleven."

I literally let out a long breath, then move past my paranoia to deal with Tom's dilemma. "And you haven't?"

He shrugs, staring back out at the snow in a daze. "...Can't sleep... Head's gone all..." He makes a weird orb-like shape with his hands, then mimes an explosion – complete with sound effects from his mouth of something crumbling.

I nod in understanding. "Y'got a headache? You sure you're not sick, mate? You been off all day—"

"No, no – not sick like that, anyway..." he adds in a mumble, and starts rubbing the back of his neck as if in pain – of course, because he is in pain, apparently. "No," he sighs wearily, not paying much attention to the words coming from his mouth. "If I don't stick to my schedule, I get weird... Get migraines `n shit... Bloody fuckin' awful migraines," he moans as he slumps against the railing between us, slowly sinking down to a crouch. "An' that's before I go completely mental."

I try to study him curiously, especially with that last utterance, but it's difficult to look at him at this angle. But I think I understand something of what he's saying. "Oh... Y'got a migraine?"

He slumps down fully on the railing, knees hitting the porch, and sighs, "Like y'wouldn't believe..." He comes to a complete kneeling position, pressing his forehead and arms against the frozen railing. He must be in real agony to not even notice how cold that is against his skin – or maybe it feels like a relief to him in his current state.

The poor guy seems like he's in such agony that I can't help but feel bad for him. I gesture to my front door. "Uh, my mum gets them too. Maybe she's got somethin' you can take—"

"Nooooo," he groans, a small chuckle in his voice. "Nothin' she's got will help me." There's a tone of utter hopelessness to his voice, and it makes the worrywart in me grow to an adult age. Besides, I may be nice to him now, but I've always suspected there was something a little off about this bloke. And now that he's practically confirming it for me, whatever "it" is, I feel a bit bad for suspecting it. If that makes any sense.

"Hey, uh... Tom?" I lean over the railing, looking down at him cautiously. "You sure you're not... I mean, is there somethin' you're not tellin' us? `Cause, I mean, it's like there's somethin' goin' on... with you in particular..."

Startling me, he lifts his head abruptly, staring straight at me with a hint of a grin twisting his lips. "Yes," he states matter-of-factly, though his voice is a tad raspy. "There's a secret I'm keeping from you. But if I were to tell you, it would be a secret no longer," he adds cryptically, shuffling around in his spot, presumably to try and get comfortable again in another position.

Oh, so it's a game to him, even if it's all true. Great. Smartass. I scoff, waving him off. "Fine, whatever, mate – go `head `n keep your bloody secret – everyone's got a bloody secret to hide..." I fire the last of my cigarette out into the front yard and start back to my front door.

"Oh?" asks the slumped form on Matt's porch, peering up at me lazily. "Who else?"

"Ant," I sigh as I open the screen door.

Before I know it, Tom's launched himself back up to his feet, no more trace of playfulness to his voice as he demands, "What about Ant?"

I wave towards the second floor of my house. "He's up in my room right now. Keepin' his own bloody secret, even if it gets him all bloodied up—"

He cuts me off by leaning forward and snatching my wrist sharply, yanking me towards him, his face etched in a perfect expression of panic. "Tell me exactly what you mean by that," he orders, his tone sharp and severe.

But I don't let his sudden shift in attitude daunt me. "No," I answer haughtily. "Not until you tell me—"

He seems to know exactly what I'm about to say – because, with no other prompting, before I can even get the words out of my mouth, he releases his grip on me. "Fuckin' hell – fine – you wanna extort it outta me?" And he shoves his naked arm in my face, particularly his wrist. "Here – that what you wanna know so badly?"

I cringe and bat at his hand, not even put off by the dangling metal around his wrist. "So you wear a bracelet, so what? You're afraid of that? That's why you're always playin' with your wrist when you get nervous? Loads `a guys – even straight ones – wear jewelry these days, don't know why you'd even bother if you get so nervous about people seein', it's no big—"

"Not just the bracelet, you twat," he snaps, and shoves the thing back at me – specifically towards my eyes. "This ain't my bloody choice. Read the bloody thing. You wanna know my secret, just bloody read it."

"All right, all right, Jesus," I huff, swatting at his flailing hand until I get it under control enough to not smack myself in the face. It takes me a few moments, especially by the dim light, but eventually I manage to make out the etchings on the bracelet. I realise what he's trying to make me see, a single word he seems to be so protective of. Bold and striking – and it certainly strikes me in a completely different way than I'd ever expected...

"...Jesus," I breathe, blinking rapidly when I note the official medical alert symbol. Now that is certainly not a fashion statement. "Tom... I..." I look up at him, dumbfounded. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

But my shock is nowhere near as pressing, apparently, as his concern. He snatches his wrist back, bracelet and all, and snaps, "Forget it, okay? Nevermind me. Now you know my secret, so what's wrong with Anthony?"

I feel so odd now, seeing as the jokes I'd made before are now...well...confirmed. A true, bona fide certifiable...nutcase? But he still doesn't strike me as one, not seriously, anyway... And now I feel sorta bad for all those times I joked about it... But that penetrating glare he's giving me is not at all perturbed by my old slurs and my current discomfort. He shakes me sharply to snap me back to reality.

"Um...Well, he showed up here about an hour ago, no coat or nothin', lookin' beat up," I blurt out, trying to push the awkward situation aside to concentrate on Anthony's problem. "Tried to tell me he got jumped in the park up by the library, but...I just don't...I don't think that's what hap—"

Tom scoffs, "Of course that's not what happened – goddamnit," and before I can do or say anything, he sits on the railing on his side, then swiftly swings both his legs over to my side and slips onto my porch.

Bloody hell. To have legs that long... Bastard.

But as I'm thinking this, he shoves himself between me and my front door, plowing by me and into my house. I follow after him, trying to keep up.

"Oi, Tom! Wait! What're you—"

He pauses in the middle of the living room to spin back to me, rambling in a shaky voice, "I need to see him, okay? Please? It's my fault, I left him there even though he told me..."

I stop abruptly, taken aback by the sudden tears in his eyes. He's breathing heavily, as if holding back his own panic.

"I left him alone, Nick, I left him even though I knew – this is my fault—" His typically smooth baritone cracks, putting me off even more.

Is this really the same goofy, easy-going Tom it took me so long to actually like? Something really terrible must be going on to render that twit into... this.

"So... So I'm right?" I whisper, leaning closer to him. "It's his dad, ain't it?"

He presses his lips together tightly, avoiding my gaze. After a silent moment, a tear falls from one eye, completely missing his cheek, and he chokes out, "He cornered me the other night at his house. We... We sort of...told each other our secrets... He tried not to mention his father but I figured it out for myself. Promised not to tell anyone else..."

"Great," I huff, throwing my arms in the air with exasperation. "Now you're off your meds and havin' migraines before your brain explodes, and his dad beat the shit out of him."

Tom winces, clutching his wrist again automatically. "I know, I know," he groans, obviously regretting the past weekend with all he has in him. I think he might even be shaking. "It was stupid, we were stupid – but please, you know now—"

"Now! After you're both put in some kind of danger!" I hiss at him angrily. "What the hell good is that!?"

"Look," he says, gaining enough control of himself to take my arm – neither groping nor merely patting, but a sturdy hand holding me to get my attention. And when I look up at him, his eyes are shining with more tears, but he's got a definite determination in them as well. "I'm sorry, Nick. I'm sorry we cut you and Matt out from these things. But really..." He lets go of me, his expression changing to pitiful as he holds up his bracelet again. "Is this really something you'd want to tell everyone you know? Especially people you've just met and want to like you?"

I stare at the bold words on the bracelet, reconsidering his position...and finally sigh, "I guess not...not if I didn't trust them enough," I add bitterly, "even after over a month—"

He drops his arms and holds his hands out helplessly. "Well, I guess you could say I trust you enough now."

"How!?" I explode on him. "You only told me because you wanted to know about Ant—"

"So what's that tell you!?" he fires back immediately, just as stern as me.

I pause, the realisation nearly choking me before I can speak. I swallow hard as I look up at him and recognise a similar feeling I've been hiding inside myself for a while now – maybe even from myself, if I'm to be completely honest.

"You really care about him."

He nods somberly, adding, "And if I trust you enough to let you know that much, I think you should still feel glad that I trust you with something. Please, Nick – please let me see him?"

I let out a long breath. Of course I'm gonna let the bloke see him. I was going to anyway. Before all the bleeding heart crap...

But it was interesting to see that.

"C'mon," I grunt, leading the way to the staircase. "It may not be much help," I add over my shoulder, "but I'll give you something for the migraine anyway."

The voice behind me is small but grateful – and probably more for the first part than the offer of medicine. "Thank you."

Anthony

The world looks so perfect at night after a snowfall, even in the most decrepit and bland of regions. It doesn't matter if you despise the cold, hate being wet, or are terrified of leaving the safety of a four-walled room with a roof. You must take at least a few moments to gaze out upon those layers of pure, brilliant, untouched white slopes – before they are marred by the clumsiness of humans. An entire world, or at least it seems, willingly engulfed by inhuman, frozen crystals. Dazzling to the naked eye; bloody freezing to the touch.

In a way, I suppose I liken myself to the snow. May be nice to the eyes for some others, but nothing to force yourself to be close to for very long. A passing fancy, or maybe a slight fear of it, for the dangers it could bring. Cold and unable to be truly known. Rigid. Quiet. Frozen.

Nick and Matt have known me for years. But neither of them dared to push this acquaintance too far. Whether it was from disinterest or fear, on either their parts or my own, we've simply kept a distance between us. Never got close enough to them to divulge much past the undeniable fact that my mother died, and those two are compassionate enough – despite Nick's rugged exterior – to try and help me along with that from time to time. Or just because of who and how I am – a "freak" to the norm around these parts – and not just because of my orientation, but other things... They always did keep an eye out for me, for their own reasons, though not quite to the point of valiance or self-sacrifice. Nor have I ever expected them to – who wants to risk their own neck when they know they'll get beaten just as badly by those more ignorant? We would see each other at school, huddle together like pups surrounded by wolves, and once in a while outside of it – usually Matt's mum nagging him to invite me over for dinner to ask after my family. Sort of watching out for each other. But never so much as after Tom came to town.

It's so strange. Things have changed so much since that tall bloke moved here, then squeezed his wiry way into our band of midgets. Seriously, amongst the three of us shorties, he's the freak. But it's good to have a tall mate around – despite the fact that he is, according to his own words, so out of shape that he's breathless just climbing a staircase. (I've yet to witness this, but the man is all long, lithe limbs and wild curly hair, so it's nothing to do with being overweight – I'd say, perhaps like myself, probably malnourished.)

Well, maybe things haven't changed so much overall, but certainly for me. I haven't been nagged, teased or taunted at school since that day he stood up for me. The fact that he did that at all is amazing to me, but that wasn't the first time I felt myself go tense and shy around him. More so than usual, that is. I'm nearly always tense and shy, but apart from my social phobia, there's an actual reason why I feel so flustered around him. I felt that initial shock of... "Wow, now here's someone unique, someone I actually like"... That happened the very first time he sat next to me in class to share a textbook. Of course, I could barely speak, only giggled at his jokes and smiled timidly at his naturally open nature. Envious of how comfortable he seemed inside himself.

I didn't know at the time why he seemed that confident, but I imagine that's what the real Tom would be like if he wasn't afflicted by that troublesome illness. His medicine keeps him "normal" – as "normal" as he can be, but he's probably not that "normal" to begin with. Which is just one reason I like the bloke.

Obviously there's been no one to confide in about these new feelings. I've known since I can remember what – who – I am and whom I'm attracted to. But I never felt it this strongly for someone in "real life," someone I actually know, someone who's only ever spoken to and treated me so much differently than anyone else ever did. Like I'm someone special – like I matter. Even Matt and Nick aren't that attentive to me. I never minded them being like this, I was just glad they acknowledged my existence at all. But to have someone actually think about me... The way Tom was so concerned for me the other night... The way he stood up for me that day against the daft pricks... No one's ever done that for me before. It's so new to me. I'm not sure what to make of it, really.

Yes, I've gotten closer to Matt and Nick since Tom showed up and sort of forced our group together more tightly. But I'd still never confess to them just what exactly goes on inside me, my head or the involuntary bodily responses, when Tom's around. Or when I think of him. The only bloody reason I was able to communicate with him as much as I did on Saturday night was because I was drunk.

Liquid courage.

But I'm kidding myself if I even entertain the idea of letting anyone else know. Most of all, him. Some ridiculous voice inside me keeps calling out for me to speak up more whenever we have a small moment together – but, bloody hell, I just feel lucky to be his mate.

It's been quite jarring to actually have friends, really. And when my panic set in tonight, the only place I could think of to go was...well, here. I'd been hoping one of them would be up, so it was a relief to see the flickering light of the telly in Nick's window. I would have hated to wake anyone on account of my own problems.

Yes, there were some grains of truth to the lies I told Nick. I sense he suspects the actual events, but there isn't any point in discussing it. Tomorrow I'll go home and things will go back to normal, like it never happened. Even if...it never happened this badly before.

I'm scared. God help me, I'm scared. Of going home, of talking about it, of acknowledging how bad it's gotten...of thinking maybe he won't let me come home again. Maybe he meant all those things he said tonight. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was anger or shock...

I actually don't know this time. That terrifies me.

But at least right now I'm comforted by the lovely snow still falling outside. I couldn't sleep, despite being exhausted from the adrenaline-fueled run to Nick's, so I've curled up at the corner of his bed, staring out the window, using the cold, cold glass in place of the ice pack he gave me.

The night sky is violet, full of clouds that won't stop sprinkling us with the light flecks of ice, but also so full of such colour. How can it look like morning when it's just past midnight? So bright, the clouds diffusing what light there is from the moon and stars, reflecting back the dim shine of the city.

It looks like an almost alien sky, or some post-apocalyptic atmosphere. And it's beautiful.

The more I sit here and stare longingly up at it, the lonelier and smaller I feel. Somehow it's a comforting sensation – something familiar. That hole inside that can never be filled. It makes my stomach churn and my hands shake, unconsciously reaching to scrape at still raw scratches and cuts, but I embrace it, because it's what I know. And right now, I'm not sure of anything. What I'll do tomorrow, if I should go home, what he'll say or do – I just don't know. But this loneliness, this, I know. And plucking at the sores on my arms, scraping open the fresh slices on my cheeks, blood streaking the window when I press my face against it – it makes me feel something. When I'm so full of everything that it feels like there's nothing there, when I've gone numb from feeling too much in one short blast of hysteria, this pain is what brings me back. It reminds me that I still exist, my body and mind, right here and now. I'm not falling away into the void. I'm not disappearing from the world. The deadness inside abates, and I can feel again – this pain. It's the only thing I can feel anymore, it seems. And it brings tears to my eyes.

God, why didn't I tell Nick the truth?

And why the hell did I tell my dad?

This is why I should always stay quiet. My mistakes, my stumbling, always brought about by my own damned mouth. And people wonder why I barely speak – because every bloody time I do, something like this happens, and I plunge myself deeper into this pathetic, lonely existence.

Why, Mum? Why did you bother having me? I can't do anything right.

The blood seeps through the sleeve of Nick's shirt and I let out a sharp hiss, grimacing. I shouldn't have done that. I forgot... Yet another fumble from my idiocy.

I close my eyes, ducking my head, and curl into myself, hugging my knees to my chest and burying my face. Even in this dark room, I feel too exposed. Maybe if I fall out this window...

No, it's still too near to the ground. I'd probably end up living, just paralyzing myself so I'd become a huge burden to everyone.

I miss my keyboard. Everything melts away when I'm playing my keyboard. The world dissolves, slips into a realm that gobbles it whole, leaving only me and this random chain of beautiful sounds. Echoing in my ears. Taking the shape of air and purity and enshrouding me. I disappear, and all my worries along with me. No more stomach pains or bruises, no more guilt or sharp stabs to make sure I'm still "there" – that's when I truly don't care if I'm real or not. Becoming lost in a language so old and true that no one can argue with it, coming straight from my head through my fingers and out of those speakers, melodies and chords to make you lose your breath with its honesty, saying so much with not a single word...

I'm so immersed in this longing to feel that sensation that a hand on my arm nearly sends me flying out the window anyway – or, at least, to those around me, makes me snap my tear- and blood-stained face up with a gasp.

The light is on in the room. It takes me a moment to realise this. And then I register the rest of it: Nick, standing by his open door, and Tom, looming over the bed I'm huddled on, reaching over to touch my arm, get my attention. I sit up straighter, heart beating faster in my chest, guts feeling like they're being squeezed with a strap.

"W-Wha..." I try to speak, but I feel like I've lost all my breath. Partly because of Tom's wide green eyes glued to me with such concern, such genuine...caring...and partly because I just noticed how much my rib hurts. Probably bruised. Not broken – that, I would have known, I think. But most likely bruised.

Not even the bullies at school ever kicked me that hard...

Tom sinks down onto the bed slowly, cautiously, as if he thinks I'll shatter if he moves too fast.

"What happened?" he whispers, a catch in his throat I've only heard once before – back when he had to admit there was no way he could hide his secret from me anymore. I try to look closer at him, seeing his perspiration and hearing his ragged breathing.

Is he...scared?

Yes – but not just that. There's something wrong. Not just fear of what I've been through – there's something off about him.

Suddenly my chest feels tighter for a different reason, and my voice doesn't fail me this time as I reach for his damp face and ask, "What's happened to you? You're so..." My gaze darts around inside his, watching him as he watches me. "...scattered," I settle on finally. "You're not together – you're—"

He clutches my wrist and pulls it down, but doesn't let go of my hand as he hisses, "Never mind me – what happened to you? What did he do? How bad is it? Look at you," he groans, carefully brushing some locks of hair away from the reopened wound on the side of my forehead. "What did he do...?"

I swallow fiercely, my eyes widening and glancing past Tom's shoulder to Nicholas, wincing when Tom utters those words.

But Tom must sense my discomfort and informs me, "It's no use, Ant, he already figured it out. I didn't even need to tell him. Apparently you're a terrible liar."

I duck my head, too ashamed to apologise to the very friend who took me in anyway, even if he didn't believe me. Even though he knew I was lying. One more strike to add to my ever-increasing list of humiliating fuck-ups.

"Don't worry about it, mate," Nick assures me when I can't look at him. "You were scared and desperate – it's okay, forget it. No pressure, right? Just...glad I can help keep you safe, that's all." He's clearly not very used to this "expressing your feelings" thing as Tom is, as he mumbles the words sheepishly, like he's embarrassed to say them. But I appreciate the effort.

I nod shakily, but still can't lift my head. After a few moments, Tom turns to him and says something I can't make out, and Nick leaves the room, door still open. Tom turns back to me, gripping both of my hands in his, smearing some blood between them without knowing – or caring, apparently.

"Ant, please tell me. Even if you can't tell anyone else, please...I need to know. It was my fault—"

I snap my head up again, taken aback by his words. "What? Your fault? How could any of this be your fault?"

He avoids my gaze this time, looking pained. "I...I left you...I didn't do anything..."

Something changes inside of me then, as soon as I see him becoming weak and unnecessarily guilty – I take his arms, assuring him firmly, "This was not your fault. You've done nothing but...you've only been my friend, Tom. You had nothing to do—"

He lifts his penetrating green eyes to me and pleads, "Then tell me what went wrong. Tell me what happened. Please. Why did he hurt you?"

I hesitate, and in that moment, Nick returns to the room, carrying a glass of water and nudging Tom's shoulder. Tom barely acknowledges him, keeping his attention on me, and thoughtlessly throws back some pills Nick hands him. I gesture to him when he tries to keep the focus on me, asking sharply, "What's that about, then? I knew something was wrong, I knew it—"

"Ant, calm down," Tom croons at me in that damned soothing voice of his. "Just a bit of a headache, that's all. We can talk about it later. First you have to tell me how you got so beat up."

When he puts it like that, I shrink back a bit, averting my gaze from both of them again. I struggle a bit to get going, but once I start, the words suddenly come gushing out. Along with more blasted tears I can't hold in.

"Andie sent us some money. She always does, every few months or so. Dad's told her not to, but she makes enough, apparently, that it's no problem for her. Dad and I were trying to decide what to do with it. He said maybe getting me some proper clothes – you know, boys' clothes. I said that it was no bother – I thought we should get some cleaners in to get rid of the junk, and I don't mind girls' clothes..."

I break off abruptly, covering my mouth with my hand as the memory flashes through my head. God, what an idiot – why did I even say...?

Feeling Tom slide closer and his arm slink around my back, I catch enough of a breath to go on, my voice quivering, "I said, `In fact, I prefer them – they fit me physically and mentally.' After that, he just..." I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, fighting the urge to pound my head with my fist. "He just flipped. Mad about me calling his junk junk, and pissed because I...well, he kept demanding to know what I meant by the clothes thing, and I told him...God, why did I even say?..." I think I'm hyperventilating now, I can feel my whole body shaking despite the comforting hand on my shoulder. "I said, `C'mon, Dad, like you didn't already know about me...' Well, apparently, he must not have, because he just bloody...lost it. Started after me, yellin' he didn't want no poof son, that I'm sick, I'm not his – I just...came from nowhere, I guess."

My voice is climbing in pitch with every nauseating sentence, my stomach twisting and churning as I recount the horrible incident that petrified me into this pathetic shell. "He just started wailin' on me... Usually, y'know, unless I do somethin' wrong and he hits me for it, it's just an accident, or he don't realise it... But this time...this...time...he came after me... He just... He wanted to..."

"Hurt you," Tom finishes in that low baritone that usually calms me – but hearing him say it, outright say it, just feels like a punch in the chest.

"Y-Yeah," I gasp, nodding my head in disbelief. "I think...I think so..." The tears on my cheeks are fresh now, and rubbing them off hurts.

"You think?" Tom repeats, giving me a squeeze. "Look at you!"

I cringe and bow my head, feeling absolutely stupid for ever trying to defend that man...

"I...I know...But I always thought he...he knew..." I spin around to them, gesturing at myself. "Look at me, I mean, really – look at me, exactly – I don't usually believe in stereotypes, but good God, how could he not know!?"

Nick smirks a bit, but Tom just looks pained again, shaking his head.

"But apparently," I go on, my voice strained, "he was in denial or somethin'...but he couldn't deny it when I outright said it like that. And he just...lost his mind..." I pause, clearing my throat, and shrug helplessly. "When I got a chance, I got meself out th door an' just...ran for it. Din't know where I was goin' at first – just terrified, never thought he'd actually start...that... Like, a real..."

"Beating," Tom supplies again in that morose tone of his.

"Y-Yeah," I whisper, turning my head more to try and catch his gaze. But he's staring down at my blood-stained hands in my lap. "Meant for me. I always thought...Yeah, once in a while he slipped up, but he didn't mean to...or he just lost his temper, but it weren't so bad... Always thought he...deep down, he still..." I feel myself getting choked up again, new tears stinging my eyes. "He still...loved me...but now...I don't even know if that's true...Am I deluding myself? Am I the one in denial? And...And it kills me...`cause if he don't love me...how can anyone else..."

Tom suddenly sits up straighter on the bed, taking me by the shoulders and turning me to face him. And his stare is deep and intense. I can practically see visible green light radiating from his eyes, he's so serious. "Listen to me," he says thickly, "believe me – people do love you...And maybe..." He hesitates, struggling for a moment, then blurts out wretchedly, like he's cursing himself, "Maybe they could've shown it better if...if they hadn't just left you there on your own the other night."

I blink, startled once more by how fiercely he says it, his hands gripping my shoulders so tightly it almost hurts. I return his gaze with a softer, inquisitive one. "Tom?"

At this point, Nick coughs slightly and slips out of the room, closing the door behind him quietly so as not to disturb the current electricity buzzing from our friend.

"I'm sorry," Tom sighs heavily, lowering his eyes and head slowly, slowly, until his forehead comes to rest on my shoulder. His grip is looser, but he's closer to me now, physically closer, holding onto me by wrapping his arms around me entirely. "I'm so sorry...I'm sorry I left you there that night," he says into my chest, his voice muffled, but not so much that I can't tell he's crying. "I should've taken you home with me, no matter what you said or would've tried to do. How could I just leave you there? What kind of friend...What kind of person—"

I can't quite match his display of emotion because he's got me pretty tightly pressed to him, but I manage to twist my head enough to reach his ear and assure him, "You had to get home to take your medicine. I understand."

"But I didn't even get to!" he growls, squeezing me tighter for a moment out of frustration. "My whole schedule's been fucked since then, and I didn't even get to take care of one of the few people I actually give a damn about!" He pulls away a bit, enough to lift his head and look down at me, his eyes brimming with those shining tears of aggravation. "Matt and Nick..." He gently touches my cheek, shaking his head. "They have people who love them besides us. They're fine. But you and me, Ant... You're like me... And why couldn't I see then that nothing else should matter except the safety of the one you love?"

He's not actually asking me, I realise. He's just rambling now. But...the butterflies in my stomach rather like what he's saying.

"Love?" I chuckle softly, shaking my head at him again. "Tom, you barely know me—"

"I know you better than you think," he insists, and the way he says it, the way he looks at me when he says it, makes me believe every word. And I think he's telling the truth. He lowers his hand to brush gently over the sleeve of the shirt now hardened with old blood, obviously referring to how I've just scratched open a cut. "I know why you need to feel that pain. I know why you hide in shadows rather than stand out, even though you should be in the light. I know the confusion and fear abuse can cause. We deal with it the best ways we can, Ant, the best we know how right now – and they're not great ways, but they get us through the day. But maybe now, we can help each other get through, instead of you hurting yourself and me faking everything. Our folks fucked us up, but we don't have to keep doing these things. You can stop reopening your wounds. I can be close to someone as myself – no masks, I promise..." He looks at me with hope in eyes almost as big as my own now. "It could work."

I don't exactly answer, seeing as he hasn't exactly asked a question, per se. But I do respond by laying the clean, undamaged side of my face against his chest, wrapping my own arms around his skinny torso as he takes a deep breath and slides down onto his back.

The minutes tick by in silence, but for the first time in ages, I feel myself becoming calm, relaxed, truly content. The arm around my back is firm and strong, and I feel like I could lie here forever. His embrace is so warm, so tender, and hearing his heartbeat is somehow quietly reassuring.

And then I break the silence by asking softly, "How did...Who hurts you?"

Tom lets out a long breath, more of a sigh of resignation, and answers, "They both do, in their own ways." His voice is less intense than before, but comforting nonetheless – despite his words. "Dad acts like he has no children. Any acknowledgement of me is as a burden – usually takes any little odd thing I say or do and asks me seriously if he needs to call the doctor again." He lets out a bitter chuckle and adds, "He even threatens to lock me up again if I don't do well in school! Because somehow that means I'm going crazy again!"

"...And your mum?"

He hesitates for a long moment, then mutters, "She's...just sick. Sick and twisted alcoholic."

"But...so's my dad. But I do still know he loves me...Well," I correct sadly, "I did before...Now...I'm not so sure...But didn't you ever feel like—"

"She's told me several times before that she considered getting an abortion, even though they were married," he blurts out without emotion, "but only had me because at the time she thought Dad was having an affair and figured having a runt would bring them closer. Who knows if he really was having an affair back then or not? We know now he's had a few. That could've been one of them. But I don't think popping out a screaming brat worked at bringing them together. Especially when the brat turned out batshit crazy."

I cringe, patting his chest with my free hand. "You don't seem very crazy to me."

"Well," he scoffs, "I'm only a little off right now, but a few days without meds, I'll be a gibbering idiot with no idea of who or where I am. So I'm told. I don't remember those times personally, but apparently when I go off, I go so far, I'm out of myself. Scary to think about that."

I lean my head back a bit, trying to get a look at his face. I can't quite make it out, but I manage to ask, "Have either of them ever told you they love you? I mean...my dad...even if he hit me...he always tried to make sure I knew...at least, before..."

He's silent for a long time, then inhales deeply before mumbling reluctantly, "Mum...but not the right way."

I scrunch my nose up at him. "The right way? What's that mean?"

"Well...yeah. The right way. The way a mum's supposed to do it. Honestly, I think she's as nuts as me. Maybe that's where I get it from. Thing is...There's just something very wrong with her. She's said it before, once or twice, that she loved me – but it was in a situation..." He trails off, startling me when he gags slightly before settling down. "She just...shouldn't have said it like that. Not like she did. Or when she did."

I try again to get a good look at his face – but it takes me having to push myself up further on the bed to come level with his eyes, and for once, they are purposefully trying to stay away from mine. There's a strange guilt and shame on his face as he tries to turn away from me, but I'm as relentless as he was with me, not letting him get away with hiding it.

"What are you trying to tell me?" I ask gently.

He smirks and attempts to make me snicker by joking, "It's more what I'm trying not to tell you..."

But I don't take the bait. I stay firm and remind him, "You said no more covering up. No more masks. No more faking."

He drops the funny-guy act and finally concedes – at least to my staring contest. He catches my gaze and whispers quietly, "Ant...this one's really..."

"My dad," I remind him crisply, "made me wear girls' clothes since I was a child and then called me a demented pervert and a disgusting piece of shit when I told him I liked it."

He rolls his eyes, obviously frustrated by my challenge. "It's not something I'm ready to talk about."

At the hurt tone of his voice, I realise that there's such an amount of damage caused by...whatever he's referring to...that he can't even face it himself. And he's faced – and made me face – some very daunting things already. It makes my chest ache to think that this boy's been put through something so very terrifying or torturous that even he can't speak of it.

"It's worse than that?" I say timidly. "Does...Does she beat you?"

"No," he admits. "But...I've hit her for what she's done to me."

He turns his head and catches my eye briefly at that point, and for some strange reason – maybe the way he says it, the tone of his voice, the cocked eyebrow that quickly darts back into position, that bitter sarcasm that covers his pain, maybe even some kind of psychic connection – I start to form a plausible picture in my head...and it's not a very pleasant one.

A sharp breath overtakes my lungs, and I hazard, "Is she why you prefer men now, even if you claim you're bi?"

He blinks, startled by my sudden apparent mind-reading skills. "Huh?" He truly sounds baffled, but not in the way that he has no idea what I'm talking about – in fact, the exact opposite.

I can't hide the pain I feel for him on my face, and I lower myself down to his chest again. "It's okay. You don't have to talk about it."

He sighs, sounding as if he's been defeated. His voice strained, he asks, "You know, don't you?"

I only reply, "If you're not ready to talk about it, I won't push it."

But to him, that means I've figured it out. Which, I believe, I have. "I was drugged at the time," he rasps, clutching me tighter to him. "I didn't...want to..." His breathing starts to become ragged again, and I stroke his chest to calm him. "I never wanted...I would never...I feel sick..."

Instead of letting him fall back into some memory that brings on a panic attack, like I nearly had earlier when recounting what my father had done to me, I slide up into a sitting position and pull him into my lap, stroking his hair as he tries to catch his breath.

"Then let it go," I whisper as I lean over to reach his ear again. "Just let it go. Just be with me, right here and now. Nowhere else, just with me."

And with a small, apologetic whimper, he closes his eyes and melts into my somewhat awkward embrace, holding onto me. Just the two of us, two broken, twisted kids, holding onto each other...because no one else would understand.

Nick

So now it's almost midnight and I've basically been pushed out of my own bedroom. Okay, not that I was going to sleep there anyway, but even if I wanted to now, there's no chance I'd interrupt those two. Whatever they're doing. And do I really want to know what they're up to?

Well, maybe just a bit, just out of curiosity. But overall, no – my typical cynical side says I don't care because that soppy shit doesn't sit well with me, let them have it; but my honest side reluctantly admits that I don't want to interfere on an obviously tender situation which I'm simply not a part of. The two of them just seem to fit each other in what they both need and want right now. And who would want to challenge that?

But really, what the hell kinda crap is that!? All that sensitivity and caring and being so bloody easy with it all... What the hell is this crazy kid? Came here from who-knows-where, and suddenly everything's changing, everything's coming out – in a manner of speaking. Who knew Ant could be so emotional? But I guess if anyone was going to draw it out of him, it would be the mysterious "stranger" with his own set of fucked-up issues who seems to know how to handle Ant and his problems.

Fuck, the rest of us didn't even know Ant had these problems until Tom came along.

And who the hell even talks like that!? We're fucking teenagers! We're teenage boys! What's all this bollocks about letting someone cry on your shoulder, babbling about protecting someone, all this gushing bleeding heart crap? Where the fuck did Tom even come from!?

And all the while I'm thinking this, I completely bypass the couch and head for the door, the nagging thought in the back of my mind that Tom's surely left Matt's house unlocked, so it won't be like I'm breaking in or would need to wake anyone up with knocking. And without thinking about it – my brain filled with how ridiculous and adult the other two are being, how absurd it is for guys our age to "bond" over our "feelings" – I walk straight outside and climb the railings between our porches, attempting (and failing) to mimic Tom's previous motions from not too long ago...and I momentarily envy his long legs again, as I have to actually climb as opposed to his apparently nonchalant swinging from one porch to the other – to end up at Matt's front door.

I'm right in that the door is still unlocked, but as I let myself inside, I'm still grumbling to myself over how insane Tom and Ant are for being so bloody...

Well, I guess they both have it a bit rougher than some of us, and maybe the stress on both ends of their predicaments is enough to render them into such...

I can't even get myself to think it – my own pity for them holding me back.

Pathetic, weak crybabies... It's what I want to say, but I just can't. Because their problems are true and valid and...hell, they've been dealing with them for so long, it's amazing it took either of them this long to break.

On the contrary, I'm rather impressed. That Tom can blurt out all those things and really feel them, so passionately...where once I would've called him a psychotic, flaming wuss – I just can't now. Now even in jest.

Fuck. I fucking admire the guy for his honesty, for his openness and not caring what the rest of the world has to say about it.

That's why I may feel awkward when I sneak into Matt's room and flick on the light to wake him up, but there's a certainty in my mind now – no...my heart, if I'm to be as honest as Tom is – and I can't let myself go back on it now.

Especially when I see the messy dark-haired head lift from the pillow, pale hands rubbing blearily at puffy eyes I know to be a brilliant, gorgeous blue underneath, and Matt finally looks at me in such adorable confusion that I know there's no mistaking what I feel right now. What I've felt since...

Hell. I've felt this for years. Covering it up with that careless teasing. Will he even take me seriously? I wonder.

"Nick?" His voice is hushed, a bit slurred from sleep, but at least he knows it's me. "What're you—"

"Look, Matt, there's been a slight change of plans," I explain briefly. "Ant needs to stay at my place tonight, and, uh... Well, let's just say that right now, Tom's the one he needs beside him. And...I think Tom kinda needs him too."

Matt sits up in his bed, wiping at his eyes again, completely oblivious. He looks around his room wildly, slowly coming around. "Whu? Where's Tom—"

"They're both at my place. I'll explain more later, but first I need to clear something up with you."

He gives up on his search for Tom from his bed, gaze settling finally on me. He looks wiped out, but only because he's just woken. "Clear up? With me? What, y'don't like Tom again?"

I sigh and roll my eyes, approaching his bed after shutting the door all the way. "No – of course I like Tom. It's nothing to do with him – or Ant. It's about you and me. I haven't been clear. At all."

He scratches at his disheveled black locks, yawning, then manages, "Oh...you need to stay here then? That's fine..."

Still not registering that there's something I want to...discuss? No – I'm not up for discussing, I realise as I lower myself onto the bed. "Thanks. But, um, there's more."

He motions to the air mattress Tom had been sleeping on. "Tom was using it, but since I see he's gone, it's up for grabs..."

I roll my eyes again. "I'm not sleepin' on the bloody air mattress!" I hiss, startling him.

He pulls a face of exaggerated bewilderment. "Okay then, oh prince, then I will," he starts as he tries to slither off the bed. "But really, it's not that uncomfortable—"

I catch him around the waist before he's off the bed and pull him back – surprising him a bit, I think, when I don't let go. "No – Matt, I mean...we can both fit on the bed."

He glances over his shoulder at me, clearly stunned. "Oh...but you said before you felt weird doin' that—"

Just the jumbled look in his lovely blue eyes makes me pause, taken aback by how endearing that utter confusion he usually has etched on his face can be. It makes me smirk a little. "Well, maybe I changed my mind," I utter softly, and, realising just how close our faces are, I nudge forward a bit and dare to brush my lips over his – softly, not demanding, but enough to make my true intentions clear.

Matt starts to lurch back, but then hesitates, letting me be the one to pull away first. When I do, his eyes are wide and set on me, absolutely stunned. "Uhh...Nick? W-What exactly..."

As cute as he is when he's baffled, I can't stand to hear him jabber on when I know exactly what I want to do. "Look, can we just not talk so much and just..." I trail off, my gaze drifting to his open lips – and all at once, I'm unable to keep myself holding back as I pull him closer to me, kissing him full on, even reaching a hand up to lock into that mess of dark locks to keep him still so I can deepen it. He lets out a small yelp from his throat, but when I take a peek, his eyes are closed and he's just as lost in the kiss as I am.

But a few moments later, he struggles to pull away from me, eyes flickering spastically. "W-W-Wait a second," he blurts out breathlessly, and I notice he's only pulled his head back – he's still wrapped firmly in my arms, and isn't trying to break free of that. "Hold on... D'you mean you...you wanna..." He raises his eyebrows, his eyes themselves like saucers, staring straight at me in disbelief. He points to himself. "With me? Right...Right now?"

I can't keep the cheeky smile off my face. "Yeah. Hit the nail on the head, genius. Any objections?"

Matt finally slips out of my grip, suddenly off the bed and pacing around his room, staring at the floor with wide eyes as he twirls a stray lock of hair around a twitching finger. "Uh... Well..." He stops in front of me – half a room away, but still in front of me – and finally catches my gaze, smiling sheepishly. Like he doesn't really believe me. "Nick," he spurts out, his voice trembling with a giggle and nerves, "where'd this come from? The past four years it's been `oi, mate,' `oi, mate,' `oi, mate'," he rambles, his tone switching from usual to a bad impersonation of typical teens. Then he barrels on normally, "Now suddenly, you're all `let's geddit on'? I mean...when did you...how long have you..."

"Since we met," I answer easily, sighing slightly as I look up at him from the bed. And every twitch, every tic, every spastic jerk he makes only causes me to be more certain of my own words – my own feelings. I can't help but smile at the little twit. If he were more adorable, I'd have to punch him – except I couldn't bear to see a bruise on that goofy face. That lovely, sweet, cheerful, goofy face.

But right now, he's staring at me with a not-so-goofy expression. More like...shock. "That long?" he whispers, taken aback.

I shrug, trying my hardest to seem nonchalant. "Yeah. But I knew you wouldn't be up for it then, so..."

"Nick!" he suddenly cries, and the look of dawning realisation now twists into disgust. "Oh, sick!"

I back-pedal quickly, sitting up straighter at this unexpected reaction; not that I truly expected him to so easily come launching into my arms or anything...(despite my true hopes)...but that face of pure illness sets me on edge. "What?!" I demand sharply, suddenly wishing I hadn't been so bloody eager and open – like I could ever be Tom...

But then Matt's idiotic words ring in my ears and all settles back down inside my fluttering gut. Just Matt being Matt. "We were twelve, Nick! Still playin' with our Star Wars toys `n shit! Twelve! That's just...ew!"

I relax again, chuckling, "So I had my sexual awakening a bit earlier, so what? It's been four years now – almost five. So now what? Not so sick now, is it?"

He peers at me awkwardly, arms crossed over his chest and eyes squinted warily. "Well...when you put it like that..." He drops the dismayed act – as well as his arms – and a shy smile starts to creep onto his pretty face instead. "Okay, so now it's less `ew' and more..." He snickers and swings a curled arm in the air to indicate some kind of victory. "`Hey, cool!'"

I laugh out loud, leaning back on the pillows on his bed and making myself comfortable. I fully expect him to bound in next to me after that...but he stands motionless above me, another awkward look passing over his thin face.

"B-But still..." he stammers, regarding me shakily.

I return his gaze, more firm and exasperated than anything else. "What now?" I sigh.

"Well...I, uh...I've never really, um..."

"Nor have I!" I remind him. "I figured, we've been mates a long time, we pretty much know each other – we can work around it, right?"

He winces, shifting a shoulder upwards in consideration, but still hesitates. "Well, I don't think I, uh...have anything...y'know...to help—"

I realise what he's getting at and instantly point to the small table beside his bed. "I'll bet you five quid right now if I open that drawer, there's be some kind of baby lotion or oil or—"

He cringes again, backing away a bit. "Ew!"

I sit up straighter on the bed, growling, "What now?"

He puts his hands up in defence. "Well, first of all, you're sick, and I don't do that..."

I let out a halting cackle, even throwing my head back for effect. "Oh please, you're a gay sixteen-year-old boy, Matt, of course you do."

He looks perfectly insulted, arms over his chest again, and challenges, "You're saying all gay sixteen-year-old boys wank off?"

I sit up further and edge closer to the dresser, causing him to tense a bit. "I'm saying," I correct with a snort, "all boys wank off."

He holds out a hand pleadingly. "But even if I did – which I don't – I do not want that shit up my arse!"

That makes me burst out laughing again, and I point out, "What!? You use it on your junk all the time—"

"Do not!"

"Besides," I continue, sliding off the bed to stand upright, "people have stuck way more freakish things up their bums than baby oil – without lube."

He pulls a face of mixed astonishment and horror. "Really? Doesn't that...hurt?"

I gesture to him, to his tiny, scrawny frame. "For you it would! You cry when you get a bloody splinter!"

"Oi! I do not cry!" he wails pathetically – and then hunches in on himself, glancing around surreptitiously. "My...eyes just water up a bit—"

"That's called crying, genius," I deadpan.

He drops his arms to his sides again, stiffly and furiously. "Those things hurt! And your...y'know..." He waves at me, particularly my groin. "...thing...it's a helluva lot bigger than a splinter!"

I put my head to the side, grinning widely. "Aw, well, thank you for the compliment..." I straighten again and start to turn towards the bedside dresser. "But who's to say it was gonna be you anyway?"

At this, he pauses, suddenly not as interested in diverting my attention as before.

"Oh? Oh! Oh, well, in that case, nevermind—"

"I'm lying," I inform him casually, kneeling down. "It was gonna be you all along."

He stomps a foot like a child. "Nicholas!"

"Now c'mon," I snap, fighting with the drawer. "Quit screwin' around so we can screw around." The drawer finally gives and I slide it out easily – smirking as soon as I see the baby oil. I pick it up and turn to him with an impish grin, waving it around knowingly. "Matthew..."

He's biting his thumbnail anxiously, averting his eyes. "I...like to have soft skin..."

I stand up and slam the drawer shut with my foot, groping for his arm. "Oh, will you shut up already..."

Tom

The faint sounds of laughter and whooping are what wake me Tuesday morning, and my eyes flicker reluctantly open at the shining sun blazing through the window of what at first strikes me as an unfamiliar bedroom. It takes me a few moments to recall the events of the night before, but then I realise I'm still in Nick's bed, and Anthony is still resting languidly on my chest. Though, when I glance down, I see that his eyes are open as well, and he glances up at me with a smirk.

"The boys are up early today."

I reach up to rub my eyes, and he sits up to allow me to do the same, gesturing to the window. Once I've gotten my bearings, I look outside.

The streets and neighbourhood are still covered in blankets of pure white snow, piles of it, but just in front of the very close houses belonging to Matt and Nick's families, the two boys have already succeeded in digging out half of my covered car. Throwing ice and snow at each other and stumbling around in their parkas and big boots in the process.

I chuckle under my breath and remark, "Well, why not let `em finish the job, they seem so eager..."

Ant giggles and pulls me back down onto the bed, snuggling close again. It's definitely what some would call a "snow day" for us – no lessons, he tells me, as he's been up nearly all night and all morning, perhaps an hour or so of actual sleep – and neither of us feels up to the challenge of hauling around a snow shovel. We'll just pretend we slept through it all – the boys sound like they're having fun anyway, why ruin that?

Besides, I notice as we settle back onto the bed, Ant certainly looks like he hasn't slept much. There are ever so slight dark lines under his eyes, and his face looks a bit sallow, making the bruises from last night's beating all the more obvious. I wince as I see them, and in doing so I'm reminded of the migraine that had been threatening to overwhelm me. It's still there, hedging around at the back of my head, but right now it's just a dull ache, nothing I can't cope with for the time being. Perhaps those pills Nick had given me really did work, to an extent.

But there's no denying I do have to get home soon to start back on my usual diet of anti-psycho meds. I'll bet these lot here would definitely appreciate that.

The two of us continue to doze for another half hour or so, snickering occasionally at the indecipherable hollering from Matt and Nick outside, but eventually I make the decision to get up and moving. Ant seems perfectly all right with that, and he joins me as I make the trek outside to see what all the noise outside is about.

Neither of us has a coat to wear at the moment (or, in Ant's case, at all), so when we step out onto Nick's porch in only the same clothes we've slept in, the chill in the air makes us both huddle into ourselves.

"Oi!" I call to the idiots still uncovering the rest of my car. "It's too early for all that, let the dead sleep, will ya?"

Nick pauses, shovel in his hands, and grins up at us. "Oi," he shouts back, "quit whingin' an' be grateful – we've been diggin' this thing up for over an hour for you!"

"We know," I call back. "We can hear you!"

"Tom!" comes the impossibly loud whine from the other side of my car, and Matt pops his head up over the bonnet. "Will you give him a thrashing already!? He's stuck ice down me trousers at least three times!"

Nick grins wickedly and raises his eyebrows at me and Ant. "Well, y'know, I'm doin' him a favour – don't want it to get too sore after last night..." But he's cut off by a flying ball of snow, smacking him directly in the back of the head.

"Ahh," I muse in understanding. "Had a bit too much fun, did we?"

"Blimey!" Matt wails, giving chase to his partner, shovel raised high in the air. "Just yell it out for the whole street to hear!"

Nick cackles loudly, even as he skids away from the threat that is his apparently livid new lover, and announces, "I will! Bloody hell, you're all embarrassed, but fuck it, mate, I'm happy!"

I giggle a bit at the raucous display, then turn to Ant, gesturing to Matt's house. "How `bout some place with a bit more heat, then, eh? Me coat `n trainers are in there."

Anthony, smiling widely despite the troublesome and painful-looking blotch of purple on the left side of his face, nods obligingly and starts for the steps – but I stop him, catch him under his frail arms, and pull him against my chest. Then I startle him further by doing my simple sit-and-swing over the railings to Matt's porch, this time with him in my lap like a child. He laughs outright, much shorter legs hitting the porch seconds after mine do, and swats at my arm.

"Oi, I know I'm small, no need to rub it in, y'bean pole."

I tousle his two-toned hair affectionately. "I can't help it – I think you're adorable, all small `n sweet like that."

He exaggerates a bristle and glares up at me. "Small – yes. Sweet – that still remains to be seen..."

"Of course," I assure him, clearly patronising. "Wouldn't want to upset the Chihuahua – might get a nasty bite."

He glances over his shoulder at me as he heads for the door, raising his eyebrows in interest. "Hm, might do..."

Not an hour later, the shovel-boys have cleared my car "for launch," as Matt puts it, and the smaller of the two also is gracious enough to lend Anthony a parka, since he arrived last night without one. I'm assuming by now Nick's filled Matt in on the previous night's confusing, troubling events, as even he pays a bit more attention to Ant when his mother offers us all breakfast and Matt insists we all (especially Ant) get a good, hearty breakfast before leaving. It hasn't been stated outright, but I think it's pretty much assumed that Anthony will be leaving with me – at least, that's my own thinking, and no one else objects when I casually say something like "We'd better be off soon." Not even Anthony.

So the four of us tuck into Matt's mum's delicious breakfast, and I can't help but notice, as she lingers around the table a bit, the sad and sympathetic glances she keeps throwing towards Ant as he carefully avoids getting salt in the cut on his lip. She must want to say something to him, to ask after him, but feels hesitant to speak up with his three mates around. So, after disappearing into the kitchen for a bit, she settles for rejoining us towards the end of the meal and subtly standing behind Anthony's chair, her hands gently resting on his shoulders – a concerned mother's touch, that's all. And Anthony glances behind himself, smiling shyly up at the encouraging look in her tearful eyes. He reaches up and pats her hand briefly, assuring her, "Tom's gonna take good care of me," in such a soft voice.

I nod fervently. "It'll be good – maybe the house won't seem so bloody empty now – oh, pardon the language, ma'am..."

"Oh, think nothin' of it, Tom – first I've heard of it from you." She smacks her own son upside the back of his head – just as he's about to chomp down on a forkful of egg – and laughs airily, "I'm sure you've heard the likes of what comes from this one's mouth."

Matt yelps, then scowls at her, attempting again to eat.

"Don't know where the bloody hell he gets it from," she continues wistfully, fluttering back out of the room with a melodramatic sigh.

Nick smirks across the table at his now-more-than-just-friend. "I can only imagine."

There's a thud from under the table when Matt gives him quite a good kick.

"Speakin' of imagine," I cough, glancing at him furtively, "what d'you imagine she'll say when I tell her what you two got up to last night?"

This time the kick's aimed directly for my leg. And it hurts. Bloody little bugger. Forget the headache – I don't know if I'll be able to drive now!

Not long later, Ant and I are creeping along carefully in my car towards the monstrosity supposed to be my house. It's a bumpy and slippery ride, not to mention slow, but at least it's warm, and whenever I glance over to check on him, Ant's watching me with a small, endearing smile. That makes any discomfort disappear, even if the ache in my head is still hanging on. Glad there's no need for anything pressing today, I suggest perhaps having another nap (or a straight-out sleep for Ant, as he didn't sleep much last night) after we get inside. He nods his agreement, and looks perfectly content with the idea – maybe even looking forward to simply cuddling up next to me in bed again.

As if just knowing the kid digs me isn't enough, now I'm certain he'd trust me with his life. Which is flattering, to say the least. If I can help him feel comfortable in any way, that's a plus. But seeing just how comfortable he is with me is more rewarding than I ever thought possible.

Plus his smile is just so damn adorable...

As soon as we're inside, I check to make sure there aren't any parental units around, then scamper up the staircase to my room. I close us in, chucking off my coat and trainers carelessly, invite Ant to do the same, and gesture for him to make good use of the over-large bed I'm usually trying to keep warm in. Two bodies should make it a bit easier now. But first and foremost, I head to my bathroom and grope for my appropriate pills, briefly wondering if I should double up – but then ditching the idea. Don't want to go overboard. I know the headache won't subside all at once, but overdosing isn't an option either.

After assuring myself that all will be right in my head in a matter of hours, I join Anthony in bed and curl up under the heavy blankets. He wasn't kidding when he said he hadn't slept much – a few minutes down, a slight smile still touching his pink lips, he's out like a light against my shoulder.

It doesn't take me much longer to follow suit. Even if I slept longer than him last night, it certainly wasn't enough, apparently.

What feels like hours later, I wake yet again, feeling warm and a tad more rested, but put off a bit that Anthony isn't in bed beside me anymore. I turn over to find the bathroom door open, no light on, so he probably isn't in there. But my bedroom door itself is slightly ajar. I shudder slightly for no apparent reason, just a sudden chill that runs down my spine – and then I realise as I start to sit up that, glancing around, there's no trace of Ant's trainers or the parka Matt loaned him.

This throws me a bit. I start running through possibilities in my head. Maybe he stepped outside for a cigarette? Wait – he doesn't smoke, as far as I know. Maybe he just stepped outside for some air? Blimey – could just stand outside the room and feel a draft of sterile, cold air. Maybe he was hungry and went to find something to eat...and just took the parka with him?

I'm just not getting a very good feeling about this situation as I slowly get out of bed and slip into my own trainers, then step warily out the room and start for the staircase.

I consider calling his name, but the house is so big, my hoarse whisper would be drowned by the sheer size of nothing invading the place. I walk slowly, carefully, around the house, peering in different rooms, wondering if he maybe just went to explore and got lost – wouldn't be that bizarre for this mansion. But no room turns him up, no corridor spits him out, and by the time I finally reach the kitchen, only to find the one person I don't feel like encountering right now, I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

He doesn't seem to be anywhere. Not in the house, anyway.

I eye up my mother, who's sat on a stool by the island counter languidly, sipping her usual glass of wine which isn't fooling anyone – especially considering the bottle itself is set right next to her. I'm at least grateful the tart has some clothes on, even if they're rather scanty and inappropriate for the season. A small white sundress over a slip that comes down a bit too far beneath the dress itself, a thin white cardigan, and bare legs and feet as if she's in the tropics.

I swallow hard and step into the kitchen, as if the patter of my trainers is announcement enough of my arrival. She barely turns her head in my direction, but just that slight movement is supposed to be acknowledgement of my presence.

There's a ghost of an expression of smugness on her half-hidden face, but I don't fail to catch it. I immediately step closer to her, somehow just knowing this is her doing – whatever "this" is. "What's going on?" I demand.

She sips her wine primly, not even glancing my way. "Good morning to you, too, prodigal son. Where did you spend last night? A brothel?"

I squint at her, shaking my head. "A br—what century are you living in, woman? I asked, what's going on?"

She sighs and sets her glass down, finally turning to face me. "Whatever do you mean, Thomas? There's nothing going—"

"No, you know exactly what I mean. Where's Ant?"

She raises her eyebrows at me. "Ant? And who might this Ant be?"

"My friend, Anthony – I brought him home with me this morning – I was stuck at Nick's last night because of the storm."

"Funny," she drawls, feigning ignorance. "I don't remember a phone call, but perhaps you did ring..."

I roll my eyes, staring down at my feet. "Fine. I'm sorry I didn't call. I was feeling a bit ill and didn't think of it – besides," I add bitterly, "it's not like you usually give a damn."

She tsks me, waggling a finger in front of my face. "Language, Thomas."

"Right, whatever. Mum, where is he?" I press, now feeling an urgency to get to the bottom of this.

Again, she deflects, "I've no idea who you're talking about, love. You're collecting insects now?"

"Anthony," I growl, stepping closer. "My friend, his name is Anthony, we call him Ant. I brought him here this morning because it's too dangerous for him to go home. So where – is – he?"

She pauses, letting that smug smile play about her lips again, and finally admits, "Oh, him. Strange little boy-girl, isn't he? I saw him in your bed earlier – eyes barely open. But then he saw me and woke straight up. Yes, I called him out of your room. Thomas, love, you're far too young to have people in bed with you, I couldn't possibly allow that... So I told him he's not allowed there."

"And?" I demand when she doesn't continue.

She drags out the moment by taking another long sip of her wine. "And then I told him to leave."

I glare hard at her, eyes bugging out and muscles tense as I step even closer. "What?"

"I said," she repeats airily, "I told him to leave. Told him he's not welcome here—"

"You did what!?" I yell, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her around to face me – to look me in the eye. "You had no right—"

"I had every right," she snaps back, suddenly less nonchalant and far more waspish. "This is my house, Thomas, and I will not have some strange little thing taking up residence in my son's bed!"

"He's not some strange little thing!" I yell back, still clutching her arm fiercely. "He's my friend!"

"He shouldn't be sharing your bed—"

"Oh, but someone else should? Tell me who that is, Mum," I throw at her.

And that earns me a slap so hard, my grip on her arm is wrenched away. I straighten up, working my jaw around and trying to blink away the sting.

"Calm down, love," she hisses at me, not sounding very calm herself. "There's no need to worry – the snow's stopped, he can catch a bus home."

"No!" I protest, clutching her shoulder now – trying my best not to be too violent, though what I really want is to pound in her pointy nose. Glowering at her, I plead, "You don't understand! He can't go home! He has to – he can't – why would you even do that!?" I blurt out, appalled by her careless nature.

She slaps me again, harder this time, and shoves me away to keep me from grabbing her again. "Because," she snaps, standing from the stool and almost reaching my level as I pull myself to my full height again, "as I told him, he's not welcome here."

My cheek is starting to hurt now, and as I reach up to nurse it, noticing the ache in my gums and teeth, I have it worked out in my head now. Of course one of my friends, someone I care for – someone I actually have deep feelings for – isn't welcome here. Because of those cold, harsh eyes staring back at me, that indignant, condescending expression.

I hiss back at her, "You... You bitch – you told him to get out because you're jealous—"

She smirks, letting out a less than convincing chuckle. "Jealous? Why would I be—"

"Jealous, or mad, or just plain bloody evil!" I shout, backing away from her – and this time she's the one advancing on me. "You saw him, didn't you? You said you saw him lying in my bed, and you wanted him out! Why's that, Mother? It's not because we're too young – it's because it's not you!"

Another smack, this time knocking me back into the doorframe, my lip cutting over my bottom teeth. There's a fire raging in her eyes, and I smile faintly as I regain my footing – I've hit the nail on the head, it seems.

"Can't stand to see your precious little boy with anyone else, eh?" I snarl at her. "What were you even doing in my room!? I was asleep! What gives you the right—"

She grabs a handful of my curls and yanks hard, reminding me, "It's my house and you're my child, I have every right—"

"No," I growl, snatching her wrist and forcing her hand away from my head, even if it pulls my hair with it. "You gave that up when you nearly killed me last year with those drugs—"

Another blow – this time an actual punch to shut me up, not giving me time to finish the rest of the reminder. But she knows exactly what I'm referring to. But even if she has some fight in her, and some power behind those blows, I'm not one for giving in easily either.

"Thomas, love," she mimics herself petulantly, like it's a joke to her that she's a mother at all – certainly had me fooled, at least for a few years. "I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Shut up!" I scream at her, backing further away, out of the kitchen. "Don't call me that! I'm not your `love,' you hear me!?" I look around wildly, ignoring the ache in my head the movement causes. My heart's pounding too hard in my chest, my breath coming wildly, as I realise what this means for Ant. "Oh God, where's he gone, I have to find him—"

She waves the violent hand she used on me carelessly in the air. "He's probably on his way home now. I sent him away over an hour ago..."

"That's just it, you witch!" I march back up to her, eye-to-eye, green-to-green, and tell her angrily, "He can't go home, it's not safe for him there—"

She puffs out a snippet of laughter. "And it is here? With you? Thomas, love, you're ill – you don't need some sexually confused tart coming in here, messing you up even more..."

I freeze in my spot, eyes widening as I digest her words. "`Tart'?" I shoot at her viciously. "Is that what you just called him?"

She shrugs. "Is `tramp' better? Or how about `trash'?"

Maybe I've inherited more than just height and eye colour from the wench; before I can stop myself, the hand beside me flings around, slapping her arrogant face just as harshly as she's been serving me. It knocks her back a bit, and even if it makes me a bit ill to think I'm reacting just as she would, a small twinge of satisfaction shoots through me at seeing her startled face.

"Don't you ever, ever call him another name like that again," I grind out through gritted teeth, "or so help me God—"

"What?" she demands, recovering herself quickly. "You'll strike a woman again? How many times is this now? Come on, Tommy, have a go at your poor old mum—"

"Twice, you cunt!" I yell at her furiously. "Two bloody times! I've lost count how many times you've had a go at me! And how about last year, eh? What was that like!? What's it feel like," I taunt her, knowing it's getting to her as she shivers and looks about helplessly, "tell me that, Mum, tell me what it's like to do what you did to me!"

Maybe I've gone too far – I even feel myself choke off after spitting the words out, and immediately I have to spin around, busying myself with something else rather than think about a year ago. I start pacing back to my room. "Where are my keys? I need my keys—"

"You won't find them up there," she informs me breathlessly, and I spin back to her, staying halfway across the room from where she holds herself up against the door frame.

"Mother!" I yell. "Where are my car keys!?"

She lifts her hand, the familiar chain and gadgets dangling from loose fingers. "You mean these?"

I dare to take a few steps towards her, holding out my hand. "Give `em here."

She suddenly closes her fingers around them, warning me, "No, no, Tommy. You can't drive without taking your medicine first."

"Fine," I sigh, grateful to have the distraction to turn and run from her. "I'll go take my—"

"Oh, no you won't."

"Of course I will! What, you think I don't take them on purpose? That I like being outta my bloody mind?"

"No – you won't take them...because you don't know where they are."

I stop at the other side of the room, spinning back only briefly to see the wicked smile on her face.

My heart pounding harder and faster now, I feel my breath leaving me now too as I piece together her threat – or, rather, what she's just informed me of. I race through the rooms and dash up the staircase, crashing into the door to my bedroom in a panic and jerking around to head into the bathroom.

To my horror – though perhaps not surprise – the cabinet above my sink, as I whip open the mirror door, is completely empty. All those bottles, every pill, every medicine – gone. Utterly bare.

No wonder she'd seen Ant in my bed – finally catching on to my sneakiness, realising I'd taken all my meds into my room...she'd lost that control over me. And whilst I slept, she'd come to take them back. To steal back that shred of control. And whom does she come across? Some small, pretty boy lying in bed with me.

No wonder she cleared the cupboard bare. Talk about vengeance.

Talk about bloody crazy. And now she wants me to be crazy along with her...

I try to catch my breath to start yelling again, demanding to know what's going on – but I don't even get out a word. I spin to head out of the bathroom, but the door is suddenly slammed shut before I have a chance to make a grab for the handle.

"Mum!" I yell, running into the door almost completely by accident.

There's a click, and I grope desperately at the handle. It won't budge. My heart feels like it's racing faster than ever now, and I smack an open hand on the door.

"Mum! What're you doing!?"

"Calm down, love," I hear her through the door. "It's only for a little while, until you turn back to normal."

My eyes feel like they're going to fall out of my head – is she really doing this!? I slam my fist into the door, yanking at the locked door handle. "Mum, open the door! Mother! What've you done!?" True and real panic, gut-wrenching terror bubbling through me as I realise who the real psycho is here. I pound feverishly on the door again, still jiggling the handle to no avail. "Mum! What've you done with my pills!?"

"You've been naughty, Tommy," she croons at me through the door. "Naughty boys don't get their candy."

I can't believe what I'm hearing! Candy? "Mum, it's not bloody candy, they're my bloody pills!" I screech, and pound harder. "Now open the bloody door!"

"Where on earth did you get such a mouth?" she teases.

I pause, trying desperately to calm myself. I really don't know how to work with a crazy person – I've always been the one on the other side! I draw in several deep breaths, and even if that doesn't work to calm me, I try to reason with her in a shaky voice, "I'm sorry. Please, Mum. Please may I have my pills? Please?"

There's a long silence on the other side of the door, until she breaks it with a crisp, "Sorry, love, you need to take a bit of a break, I believe. Maybe a day or two off from school. Get you back to normal after that bloody tart fucked with your head—"

I instantly lose my cool and start pounding furiously at the door with clenched fists. "Open up! Open the fucking door, you bitch! Let me out!"

"Now, Tommy," she coos, "you'll have to calm down and stay that way for a while before mummy lets you out. That's just how things are."

Yeah – not trapped in a loo by an insane, jealous mother...

"You fucking bitch!" Not that it helps much, but at least I can let my true feelings be known, now I'm aware she doesn't plan on letting me out anytime soon. "Get me out of here now!"

"Sorry, love," she sighs, and if I'm not mistaken, it sounds like she's sitting right on the opposite side of the door, leaning against it, making herself right at home in my room. No way she's letting me out of her own accord.

Okay. I'll admit it. No pills. Already messed up from the chaotic schedule anyway. Lunatic mother wants me for herself and won't let me have my meds. Migraine most likely to start creeping back up on me soon – and no help for that either. Migraine, loss of control, and then...then what?

I'm terrified. Which is why I carry on smashing myself into the door, not even thinking about it. Even if it's no use at all.

And then there's the witch, sitting right outside, trapping me herself with her wicked ways. "You've been coasting a bit too long now," she informs me icily. "Time you were put back in your place."

With a stomach full of dread and a head full of throbbing, I pause for a moment to drink in the realisation...I'm stuck here. I'm not going anywhere until that woman on the other side of the door wants me to. My guess is, that's not happening soon enough for me.

CHAPTER SIX: INSIDE THE CURL'S HEAD

Tom

The hum of the light above me is hypnotising. Or would be, if I could concentrate on it. As it is, I simply can't. I've already been through dozens of half-hearted attempts at self-remedy, of course to no avail. I've lost track of time. I've lost track of the migraine, even as it comes and goes. The world – such as it is to me in this tiny, four-walled cramped space – is numb and tingly, vibrating around me. The window near the top of the ceiling was never any help; not only is it too far for me to reach, but even if I could reach it and fit through, it's at least a fifteen to twenty metre drop to the ground outside. I'd break me neck, my luck.

In the panicked moments of gleaning onto what my mother was doing, I'd desperately groped into my jeans pockets for my cell, thinking perhaps Matt or Nick could figure a way to help me out, or at least check on Ant to make sure he was all right – then I remembered I'd left it in my parka, in my room. On the other side of the door. I could have kicked myself. I was livid for quite some time, screaming at my mother, but somehow my anguish only made her laugh – a sour, vengeful laugh. So after nearly losing my voice over the commotion, I gave up, if only for a while, if only to keep from hurting my throat more.

After pounding at the door for hours, running out of steam and then trying to knock again later, patiently, solemnly, apologetically – any way I could think of – my mum was still hell-bent on teaching me some kind of a lesson. I'm not sure what that lesson is, but perhaps it's to do with trying to get a catnap in a ceramic bathtub with a migraine when you're too long to even fit.

I sat on the lid of the toilet for a while, holding my head in my hands, trying to talk to my mother rationally, quietly, telling her my education was important and I needed to at least be prepared for the following day of school. Her dazed giggle was all I got in response, and I gave up that tactic.

I reminded her my father would be home soon, and he would definitely have questions about this. To which she informed me that he had left Monday night – even during the bloody storm – on a business trip and would not be home until the weekend.

What a man. Not even a blizzard can keep him staying home with his family. Such is the way of my father, I suppose. More money to be made, no ice or snow was going to stop him.

That was when I'd given up and huddled into the tub to try and prepare myself for the inevitable pain, discomfort, and overwhelming fear that I knew would overtake me.

At least, that was what I expected. Last night. Strangely, the migraine never appeared. I decided to stay positive, to not question why I wasn't feeling ill, even if past experience argued that I should have. I'm not one to puzzle over it if it's not there – I was relieved. Instead, I settled in for the night and tried to get some sleep.

But that was a futile thought. It's gone dark and then lightened up once more already. Though the drone of the light above me should have lulled me into a stupor, it simply didn't, and I couldn't get comfortable at all, so I stayed up staring at the ceiling and humming songs to myself, trying to come up with some melodies, commit them to memory. Once in a while calling to my mother to check and see if she was still there; she was. Spent the entire night on the floor in my room, in front of the door, just to make sure I didn't get out.

That's me out a night's sleep, even if, given other circumstances, it would be the perfect opportunity to do nothing but laze about and drift in and out of sleep. Bask in the wonder of surrealistic, vivid dreams.

But even now, the next morning, I'm quite unable to sleep despite the exhaustion of insomnia and feeling the seconds tick by. My breathing feels shallow, my eyes heavy, but I can't quite fall asleep in these early morning hours. Legs bent, knees sticking in the air, poking through the widening holes, all I've been able to concentrate on whilst attempting to sleep in the tub was succeeding at scratching little shapes into the flesh peeking out. For a while it was almost funny – I was just bored. Sighing every now and then as I shifted into another position, in or out of the tub. Calling to Mum to ask if I could come out now. Alternately met with either a negative response, or eerie silence.

A few times during the night, when I suspected she wasn't around or had drifted off, I tried jiggling the handle, yanking at it, slamming my shoulder into the door, even inspecting the hinges to see if I was able to dismantle their hold and get out the opposite side. No luck.

And then, just an hour or so ago, the migraine took hold and I knew I was finished. No more logical, rational thinking. No more trying to reason with Mum or distract myself. No more relief over being spared the agony of withdrawal. It's started to set in now. And I'm just not ready.

Can't reflect on last night anymore. Can't think of the early morning hours. Can't remember those periods of strange calm and, apart from initial panic, the rather blithe acceptance and mild irritation of my mother's behaviour. Now all that is overwhelming my senses is this headache, this throbbing, stabbing, nauseating, dizzying sensation. And the panic is back, knowing somewhere in my muddled mind that it's her doing this time, nothing to do with my own forgetfulness, just her wicked retaliation for me being a typical teenager. For once. And for her own twisted reasons, which I can't even fathom considering right now. It'll just make me...

Oh, too late. Already tumbled to my knees in front of the toilet, vomiting and shaking all over. Mind becoming a mess. Turning into something barely recognisable. I vaguely remember drinking some water a bit ago, but now it's gone, chucked up into the toilet with some remains of yesterday's breakfast that had still been stewing in there.

Who made it again? A mother. A proper mother. Now that's a mother. How wonderful to have one.

The chink of my bracelet against the porcelain draws my attention. I stare hard at the metal monstrosity. "You disgusting piece of junk," I hiss. "Why can't you be more subtle? Or prettier, at least? Grow some beads."

I'm cut off by another bout of stomach lurching, but all it produces this time is dry-heaves and some minor spit-up. Eventually I flush and fall back against the wall behind me, pressing my palms into my closed eyes. The shapes behind my eyelids are fascinating. Like tiny snakes and worms waving and swirling around, some taking a hint of colour now and then.

The hum of the lights is getting louder in my ears. I tell them to shut up. They won't listen. I yell my command. They still won't relent. Dizzily, I open my eyes and swivel my head around, wondering why I'm on the floor. Push myself up, feeling drained and weak. Head's about to crack open, I know it will. And some bubble or shining light will come lifting out of it, and there, that will be my real and true form, yes?

No. You're just nothing...

"Bugger off," I tell the familiar voice. I've heard it several times in the past few years. A wet, slithery, angry hiss that reminds me now and then of what rubbish I am. Sometimes high-pitched, sometimes a growl. I don't feel like paying it any mind today.

I stumble over to the sink and glower into the scruffy visage staring back at me. Rub my hand over the scratchy surface of my chin. Blimey, I've let that go a few days too long. Good! Something to occupy myself with!

I set about shaving, amazed me mum hasn't had the forethought to confiscate my razors whilst raiding my pantry of useful drugs.

"Drugs you paid for, mind," I mumble at the door beside me, adding a frustrated kick for emphasis. Imagining it's Mum's backside.

I nick myself twice with trembling hands, but at least the distraction gives me reason to ignore the headache. Oh, it's still there, numbing and stabbing all at once, but I'm stubborn, me. I'll fight this to the end, I will.

"You can have a laugh too," I mutter at the reflection of my forehead. "Go `head, don't matter to me. I'm fine. Ain't like I never had one of you before, y'bastard."

But I can't stand the itching of a fresh beard. So I slice it away. If I can't slice through the flesh of those I despise, I can at least slice through bristled hair and make my face look less haggard.

There. Now I look about...twenty or so again.

Bloody hell. When did I start looking older than my real age? Them rings round the eyes won't do either. But can't do much for them. Can't bloody shave them off, now, can I?

I pause, sizing up the razor, considering...

No. Better not. Just more mess to clean up later. And then I'd be blind and it'd be even more of a hassle to clean. Not like I'd get help to clean it, eh?

I toss the razor carelessly to the tiled floor, and a spatter of blood hitting the sink catches my attention. I stare closer at the reflection in the mirror. Perhaps that "nick" was a bit deeper than I thought. A thin red trail of liquid runs down my neck. Falling onto the collar of my white t-shirt. Soaks it up greedily. I watch it for a while, mesmerised. How much blood can be in one man's face?

I'm thrown back suddenly by a stabbing, relentless pain. I clutch my head, breathless, and hit the wall behind me as if someone's shoved me. Eyes bugging, I can't believe it's coming on this strong now, overpowering, grabbing my brain and squeezing, poking at bits with sharp talons.

Without really meaning to, I slam a fist against the door to my side and shout at the top of my lungs, "Open it! It's really hurting now, Mum, open up and gimme my bloody pills!" I add a few more thumps for emphasis, but there's no response on the other side of the door.

Slowly, I slither to the tiled floor, clutching myself tightly in a hug and curling up into the fetal position, knees to chest, closing my eyes and willing the overwhelming on-coming hysteria to go away. But my brain isn't obeying me. Panting, sniveling like a child, I blindly pull myself across the floor, feeling around with my hands until I feel the cold, hard edge of the tub. Slipping off my trainers and shaking violently, I haul myself over the side and flop into the uninviting porcelain. Still huffing like I've just moved a house, I convince myself I can avoid this whole mess if I just become as small as possible and disappear. I curl up into a ball again, head lowered to tuck my chin into my chest, and cover my ears with my fists, trying to concentrate only on my harsh breathing and the racing thudding in my chest. Trying to ignore the tearing pain in my head, the ache in my neck, the gradual and rising onslaught of indecipherable sounds starting up in what I logically know to be an actually silent room.

I can't shut them out... As true as I know they don't exist, my grip on this knowledge is slipping, and the hissing and mumbles and sharp snaps of derogatory names keep coming, and all I can do is stay here, huddled in the bathtub, hoping against hope that my mother will see reason soon and come in to save me.

I don't fall asleep, as exhausted as I am, but time seems unreal to me as I struggle inwardly, and agonising minutes eventually turn to hours. I don't necessarily black out, so much as lose sense of reality and blink my eyes a few times now and then to realise I've changed position. The light in the room is still glaring, so I try to keep my eyes shut through most of it. But through wisps of consciousness, I take note that the window near the ceiling becomes dim, then darker, then completely black again. And seeing that total oblivion just beyond my reach is so tempting, so bloody merciless in its taunting me, that my head starts slamming back into the porcelain repeatedly. There's no reason for me to do it – I can't even try to put words together in my head to explain anything. My muscles are simply reacting in this way, for some unknown goal.

The pounding stops for a while, eyes wide and staring up at the ceiling, feeling dry and on the verge of popping out, even as moisture leaks down the sides of my face into my hair. It's freezing, snowy, cold outside, and I'm pouring down sweat into the bathtub. Hair wet with perspiration, curls sticking to my skin, covering my eyes, flopping limply with every twitch and tic my body involuntarily makes.

The rasping breaths fill my ears, drowning out any other noise inside my head, chest and throat feeling tight and smothering. My own breathing. Barely breathing. Some kind of shock? Withdrawal and shock? I can't think. I don't know. I'm here but I'm not. Back is numb against the porcelain. Am I floating?

Humming lights are growing in strength now. I have to get out of here. The light will expand and envelope me and blind me, and I'll be burned inside those awful fluorescent tubes, and no one will know what happened to me, they'll only find a tube of ash and bits of bone and melted eyeballs or...

The anxious rock in my gut won't stop me now. I have to crawl out of this. This wasn't my doing, but I need to get away. It takes me a few weeks – or so it seems – but I slowly lunge and slither and crawl out of this infernal white hell. Takes me a day or so to push and pull myself to the other end of the bathroom, dragging my body to the door by way of a rope... Probably not there, I suppose, but it looks like it to me, though it fades in and out of my perception.

I can feel trickling sweat down my back and face when I reach the door, huddle up next to it, tap slightly with a fingertip.

"Mum?" I call, my voice sounding cracked and broken even to my own ears and in this enclosed space. "You there?" My throat feels dry and sore, cramps and shooting pains through my stomach, legs achy and strained. I wince as my joints screech when I push myself up on all fours, forehead resting against the bottom half of the door. I dare another slight knock, eyes closed for fear of seeing the room spinning around me.

"Mother?" I whisper. If I'm too loud, perhaps I'll frighten her away. I've become this sad, withering mess, I can only imagine how she'd see me... Either disown me for such a weak-minded, pathetic existence, or disgusted that this thing ever came from her, or worse, pleased that she's reduced me to this... this... this desperate, feeble creature who can't even trust his own ears.

There's a vibration of some kind against the door, I feel it in my hand. Whether it's verbal, physical, or psychic – I have no idea.

"Mum, please," I beg her, any pride or self-righteousness depleted from me over the course of the last...

How long have I been in here?

"Please let me out," I groan. "I'm better now... I promise..."

Better than what? I've no clue. But it's something to say, I suppose.

I want to get out of here. I need to... do something. Find someone... My friends...

Friends. Yes, that's right. I have friends now! Matt and Nick and Topher and...

And...

"Ant." I slump against the door with a deflated moan.

I suppose the monster on the other side actually heard me this time, because suddenly she's the one banging and clawing at the door, hurling shrieking insults at me and cursing the boy's name, trying to "remind" me who's taken care of me my entire life, who should get the credit and attention...

Funny. Here I thought it was all owed to prescription drugs and myself. But then, I'm often known to be wrong.

I try to cut through her angry shouting by pleading some more to let me out. The panic rising inside of me is causing the hyperventilation to rebuild, and I can't tell what I'm holding onto and what's thin air. I'm stumbling around wildly, feeling as if parts of me are going numb at different intervals, and her voice is mingling with the roar of upset inside my own head, and I can't tell them apart anymore.

Sobbing now, terrified and just wanting to go to sleep, a sudden sharp thrashing throws me off-balance, and I fumble back to my hands and knees, noticing the painful spot on my forehead. Don't remember doing that, don't remember wanting to do it, but now I just can't stop. It's the only thing I can do, whether it breaks a hole in the door or just grants me the blessing of unconsciousness – I don't care. I now purposefully start bashing my head against the pure white of the barrier in front of me. Losing count of how many times. Soon the enclosed room is filled with my own howls of pain as I go on, ignoring my mother's confused and suddenly panicked pleas from the other side. I don't care – even if she gave me my pills now, even if she let me out, what point is there? I'm suffering now, and I'm sick of waiting for it to be over...

The white door I can barely make out through my fuzzy vision and the damp ringlets of hair in front of my eyes begins changing, from the pure white like the snow outside to a faded pink... And then, after a particularly violent attack, a satisfying cracking sound and a splotch of dark, pure red, which instantly begins to streak and trickle down to the floor.

I smile crookedly. Shouldn't be long now. I gasp a few times, spasms gripping my muscles, and I dive one more time into that beautiful gory stain, before feeling my body slump limply to the ground and the fuzzy room around me fills with a wave of relieving darkness.

Eyes blinking. Stinging. A red hue clouds my vision as I slowly come awake. Groggy and blurry. I'm staring across a vast off-white sea of tile dotted by red and pink blotches. My eyelids have been moving longer than I've been conscious. Every blink shifts my perception – attention darting back and forth randomly, as streams of silent tears and warm blood trail over my skin, over my eyelids. Blinding me completely for one moment, then, like a red strobe light leaking through, and another blink clears the view again. Repeatedly. Like windshield wipers. The steady but fast pace of their thumping isn't in time with my eye movements – and I sense the sound is not of windshield wipers, but of my heart beating out a laboured rhythm.

A dry, wretched gasp fills the room, my chest feels stretched and full. That must have been me then, struggling to breathe. A few more inhalations, and my mind – though not nearly lucid – becomes more alert, more aware.

I'm lying on my side on the floor. Sprawled where I blacked out...

How long ago?

Twist my head, an unintentional groan escaping my lips as my neck muscles scream, and I see a vague shape of a crack in the shadows of the door, right along the bottom panel where the blood is still dripping fresh and new on the tiles. Must not have been long...

Hang on...

Shadows?

I sit bolt upright, stumbling sideways into the wall behind me, and let my gaze drift to the trail of droplets leading in a slight arc from where the door is set just beside my shoulder...to the door frame several inches away.

I almost let out a cry of astonishment as I take it in. The realisation.

The door is open.

I use the door handle and the wall at my back for support to drag myself unsteadily to my feet. Shaking involuntarily, I hover there for a moment, staring at the ghastly visage of a gaunt, pale young man staring back at me from behind a partially open door. There's a stunned expression on his vaguely familiar face, which is half-covered in blood, all down the entire right side of his face, smeared through matted curls of sweat-dampened hair, and streaked across his forehead to the left side.

Bloody hell. I look like I just stepped out of a gore movie.

I slump towards the mirror, bumping the edge of the door with my shoulder, gaping at the state I'm in. I barely look like myself. Even as my vision shifts from clear to blurry and back again every few moments, I can at least make out how awful I look.

I wipe rigidly at the right side of my face, but all I manage to do is spread the increasing stain to my hands and arms. I can just barely feel the wound I gave myself on the forehead still gushing, and I know it'll keep going like that if I don't do something for it soon.

But...I shiver sharply and look away from the horror in the mirror. Tainted, trembling fingers leave prints on the white door as I struggle, half-blinded by blood, to limp out the partially open door.

The beast isn't around, I note as I peer into my bedroom cautiously. I know I haven't been out cold for too long, but the longer I take to get out, the less chance I'll have to succeed in escaping.

I wonder faintly why I'm having more trouble moving my left side than my right, but can't dwell on it too long – the pounding in my head, which had miraculously subsided for a while from the shock of sudden oblivion, begins to return. In spades.

I stumble against a dresser in my room from the force of the migraine, causing everything on top to shift and rattle. As I steady myself, I recognise the clinking of keys, and eye up the familiar chain and implements warily.

She really just left them there? With the door open and me alone, she left them right there, out in the open like that? She must have been in a hurry.

So am I.

I snatch the keys up into my blood-coated fingers and continue to stagger towards the door. Only thing to do – have to get out – get somewhere safe – away from her, that evil...

I pause in the doorway, listening, straining to hear past the thudding in my skull and the constant white noise that I know logically doesn't exist. I can just barely make out her voice drifting down the open corridor. The staircase is only a few steps away, but I listen intently, too careful to go charging out if she's right there to catch me.

Somehow, I manage to pick out her words, and with some harsh concentration and fierce blinking to keep my eyes open, I start to make sense of what she's saying. Takes me a bit to process the meaning, but soon I catch on to what would usually be a simple understanding for me. Aphasia setting in. Hold on for the rest of the ride. I'm still aware enough to be able to identify my symptoms as they come on – could be a good sign.

"Yes, he has a history, almost three years now. He's been ill all week, but he hasn't shown signs of this degree of violence since he was started on medication... No, I can't be certain he has, and at this point I'm ready to believe he hasn't been taking them at all... He was breathing, yes, but not conscious – no sign of response or communication... Well, please do so, and hurry! My boy could be dying right now!"

Hurry, indeed.

Without another hesitation or pause to hear more, I launch myself towards the stairs, taking them two at a time – while groping at the railing for balance as my left side continues to drag – to the first floor. I hear her call my name, her voice now from the direction of my room, but I don't dare to look back.

I skid and hurl myself out the front door, leaving it wide open behind me as I head directly for my car, which sits in the curved lane in front of the house. The snow, I notice vaguely, has since half-melted away, perhaps giving some idea to how long she's kept me locked up. Wiping at the blood in my eyes, I manage somehow to stumble to the driver's side with only a few painful steps on icy gravel beneath my bare feet. Takes a few attempts to get the key in the lock – forgetting completely about the remote unlock button on my keychain – but just as she appears in the doorway, I'm lunging into the seat and grappling with the keys again to get the car started, before I even shut the door. And when I do, I glance up only briefly to catch a glimpse of her running down to the driveway, trying to stop me – then I shift into drive and slam my foot on the gas, screeching past her with a spray of gravel from the tyres, and swerve around in the direction of the outroad.

I only check the rearview once, letting out a sigh of relief as I see her form becoming smaller and smaller with every passing second.

This is mad, I think to myself, even through the bloody fog in my head. Dizzy with adrenaline and panic, shaking from low blood sugar and fear, quickly losing blood from this gaping wound in my head, losing touch with my senses, half-blinded by blood...and I'm careening down the road towards the only place I can think of to find help.

The drive is fast, manic, and I know I don't have complete control, so it's a miracle I make it to the school in one piece without getting pulled. Even as the world becomes more and more of a fuzzy mess to my eyes and ears, I'm coherent enough to tell myself not to trust my parking skills at this point. I avoid the carpark entirely, skidding to a halt right outside one of the sets of back doors. I consider taking a moment to breathe, to calm down, but the instant I shut the engine off, my body is moving by its own accord – like it knows better than my slipping mind what it needs.

Can't bother thinking what I look like, the lack of warm clothes and shoes, the abundant presence of blood covering me like someone dumped a bucket of it over my head. Just need to get inside, get to someone I know, someone who can help...

I can't even hear the noise of the heavy doors as I stumble inside, using the wall outside the cafeteria as a crutch as I move forward. I pause by the large, open double doorway, thankful to see the cafeteria empty, and catch sight of the large round clock hanging across the vast space over the opposite set of doors. I take a long time to decipher it, having to blink several times because of the blood and clear vision turning to blurs, but as I catch my breath, feeling the wheeze in my chest as I gasp, I eventually figure out it's almost half-one.

Half-one. Where should I be at half-one?

I shake my head vaguely, pushing off from the doorframe to get myself moving again. My steps have become feeble shuffles now, my body lagging against the wall as I head for the staircase to the second floor, and I'm not sure at all of my schedule anymore. Forgetting the routine of every weekday for the last three months. Best thing I can think to do is just...chance it.

My arms are doing most of the work to drag myself up the two split staircases, and by the time I reach the second floor I'm panting and sweating again, but still I don't dare to stop. I have to keep moving or else I'll feel those cold, evil hands on me again, catching me from behind before I can even call out to anyone. I can practically feel her breath on the back of my neck as I sidle along the wide corridor, sliding against the wall until I come to the first classroom door to my right.

I stop momentarily at Mr. Shepherd's room, peeking round the edge of the wall and through the thin glass window beside the closed door to scan the desks for a familiar face. I see a few – but none I came to look for.

I start to move on, not noticing when my body flops ungracefully against the door, a thud resounding in my ears and through the corridor, but not quite reaching my mind to register the noise. Instead I continue to the next door, the next classroom, limping along at a snail's pace, but still moving.

I don't hear the door I've just left behind me open, don't hear the familiar voice over my shoulder. I simply take note that the second room is closed and dark, so I take a deep breath and go on to the third. It feels and looks like it's a kilometre away, but I don't care, I don't care what hurts, what's starting to rise up in my head, I just know I have to get there...

"Thomas?... Tom?... Is that you?"

A hand on my arm sends me lurching hard into the wall, a twisted sort of cry filling the otherwise empty corridor as I whirl around to confront my English teacher.

I must have been the one to yell, because he instantly steps back, a shocked look on his thin, bespectacled face. He's horrified at what he sees, that much is clear, but I don't have time for him right now...

"Thomas, what happened!?" Mr. Shepherd is trailing beside me now, trying to stop me in my tracks, but I can only thrust his hands away and grunt in response, my attention solely taken up by the next door.

"I know you've been ill, but if something's happened, I can help – Thomas..."

I don't listen to the man as I come upon the next classroom – in fact, I can't even hear him anymore as, when I peer through this window, a wave of relief crashes over me and I let out another wordless cry to see a familiar face.

Don't care how I look or what I'm doing, who's around and who's watching me – all I know is that I have to get to him.
CHAPTER SEVEN: HOW THE CURL GOT TWISTED

Nick

I'm just not used to this. It's a little like when Matt started hanging out with Tom more often. But not quite. It's worse than that, actually, because at least then I knew what he was up to. Sort of. Somehow I've managed to pull off being the most level-headed of the three of us, Ant nearly being a complete mess and Matt being utterly clueless and always looking at me for an answer. Like I'd have one.

That Tuesday when Ant reappeared at Matt's house, we must have called Tom's cell phone at least ten times. Once or twice without him answering was normal – he usually had better things to do or think about than playing with his phone, as I've said. But ten times? Within a few hours? I left message after message, trying to be funny at first, then breaking down and pulling the "you're scaring Ant" tactic out of desperation. When not even that worked, we realised it must have been one of those situations where he couldn't get to his phone. Which just scared us more. But what were we supposed to do about it? Maybe he'd run off somewhere, just wanting to get away from everything. Maybe he'd lost it and killed his mum and gone into hiding or something.

Okay, so the guys didn't like that suggestion when I put it out there, but how did I know what the guy was like when he went mental? We've all only really known him when he was stable, so how are we supposed to know what the guy's thinking when he's lost it? He was pretty weird that night on the porch, when it was just me and him and piles of snow. Banging his head like it was nothing, slipping in and out of awareness of me, as if his reality were just some kind of slideshow. Maybe that's what it was really like for him.

Ant had more of a fixation on the idea that his mum had done something rash. All I know is she doesn't seem to care who's around when she's in her nightie, but apart from that, not much at all. But Ant seems to have a better idea. He won't say, he clams up if Matt or I press him on it, but he's insistent that the woman has it in for Tom in a way none of us could think up. Who knows why, but Ant makes her out to be the mental case between them. And maybe he's right – but if she's worse, then that would explain why I'm feeling so sick to my stomach now, two days later.

We tried yesterday, after school, when Tom didn't show up, to go to his house. Took the bus to his neighbourhood and went and knocked at the door. We knocked for almost half an hour. Went around the whole property. No signs of anyone, really. His car was in the semicircle in front of the house, but didn't look like it'd been touched since the day before. Ant said that was exactly where he'd parked it when they got to the house. No one had done any shoveling around the property. No one answered the door, whether we knocked and called or rang the doorbell repeatedly. Ant had a crazy idea to try and break in, as if it were the next logical step, but he recoiled sheepishly when Matt and I gave him funny looks – like, duh, of course you don't break into someone's house, what are you on?

I suppose Ant lives a life quite different than Matt and I ever assumed. But whatever.

Wednesday night I stayed at my own house, letting Matt and his mum console Ant, who was very nearly hysterical by then. I suppose they got him to sleep at some point, most likely with the aid of pills, or maybe he'd just worn himself out worrying.

I stayed up until almost two in the morning, hitting that redial button on my phone. Kept expecting him to finally pick up and act like I'd just awakened him, or maybe he would have that strange, distant voice he'd had the other night, like he was physically there but not quite... there. Like a kid distracted by a clown not quite sure if he wants to be frightened or not, then snapping back to attention and pretending like he didn't care at all.

I surprised myself when how upset I got when all I could do was leave another message. I was running out of ways to say "Where the fuck are you? Why aren't you answering? Do you need help? If this is some kind of joke, I'm gonna bloody tear your head off when I see you again. And I'd better see you again, you wanker."

Thursday didn't seem to be getting any better – second day in a row that he was absent, and Matt and I kept giving each other those knowing looks, like we were certain now that something had gone terribly wrong. Worst we could think, maybe his folks had fallen off their rockers and were escaping to some other new town, so fast and mysteriously that he hadn't had time to tell any of us.

But that didn't make much sense, come to think of it, because of Ant's story about Tom's mum. Her threats and warnings to stay away from her son. "He's ill enough already, he doesn't need some freak like you making him worse. He's better when I'm taking care of him, so fuck off, and tell your little midget friends to keep away too, or I'll call the police for harassment."

That's not very motherly, is it? Maybe it is, if her son's hanging out with drugged-up oafs daring her son to jump off bridges and buy hookers. But not for some weird kids who just like to play music and, well, talk... Talk about philosophy, typical life questions, which one of us is the scrawniest (despite height), try to play on each other's words, throw around ideas of creating new religions...

Okay, maybe she had a point.

No, no, of course she didn't. She doesn't. Whatever reason she wants her kid hidden away from us, it can't possibly be rational.

I just don't know anymore. Are we really bad influences in some way? I didn't think so – maybe his folks are homophobic...but then, they'd sort of be against him as well. I suppose that isn't unheard of – look at poor Ant. Yeah – and even as I say that, I shudder to think of ever actually sitting down and having that conversation with my own parents.

Matt's mum wouldn't give a toss. That's just who she is. We all know it, even though he won't say it, but everything's always all right around Matt's mum. That's how it is.

So by half-one on Thursday, after the three of us have had to split up into our respective classes despite our mutual concern over Tom's second missed day of school, I'm simply not even listening to the instructor as he goes on about...well, whatever it is he's lecturing on. I lean my head down on my desk and start to fade mentally, letting my mind and eyes wander, feeling the exhaustion of the past few days' anxiety making me feel, well...almost weepy, embarrassing as that sounds. I'm close to Ant's state by now, though half of my own frustration is simply because I didn't get enough sleep.

So when my eyes drift lazily over to the door and I catch a glance of a faintly familiar – but ghastly – figure outside the glass window, I almost convince myself I'm seeing things myself. Like I'm the one who's a schizo, suddenly now I'm hallucinating bloody – literally, bloody – pictures of my mates...

Hang on...What the fu—

There's a timid gesture from the form outside, a slight wave of a blood-stained hand, as I realise Tom is staring straight back at me with a look of apprehension on his half-wrecked face. I wonder briefly if anyone else can see him – of course they can, but I can't think of that right now – because he looks like a ghost, biting nervously at a clean fingernail on his other hand as he waits for me. Like he's having some kind of mystical secret one-on-one telepathic link with me right now...

But as I start to stand up, I notice vaguely that others around me are looking over too; some girl even gasps at the sight, and her reaction is what makes me realise that this "apparition" turning into something real...it isn't quite as good a thing as I initially feel it is.

The kid's covered in blood – how could that ever be a good sign?

Luckily, though I'm not the only one who sees him, I'm the only one who answers (aside from the instructor). Without thinking, I'm on my feet, heading over to the door, brushing off the teacher when he tries to stop me, or maybe he's just trying to catch up to me, I don't know – I just see Tom slouching against the wall outside, huddling in towards the window, pleading with me silently to go see him.

As soon as the door opens, the "spell" breaks, and I realise there's a flurry of activity going on around us. Snapping back to reality, it seems. My instructor and Mr. Shepherd, who's hanging around Tom's side, are barking at each other about what to do; at the same time, the Literature teacher is trying to shout to his own students to get back into their classroom and stay there. Then the Scottish bloke is turning back to my teacher, crying to him to call the nurse and get her up here...

Meanwhile, as soon as I step outside the door, a cold, wet hand clasps my own, and I glance down to see the blood-stained fingers gripping me firmly.

"Nick," comes a ragged, raspy voice I hardly recognise.

When I look into his frightened eyes, the strangest thing occurs to me. He may be doused in blood and look (in all honesty) completely mad, but in this moment, his eyes are so vividly green I'd swear they're emeralds. Yet that shining light in them is not the glint of his usual spark; it's a fire, a raging fire, burning somewhere inside his messy head.

"Please," he begs me, for no apparent reason treating me as if I'm the one in control here. Well, maybe far more in control than him... "You gotta help me, please, I don't have much time before I slip away, you're the only one who can do it..."

Mr. Shepherd is still attempting to get ahold of Tom's arm, but Tom keeps slipping out of it, backing away and wincing with every touch, even if he won't let go of me.

"H-Help you, um, how?" I ask, not sure of what to do except just try to keep him calm...which he almost surely isn't right now. At the most, as he said, he's hanging on by a very thin thread.

He starts to say something, but the voice that comes out of his mouth is either so garbled that I can't make it out, or the noise around us is building to a point where he's being blocked out. I glance up to try and get myself focused, and Mr. Shepherd is yelling at some students trickling out of the classrooms to get back inside and stay there, ordering their teachers to keep their kids under control. My own instructor has gone back to the room Tom just pulled me from, snapping at the other students to sit down and keep reading whilst he and Mr. Shepherd sort out the issue, at the same time on the phone with most likely the nurse, arguing with her to drop whatever it is she's busy with and get upstairs.

Gosh, one student arrives barely dressed, barefoot and covered in blood, you'd think the entire world's gone mad.

...

Yes, okay, it has.

I turn back to Tom, and to my own shock, sending my heart pounding into a fierce rhythm, I realise...he isn't speaking any language I know. Now and then I can make out a word or two that sound familiar, but overall, his twitching body and spastic blinking are all showing signs that he is not in his right mind at all – and the more he tries unsuccessfully to speak, the more that annoyance and distrust I had for him since the beginning twist into sorrowful pity and saddened helplessness.

This poor boy... The things he has to struggle with...

"...Have to get away...Had to get away from her," he stumbles out between other gasped strings of gibberish. "She'll come after me, I know she will...Promise me she won't...Keep her away from me, please..."

I've no idea what he's talking about – no, wait, I think I might have a clue – but whatever goes through my mind is lost in the need to simply ease his mind, and I clench his hand in mine and assure him, "I promise, she won't get you in here—"

He stops short, pressing his lips together fiercely as he tries to keep some tears of utter confusion from spilling over. He holds a hand to his mouth – his left hand, I notice, and I realise that these people don't have any idea what they're dealing with. I reach up, as if to soothe him, and take his wrist gently in my fingers.

"I couldn't get out," he tells me, his voice strained, and he slumps sideways against the wall beside him. "I tried, I really did, but she locked me in, those old houses got them keys and she locked me in with the master key and wouldn't let me out—"

I nod encouragingly for him to go on, at the same time trying to get Mr. Shepherd's attention as I drag Tom's hand away from his face, closer to the teacher's eyes.

"If you don't hide me, she'll find me," he sobs, suddenly not caring about keeping his tears back. His fingers twist in mine and he tries to pull me closer, hissing desperately, "Don't leave me, Nick, please, you're the only one I can trust right now, right here, the only one I trust—"

I nod shakily, trying to nudge the teacher with my elbow and assure my friend simultaneously that I'm on his side. "I'm not leaving, Tom, I'm right here."

Mr. Shepherd turns around to me and snaps, "What!? What are you jabbing your elbow at me for—" He trails off when he finally takes notice of the long, lithe arm I have dangling between us – and, more importantly, what else is dangling from that arm that will help explain this confusion.

Within seconds I know Mr. Shepherd has seen the bracelet and understands. Mostly because I feel him take hold of Tom's wrist and then murmur a soft, "Ahh, I see..."

"I had to get away, Nick, I had to," Tom's bawling, pulling his arm back now to grab at my collar, trying to keep himself up, apparently, as he's begun to slump against the wall and slide down like he's losing all his strength. "After what she did to me last year, you'd wanna get away too..." He jerks my face closer to his, his voice like a little boy's. "She'll do it again, I know she will, Nick, she's sick – she's so sick..."

I shake my head at him, now not even trying to pretend I know what he's on about. "What? What happened last year? Why are you even bringing up last year? You weren't even here last year!"

He gropes to get some leverage on the wall, pulling himself up to his feet before he hits the ground, and I find myself helping him automatically. "I didn't want it, Nick, I swear," he whispers hoarsely. "I need to warn you and the others – oh, the others – " He snaps his head around wildly, his back hitting the wall flatly behind him. "W-Where are they...Ant..."

"They're safe, mate, don't worry," I try to reassure him before he can get too panicked. He's looking around spastically now, as if his head is being jerked around without his consent. In fact, the more he goes on, the more I notice just how twitchy he is – as if he can't control his own muscles.

"Ant," he hiccups again. "Where—Where's Anthony? Is he...Did he...She threw him out, she did, I didn't even know it, but just before she locked me up, she told him to get lost—"

"Don't worry about Ant," I tell him, stumbling around to try and keep my own footing on the linoleum floor – all this twitching and jerking about isn't helping, especially when the one who can't control his body is over six feet tall and you're barely average height. "He made it back to Matt's, he's been staying there, he's fine, he's safe, everything's all right—"

And to my great surprise, Tom suddenly stops everything, in a split second, freezes up and gasps sharply, covering his face with his hands and slouching back against the wall again, and lets out a wordless sob of relief. Then he's just as quickly falling again, and this time I can't keep him up. He slides straight down the wall to the ground, sitting there with his head in his hands, streaking blood everywhere as he bawls openly, "Jesus Christ...Awww, fuck, that's the best news I heard all week... Oh God, these walls need painting, Nick, someone's got red paint all over them... Yeah, long as he's okay, it's okay... And long as you keep her – keep her away from me, please, you have to keep her away from me, she'll do it again, I know she will—"

I have to pry his hands off my collar to keep him from accidentally choking me, but I don't let go of them as I step over his now limp, prone form to his other side and kneel down next to him. I look into his face, finally getting a chance to breathe and take stock of him, since he's not writhing around quite as much.

He's still babbling like mad, actual words interspersed with sounds and utterings I can't make out, sometimes a growl or a squeak escapes his throat. But at least I can see his eyes again through the matted mess of blood-soaked curls framing and partially covering his face.

Mr. Shepherd sinks to his knees as well, trying to get Tom's attention – but by now, Tom's barely paying attention to me. His eyes are swiveling and bobbing around in his head, fluttering like he's about to pass out, then springing open as if stunned by some visual horror no one else can see.

"I can't understand you," I say to him when a particularly long, garbled sentence flows from his lips, and I really don't know what else to say.

He pauses, swallowing hard, and, just barely glancing past me, blurts out, "She drugged me – last year – nearly fucking killed me, Nick, an' I dun' even know what I did – and then she... then she..." He seems stuck on repeat, like a record stuck on a scratch, gasping and strangling out "Then she" and stopping as his head nods forward and jerks back – until he ends up smacking the back of his head into the wall behind him.

And somehow he finds this to be a good idea.

He suddenly starts wailing, causing anyone else around (and there are still some students insistent on trying to see what's going on in the corridor) to jump back as his voice sounds so awfully tortured, his usually calming baritone ripped and scraped by whatever trauma he just can't possibly get out of his mouth. As he's doing this, he's punctuating his pain by slamming his head back into the wall repeatedly, like he thinks he can knock the secret memory out if he just keeps going. Mr. Shepherd tries desperately to pull him away, or at least to dampen the blows with his arm, but Tom's vicious to himself – throwing his body around until he can find some way to inflict some kind of damage. Even with my help, there's no way we're going to get control of this kid...

And then, as if by some miracle, the beautiful blond angel school nurse appears, and I see she's carrying a syringe.

Big bloody fucking mistake on our part. As soon as my heart starts to find a steadier pace, sure we're safer because she's here, the second she tries to kneel down to administer a shot, Tom's eyes flicker her way...

"Fuck off! Bloody fucking cunt! Get away! Get the fuck away! Don't you fucking touch me you fucking bitch!"

Reeling back, the nurse nearly falls on her arse as Tom lunges at her to shove her away. Mr. Shepherd catches her heroically, but then pieces start falling into place in my head, and I can see where we went so awfully wrong here.

"Get her away!" I order, as if it needs to be said. "Get her out of here, she's not safe!"

"She's the nurse!" Mr. Shepherd argues. "How're we supposed to sedate him if she can't get near him?"

"She looks like his mum," I explain as Tom's shrieking and shaking into my shoulder, kicking out at no one in front of him. "His mum's the one who's gone and fucked him up—"

Mr. Shepherd rolls his eyes, then nods. "Okay, I got that much. But what about the sedative?"

He turns to look at the stunned nurse, and after a breath, she steps just close enough to hand him the syringe, then gives him some quick verbal instructions as she crosses back around to the other side to get to the doors to his classroom. She tells us she'll call for an ambulance, but we need to get the sedative in him as soon as possible, before he can manage to knock himself into a bloody coma.

Mr. Shepherd looks ill, but he knows he's the only one who can do this now. He nods at the quivering, panting body twisting around uncomfortably in my arms, and snaps irritably, "Well, do something useful, Nick, come on, talk to him!"

I shake my head and pull Tom up a bit, trying to get his attention again. "Tom! Listen to me, mate, you gotta calm down, man—"

"She was here!" he's screeching, his eyes bulging. "I told you, I bloody told you, she was right fucking here, she's wants me dead, Nick! Either that or just me, she's done it before, she'll do it again if she has the chance—"

"I don't know what you're talking about, man—"

"Rape me!" he screams into my face. "She'll drug me to keep me weak and she'll fuck me again, like she did last year, I'm telling you, Nick, she will..."

And as Tom continues babbling, Mr. Shepherd and I exchange stunned glances – okay... If he's being as literal as I think he is...I was not expecting that...and clearly, just the fact he's said it has roped our mutual teacher into a sticky situation he's going to have to take charge of now.

"Shit," I hear the typically calm and polite instructor breathe, and then he sticks the needle into Tom's arm, causing my friend to yelp only for a moment before whipping a head around to glare at him accusingly.

"What'd you..."

Mr. Shepherd pulls back quickly, hiding the syringe away and telling him only, "I just gave you something to calm you down, Thomas. Don't worry, it won't hurt you, it's very mild – we just needed you to stop trying to hurt yourself."

Tom looks like he's about ready to tear the teacher's head off, he's so angry – but slowly the drug starts to work through him, and his scowl softens into a daze, and he's staring blankly up at the ceiling. Now and then he'll mumble something under his breath, or very shakily, but it's never anything I can understand.

And the teacher and I stay with him there, barking at people to get back into classrooms whenever someone tries to peek out, and we wait for the ambulance.

"Bloody hell," I whisper when I'm quite sure Tom can't hear me anymore. His eyes are open and his lips are still moving, but that dull look tells me he's not actually here. And, to be honest, after the adrenaline and hysteria die down, I realise just how....sad I am, to see him like this.

"Yeah," Mr. Shepherd agrees sullenly, reaching out to brush his fingers over the bracelet on Tom's wrist. "Who the hell would've known...?"

I shrug vaguely. "I...kinda knew. Well, found out recently. But still. Never thought he'd get like... like this, y'know? It's so bloody..."

"Sad," Mr. Shepherd supplies when I trail off. "For that... And, if what he said is true..." He draws in a deep breath, slumping from his knees down into a sitting position on the floor. He tries to push some wayward curls out of Tom's eyes, but the hair doesn't want to obey. "Blimey... This is going to be hell to figure out."

I snap my head up, staring straight at him. "No it isn't," I correct him. "It's pretty damn cut and dry, you ask me."

Mr. Shepherd narrows his eyes at me. "Nick... You realise, this is coming from someone with a serious mental disorder—"

"He's not delusional," I insist. "I've been to his house, I've seen his mum, I'm pretty sure I get the idea of how he sees her – and from what I've heard the last couple of days from Anthony... Believe me, I trust every word – literally. Maybe his illness is making things more intense for him right now, that he can't control himself. But as for whether he was makin' it up like it was somethin' he dreamed, or an hallucination – no way, Shep, what he said, it's all true. No doubt in my mind now."

The teacher's jaw clenches as he sees my unwavering faith, and he sighs again. "Well then... That just makes things even harder."
CHAPTER EIGHT: RECOIL

Nick

Staring down at the red stains on my hands, I stand by the lockers, which are also covered in the streaked physical evidence of Tom's graphic meltdown, and feel helpless to contribute anything meaningful to the scene as it unfolds. Paramedics – all male, I'm relieved to note – gather the limp form onto a stretcher after stabilising Tom's apparently thready vitals, then two of them start wheeling him out as a third speaks in hushed tones to Mr. Shepherd. The headmaster has since put in an appearance and is getting the story of what happened from my instructor, a grave and stern expression on his lined face. Any time a student besides myself peeks out of a classroom, he barks at them fiercely to close the door, mind their own business, and get back to their independent work. Not that anyone is actually doing any work, I'm sure. Tom's given everyone here something to gossip about for weeks, no doubt.

But thinking that, even in my sardonic manner, only takes me back to barely half an hour ago, and my typical bemusement washes away quickly as I recall that look in his eyes. That eerie, unfamiliar look.

His eyes were open the whole time he was being examined, but he said nothing and hardly moved, even when the strangers jostled him around, however carefully, to tend to his head wounds – which, it turned out, were more than we'd figured, multiple gashes and lacerations, probably all done by his own actions, frightening as that sounds – and then to maneuver him onto the gurney.

I knew he wasn't aware of what was happening. He probably didn't even feel any pain, no matter how sore and excruciating those lesions looked, especially against the chalky paleness of his skin. Maybe that was all the better for him, despite it putting me off that he was nothing like his usual self. The sedative may not have been too strong, but by the time the ambulance showed, he'd become too far gone to speak to at all. Ghosts of indecipherable words fell from his dry lips now and again, but he just stared straight ahead as he let them out, twitching every so often like that puppet on strings.

And now all I can do is watch as the medics take my friend away – or, the shell that was my friend, until his mind started going...This is exactly what he's been scared of since he started here, I realise. The very thing he was terrified of. Breaking down in front of his mates. Losing it in front of someone he cares about.

Again – lucky it was me.

And all they leave me with is his dried blood on my hands and an ache in my gut as Mr. Shepherd tells me I'm not allowed to accompany them to the hospital.

Once the third paramedic departs and the teacher turns to me, surely to tell me he has to go with them, I cut him off before he can even begin, pleading yet again to go along.

"I can't just leave him," I push vehemently. "I promised him I'd be there..."

But the Lit teacher won't hear of it. Planting his hands firmly on my shoulders, he looks me square in the face and says, "Your place, Nicholas, is here. There's really nothing you can do for him now." Those are so not the words I want to hear right now, and it makes me angry when they ring in my ears. "There's not much I can do for him either, but I have to go meet the police at the hospital and make a report. The headmaster already confirmed that I'll be going to talk to them, that it has to be me because I was the one to administer the shot, and because I was the one in authority to see the state he was in and hear his...accusation..."

I shake my head; this does not meet my approval. (Like that really matters...) "But I was there too, I may not be in authority, but surely the word of another witness, one that would match yours exactly..."

"The word of a friend of his," he interrupts, pointing out the logic I don't want to think about or accept, "who may have a bit of a bias."

"No," I spit at him, throwing his hands off me grudgingly. Of course, it always has to come down to this, doesn't it? Just because you care for someone, why do they instantly think you'll go along with whatever they say? Why can't people just bloody listen? "The word of a young adult who's seen and knows what his mother is like from personal experience! I could much more easily believe that that witch tortured him, a year ago and this week, than I could accept that his mind's just on overload so he's blaming whoever he wants. It's too bloody specific, Shep – there's no way in hell he just pulled that from outta nowhere! Have you met his mum? She's a bloody nightmare! He's made tiny slips before, not just with me but the others too, and he's always embarrassed about them and changes the subject. If it were all a delusion, would he try to hide it from us? He would've blabbed about it from the very beginning if that was what he was like, which he isn't! You don't know him, Shep, and you don't know her either. He isn't like that, he wouldn't just make it up – he'd obsess over it, dwell on it, yeah, but completely fabricate it just to get her in trouble? No way, man, I can't believe that. And she ain't some dainty little princess either – the woman's practically his size, and I'm guessing she wouldn't be that easy to fight off if she really wanted to do some damage..."

Mr. Shepherd sighs wearily, glancing over his shoulder briefly during my tirade. He's anxious to get down to the ambulance. As am I.

But I know deep down I won't be going anywhere...At least, not with him.

"Nicholas," he says levelly, cutting me off whilst I'm still trying to rant, "I'm sorry. But there's just nothing you can do now but go back to class. Maybe if you need to..."

I wave a dismissive hand at him irritably, already knowing what he'll say. Maybe I can get a pass from the nurse or the headmaster himself to go home after being involved in such an ordeal.

Whatever. Home isn't where I'm needed right now.

He lets me go as I stomp back into the classroom. My own instructor is still talking with the headmaster in the hallway, and the class itself is filled with whispers and the bubbling of new rumours to be spread. Bollocks to all that. Bollocks to all them.

I know what I have to do. Shepherd's words be damned.

I scoop up my belongings and, without so much as a glance at the vultures surrounding me, I slip back out of the room. Thankfully, Shepherd's gone by now, and my instructor and the headmaster have been joined by the nurse, deep in conversation. So no one notices me as I take a side hallway and start for the first floor via a lesser used staircase.

I'm not entirely sure of everyone's schedules, but I have a slight clue, and I know they'll want to know about this. And to help.

Yes, I think morosely. All of them.

Thankfully, the first guess I make at where Matt and Ant will be at this time is correct, and just by luck I happen to come upon the door as soon as the bell signaling the end of the period rings. So I don't have to interrupt anything conspicuously. This time, at least. As soon as they step out of the room to find me hovering a few feet away, they both join me – no one in this part of the building has heard anything about the incident, but surely my poignant expression (or the blood spattering my hands and neck) is reason enough to get their attention. We all know what's on each of our minds right now, and it's mutual all around.

Not even Matt asks what's going on as I lead them both away from the direction of their intended destination, that last class of the day, and wave at them to follow me into the nearest bathroom – and for Matt not to ask, that's saying something. As we all crowd into one stall – a bit awkward and would raise eyebrows, if there were any around to be raised – I do manage to startle them both by starting off with the question, "What class does Topher have this period?"

Of course they're shocked. Me, asking after Topher? Like I'm actually interested?

When neither of them respond, I finally let out a long breath and start the story of what's just happened. Inevitably, the knowledge that Tom showed up here in such a state, and the blunt accusation of what his mother did to him, instantly makes Ant look ill. Or it could be the additional fact that he can't take his eyes off my blood-stained hands and shirt – proof that all the terrible things I say really are as bad as they sound. I almost expect him to lean over and vomit into the toilet. But he restrains himself and continues to listen intently.

When I finish with saying that Mr. Shepherd wouldn't let me go with him, but that I'm determined to keep my promise to be there for Tom, suddenly they understand – and Matt, somehow miraculously the articulate one now, confirms, "And we need Topher because, not only is he Tom's friend and would want to know what's going on too, but he's the only one of us who can drive and has a car to take us to the hospital."

Flinching slightly, I nod. "Exactly."

Matt's deeply troubled, of course – but he manages to smirk and bump my arm with a fist. "And it's just killing you that you have to ask for his help."

I roll my eyes, but he isn't wrong.

"But that's sweet," Matt assures me seriously. "I mean, you'd put aside your own grudge with Topher just so you won't break your promise to Tom – I think that says a lot."

"Yeah," I mumble uncomfortably. "It means the kid scared the shit outta me..."

"No," Matt croons quietly, eying me up suspiciously. "I think it means you actually care. And that you're growing up, maybe?"

I grunt with the discomfort of that suggestion, but am spared the additional humiliation of Matt continuing on in this vein when Ant pipes up, "I think he has PE right now."

I snap my head around to him, and he blushes slightly.

"He and Tom have that class together last period two days a week, I think. Today is probably the right day."

I groan, stomping a foot. "Fan-bloody-tastic. And I was hoping we could be inconspicuous. Now we have to find him in that hellish gymnasium and wait for him to change – might as well just wait till the end of school and catch a bus..."

Matt shrugs, already reaching for the stall door. "The late bell hasn't rung yet – if we hurry, maybe we can catch him in the locker room."

"Even better," I mutter sourly despite following in his footsteps. "Then we'll get to be accosted by all his big muscly mates in the process..."

No matter how much I whine, though, my protests don't stop me. We drag ourselves out into the thinning crowds of the corridor, just as the late bell rings, and continue on our way to the area of the locker rooms and gymnasium.

However, this route happens to take us right by the main office, and just as we're about to pass by, I notice the hulking figure in the waiting area, leaning against the secretary's desk with his knapsack pulling at his shoulder, looking absolutely bored out of his mind.

I slow to a stop, wondering why he isn't where he's supposed to be (either), and when the other two notice my stillness they rejoin me. Matt wonders aloud what I've just thought, and as soon as the words tumble from his mouth, Topher notices us as well and he sidles over to the door, poking his head out.

"Oi," he says, sounding confused. "Any of you know what's goin' on with Tom?"

The three of us exchange wary, hesitant glances, but none of us speaks up.

"The headmaster called me down here at the end of last period," Topher goes on in a hushed voice. "Said he needed to talk to me about him. I guess either `cause I'm the president or `cause he knows we're friends. But it's been, like, ten minutes and he's still makin' me wait. This can't be very good, can it? I'm assumin' it's somethin' bad, `specially since he ain't been in school since Monday... You guys know anythin'?"

"Headmaster's probably still upstairs cleaning up the mess," I mumble, and the thought makes Ant stifle a groan.

Topher's eyes lock onto me and grow wide. "Mess? What mess? You know what happened?"

I sigh, rolling my eyes, but the other two are staring at me expectantly, waiting for me to enlighten the poor bloke.

Bloody hell. Fine. There goes all my dignity. I just can't take the pressure anymore...

Letting out another sigh, this one of defeat, I step forward and, forcing myself to finally look my former mate straight in the face, I can't keep the pleading tone from sneaking into my voice as I blurt out, "Topher, we need your help. Tom needs your help. If you're really his friend, then just don't judge him, no matter what you hear, and just listen to what I have to say..."

Tom

Sneaky tendrils of slightly coherent thought still cling to my mind, bringing me round a few times to something vaguely close to consciousness, or lucidity. Faces surround me – not one I recognise. The speech noise they make escapes me. I try to tell them to get Nick, maybe he can translate for me, he seemed to do pretty well for a bit there, but the words come out of my mouth in my own warped speech, so they ignore me. I can't tell if my eyes are closed or open or if I'm half-blind. My once limp left side jerks to life as my hand clasps something solid, and I pull as hard as I can. That somehow sends the unfamiliar shapes into a frenzy, their sharp starts mixing like a foul stew in my receptive mind, and I groan when there's a sting somewhere along my arm. It's doubled when whatever my hand must have pulled out gets shoved back in and I hear my own voice cursing clearly at them in the claustrophobic space.

Nick, why aren't you here? I need you, I need you to tell them, to make them stop...

Anthony

Numb. My mind, my body, my feelings – I'm completely numb all over. It was harsh enough to listen to Nick's story, his recounting of what happened...but to see that blood on his hands, smeared on his neck and staining his collar...

I could barely stand to look at it. The sight of it made my stomach churn.

So I had to make myself switch off. When the lump in my throat became painful, and the rock in my gut unbearable, I did what I usually do when overwhelmed: I cut myself off.

I'm still aware. Words still reach me and my body keeps moving. But right now, I can't afford to feel too much. Or else I'll break down crying.

No, I wasn't there. But the amount of blood on Nick, blood that isn't his, it makes me ill to think how much Tom's lost. What he's done to himself. What's been done to him...

I can't. I just can't think of it now. I have to keep moving, to keep up with the others as we make our way to Topher's locker on the second floor. It's the same hallway Tom was in, I realise as Nick keeps nervously glancing down the otherwise empty corridor to where a group of uniformed strangers are sectioning off a certain area at the other end.

Despite my stoic insistence to keep myself detached, I can't help but follow his gaze. Even from this distance, if I stand back a bit and squint, I can make out the long smear of darkening red, starting from the double doorway at the top of the staircase and spreading with eerie dribble and spikes along the way, all the way to the third door on the left – what would have been his right.

Christ...and Nick said he'd looked like he'd been dunked in a pool of it...

I'm amazed he'd been conscious at all by the time he reached Nick. I just can't imagine the pain he'd been in – but apparently, he didn't seem to register the physical pain. Only the mental.

And poor Nick had been the one to have to deal with it.

No...Like Nick said, it was probably best that way. Faced with that sight, right in front of me, I sincerely doubt I could have been as much help to the boy as Nick had been.

I'm shaking even now, and have to turn my head away as Topher gathers his keys and other belongings from his locker. He leads us downstairs again then, right past the main office, out through the back doors where the buses come to let students off or pick them up.

I hesitate at the entrance. The others move ahead of me into the carpark, but I'm struck dumb by the sight of the crookedly parked car in front of me.

His car. No one's bothered to move it. Even though it's right there in the way of where the buses will soon be, no one's touched it.

I step closer to it, my hands shaking by my sides. And I peer inside the driver's seat window.

The steering wheel has prints of red all over it. Pools of dark liquid gather in the seat, unmoving. They could very well be frozen by now. Smudges on the window and the driver's door suggest a hasty exit. A race to get away – or get to some place. Or someone. One of us.

I gently let my fingertips touch the freezing window, a mirror image of his own prints left behind in a dazed, desperate rush.

God...He'd cursed himself for leaving me alone over the weekend. And now, all I can think is...if that monstrous woman hadn't frightened me...if I'd just had more guts to stand up to her...

But it is her house. He is her son.

No. No, she threw away that precious gift the moment she turned on him, that awful moment when she chose her own needs and wants over his health.

How stupid could she have been? How bloody evil and treacherous could that bitch have been to add such hell to his already tortured, damaged psyche?

And now this...What Nick said he could understand of Tom's ramblings...How can one person be so specifically cruel to such a boy as him? Such a man as him? Taking advantage, exploiting his weakness, only to trap him inside such a cell – not just locking him up physically, but to leave him helpless like that to his mental anguish...

She'd wanted him to suffer. And no doubt, he did.

"Ant!"

I jerk my head up at the sound of my name, see Nick gesturing to me to hurry up.

"You still comin' or what?"

Am I going? Hell yes, I'm going. Going to go hold him tight and let myself see him at his worst, so that when he comes out of this fog, this psychotic haze, I'll be the first one he sees. And he won't have to feel so afraid. I'm going, and I'll be damned if I let that evil cunt within five miles of him ever again.

Pulling my hand away from the cold glass, I have a fire raging inside me. More resolve than I've ever felt before. Tears have no place in me right now.

Small and delicate though I may be, I've come to a decision. I've decided that I will do everything and anything in my power to keep him safe. From his mother, from bullies, from the world – even from his own tangled and delirious mind.  I'll keep him safe, like no one else ever tried to do.

Tom

It was just about a year ago by now – just before my sixteenth birthday. I remember that much because two months before my birthday was when I had my second "episode" in two years – the first at fourteen, when I was initially hospitalised and diagnosed. So with my second breakdown, my parents decided to keep me at home, with a private doctor – because the first time, wherever we were at the time, people kept asking questions and trying to find out what had happened, which resulted in us moving away from there, as my parents were so embarrassed.

Instead of outright moving again the second time, they kept me out of school (not that I was in any condition to even get there) and had people come in to check on me, since they had the money. But for the most part, it was Mum and me alone together. She actually tried to take a stab at mother and nursemaid, but most of that time, I was too out of it to recognise her efforts. Or her, for that matter.

Most of those three months is a blur, and not just because of time going by. I genuinely have trouble recalling anything. I'm told several things – how I spent a month in a virtually catatonic state, conversing only in gibberish with the voices in my head. The doctor kept trying different drugs to see what would help.

The second month I started coming around a bit – but the trials of experimental meds were rough, so bad that I spent most days lurching around in bed, screaming and begging to be shot, bludgeoned, anything to stop the headaches. I was thin anyway but lost nearly fifteen kilos more because I couldn't eat, could barely sleep, either pleading with my mother to not leave me alone, or cursing blindly at her like she was a stranger there to kill me.

They should've put me in hospital again, really.

My sixteenth birthday came and went, but I was in too much pain to care at the time. I stumbled around the house like a stiff drunkard, clawed at my face and arms without realising it, locked myself in various rooms to be away from people (including the doctor they brought in to see me).

Then the meds started working. Not much, but enough that I wasn't screaming bloody murder at my parents. I was slightly more lucid, having periods of actual common sense and coherent conversations with my mum. They finally decided to keep me bed-ridden, with wrist restraints so I would stop lashing out at everyone, and clawing up my own face.

It was around that same time that Mum discovered my dad's first affair – at least, the first she knew about. When she shared that with me, I must have shown her a little too much sympathy or affection or something. I hugged her while she cried, called him all sorts of nasty names, said she was a beautiful, loving woman, a perfect mum, for taking care of me so well, which had to have been a trial of hell. I apologised repeatedly for keeping her there to tend to me, when she could have been out living a real life...

Then she started drinking more. And more. She and Dad had such arguments that I almost thought they were more voices in my head. I asked why she didn't just leave the sorry son of a bitch – but I knew why: the money. It wasn't hers. And, she said, she wanted to keep taking care of me.

The worst times for me were at night, when I'd take a heavy dose of my new meds. The migraines were intolerable, and all I could do was roll around in bed and cry, banging on my own skull until Mum's hands pried them away.

Then one week, Dad was away on "business." (Probably to go pork his side dish.) Apart from a daytime cook and one part-time maid, it was just Mum, alone with me for a full week. Even the doctor wasn't due until my dad came back.

I was having a particularly bad night. Mum came to my room, barely dressed, dragging a bottle of wine with her, along with another smaller bottle of pills. She wrestled with me for a while, trying to calm me in her own manic, drunken rage – anger over her husband's infidelity and leaving her alone to deal with me. She couldn't go out to find some bloke to get revenge with. She was stuck at home with a bawling, ill child she couldn't do anything for.

She managed to settle me a bit with a tight embrace and hushed singing, locking my arms down with the restraints.

Next thing I knew, she was shoving pills in me mouth, drowning them down with the wine and holding her palm over my face to keep me from spitting it all out. Said it'd help me sleep, it'd stop the headaches.

I was beyond bewildered – not to mention terrified. What would it do to me? Along with my other antipsychotic meds? Couldn't be a good combination...

But then I was in such a relaxed, hypnotised state, I couldn't help but revel in the hands that were on me – forgot who or where I was, lost track of time, lost track of reality. Just felt lovely caresses and heard sultry whispers in my ears...

It wasn't until after I came that I opened my eyes and saw her – on top of me – riding me hard in the midst of her own orgasm.

Shocked, revolted, violated – after finally, somehow, wrenching a hand free the restraints, I slapped her so hard that the impact literally threw her off me. I yanked my left hand free as well and scurried to the edge of my bed, bawling at her to stay away from me. She tried to reason with me in a rapid, trembling, pleading tone, groping at me while I slipped and stumbled off the bed to get away from her.

Crying and apologising, she begged me to not say anything. I could still smell the alcohol from her mouth – but by then I was across the room. So somehow all that booze-breath had gotten all over my body, my shirt open and hanging off my arms to show my bony ribs and torso. The thought made me retch. And in that violent attack of retching, I passed out cold.

When I woke two days later, the doctor said I was naughty for taking my mother's liquor, that it was dangerous to mix it with my meds. I'd glared at my mum the entire time, noticing she had left out the bit about the sleeping pills she'd force-fed me.

She knew I remembered – and when we were alone, she promised me that if I stayed silent about it, she would go see someone. For the drinking, for what she'd done to me – and, most disturbing to me, "For feeling such an attraction to you, Tommy."

She hadn't just done it to calm me. She hadn't been getting some kind of secret revenge against my father.

She actually wanted me. She was turned on by me.

That's just...so very, very wrong.

Even in my muddled mind now, I know it's just so wrong. But it's all that's on my mind. When I'm awake, that is.

The gaps of time between blankness and awareness are growing. Whatever sedative they gave me must be wearing off now. A dull ache in the back of my head, I notice now and then. Doesn't feel like the usual migraine, but something else. Trying to think of my history, what others have said I do when in my "bad" state, could be from something I did recently. Not sure.

The gaps of lost time aren't really being unconscious. Just...unaware. Lost in me own head. Strangled by voices, unformed shapes, invisible radios constantly switching stations. Then I catch a glimpse of what others call "reality" and the starkness of it throws me even more. The white walls of a hospital, reminding me of the awful red paint job in the corridor at the school. All streaked and runny. Over the lockers, too, like the painters didn't know what was wall and what was student property.

Wait – that could have been me...

There are faint rumblings in the corner of my perception, about medicine. A vaguely familiar voice, the Scottish bloke I know, saying he doesn't know something. I choke on something in my throat when someone mentions contacting the parental units and I try to speak up against it, but no one hears me.

Another lull in my life. I come to with thoughts of the last time I slipped into this state, last year, and my doctor and father said I was just a heap of skin and bones, staring blankly, uttering nonsense, if I spoke at all.

The Scottish bloke's here. I glance at him now and then when I realise I'm awake. He says my name. At least I think it's my name. The way he says it, asks it, he sounds like he's not sure either. I feel like I should answer him, but I'm afraid the thing stuck in my throat won't let me, will choke me or gag me. So I fade off again.

What feels like moments later – no dreams, no faint memories, just one reel skipping to the next – my eyes won't open. No obstruction in my throat now, so I groan. But there's something else...something...frightening...

It's a wail of dissent at first, which then morphs into harsh, halting demands. I know that tone.

A beeping near my ear increases rapidly. Something wet slips down the side of my face. My body is trembling. Gasps coming sporadically. My instructor is yelling at someone, and the nasty tone responding to him is pushing my pounding heart into my throat to strangle me instead of that tube-like thing. Not awake, not like before, but my system goes on autopilot – and a twitching, jerking, desperate sensation overwhelms me, until my vision starts to return, and a blurry floor comes rushing up toward me from whatever height I was at a second ago. Fingers numbly yank at threads and strings and needles, red liquid seeps out of my arms, the crash of machines and my own scratchy cries come garbled to the surface of my throat...

"I don't want her, you said she wouldn't, I said I didn't want her..."

I can't control my hysteria, and every hand that reaches me feels like a jolt of electricity. Not even Shepherd registers in my brain when he says my name. I throw them all off, violated and lied to. They said I'd be safe, that she wouldn't be allowed in, they said...

This time I actually do lose consciousness. When I wake, my hands are stiff, stuck in one position. Arms sore from more prodding, poking, stabbing. I don't even care anymore.

Shepherd sees my eyes open and leans in close.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I tried to keep her out, she just wouldn't listen, she ignored everyone and fought her way in... But don't you worry, she's been dealt with. She won't be back in again, I promise this time, even if I have to stay up all night and keep watch myself..."

Hollow words falling on deaf ears. Though, strangely, I can understand him.

He goes on to tell me the hospital is keeping me on a stronger sedative after that episode. They've already done an MRI, while I was in one of my dazed states, to check for any damage I may have sustained from trying to hurt myself.

Seems like I succeeded a bit. Apparently my uncontrollable head-banging gave me three hairline skull fractures and a TBI concussion – no wonder my left side wasn't working as I'd wanted it to earlier. The slurred speech and comprehension problems could have been from that or my illness, but either way, I wasn't making much sense. And the left-sided numbness was definitely an effect of cracking the right side of my skull. But it wasn't too deep, and there wasn't enough internal bleeding or swelling to cause any lasting damage. Physically, I'll be okay, he tells me – the concussion and fractures will heal.  If I don't go hurling myself out of bed again anytime soon.

My reaction to my mother's appearance warranted a heavier sedative to calm me, which is why I might feel groggy now. That, this concussion, and the fact that they still haven't been able to contact my psychiatrist or father to find out my correct medication regiment, and my mother is refusing to cooperate. If nothing turns up within a few hours, they'll send a policeman to the house to do a search. But hopefully the doctor will contact them before that has to happen.

None of it matters, though. It won't help. Any pill in the world won't help. I've really done a job on meself this time. My head is royally and truly fucked inside and out.

Unless that's the sedative making me feel hopeless now. Or my own mood.

Mood stabilizers. Antipsychotics. They're all that keep me sane. Only other choice is this goddamn horse tranquilizer to keep me calm – more like dead to the bloody world. And all I want to do is sleep. No point in being awake. So in the middle of his babbling, I let myself fall asleep, and hope my dreams are blank sheets of nothingness instead of horrid, twisted memories of things she's done to me...

Maybe I'll wake in a few hours to be perfectly right again. Or not. What would someone like me have to look forward to anyway? Another crack in the skull?

I nearly let the tears fall from my closed eyes when I think of the only people I wish were here right now. I thought I'd finally found something close to a "home" – and no one is here who's my actual family.

For the first time in years, even through this mess in my head...I feel lonely.

Where are you?
CHAPTER NINE: THE CURL'S RESCUE SQUAD

Nick

I don't know why I threw myself into the passenger seat next to Topher. I can barely stand the guy. Should've let Matt or Ant take it. But I guess it was just the force of being the sort-of "leader" of our merry little gloom-band, but knowing I can't take the wheel itself.

Topher is still pretty muddled about everything as we coast along the road out of the school grounds and head toward the hospital. Of course, I tried to tell him the situation in the vaguest possible way, and then Matt had to muck things up more with his sporadic add-ins. At least Ant kept his mouth shut. So far, Topher just knows that Tom's mum locked him up and wouldn't let him out for days, for reasons that "are kind of twisted," and the captivity drove the kid to drastic measures. "May have even...made him lose it a bit."

"Even though he don't have it all in the first place," Matt had added, which earned him my infamous scowl.

Oddly, that itself had been enough to convince Topher. So...maybe the bloke went and grew up a bit himself in the past year. Or he's just glad to have a reason to get out of school.

No. As I glance at him furtively whilst he drives, there's something else on his face, far from relief. Maybe actual concern. His eyes are firmly on the road, his jaw is clenched like he's biting something fiercely, and his hands are like fists on the wheel.

Either he really resents having to escort us all – or he truly does like Tom enough to feel some kind of turmoil about what's going on. Even if he's not fully aware of what that is. And he's never acted petulantly toward Ant, so he just must really be Tom's...other friend. The one we don't approve of.

Or, rather, I don't.

Isn't that a slap in the face? Here I am, banging on to Matt about the stupidity of judging people by whom they hang out with, and all along I've been the one holding a stupid grudge against Tom for liking Topher. Whilst Topher, unbeknownst to us, seems to actually consider Tom a true friend? Well, hell, I'll admit it – Topher ain't Matt or Ant when it comes to academics, but he certainly ain't no idiot neither. Definitely smarter than all his brutish thug pals...combined. So I guess maybe having someone like Tom, who is in league with the other two intellectually, pay attention to him and give him a chance – despite all the stupid brainless YouTube videos and drinking parties (okay, just that one drinking party) – maybe that just made Topher feel a bit better about himself.

I guess Tom was right. People in any situation can have their own different stressors, and maybe Topher was just relieved to finally have a friend who actually knows the geography of Britain...among other things. Someone with some brains. Someone he could respect but who didn't look down on him.

...Still...I'm a bit miffed about that incident last year. So I doubt I'll be all open arms and welcome smiles. But maybe...I should give the bloke another chance here. Especially if...maybe he's changed his mind about that too...

I wonder...

I purposefully turn in my seat a bit, making a show of checking on Ant.

"You doin' okay, mate? I know this must be hardest on you..."

Ant's slumped in his seat, glaring out the window like he's watching Satan himself out there dangling Tom over a boiling cauldron.

"I mean, I know you and Tom are, like..." I steal a quick glance at Topher before blurting out plainly, "I know you guys are basically together, so I just wanted to make sure..."

Topher hardly registers what I've just said – or he doesn't care, which would be a miracle.

"What's goin' on with him, then?" he asks instead of letting Ant answer. "Matt said he didn't `have it' in the first place. What's that mean? Obviously there's stuff I don't know..."

I smirk and turn back around, answering cryptically, "There's tons you don't know `bout him, mate..."

But Matt ruins the mystique by blurting out, "Seems he's got some mental issues – mental, emotional, whatever you wanna call `em. Started when he was thirteen, I think."

I shoot Matt another death glare over my shoulder, but he's distracted by the scenery outside too – probably just seeing snow and buildings and trees, though.

Then, to my surprise, Topher whips down the visor in front of him to catch Ant in the view of his mirror, looking straight at him, unwavering, as he asks, "And Nick says you two are together? So I'm assuming you must know the most, right? So what is it? He's definitely not intellectually deficient. Is it serious? Was it an incident that caused something like PTSD?"

Even Ant blinks and is drawn back to the conversation in the car, startled by Topher being so blunt – and aware. And...not seeming to care that he's just learned – and said – his new mate's a little different...in more ways than one.

"Um," Ant starts uncomfortably, "not really... Sort of... I dunno how much he'd wanna say, it's not really my place... There were some incidents to worsen it, but starting out, no – it was a mental illness that came on by itself. Other things happened, like I said, to exacerbate it, but it only started as an organic problem."

Topher slaps the visor back up, nodding slowly. "Okay... Well, thanks for that, at least." He's not angry or put off, apparently – but a little annoyed, maybe even let down, that we won't be so open with him as we are with each other. Then again, he must realise why we're like that, especially with him, so he doesn't push it.

But the look on his face...that frustration and confusion melting into a kind of understanding sadness...

Bloody hell. Now I kinda feel bad for the guy...

"Seems like he's gonna need as many people behind him as he can get," Topher muses vaguely. "If anyone, I guess we're the best ones for that, eh? Obviously his mum's not one to rely on. Hopefully we'll be enough to pull him back. And he'll come back. Right?"

I catch Matt's stunned expression over my shoulder; surely we were all thinking it – but for Topher to be the one to say it...

Ant, though, doesn't look surprised at all now. He simply nods his head, more to himself than to Topher, and continues glaring out the window.

I wonder faintly if Topher will feel the same way once we get there. He sounds confident now, but the bloke wasn't there that night Tom was banging his head like a lunatic. He didn't see the kid trying to talk to me and only getting out choppy words that didn't make any sense.

He doesn't have the bloke's fucking blood on his hands this very second.

I shiver sharply, just now thinking that maybe Tom wasn't the only one who had a shock to his system today.

I decide, then, that if we manage to get to see Tom, and Topher isn't scared off like I once suspected he might be...maybe then I'll tell him the truth. All of it. Whether Tom would want me to or not. Seems the bloke's earned it by now.

I know I bloody well have.

Matt

Mr. Shepherd looms above the four of us as we sit hunched and awkward on a couch in the waiting room, his arms crossed over his scrawny chest and eying each of us up as if preparing for an interrogation. We all sit quietly in our own individual ways: Topher, slightly embarrassed and ashamed; Ant, staring straight ahead and stoic; Nick, indignant and oppositional. And then there's me, all wired fidgetiness and discomfort. Sure, we knew it wasn't the proper thing to do, to leave school early and come here without permission. In fact, that very thing was exactly what the teacher had expressly told Nick not to do. And yet here we are. And none of us can say now, after the discussion in the car, that it was wrong. In fact, I think we'd all agree that it was the right and only course of action we could have taken.

It's when Shep starts his tirade that I realise Ant isn't just staring off into space like he'd been doing in the car; his eyes are fierce and heated, and when I see the object of that glare, I nearly jump out of my skin.

What the fuck is she doing here!? I come close to blurting it out right there and then, but Shepherd's voice lurches me into some kind of reality where I know it wouldn't be good to go demanding that.

But still...bloody hell...surely she's the last person who should be here!

But there she is, all the same, at the other end of the waiting room, lounging in one of the comfortable couches like she owns the place. The only thing missing is her usual glass of wine. Christ, she could be a Bond villain...

The illusion is somewhat ruined, however, by the stiff and hard-faced policeman standing guard beside her. I find myself having to smother my smug grin when I notice this, but it's easily forgotten once Shepherd's uncharacteristically strict tone snaps me back to attention.

"What did you lot think you were doin', eh? Leavin' school without permission, skipping class..."

Topher tries to lift a finger in protest. "Uh, actually, the headmaster called me down to his office first..."

"So then why are you here and not there, Mr. President?" Shepherd demands sharply. "Did he tell you to leave school property?"

Topher drops his hand and looks away guiltily, clearing his throat. "...Fair point," he mumbles under his breath, though he doesn't throw any accusing glances our way. I don't recall him arguing much about skipping his never-realised meeting with the headmaster, or putting up a fight when Nick requested his help in getting us all to the hospital.

Nah, Topher has no regrets, I can tell. But he just wanted to make that – rather lame and insignificant – point.

"I told you, Nicholas," the teacher goes on in exasperation, "there's nothing anyone can do for him right now. All we can do is wait to find out his medications and get him back on them before he truly does have an actual relapse. If the doctors get him back to his normal schedule as soon as possible, there's less chance of him staying this way..."

"What way?" Ant asks, sitting up straight and suddenly wanting to be part of the discussion. Even Mr. Shepherd is a little taken aback by his willingness to speak up.

After blinking rapidly a few times, Mr. Shepherd gives in and explains, "He's just...not like himself."

"How so?" Ant demands, this time standing to confront the teacher face-on. "If you're not very familiar with him, how would you know if he's himself or not? Wouldn't it be better to have familiar friends around him to be able to tell if he's normal or not?"

Shepherd hesitates momentarily, but won't let Ant put him off too much. "I'm no expert on schizophrenia, and no, I'm not his mate like you boys are..."

Nick and I glance furtively at each other – we've held back being completely honest with Topher for our own reasons, but now that Shep's gone and said it straight out like that... We both slide our gazes curiously to the bigger dude, and the look of shock there can't be hidden.

But Topher doesn't interrupt the instructor as he barrels on, just drinks in the actual word and its meaning slowly, if a little...despondently. Like he didn't realise the "illness" we've all been blabbing about was as serious as that, and the distinct expressions of pain and pity are as obvious as his shock. I suppose Topher went and got a heart in the past year, so now he's probably an open book.

Besides, truth be told, on his meds, Tom does not strike anyone as being genuinely...disturbed. A bit weird, sure, but not truly crazy. So no wonder it comes as such a blow.

But Shepherd's still rambling over Topher's sharp intake of breath when he learns the real issue.

"But I do know enough to see that the kid isn't right. From what I've seen, Tom is a highly articulate, bright boy, and at this point, the kid in that room..."

Shepherd trails off a bit, glancing around the waiting area warily before leaning in closer toward us and saying in a confidential tone, "He can barely speak, guys. He can't even get his thoughts together enough to form a simple sentence. Once in a while there's a word, but mostly he just stares...or..." He winces, looking oddly uncomfortable. "Or just glares at me. It's...kind of creepy, to be honest. He just gets this look..."

"Maybe," Ant cuts in encouragingly, "he wouldn't give you that death glare if you let us see him. Even just one of us. He may recognise us. No offence, but you're not one of his mates, and truth be told, he's far less trusting than he'd have people believe.  And he probably doesn't like the idea that his mum is here..."

Shepherd squints at him suspiciously. "You...weren't here for that. How did you..."

The four of us look blankly around at each other, until Mr. Shepherd realises Ant didn't say anything about whatever he's thinking of. But after that slip, all of us are nagging him to know what the fuck he's talking about.

He calms us down by holding up his hands in defence and assuring us it was an accident that won't happen again, and describes Tom's subconscious but dramatic reaction just to his mother's presence in the same room.

"His heart rate was out of control, his blood pressure sky-rocketed, and before he was even half-awake, he was automatically trying to get away, pulling out his IV's, screaming bloody murder...I think..." He glances away from us, looking guilty and ashamed himself, and confesses, "I think that's when I finally decided to believe him. That his accusations aren't just...delusions. When someone reacts like that, so violently, and doesn't even see the threat with their own eyes..." He sighs, wiping at his face and shaking his head sharply. "He just seemed to sense her presence and lost...well, lost his mind. That's too bloody hard to fake."

"Hell, Shep," Nick hisses at him, "you knew what he said in the hallway, why'd you let that bloody wench in—"

"I didn't!" he insists, suddenly on our level now, even sinking down onto the arm of the couch we're all crowded on. He keeps his voice low as he goes on in a hoarse whisper, "She just snuck in, and when the cop outside the room tried to stop her, she shoved him over and pushed her way through – blimey, Nick, you weren't lying! That woman's a bloody giant! A giant in Vera Wang!"

That makes Topher sputter, but Ant and I aren't very amused. Nick, though, rolls his eyes and smirks, muttering, "You should try trusting us now and then, Shep. I know you've got rules to follow, but when things are really bloody important, we're not prone to scheming and makin' shit up. Even we know when things are...more valuable."

And the steady, heated gaze he gives the instructor is so intense and meaningful, and the bloke doesn't break it at all, but I see the minute shift in his face as he starts accepting Nick's rock-hard stance.

Finally, Shep slumps his shoulders, glancing briefly and surreptitiously across the waiting room before whispering to us, "Okay, fine – but only one at a time, and only for a few minutes each.  And I'll be coming in with you.  And, as if it needs to be said, while I'm in there with one of you, the rest of you stay put and say and do absolutely nothing to anyone else. Got it?  Anthony?" His eyes, strangely enough, shift to the little guy, and he snaps more insistently, "Even if she provokes you."

Whoa. Shep's a bit more on top of things than we thought. He don't know it all, but even he can feel the hatred emanating from Ant as he eyes up the unworthy floozy across the room from us.

Ant slumps back onto the couch, ducks his head sheepishly and nods.

"Okay, then," Shep sighs, "who's first?"

To our surprise, Topher sits back in his seat and requests, "I'd like to see him first, if I could."

The rest of us do double-takes, Nick and I instantly feeling cagey about this suggestion. Shep doesn't seem the least bit put off, but then, he isn't aware of the rocky relationship between Topher and the two of us.

I have to wonder why Topher is so anxious to see him, even after all the "scary" stuff we've been warned of. But as he stands and jabs at our teacher's arm to get him moving, Nick and I exchange another odd look – one that says neither of us expected it, but now we see Topher's determination. He truly does care about the kid, and the fact that he's willing to go in there at all is proof enough that he really does warrant the title of being Tom's...well, friend.

Well, if he doesn't come running straight back out screaming, that is. In an unexpected turn of events, Nick and I glance at each other again, and I know we're thinking the same thing – we hope he stays. As strained as it's been between him and us, the fact that he seems as worried as we are about Tom...well, it'd just hurt Tom even more to find out later if Topher was scared off.

The two of them disappear into the room together, and I unconsciously hold my breath for a long time. Seconds drag by, growing into minutes. Before we realise it, Topher has been in there for damn near twenty minutes.

I look over at Nick. "I guess...we were wrong about him."

Nick looks shame-faced down at his hands in his lap, still pink from the stains. "I guess...I guess maybe he needed someone like Tom to come along."

"We all did," Ant cuts into our quiet conversation, staring at the ceiling blankly but speaking firmly.

That's all he says, but after an awkward moment, I glance at Nick and smile softly.

"He's not wrong, you know."

Nick nods silently in agreement.

Topher

I've never really met a crazy person before. Well, not that I knew of. Not until now, I suppose. And I've never spent much time in hospitals. A few times. Grandparents, great-aunts or uncles. Mostly when I was younger. Once my mother had appendicitis, but I was ten and it wasn't really that scary.

But right now I have butterflies in my stomach, I'm that nervous. I must not show it, but I do feel it. The guys are probably too startled that I volunteered at all, let alone to go first. Well, Nick's the most startled, I think. He must still be trying to accept the fact that, well...I'm growing up. Figuring out what matters to me most. And after years of running with the "popular" or "safe" crowd, I noticed I wasn't having any fun. Same old blokes saying the same old shit and doing the same old thing.

Tom was the one who started babbling to me about more interesting shit when I was trying to show him some stupid videos on the `net. This or that would remind him of other stuff, and the next thing I knew, I was avoiding the seafront with all the drunken fools, staying in at night to read books and research shit I never thought was actually real.

Yeah, I got the idea he wasn't totally straight early on. Like a week after we met. He showed an interest in birds – but usually strange or androgynous ones, with short hair, in weird bands, or oddball artists. Other than that, he only seemed to show an interest in Ant – even if he was just "checking up" to make sure my mates were staying in line, I got the feeling it was more than that for him. And I didn't mind or, like, hold it against him. Whatever, y'know?

It had been a little...not "jarring" or "surprising," but not quite what I'd expected from him. Really, he seemed more interesting in everything but sex. Everything else was more important.

So when Nick blatantly put it out there for me, like a test, I was a bit happy with myself for not rising to the bait. Not being the least bit shocked or put off.

And I wasn't put off. Over a year after the incident with Nick and Matt, I've gotten over that whole subject. It didn't upset me that Nick's gay anyway – it never really bugged me that Matt was either. I was just going along with the crowd back then. "My" crowd. And when Nick went and threw himself under the bus for the sake of some kid who'd only been here a couple of years, against someone he'd known since we were wee brats...

I felt hurt. Like he didn't care. Like my shock was more of a reward than my friendship had been all those years.

That had been the real reason for my stupid reaction.

Do I really care who they fancy? Hell, no. Not anymore. For a few weeks after that I'd been an angry bull, but before I knew it, months had gone by and the thing that still made me mad was Nick's disregard for me, not the "gay" thing, like they assumed. I've always liked Anthony, I'd never lost any respect for him, which I did always have, too. Kid was whip-smart and nice. He'd helped me in grammar school with subjects I'd struggled with, so why would I ever hold a grudge against him?

It was just too bad he didn't physically grow much after grammar school – whilst my own mates grew into bloody monsters. With empty heads. I actually felt protective of the little guy, and even before Tom stepped in that time, I'd been scolding my mates for years any time they tried to pick on the little bloke. He didn't deserve their bull.

Not that Nick would've bothered to find out that's what I really thought. He probably just assumed I was a homophobic prick and wrote me off.

I admit, it was a dumb thing to do, and hell yeah, I regret it. But at least Ant doesn't seem to have held it against me, and thank fuck for Tom. Not that I saw his coming here as a way to reconcile with Nick, but if it happens that way, all the more reason to be thankful.

I'd suspected things weren't perfect with Tom all along, really. Especially that early morning I found him out wandering the back roads with what appeared to be no idea where he was. He just seemed so unlike his usual self, so out of sorts, and even if he hadn't been up for talking about it, I just knew something was wrong then.

But I never suspected this.

Makes my fucking gut ache for the guy.

Who knows if he values our friendship as much as he values the others? Or even as much as I do. But I'll be damned if he's in crisis and I ain't even there to help out.

Even if this dim, small room scares the shit outta me, with all those machines hooked up to him, and him lying there in the bed, for once looking small and vulnerable. Never thought someone over six feet tall could look like he does now. Pale and gaunt, with a bandage round his head and straps locking both his wrists to the bedposts.

I hover by his side and gesture to the restraints.

"Is that really necessary?" I ask, an innate sense of quiet coming over me, like even my voice might be too much for him to handle in this tiny room.

Shepherd shrugs helplessly, looking as uncomfortable about them as I feel. "Apparently the hospital requires it if a patient is at risk for a fall – or tries to push himself out."

I sigh with resignation, then look down at his face – and I nearly yelp when I see that his eyes are open. Glassy, staring, unseeing – but wide open.

"C-Can...he hear us?" I ask, unable to keep the slight tremor from my voice.

Mr. Shepherd shrugs. "I honestly don't know, Topher. He might. But even if he might, it's unlikely he understands us."

I don't know if I prefer that or not. Gathering my courage, and despite the teacher's words, I cautiously lean in closer over him, trying to put myself into his eyeline. I can almost fool myself into believing he's looking straight back at me – but then if I lean too far, the illusion breaks, and he's still just seeing something I can't.

"Hey, mate," I whisper, and dare to reach up toward his head. "Can you hear me? It's Topher..."

Nothing. Not even when I notice a particularly unruly curl falling in front of the bandage and try to push it back, to no avail.

"Oi, listen," I go on, even though I'm sure he's not, "we're all here, mate. All of us. Me, Nick, Matt, Ant...Yeah, we're all here for ya. Can you believe that? Me `n Nick in the same place together, by choice. I know, it's cr—"

I stop myself before the word tumbles out, and I know Mr. Shepherd is smirking.

"If any of us know Tom," he says, "I'm sure he wouldn't be offended if you used the world `crazy.' He'd probably just smile."

I think about that, about some of the times we were joking around and I called him a nutter, or bloody insane, and how he would just laugh. But now that I think about it, I realise – he did laugh, but this kind of short, bemused burst of a giggle, as if to say "Mate, you don't know the half of it." Mocking himself with the unknown truth to my words.

But no, he wasn't really crazy. When he was on his meds, he didn't seem disturbed. In fact, he was one of the most interesting people I ever met. So if that's "crazy," then...

"Hell, then," I mutter to him, "I guess I can do crazy."

His shallow rasps, helped along by the oxygen he's hooked up to, shudder slightly, and I squint, leaning in closer as I wonder if that was some kind of sign that he heard me.

But all he does is blink slowly, gaze unmoving, and cough a bit before his chest settles back into a steady rhythm.

I draw in a deep breath of my own, trying to mess with that stubborn kink of a curl again, and mumble, "Well, there are worse things, I guess. Not havin' ya here at all. That'd be worse. Some terrible car wreck that mangled ya... At least this you got a decent chance of pulling outta, right? It ain't all lost..."

I'm about to stand straight again, but what stops me is the very faint gasp that sneaks out of his mouth, and the beeping of the heart monitor behind me gradually starts to increase. I blink a few times, staring down at him, seeing his throat working to swallow – and then his eyelids flicker, and suddenly those green sparks are locked on me. I feel like I can't move – I don't want to move, for fear that I'm imagining it.

A strangled breath is inhaled, and an unfamiliar voice croaks out, "T...T...Toph..."

There's no mistake that he's seeing me, trying to say my name. After Shepherd's hopeless speech I'm almost giddy with excitement over it – even if the teacher himself hardly acknowledges it.

"Yeah, he does that now and then," he sighs. "But apart from one or two words..."

"But he knows me!" I insist happily, smiling down at my mate.

"Still isn't very aware, though."

And Shepherd's words prove true as, in the next instant, Tom blurts out, "Topher...mmmaffassssunnn..." in a slur, and his head twitches sideways, his vision sliding away from me slowly.

I furrow my brow, scratch at my head absently. "W-What's...What's that mean?"

Shepherd shrugs again. "Dunno. Just makes those sounds sometimes. I think he might be trying to communicate, but he can't remember how to speak, then gives up."

I lift my attention to him, feeling insulted. "And you just let him?"

Shepherd makes a plaintive gesture with his hands. "What can I do, Topher? There's nothing you can do, except wait for the meds to be straightened out. Until then, anything he `says' is just gibberish."

I clench my hands into fists, still unwilling to believe that as I look down at my mate and see tears welling in his eyes as they roll back in his head. "No," I say solemnly. "He's trying to tell us something. Maybe if we pay more attention, we can figure it out..."

"There's nothing to figure out, Topher," Shepherd groans. "I'm telling you, his mind is a muddled mess right now – there's no way you can hope to get anything that makes sense out of him."

But I'm stubborn. Ignoring the teacher's words, I plant myself on the side of the bed and keep a close eye on Tom, leaning forward whenever he tries working his throat to make another sound. The teacher lets out a long breath, but doesn't bother telling me to give it up and leave. At least he's indulging me for now.

And I swear to God, even if the sounds are jumbled and I've no clue what he's saying, when Tom actually looks at me, I know he's seeing me – because that blank expression I saw when I first came in isn't there anymore, and whenever I'm in his view, I'm certain he seems a little relieved to have someone there that he trusts. I can see it in his eyes – what only a true friend can see. I'm no teacher, I'm no nurse, and I definitely ain't no doctor. But I've been his friend for months. And even if I'm not Ant, someone he feels that kind of closeness to, I can just feel that he's glad to have me there. So I'm not budging until I feel good and ready to go, because that's what friends do. No matter what the others think, even if I'm not in their little group and haven't spent as much time with him as they have, I'm me, and this is the kind of person I've become. Someone who actually gives a damn.

They've avoided me for the past year without even trying to clear the air, despite my own attempts – and that's what they missed. So these little moments with my first true friend in what feels like ages...I won't let anyone take them away from me.

Matt

What a bloody weekend. Some parts dragged on and on. Other parts seemed to fly by. The draggy parts seemed to be the entire afternoon and evening of Thursday, when each of us had our turn visiting the virtual vegetable, one at a time, as Shepherd had made us promise. It was a surprise for Ant to volunteer to go last to see him – but then we understood as the stubborn little guy made himself at home and declared he wasn't going anywhere. Made himself all comfy on the rather uncomfortable chair and claimed it as his "bed." Obviously Shepherd started to argue against this, but once he saw the blunt devotion and look of "This is how it's gonna be" in Ant's eyes, he gave in pretty quickly and assured the hospital staff who asked about it that it was okay...

Not that his word really made the final say, but no one else argued either.

Besides, as relieved as Tom seemed to see the rest of us, even in his unintelligible state, it was clear to all of us who he was really grateful to have by his side. Ant didn't even have to do or say much, just sat there and held his hand (after sneakily unstrapping one of the restraints) and glanced at him now and then with a sweet, encouraging smile.

No doubt that's all Tom could see when Ant looked at him like that.

But none of us could have imagined what happened next. Especially not Tom, no doubt. When we were almost hopeless over the prospect of getting in touch with this elusive doctor, who showed up late Thursday night but Tom's father.

Needless to say, we were not expecting that. Nor did we expect the scornful glare he gave his wife – apparently someone must have filled him in on what Tom accused her own – and then for him to stand there and rattle off to the hospital doctors exactly what medications his son takes, how much, and when – that was pretty damn surprising.

And all this time, even Tom thought the bloke never paid attention. But we guessed someone managed to contact him, as he clearly cut his business trip short to catch the soonest flight out of whatever city he'd been in to get home.

The guy wasn't all sunbeams and rainbows, but I guess he wouldn't have been, getting a phone call in the middle of a work trip to be informed his son's in the hospital with head wounds, not to mention the fact that the mother had been keeping the kid off his meds intentionally for half a bloody week, locked up in his own bathroom with no food or human contact except her own mocking torture. And then to get there and find out the rest of it from the cops, about the claims of the previous year's sexual abuse, and to find his half-drunk wife arguing with the police and hospital staff, refusing to even help her son...

Of course, the overworked bloke was near bursting with anger. For a second, I was sure he was going to slap her to shut her up. But all he did was walk away from her.

Strangely, though, after finally giving the doctors the information they needed to know to get the kid stabilized, the guy continued to ignore his pleading, bumbling wife, walked straight past all of us lounging outside the room, and went in to see his son.

Ant had been startled to see the dude, but all he said later was that Tom's father only held up a hand to signal he wasn't there to start a fight, and Ant slid back down into his seat to watch in amazement as our friend's father – the apparently negligent one who acted like Tom wasn't even his, especially when his mental symptoms started "acting up" – hovered over his son's bed and stroked his hair tenderly, quietly distraught and at a loss for words just seeing Tom in such a state.

We couldn't get much else from Ant about what happened after that, just that he guessed Tom had misinterpreted his father's fear all those years for hatred, and whatever Ant and Tom's dad talked about, the kid seemed much less troubled about the father hanging around than the mother. Even Tom's automatic physiological reaction was nothing like when he'd merely heard his mother's voice and sensed her presence.

To top it all off, Ant confessed, "He knows who I am, too, and all he said was `Thanks for being strong enough to keep an eye on him – something I was always too scared or embarrassed to do.' Like he was ashamed of it. More ashamed of that than of the idea of his son having a, um...a `partner,' I suppose."

I took that to mean Tom's dad didn't mind so much that Ant's that close to his son (even though Nick and I still haven't worked out if they've "done it" yet), but maybe he just meant it as a thank-you for being Tom's friend. Ant wasn't really clear on that part, but refused to elaborate.

Despite the rest of our protests, even after getting to see Tom for a few minutes each, when visiting hours were officially over, we were all chased out by his dad, Mr. Shepherd, and the doctor overseeing his care. Ant pulled the "I don't have anywhere to go" spiel, which was a lie – he'd been staying with me since Tuesday. But Tom's father was unexpectedly understanding and told the hospital staff that he consented to this kid staying in the room with him, however uncomfortable that chair looked he'd since taken up residence in. The father himself booked a nearby hotel room, but instructed the doctor to contact him the second there was any improvement or trouble.

The mother, on the other hand, was escorted away by police, and none of us missed the silent but heated glares exchanged between the married couple. Even if she wasn't being taken away for Tom's accusations, she had been the one to put their son in danger in the first place, then obstructed the police and doctors from helping him, and in addition proved to be inebriated anyway. So she wasn't going home either.

Topher took me and Nick home on his own, while Mr. Shepherd went his way, and so the only two left were Tom, still in his catatonic state, and Ant, who refused to leave his side.

The entire ride home I kept filling the otherwise tense atmosphere in the car with worried questions and wonderings about what was going to happen next. Obviously this was a family being pulled apart, though it wasn't like it hadn't been happening for years beforehand – but now, other people were involved (mainly the doctors, the police – and us), so it wasn't like they could just sweep this under the rug and run away like they'd done in the past.

Then again, it seemed the father hadn't known anything about the other issues that had plagued the relationship between Tom and his Mum for the last year, so if anything was going to be the final straw, this most definitely would be it. At least, that's what I was guessing.

But in between my babbling, Nick and Topher mumbled things to each other I couldn't quite make out. My assumption was that they had finally found the same page again, and, grudgingly or not, they had most likely overcome their year-old feud and were back on regular speaking terms. This proved true when, as Topher let us off in front of our houses, instead of slamming the door and stomping off in a huff, Nick lingered by the open door and said sincerely, "Thanks, mate. Y'know...For everything y'done today. And for, y'know...stickin' by him through all of this."

To which Topher replied, looking straight at him over the passenger seat, "I'd do the same for all my real mates, Nick. That means you, too."

There was a ghost of a relieved smile on my partner's face, and seeing that made me grin like an idiot, so that I had to turn away to keep from seeming too silly or uncool. (Even though technically they were the ones being "uncool"...but if Tom's taught us anything, it's that "cool sucks.")

"Cheers, man," Nick responded, and then closed the door to lead me up to our respective houses. Not even hesitating to put an arm over my shoulder in a blatant sign of true affection, in front of our now new/old mate – who apparently didn't mind.

Well, that was a load off my mind, at least. Topher might still think I'm odd, but I doubt he'd hold it against me. And seeing Nick walk with a lighter step told me he was glad that mess was dealt with too.

But there was still the matter of Tom.

The next morning, Nick and I skipped school to catch a bus to the hospital and went to see how our mates were doing. Ant was sprawled awkwardly in his chair, fading in and out of sleep even with the blinds open and the sun pouring in the room. Then there was Tom, who was amazingly more aware, and had somehow gotten the bandage off to display the nasty bruises and stitches on his forehead (probably more on the back), but not seeming to notice the wounds at all. The restraints had since been removed from his arms, though a small white cast showed where he'd managed to sprain his wrist whilst banging on the bathroom door.

He was sitting up in his bed, even if all he did was stare at some silly Friday morning cartoons on telly, his eyes wide open and finally seeming to take in his environment – but he glanced at us when we entered his room and smiled, nodding faintly before turning back to the show. That was promising.

Ant was exhausted. Whilst Tom zoned out to cartoons, Ant explained that getting him back on his meds was quite a chore – migraines, lurching around all night, begging Ant to make everything stop. But at least, Ant pointed out, Tom had known who he was. Which proved the drugs were working. But it meant neither of them had gotten much sleep.

The doctors were highly positive about Tom's prognosis, and when his dad had stopped in earlier that morning, after some initial wariness, the kid started to realise his father was actually apologetic and regretful for leaving him with the mother, for running off on a business trip – not just this time, but any time – when Tom was going through such a trial... For everything, he'd said. He'd assured Tom his mother would be kept far away from him, whether the courts decided Tom's accusations were true or not; he would find any loophole to bring up to ensure the woman wasn't allowed near him. His own father didn't trust her, and he promised no more business trips until things got "back to normal"...and after the mother was removed from the house.

That had startled Tom even in his still slightly dazed state, and all he could do was nod. But after his father had left for work, Ant noticed quite a change in the boy. He was calmer, the headaches had receded, and he was content to watch telly until his full grasp of speech would begin to return in spurts and pieces.

He was still mumbling nonsense by the time Nick and I got there, but more and more he was coming around, and Ant seemed to understand him clearly – whether his words were gibberish, just broken, or he used vague gestures instead. This was yet another good sign, Ant relayed from the doctors. Even if it took him a while to regain his total grasp of speech, at least he had Ant there to translate for him, which was a great relief to Tom and lessened more of his anxiety.

As the three of us sat around his bed whilst he stared at the animation on the telly, he giggled deliriously at the appropriate times, and the sound brought a soft smile to Ant's face.

"He's...doing better," Ant summarised. "Still some glitches, but they should go away as the medicine gets through his system."

Nick and I both let out breaths of relief – the best news we'd heard all week.
CHAPTER TEN: STRAIGHTENING OUT

Anthony

A month after the incident at school, I'm eagerly following Tom's father down the corridor of the sixth floor of the hospital – "The Crazy Ward," as others have always joked. But I know what I'm here for, and after what I've seen in the past few weeks, I know I'll hardly be dealing with a crazy person.

We take our seats at one of the cafeteria tables set up for family meetings and within minutes, Tom comes shuffling into the room with a line of other people in the same white garb as he's wearing, though his dark blue robe sets him apart. That, and the light in his eyes that spark as soon as he sees the two of us waiting for him. He shuffles a little, and his body is still a bit stiff in its movements, but those are side effects of his medications that have decreased even over this short a time.

He gives his father a hug before turning to me to do the same, though he holds on a bit longer to me. Over the past month, he and his father have been working on mending broken ties in therapy and at these meetings, and the familial warmth is pleasant to see. Even more surprising is how accepting his father is of me – and how easily he put forth the notion of taking me in when he learned of my situation.

Tom joins us at the table and the first thing he does is grasp my wrist. I willingly let him check my arms, smiling that he's relieved to see there have been no additions to the leftover cuts on them. He gently rubs the scars from old injuries and grins at me, then turns to his father.

"So how many times has he apologised this week?" he starts out, questioning me.

His father rolls his eyes.

I giggle, answering, "Maybe forty or so, but he stopped eventually."

"That's good to know. So," he goes on, a bit more seriously now, "what's the news this week then?"

His father nods and leans in closer, uncomfortably aware of the proximity of other people. But Tom doesn't seem to care. "She's been put under observation at the psychiatric facility and has been court ordered to stay for at least three months. Even after that time, however, she's still not permitted to see you until you allow it – through the courts as well."

Tom nods his satisfaction at this. "Good. So she's being taken care of, then."

"Naturally. She admitted to everything when she was arrested, and went without incident to the facility, escorted by police."

"So I guess if she doesn't keep her promises," Tom muses, his speech completely returned to its normal rhythm and tone as when I'd first met him, "they're bound to come back and bite her in the arse."

His father chuckled, then reached across the table to pat his son's hand. "You're awfully brave to finally come out with it."

Tom scoffs. "It wasn't like it was a conscious decision, but I guess it needed to come out." He glances over at me, then back to his father. "And you two? How are you...getting along?"  
"Fantastic," his father answers easily, sitting back more comfortably in his seat. "His room is coming along nicely. His father calls daily to check in on him, but I believe he's aware that he's in no state to care for a child, even a teenage child."

"We're trying to convince him to get help for his alcohol problem," I add quietly, "but I'm not holding my breath. I'm just glad he's allowing me to live elsewhere without a fight."

"So am I," his father puts in. "He's even been learning some tricks from Sam."

It takes Tom a few moments, but then he nods. "Ah, taken up cooking, have you?"

I smile bashfully and shrug. "It's just precursor lessons to what I might do in the future. He's a very good teacher."

"Don't be so modest," his father urges me. "This kid is bloody wonderful! He's made me dinner four times and I stuff myself full every time. Oh, but that does remind me, as he's mentioned his penchant for cooking and might go in that direction, we should start looking into universities when you get home – nothing big to start with, maybe throw some ideas around, but just so you know, I haven't forgotten that you two have got some pretty big decisions to make coming up in the next couple of years."

Tom can't help but smile widely at this, but he doesn't seem to have anything to say. As if he's just seeing his father for the first time during these last few weeks, he just grins and gazes at him like he's the parent he's always wanted.

"Oh," his father goes on, leaning inward again. "I've done some checking, and it appears that when you're released, you can start back at school, but you'll be doing independent work during your classes until you're caught up. And you can have the help of anyone who is willing to give you time, and Mr. Shepherd volunteered to oversee this plan. Apart from that, you'll be seeing the psychologist from here in his own office in town twice a week."

Tom nods as he takes this in, his expression serious and dutiful. "That all sounds good to me." He glances at me again and nudges my arm. "Help me out, huh?"  
I tilt my head to the side. "Of course, mate. Anytime."

He smiles again and – right there in front of his father, without question or hesitation – plants a kiss near my lips. "Always good to know you're on my side."

I'm a bit startled at his daring, but to my shock, his father goes on as if he didn't just see that blatant display of affection – or as if it doesn't bother him at all, "You have a lot of good people on your side, Tommy. They're all waiting for you to finish getting well so you can come home."

I squeeze the hand next to me and nod my agreement.

And nothing says it more than when he returns home two weeks later to a loud and lively welcome-home party that includes myself, Nick, Matt, Topher, some other kids from school who had apparently always liked him, not to mention the full-time maid his father hired, Sam the gourmet chef, and even Mr. Shepherd.

It isn't a very large party, but it's enough to make that familiar smile remain on his face until well after the others have left and it's just the five of us, him and me, Matt and Nick, and Topher. There are no wars, no apologies, no grudges, no discomfort.

Just five mates in the basement of a giant house, playing music and laughing at the top of their lungs. Tears feel so much better when they're from happiness. And every time I see that giant smile, those wild curls, and those long, lithe limbs all akimbo with a guitar around his neck, I remember who this young man really is, and no labels – not "crazy," not bracelets, not diagnoses or wicked names – fit him anymore. He simply is Tom, and he is beautiful.

###

Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, won't you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer?

Thanks!

Jillian Kulp

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