 
AR Rivera

# September Rain

#### Savor The Days Series Book 2

## By

## A.R. Rivera

For the dreamers, the free thinkers, artists and creators, the music makers: your sprits make the world an inspiring place.

Super-duper, enormous thanks to: Marcos Curiel, Pete Stewart, Ernie Longoria, and Tony Delocht—the original members of The Accident Experiment. If you had not given Sick Love Letter to the world, this plot may have never found its' way out of my head and onto the page.

**SEPTEMBER RAIN  
** By A.R. Rivera

Published 2015 by A.R. Rivera

Cover photo provided by morguefile.com.

Final artwork by A.R. Rivera. Fonts provided by 1001fonts.com

Copyright 2015 A.R. Rivera

All Rights reserved.

Although this story contains pop culture references and existing locales, all characters, locales, objects and events portrayed in this book are products of the authors' imagination. Any similarities to persons living or dead, places, things, or events are coincidental and unintentional so don't get you knickers in a twist. Any music or songs specifically named herein are credited to the original artists.

You shall not print, re-print, buy, sell, or transfer any physical or digital copy of this material without the express permission of the author.

I'm sure you know that writing a novel takes a lot of time and effort and I, the author, ask you, the reader, to please respect my many, many months of hard work by recommending this book for others to purchase.

This novel is for your personal enjoyment.

If you like this book and wish to share it, THANK YOU, but please, encourage additional purchases from retailers for other readers. Writing a book takes a lot of time and effort.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Amazon digital ASIN: B00U32PP28

Createspace Print Edition: ISBN-13: 978-1512076226

ISBN-10: 1512076228

Smashwords digital ISBN: 9781310466618

PRAISE FOR BETWEEN OCTOBERS

_Books Like Breathing' Blog—5/5 Stars!_ _..._ "I have found yet another author to read ... I really enjoyed this book. There were some parts that got particularly angsty but I love that. I found myself really immersed in this one ... I absolutely loved Rhys and Grace ... I love that we got to see the whole story of the relationship. Usually in the books I read, marriage in endgame. It's white noise beyond it. You are left to assume there is no trouble, no bickering and all is happy sunshine times ... Some of this book was gutpunchingly angsty but it was so well done."

_Onlinebookclub.org, official reviewer, Ashley Claire (4/4 stars!)_... "Lovers of both thriller and romance will enjoy _Between Octobers_. I rate this book **4 out of 4 stars** and will happily be reading the next book in the series. ... I went into this book thinking it was going to be a run-of-the-mill thriller. I was pleasantly surprised when the book began seamlessly alternating between suspense and love story. I honestly don't know that I've ever read another book like it. Just when I was getting the warm fuzzies from the developing relationship, Rivera switches back to Grace's current danger and I found myself instantly on edge again. This book also comes fully equipped with an ending that I did not see coming, which is my favorite kind of ending!"

"The creative person is both, more primitive and more cultivated, more destructive, a lot madder, and a lot saner than the average person."

—Frank X. Barron

1

—Angel

There is a chain around my waist that's connected to another chain, which loops through the handcuffs on my wrists. Those chains are connected to a third which links to a fourth that holds the cuffs around my ankles.

I can barely walk. I have to take tiny steps, shuffling my feet as fast as I can with the shackles pulled taught. I can move my arms a little bit but not really enough to do anything, like wipe my nose. I have to lean down to push my hair away from my face and it always falls right back.

This morning marks the first day of my latest case review. Unlike many other inmates, though, I'm not hoping this little charade leads to parole.

For me, there is only one way out of this place and it's in a bag. And it won't be much longer. I'm just going through the motions: I'll say what I need to, clear my conscience.

When the review is over, I'll find a way to get to Jake. I'll be with him again.

Both of the guards—one at each of my elbows—halt their marching and then I hear her voice. The witch that used to call herself my best friend: Avery Campbell.

As if I haven't got enough problems.

She's standing directly in front of me. I make a point of ignoring her, drawing my eyes from the wide tiled floor to the guard beside me. The guard's looking straight ahead, not at Avery, but beyond her. If I react the way I want—wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze until every last bit of air is gone—then I'd never get into the interview room and I'd never be able to tell anyone what a liar, a fraud, and a phony she is. Besides, ignoring Avery is like calling an anorexic "fat." It's the worst possible thing I could do.

The corridor we're standing in erupts with a crackling buzz. The grating squeak of metal hinges echoes. A heavy door on my right swings open.

A small breeze blows as Avery turns on her heel. Her long black hair sways down her back as she struts back up the corridor, shouting to everyone that I'm the idiot, that she's the one who really knows the truth, and she better get _her_ time in _my_ interview.

_Like hell she will_ , I vow, staring daggers into her back until a flickering light draws my attention away. It's coming from the meeting room, just beyond the noisy doorway. I can tell from out here that the size of the room is claustrophobia inducing.

My gut clenches at the sight of a microphone, set atop a single table, centered in the small room. Surrounding the table are four metal framed chairs. Each seat is covered by a worn-looking gray, woolen material.

The first guard watches me as if at any moment I'll come at him with a shiv. The second guard remarks about one of the overhead fluorescents, pointing to the flickering light. I'm careful to remain docile while they remove my cuffs from the chain at my waist and affix them to my chair.

On the other side of the table, propped against the soft blue wall, sets a pair of big black cameras with silent, eye-like lenses. They're hinged upon two sets of solid legs waiting for me to spill my guts—one more time, for posterity. But I have to wait for the ears; the judge and jury which will most likely be embodied in two carefully selected assholes, wearing the requisite suits.

My fingers fidget over the woolen material covering the thin arms of the chair. Pinching at miniscule balls of fluff, I wait for the others filing into the room to settle down. There are three: a man, a woman, and my lawyer— _Something Brandon_ , who looks like a man, but seems genderless. Slowly stripping the lint away, I can just make out the faint snap of each thin fiber as it stretches and breaks and floats lazily down to the faded green floor.

My gaze wanders towards the door as it closes and I can't help but think of it as some kind of metaphor. For half a bitter second, I swear Avery's penetrating eyes are back, sneaking a peek through the small window over the handle. Those bright green orbs, so full of curiosity and malice, churn my stomach and I'm glad I skipped breakfast.

"I hate her." I don't mean to mumble the thought and bite down on the tip of my tongue. Squeezing my eyes shut, I count to three then check the small window again. Nothing.

Looking around, I'm glad to see that no one seemed to notice my slip.

Once everyone has settled in, Mister Brandon, who's taken a seat at my left side, prompts me to begin. I draw a deep breath, ignoring my dry mouth, trying to focus on this oration. But the microphone I'm staring at looms too large. I study the black meshed end pointing directly at me; its' flat top and rounded edges.

"My name is Angel Patel—" I manage to squeak before my voice cuts out, choked by the arid lump in my throat.

"Take your time." My gaze shifts up to follow a soft voice to the other side of the wide table. It floats from the plain woman sitting directly across from me. Staring back, she folds her hands over her lap. Her hair is pulled back in an unreasonably tight bun: the type that promises to make her hair line recede. The lenses of her glasses are stern rectangles that remind me of a high school librarian. The flat brown eyes behind them do not say anything.

A man on her left adjusts one of the two black lenses pointing at me—the eyes, coming into focus. The microphone recording us is making a memory—it will replay everything later on. The people in here are all ears—waiting, listening for information. I cannot help but think that this small room with its' azure walls is like a skull, keeping us inside. I am the brain—dictating the instructions and operating on another level. I am above them all, but somehow still under authority.

The words I need to say are ready and waiting, but my throat feels as if I've swallowed a baseball. I can't shove them past the mass, it's too big. And then other words leap into my head:

Quirky grin becomes friend—

Good friend becomes best friend—

Best friend becomes girlfriend—

Who becomes no one at all.

The lyrics thicken the lump in my throat. I remember Jake singing this song, the way he used to lean into the microphone, brushing his lips against the metal. That powerful voice growling out the angst.

And me. The way I used to hold him: palms tightly locked behind his back, my head on his chest, dancing to the rhythm of his heartbeat as he kissed my hair. I was so sure we'd stay that way.

_Deep breath_ , I coax, willing myself to stay in the moment. _Don't drift, Angel_. Don't. And then, more of Jakes words break through:

A quivering flame lights a shooting pain.

Down into my brain. Then you say my name

And I'm drawn to black again.

_Remember why you're here._ To finally get rid of this burden. To be free of Averys' secrets once and for all. To make her pay for what she did.

I'm here, in this place that reminds me of that first interrogation room, for many reasons. That police station is miles away—years from this life—and they're still asking what happened.

Do they want me to repeat myself? Because, I won't. What they are going to get from me is the unblemished truth. I will tell them everything exactly the way I remember it.

I won't chicken out this time. I won't surrender through silence, leaving Avery to spin her lies like she has for the last six years. I won't let my mind float away when it gets tough. I'll stick with the cold facts until the bitter end. I've practiced this time. I've had six years to cement every detail in my head. I won't forget the details.

The devil really is in the details, isn't he?

Maybe, if I tell them all of it, if I make them understand what I knew and when . . . maybe they'll leave me be, let me die in peace, and finally make my way to Jake. I wonder briefly where that expression comes from: _die in peace_. How was death ever associated with peace? The death I have seen . . . the time it's taken to get from there to here . . . I have yet to find a morsel of peace in it. Maybe the peace comes after. I hope so.

"Remember, be as precise as possible." Mister Brandon leans in and I notice he's wearing his usual overcoat: crisp and white, reminding me of that Colonial guy from that chicken joint. He wears it all the time. _Who the hell wears a white suit coat?_

I'm trying to avoid hearing his voice. Every time he speaks, it's like a grating in my inner ear. He's turned his head in my direction, speaking across our shoulders, ignoring the microphone head. His breath reeks of coffee and milk. ". . . Do not hold back anything as it pertains to your state of mind and how it affected the events as they occurred to ensure you're properly placed in custody proportionate to your needs. The reclassification we talked about . . ."

_What we talked about? He's talked about a million different things. Say this. Don't say that. Speak. Tell the truth. Omit new information._ I want to scream at him for the double-talk.

". . . Discuss your current classification and additional considerations with regards to—" _Good God, the man can't stop talking!_ "—the state of Arizona requires you be placed—"

"Stop." I shake my head, wishing for just enough freedom to reach up and plug my ears against the infection of his voice.

He shrugs, "So long as you're aware—"

"Yes. 'For my case.'" I repeat as familiar anger heats me—the rage that rises up whenever I think about what happened—and helps to anchor me, giving me a place to stand in the sinking sand that is my life.

"Tell us what happened, Miss Patel. As far back as you can recall, if not from the beginning." The woman across from me instructs. She, too, is wearing an overcoat, only hers is gray.

I look to my lawyer and he nods, granting permission for me to speak freely. Almost.

My tongue glides over parched lips. Now that they're waiting I find myself nervous again. "My mouth is really dry."

A long hand belonging to the fourth person at the table—a seemingly gentle, yet unremarkable looking man—sets an opened can of Diet Coke in front me. It's not one of those little half-sized cans we usually only get on special occasions, it's a full twelve ounces; a bribe complete with bendy straw. My hands stay on the linty arms of the woolen chair as I lean forward taking the stick into my mouth. The fizzy goodness oozing up the straw beckons me back to better days—when ignorance really was bliss and not just a cheesy metaphor. The cool drink swirls over my tongue, washing away the stickiness of my teeth, dissolving the constant lump in my throat.

And for some stupid reason, I feel better.

Drawing a steadier breath, I reign in my scattered thoughts, determining to try once more to give my laborious confession. Thinking over my instructions, the thought strikes me. "Where does something like _that_ begin? I know where it all ended. But a beginning?"

My gaze moves from my hand to lock eyes with the tight-haired woman. Still nothing; no sign of emotion. I wish the print on the badge hanging around her neck was a little larger. Then I could read her name. Maybe address her on a personal level: try to tell her how what really happened depends on how you look at it, because the same things can look different to different people. That the _real_ truth about what happened lies in my perception.

I have to shake my head, remind myself that another desperate plea won't matter. What happened—happened. Whoever this stranger is doesn't matter. Knowing her name or saying it out loud is not going to change anything. Because I am the one who is not a person. Not anymore. And that's just the way it is.

Drawing another long drink of soda, I imagine my brain as a box, sitting alone in a cobwebbed room. There is nothing in this room, save a small light, a rocking chair, and my box. I take my seat beside the box and loosen the tightly folded edges of the memories I've stored there. Bringing out those treasures I've kept hidden.

And the ability is still there. I can feel the ache and hope, dulled by meds and buried under nausea for sure, but I can still see it and put myself inside. And I know . . . it's going to hurt to go back to that place. But it's the least I can do. For _him_. But I would be lying if I said I was doing this just for him. Being back there with Jake was the only place in the world where I felt right. Like I fit, on the inside.

My minds' eye draws out the memories in random pictures, like overfilled photo albums with no sense of order. It's moments as portraits stuffed into each page and I can look at the images and remember the time and place just as easily as if it were scrawled in scorching detail across the backs and borders of every single frame.

The room around me seems to shift and my body becomes lighter as I am lifted from this place. The photographs grow larger while the room around me gives way. Time folds in on itself as I slide inside the memories. I will watch the people and places, hear the voices and take in the shimmying smells they hold.

The table before me in this little room becomes a shiny, linoleum counter-top. The chair I'm in peels away, morphing into a spinning barstool. My hands are no longer bound, but free, twirling my long brown hair. The walls crack and break apart, floating up into a swirl that crashes back down, rearranged.

I am back where it all began. I'm fifteen, again. In another town. Another life. Back in Carlisle.

# \+ + +

2

—Avery

Angel completely ignored me for the millionth time.

It's killing me. And it doesn't matter.

I waited for her to show up in that corridor. For hours and hours. You know, it takes a lot of fucking effort to ignore someone who's in front of your face.

But Angel did it.

Once I reach the end of the hallway, instead of turning like I planned, I flip back around and head for the door that's now closing. There's a small window in the top-center of the door. I use it to steal a peek inside. There are four people around a table. Angel and three suits: the idiot lawyer, a lady with really bad hair, and a tall skinny guy.

Angel turns toward the door and I shrink under the window. I've been hoping to grab her at just the right moment; a second when she isn't expecting me. Maybe she'll falter and let herself notice me, since she's hell-bent on acting like I don't exist. Right now, though she's expecting me to be hovering.

It doesn't matter. Maybe if I keep saying it, I'll start to believe it.

I don't know why everyone is so hell-bent on getting Angels' side of the story. She never knew anything. If she'd had a damned clue we wouldn't have ended up in prison. Then again, I was the reason she didn't know anything. I went out of my way to ensure that she didn't.

From time to time, when I had to give her the bald-faced lie she needed to cope, I'd wonder if she suspected. But after everything came down and she completely withdrew from the world, then I knew for sure: she never had a clue.

Which made me really fucking sad. Angry too, because I knew everything without anybody having to lay it out for me.

Angel never was one to pick up on subtlety, though. Matter of fact, she's gifted in the art of ignoring anything she doesn't like. Like me.

No, she always had to have shit spelled out to her; unless the shits name was Jake. He was her everything—greatest strength and biggest weakness. There were never any walls where Jake was concerned.

I think he was our biggest problem. If she'd never met Jake, none of it would have happened.

# \+ + +

3

—Angel

Carlisle was situated near the Arizona/New Mexico border—a stone's throw from Zuni Indian territory. In and of itself, the town was no more than a speck. Nothing special, except that it was also home to the greatest progressive rock band the world has never heard of. It was the womb that grew and gave birth to Analog Controller.

My all-time favorite band. They began as three high school kids who all had more musical experience than most people twice their age. They were Jake Haddon, Maxwell Sims, and Andrew Greene: the weirdo's who stayed at home to practice instead of playing outside, who read comics and poetry instead of playing video games. But when they got into high school, suddenly they were cool because other kids found out what they could do.

Before Jake was mine, he was their singer and he had magic. Being around him was like having my own, personal Houdini for those first two years; he was always disappearing and resurfacing months later. His gifts as a leading man spoke a simple truth that changed inanimate objects. His voice brought things to life. He was a living, breathing splendor. Beauty incarnate, from the inside out. And Jake was smart. He was a poet and a song bird. He could make you feel things. He was much more than my boyfriend; a gregarious rock star, an undiscovered genius by the age of eighteen.

Analog Controller had played at a house party I attended over the summer before I started high school and I would like to say that I loved the band from that moment, but I didn't. Their instruments took up most of the living room—that's what I remember, because I tripped on a power strip, and hit my hip on a speaker. I don't remember whose house it was, but someone told me that they couldn't play in the garage because there was one shitty neighbor who would call the cops. I remember that I liked the music, though I wasn't really capable of following, what with all the fuzzy naval wine coolers pumping through me.

When we first started talking, it was about two years before we got together. I was barely fifteen. Jake was nearly four years older than me, so he had already graduated by that time. The day me and Jake officially met was at Joes Pizza Pub.

Avery was my best friend at that time. We were there hanging out after school. She was treating me to a slice of my favorite cheese pizza because I'd had a really bad day. In high school, nearly every day was like that.

The bad started with necessity. Me, rushing to the bathroom, intending to pee and make my bus before it left without me. But when I clambered through the heavy swinging door, Samantha Marris was there. She'd made it seem like running into me was the highlight of her day. It probably was. Long story short: I ended up doubled-over in the furthest stall, trying to figure out how the waist of my pants was able to sustain my weight without tearing. Suddenly she dropped me. I turned back to find Avery with her fists in Samantha's hair. It was a blur of shoving and scratching for a few seconds, until Avery got a good hook into Samantha's gut.

We both missed the bus that day and on the long walk home, we decided to stop at Joes for a slice. In the middle of splitting a second wedge of greasy triple cheese, we saw this really cute guy; tall, baby-faced and a little dirty-looking but in a good way. He was hauling in pieces of a drum set. We watched as he stacked them in a far corner at the back of the restaurant. And kept staring, sipping rootbeer, and asking Joe Junior—the owner's son—what was going on.

Joe didn't answer. He had his eyes turned up at a television set mounted on a high bracket behind the counter. He was saying, "Come on. Come on, come on, baby," ending with a disappointed sigh. His answer came by way of a piece of paper. A flyer he slapped down onto the ring stained counter in front of us. The plain white sheet decked in black marker spelled out, _Joes Pizza Pub— live music every Friday night!_

"Every Friday?" I squealed. Music was always a big part of my life. It was like therapy—the notes always helped clear my head.

"So cool." Avery's green eyes sparkled.

Joe just nodded at our enthusiasm, as if it was old news. And, since Avery and I had nothing better to do, we stayed to watch. The foster family I was with at the time didn't care what I did, as long as I kept my room clean and never asked for anything.

Avery and I grabbed a couple of chairs and pulled them over to the area where the guys were setting up their equipment. There wasn't even a stage. It was a tiled corner at the back of the long room that made up the pizza pub. Someone had laid out a square of black carpet across the tile. It had blue bits of tape all over it. As we watched, a second guy appeared. He was lanky, thin and awkward. He kept his head down so I couldn't really get a look at his face. The two guys were setting up the drum set, placing each stand so that the legs set directly on a blue piece of tape. We stayed there watching and whispered comments amongst ourselves until Jake walked in.

"He is gorgeous," I remember saying and surprising myself. It wasn't one of those sentences I imagined saying out loud because I wasn't one of those girls that watched sappy movies or read romantic books about meeting the perfect guy. I never went out on dates looking for Mr. Right Now. It was just true—he was gorgeous—and so it popped out.

Jake had the most perfectly put together face and body. He actually had a _look_. From his semi-sloppy but stylish clothes, to his big combat boots, and most of all, his strong jaw that held steady two delicious lips that gave him a slight puckered look when he was quiet. His eyes were bright, gleaming the exact same color as his coppery-brown hair.

For most girls in high school, good looking or cute was an easy determination: if they weren't ugly, they must be cute. But no one should be called good-looking just because they aren't ugly. No cute by default. Guys are either hot or they're not, in my book. Avery's method was a little more complex. She used to say that all guys fell into three categories: deliciously gorgeous, take'm-or-leave'm, and butt-ugly. To her, nearly all boys fell into the last two. But remarkably, when I motioned to Jake, Avery didn't roll her eyes or respond with snark.

She looked back at me with her wild, mossy gaze and straight black hair, giving a devious smile. "I _dare_ you to talk to him."

Had I known at the time just how deliciously gorgeous Jacob Haddon was inside and out, or how talented—if I had seen him play the guitar or sing first, or had remembered him from that house party—I never would have had the courage to speak to him. But I didn't realize and in my ignorance, stumbled over to him on a dare.

Our talk began when the place was still near-empty and didn't stop until it had to. He asked me to sit with him at the counter while he grabbed a drink.

I was staring intensely at his profile, sipping a cool Diet Coke. He was staring at his sweating glass of water, set atop the sticky counter. His thumb grazed the side, joining the beads of moisture into a stream that crept down the outside glass and pooled on the countertop.
I rested my elbow up on the bar, trying to concentrate on the heels of my shoes caught on the middle rung of my stool. I didn't know I loved him, I just knew that I couldn't stop staring at the perfect slope of his nose, his sharp jaw that literally looked as if it were carved from marble. He was a masterpiece.

"What are you after?"

Jake looked back, eyeing me, so that I could tell his eyes weren't brown, but hazel. He leaned in, almost conspiratorially, and our shoulders touched. "What do you mean?"

"With your music—at what point will you look at your band and think, 'we are successful.' Are you seeking world domination, platinum records—what?"

The curtain of music that kept our conversation private shot up in volume before suddenly cutting off. Neither of us started. It was just a sound check of the Pubs' PA system and someone was screwing around. I heard Avery laughing from somewhere in the background.

Jake grinned, showing his naturally straight teeth. There was something about the way he looked at me that made my heart race, but also eased the tension that lived in my stomach. It was a look that made me feel like the only person in the room.

"Not the _whole_ world," Jake smiled.

"So, Nirvana's got nothing to worry about? What about Beck? Should he be worried?" They were some of my favorite bands. Up until that night, anyway. They were always in heavy rotation. Every radio station—all two of them—bumped their music. Actually, most of what I listened to back then was rock music. Any and all. But I had no CDs, so I had to take what the radio stations gave me.

"Beck? No." Jake laughed. Not the type of empty chuckle he'd start doling out to convenient fans that flocked to him as the bands popularity would inevitably grow. It was not the grin he would give to chicks who asked him to sign the free flyers they picked up at the door. Jake's affection was earned. And he must have seen how anxious I was to invest in him. That laugh was unguarded and genuine. It held something—not simply appreciation, but fire, too. Oh, how I wanted it to consume me.

His face scrunched, and lips pressed together, his head rocked playfully from side to side. "Maybe _my_ part of the world. Yeah, I'll be happy to rule a little chunk. The Analog Controller Section." He paused, thoughtful. "Nirvana can keep their sound and I'll stick with my screamy, progressive one. As long as what I do—what I make—is important, I'll be satisfied. It has to mean _something_ or it won't mean _anything_. I'm sure Mister Beck understands that."

As we talked, I found Jakes' release lever: family. I asked if he was an only child, like me, and the flood gates opened. Jake told me he was a middle child. He had two older sisters—twins—that were off at college and a younger brother who'd just started junior high, but was in a special education class.

"Henry's got this thing. The doctor calls it autism. Gets teased a lot because he doesn't act like other kids his age." Jake wiped his palms across his jeans. "He doesn't know how to stick up for himself. I tried helping him, but he's afraid, you know?" He shook his head, looking at nothing.

"I can understand that. It's hard enough to fit in when the doctor calls you _normal_. And it's even harder to make yourself do something you're afraid of." I poked my index finger into the bulge of muscle on his bicep. "He's lucky he's got you."

Jake turned to face me, touching his knees to mine, and kept talking. Venting, really, when I asked how he got into music. His parents were recently separated and in the midst of an ugly divorce. His mom went back to work because of financial problems. His sisters used to care for his younger brother, but since they moved away to school, the responsibility had fallen to him. Music was his outlet. His dad lived twenty miles away, and still came around from time to time, but not enough.

We eased from one topic to the next until a guy tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey man, time to warm up."

I nodded when Jake introduced lanky Andrew, the bass player, and noticed he did not introduce me. Jake simply smiled, "Check you later, Angel," and took Andrew with him as he walked away.

Analog Controller was going on first. They were the smallest band and weren't getting paid, but Jake was fine with it, because it wasn't about money. At that time Analog Controller was just beginning to understand the importance of going on at the right time. Second and third are always the best slots in an area where you want to build a fan base, but that was one of those little kernels you had to learn. Other bands playing at your level were always going to compete: lie, cheat or steal, for a cherry spot in the line-up. Analog was supposed to play second at that show, but the band that was to go first said their singer might not make it on time, so Analog was bumped into the first slot.

That was something you never heard people talk about; the pressure of competition. It's obvious from the inside, but when you're trying to break-in, no one's gonna tell you there's a rivalry. Not even if you specifically asked.

Jake got his insider information from one of the members of the main band who happened to like Analog's sound. "You play first, and late arrivals miss your set. You play last only if you are the act people came to see. Play second or third if you're looking for new listeners, and always try to play with bands who have the same audience and whose sounds compliment yours."

Going by that last directive, Analog's biggest issue seemed that no one else sounded like them. It was September of 1994, and everyone was into the Seattle sounds. No one else had that rooted-in-hard-rock-with-heavy-melodic-influences-layered-with-vocal-harmony-and-tight-rhythmic-transition type of sound. It was experimental and progressive. Aggressive, too. Everyone liked Analog's style, but no one else had it.

The band was on the same floor as the crowd—eye level in a standing room. There were some kids my age and a couple of guys in their thirties who hung in the back and stuffed their faces ignoring the awesomeness, while Avery and I rocked-out front and center.

By the second song, more people showed up near the front and we were pushed closer. When I was about two feet away from him, Jake latched his gaze on me. He crooned salacious lyrics into the crowd, playing his guitar and working the pedals while he kept me in his sights. And after the show was over, he gave me a copy of their first EP and asked if I wanted go get pancakes with him. I did, of course. We all sat in a big corner booth, laughing and chatting over a short stack of pancakes and bacon 8:30 at night.

That was the night I fell in love. And the love-fest continued, for my part. I crushed hard. Thought about him all the time; about how nice he was, how genuine and sweet. And Jake was super hot. Untouchably gorgeous. In my mind, that night was a fluke. He was the hot lead singer of my new favorite band, and I was their biggest fan.

+++

About six months later, I was at another Analog Controller show. It was my third one. The second had taken place the night before, but I hadn't see Jake until he went on stage. He'd become this wonderful, ethereal thing: elevated and totally beyond my grasp. So, I never imagined that he did mundane things, like go to the store, or work, or walk on the earth like the rest of us mere mortals. He was superior and I'd resigned myself to worship from afar. So, during their set that second night, I hid in the back of the club, too twisted in nauseating-knots to actually make my way up front. That was the first time I had seen him since that day at the pizza pub. They never played there again.

When I went to that third show, I was kicking myself for not seeking him out the night before and had determined I was going to set my nerves aside and try to talk with Jake again. But I was also sure I'd make a fool of myself. I had decided to wait for a sign. A look or nod that would indicate he remembered me. I knew he had to meet people all the time and I didn't want to be one of those girls who could recite an entire conversation that he'd never remember.

Well, I got my sign: standing in back of a dive bar called _Aces_ , waiting for Avery to come out of the bathroom. The floor was sticky. I was holding Avery's soda because she didn't wanna infect it with the germs of the public restroom.

I was wearing an Analog Controller t-shirt that I got printed at a shop in the mall, then chopped the sleeves and shredded the back. The bottom was cropped and tied above my waist. Avery had helped with my makeup that night, so I wore more than unusual.

The air inside the club was choking me. The whole place smelled like the smoke machine was set to kill—a fog of cat litter and ammonia that burned my retinas. I was wiping underneath my eye, hoping my mascara was waterproof when a figure approached. I didn't think anything of it, until it stopped a few feet away.

He was an outline of smoke and shadow: a shapeless form exuding a raw, decadent energy. When I looked up, I was dumbfounded, watching Jake take the last few steps to stand beside me. He was wearing leather pants . . . very nice leather pants; breath-stealing leather pants that fit like they were made for him. He leaned his shoulders against the wall at my back, but kept his hips forward.

"Hey, Angel. Got any Jack in that Coke?" He reached out a hand and flicked my glass with his index finger.

I had never been a blusher, but heat flooded my cheeks. He'd uttered my name in a way that made it sound illicit.

"No. No. It's . . . diet."

I looked down, my eyes landing on his jutting hips. His pants were so . . . awesome. The way they hung so well on his hips did things to my insides. When I looked up, his eyes were glued to my face and he was smirking. I'd been caught doing something I wasn't supposed to and my cheeks continued blazing well after I took a keen interest in the floor.

It suddenly seemed like an eternity since Avery went into the bathroom. I wanted to run in there, to tell her it wasn't a dream, I was talking to Analog Controller's totally hot lead singer and he remembered my name.

I thought about him all the time—replayed our one conversation in my head—and as any fan knows, when you go to shows, the fans are the ones who go looking for the band. Not the other way around. In my mind, Analog was the greatest band in the history of the world and Jake was a huge star, although most people outside our area had never heard of them. And he was there, standing right beside me, sliding his shoulder along the wall as he smiled and made light conversation. He kept staring at my shirt.

Aerosmith played on from speakers in the background. Steven Tyler howled to heaven, begging his angel to save him.

"I've never seen that before." Jake extended one finger, navigating towards me. "My face is on your chest."

"I wore it at last nights' show."

"You were in Duncan?" His eyes widened.

I nodded, wishing Avery would come out and help me make conversation.

"I wish I'd seen you. It looks good like that." My heartbeat skipped when his hand grazed the frayed seam on my sleeve. I felt the small calluses—little rough edges on otherwise soft fingertips. They skimmed the line of my shoulder, leaving a trail of fire.

I had no idea what to do. So I just stood there, gushing how my friend, whose name had slipped my mind, helped to cut my shirt just the way I liked it. She was wicked with a pair of scissors. I think she modified practically every piece of clothing she ever wore—very Molly Ringwald of her, except she didn't dabble in pink. She was a total t-shirt and jeans chick, like me, but her shirts and jeans held something wild. I was always taking her clothes.

Jake sighed, looking past me at something or someone further down the hallway.

"Hey, I gotta go, but thank you for coming." He pulled a flat square from his back pocket and handed it to me. "This is our new EP. For you. Until next time." He patted my head before walking away with my heart. I wondered if he felt the weight of it in his hands the way I did and hoped.

+++

All through that first year, Jake and I barely knew each other. We didn't really get to hang out. I never saw him around school or in town—he'd graduated at the end of my freshmen year and I was a sophomore when we started talking that night at the pizza pub. And Jake lived with his mom in Eager, the next town over. Plus, I was too shy to ask about visitation beyond the casual run-ins. So our get-to-know-you phase happened in spurts. We'd hang out after shows in smoky night clubs that I had to buy a fake ID to get into, in parking lots, sometimes back alleys.

Jake Haddon remained my extracurricular male fantasy. I listened to the EP's he gave me every day and thought about him all the time; when I would sit in the library during study hall or passing the band room. There was a picture of him in a glass case in the school office. He was in the orchestra. First chair on the Cello. I found his face in the first row, third from the end on the left. I still remember the way he looked in the dress shirt and bow tie. His lovely face got better with age.

4

—Angel

There's a distinct clicking sound. It's distracting. Then, the sweet tang of cinnamon invades my nostrils. Once I realize the source is my lawyer, Mister Brandon crunching on a breath mint, I can focus again.

Staring blankly at the walls in the interview room—feeling the restraints on my wrists, as my minds' eye holds that moment in the smoky corridor—I see myself watching Jake walk away. "Analog Controller used to post flyers all over town. I would take the ones with pictures on them and spend hours staring at Jacob Haddon. I made a scrap book and filled it with pages of flyers and some Polaroids I took at their shows." It made me feel closer to him.

Here, from this prison where they tell me what to eat, when to sleep and when to wake-up, where to walk and for how long, when to shower and pee, it's as if all of my life has been no more than stray seconds jumbled together and ripped apart. It seems random and pointless. But when I look back and put some pieces together, they add up to one specific night—almost two years after that first meeting in Joes Pizza.

The night I first slept with Jake.

+++

I had been to nearly all of their shows and we always talked after, but still only at shows. He was older and so obviously too hot for me, I wouldn't let myself take my desire past the fantasy land inside my head.

Analog Controller was playing at a popular club called The Mystic Muse. It was practically on the other side of the state and I had to get creative to make my way there. I talked Avery into taking her moms car and the two of us ducked out. That night at The Mystic Muse, with some encouragement from my lone friend, I would gather my nerve and act on the lust I felt for Jake.

Jake had those soft hands and I wanted him to use them on me. I guess that's the calling card of a guy who works mainly with his mind. Soft hands with small, distinct calluses you could only feel when he really touched you. He kept his fingernails a little longer than traditional length, too. They stretched to his fingertips.

Jake had a way about him—an outstanding charm. Very large personality with a quick smile, melodic laugh, and an air that imposed its' will upon me—made me want to submit to his. He made me nervous in the very best way. He made me crave him.

He wrote about everything—good and bad—all of his heart flowed into his music. It was almost as if there was no part of himself that he wouldn't lay bare for a room full of strangers. Jake was jarringly open and I found that comforting.

That night, at The Mystic Muse, I remember that the merch booth opened for the first time. It was before the guys went on and Avery and me raided the coffers of our savings and splurged. They finally had a merch booth! We'd bought their stickers, t-shirts, and wrist bands, and were making our way to the car. The parking lot was dark and smelled of sour beer.

A large hand grabbed my shoulder and suddenly spun me. My heart leapt inside my chest. Avery shrieked. And then I saw his face. Smiling. Devilish.

"Jake! You scared me."

"Angel. I'm glad you made it." He smirked, "We gotta talk." The fingers of his hand skimmed along my forearm, those scratchy nails leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Someone called to Jake from the club entrance. When he turned to see who it was, I stole a questioning glance at Avery. Her face mirrored mine. I didn't know what to make of that copied look. It was as if she was answering my question with a question.

" _What do I do?"_ I asked, and she replied with, _"What do you want to do?"_

I looked back at Jake, deciding to follow my heart. "Where?"

"You know the long hallway at stage right? Follow that until you pass the bathrooms. Then it's the third door on your right. I gotta do something, but I'll see you there?"

"Sure," I nodded.

Jake turned and I became a puppy dog, trotting after him, leaving Avery gaping in the parking lot with her arms full of band paraphernalia. Jake chuckled when he saw me following and slowed down.

Once we were inside, he took a cautious look around and asked me to wait a few minutes before heading into the back of the club. I was never good at waiting, so I counted to eight-hundred and fifty—figuring that took about five minutes—before making made my way towards the stage and slipping into the hall behind it. I followed the dimly lit corridor until I came to the third door on my right, just like I'd been instructed.

Releasing a deep breath, I swung the door open. It was dark inside. I was about to turn around, sure I had the wrong place, when a light flicked on. Then, Jake was peering at me from across the room, in front of another doorway. Beside him was a large couch. It looked just like the long black one inside the bars VIP section, only more worn looking. The cushions were covered with a plaid blanket.

All my anxious enthusiasm doubled.

"What is this . . ." I was going to finish with 'room,' but the tremors in my voice collapsed the walls of my throat.

He'd said he wanted to talk, but the way he looked at me and the loaded air made me want to sweat, scream, and simultaneously jump for joy.

Jake either didn't notice my nerves or didn't care as he made his way towards me. I watched his hands slide up to his temples and sweep his brown, chin length hair behind each ear. His eyes were dark and his face held an air of something I didn't recognize. His tee shirt was plain, all black and untucked. The short sleeves were rolled up, accentuating the definition in his arms. His jeans were dark blue, cuffed at the bottom over biker-style boots.

"This is me," his luscious lips murmured, "asking your permission."

"Permission for what?" I managed to ask, once I tore my eyes away from his mouth.

"I'd like to have my way . . . with you."

Everything inside me clenched. Except my eyes—those popped wide open. And my mouth went desert dry. It was like a line from a movie or something. Did he just say he wanted _his way_ with me?

He was all longs legs, casually swinging until he got close enough to set his hands around my waist. And I swear my heart stopped beating. His hands around my waist! Which, amazingly, felt like a whole new part of my body. Did I have a waist before that moment? I'd seen it and used it to bend and move. Beyond that, all my waist had ever done was sit above my hips. I had no idea so many nerves could exist in one area. All at once, they sprang to life and went crazy—hyperactive nerve endings flaring up around my waist and spreading, quickly turning every inch of my body into a burning furnace. His fingers stoked my desire. But all they were doing was lightly grasping my waist.

"What 'way' would that be?" My voice sounded weird: quiet and rough.

He didn't get to respond because the doorway behind him was suddenly filled with marching bodies. Four guys in oversized jeans and plaid shirts. Another band had just made their entrance.

Jake moved in close, speaking into my ear. "If you're interested in the answer, please, find me after?" His breath felt hot on my neck, his lips briefly brushed my temple. "You come find me, Angel, and I'll show you the way."

I turned about ten different shades as I awkwardly mumbled a pre-show blessing, "Kick their asses," and went back to find Avery waiting at the mouth of the hallway. I slapped my hand against my forehead, feeling like a clown. _Kick their asses? Why not, 'have a great show'? Or 'break a leg'?_

"You did fine," Avery assured me later. And when I told her what Jake said, we had major giggles over it. She was super happy for me and encouraged me to act on what I was feeling.

"I'll think about it." I whispered.

"A hot-ass rocker . . . Scratch that. The hot-ass _lead singer_ of your favorite band just offered himself to you! He's all you talk about." She knocked on my head, doing her best Biff Tannen impression. "Hello, McFly? What's there to think about?"

The very idea made me nervous. What if he didn't mean it? Or worse: he did mean it and then was disappointed in me after?

All of the angst melted to extreme excitement when Analog Controller took the stage. Jakes' gifts had the audience aglow, screaming with righteous enthusiasm. He was on fire, too, holding the steady flame of his eyes on me throughout the show. I watched his mouth smooth over the mic-head as he sang:

If I were smart, I'd run.  
You kill for pleasure, torture for fun.  
Expectation gives way. You've won.  
Just come over here, you look like fun.

I jumped and moshed and sang along to every song, enjoying his attention and the growing need sparked by the words he whispered to me in the back room. I wanted to know _his way_ ; the path he'd promised to lead me down. When the set was over, I cheered until my voice cracked and the band disappeared into the bowels of The Mystic Muse.

Avery and I went with the flow of traffic, dispersing to other parts of the club once the stage was empty.

By the time the next band was introduced, most people were crowded up at the front once more. But Jake was in back, sitting at the bar amid a small, lingering crowd.

I was sure approaching a guy was the hardest thing I had ever done, but he made it easier. First with his invitation, then with his freshly showered hair and head-to-toe, dark brown outfit that made his milky skin seem like it had been dipped in caramel. His not-so-baggy jeans gave just a peek of the top of his boxers. His long, thin t-shirt gathered at his waist like he hadn't taken the time to pull it all the way down.

"Keep performing like that, Jake, and the label reps will turn into groupies." I gushed, trying to be funny.

He turned his powerful eyes on me. "I don't pay attention to groupies."

I wasn't sure if he heard my lame joke, but knew that his response was molded by modesty. There were at least half-dozen women in his vicinity after that performance. But he was telling the truth, he didn't exchange anything more than pleasantries with them.

He was leaning against the bar holding his complimentary drink of choice—Jack and Coke. Every guy in the band got free drinks. He had a believable fake ID. We all did, but mine only said I was eighteen.

He eyed me as I gushed, trying to tell him how much I loved what he had created.

"You know what I love?" He interrupted, and there was something in the way he stood and leaned in with his hips, like he was going to tell me something very important and couldn't risk the words getting lost in the surrounding noise.

"What?" I barely breathed, remembering the way he whispered in my ear.

Jake leaned in close, setting his lips at the shell of my ear and speaking low, "I love that you thought about my offer and came to find me." He drew back and gulped down the last of his drink. "How old are you, again?"

Avery was standing behind him, talking with the drummer, Max, and a group of other people. Her eyes popped wide when she heard the question.

I started to answer, "I'm seventeen," but Avery's rapid hand signals flew behind Jakes head, screaming at me, _"Say 'eighteen!' you idiot!"_

So, I improvised "I'm . . . s-super close to eighteen. Hours away, actually."

Jake set his empty glass on the bar and wrapped both arms around my shoulders. "Really? Well, lucky me. And lucky you, too. Happy Birthday, Beautiful." His voice was syrupy sweet as he took my hand and led me towards the back of the club.

The second we were out of sight, his hands were on me. His smooth palms caressed my jeans, stuffing their fingers into my back pockets. "What'ch you got in there?" Through the layer of denim, he cupped one side of my butt and offered a vicious smile, "Nothing but ass."

No one had ever touched or spoke to me that way before and I'm not ashamed to say that I loved it. It was every fantasy I had turned reality as I pulled him closer. Emboldened by desire, I grazed my nose along the intoxicating scent of his neck. Heaven. A slight edge of clean sweat still lingered there, as if during his post-show shower he'd rinsed very quickly, as if he couldn't wait to get to me, as if he wanted me as much as I wanted him. I pressed him against the wall of the dark hallway, but Jake pushed back, pressing his lips over mine. Pouring desire into me.

This was so much better than the waist touching and the pocket-play. It was . . . blood boiling, liquid fireworks.

His hands moved up from my hips to my waist. They stretched around the circumference before he pulled away and chuckled. "You're so tiny." I followed his gaze down to my waist and was surprised to see that the tips of his thumbs were only a few inches apart. "You're like a little bird. I better be gentle, I don't want to break you."

I had never thought of myself as thin or tiny and I was going to say so, but stopped when Jake gave his lips back to me. I felt movement and then I was pinned between Jakes chest and the wall.

The next time words were exchanged, we were inside the bands old cargo van. It was a beater—big and clunky—covered in graffiti and stickers, with no seats, only a huge open area in the back. Jake spread a blanket over the worn carpet of the van floor and we fell inside, never breaking our hold on one another. He pinned me beneath him, pressed his hips into me, using his knees to push mine apart. The sweet pressure of him did strange things to me. A new kind of friction that made me greedy, made me want every part of me to touch every part of him. My hands seemed to know what to do. I didn't even have to think about taking them from his face to touch his shoulders or sliding them down his taut arms and back.

"Angel." Jake breathed into my mouth, took my breath and gave me his own. "Angel. I want you so bad."

After this confession, before I had a chance to respond, Max opened the backdoor. There was a pile of equipment beside him. It was time to load up. Max looked at Jake, rolled his eyes, and muttered something about getting a room. So, our steamy moment was put on pause. I hid my embarrassment behind my hair as we got out to help.

Once all the equipment and instruments were loaded, all of us, including Avery, smashed inside the old Dodge van, off to Analog Controllers' motel.

The problem then became privacy. The band was sharing one room with two queen size beds.

Andrew claimed one, Max claimed the other. Avery laughed from a chair in the corner. But I could tell she felt sorry for me.

"Take a walk?" Jake asked, nudging my elbow.

We strolled the empty corridors of the motel, passing up ice machines and payphones. An older couple passed us. They were both dripping water, wrapped in towels, and holding hands, talking with one another in a way that said they had been together for a very long time.

"Sorry." Jake murmured once they passed.

"For what?" I stopped walking.

"For not thinking ahead. For not being able to finish what I started." His eyes smoldered. "We could just make out in the van?"

I was standing in front of a glass door. The one the older couple had passed through. Just beyond it was the motels' enclosed pool. I looked through the smoked glass at the empty lounge chairs, the sparkling water, and pressed on the door. It was unlocked. We walked inside and Jake pushed the door closed. His long fingers deftly turned the deadbolt, locking the door from the inside.

He turned back to me, wide-eyed. "Is this okay?"

I felt my body straighten, preening as I nodded. "Definitely."

He took my hand in his and pulled me towards another doorway that was labeled 'employees only.' He took a quick look through the room without stepping in and reached one arm inside. The lights of the swimming area went out.

We kept walking. The poolside was now solely lit by a hallway that led to showers. Jake grabbed a fluffy lounge chair and set it in a dark corner in the back, out of sight.

I stared down at the red and white stripes of the cushion and felt his lips on my neck. All my muscles went limp under his sweet pressure. His arms came around my waist and those nerve endings flared again. A fire exploded within. My hips instinctively pushed against him. I gasped as his fingers knotted into my hair, his nails scraping my scalp as he turned me to face him.

"I don't know if I ever told you, but I think you're very beautiful." His palm rested against my face.

"So are you."

His eyes seemed to search mine before making a groping march down to my mouth. He tilted my head up to his; set another hot palm over the place where my neck met my shoulder. His thumb grazed my throat. I released a pleasured sigh.

"If I move too fast, you'll tell me, right?" His lips grazed mine as he whispered.

I nodded, aching for his kiss. But I had to wait. He kept his eyes on mine as he laid me down on the red and white striped chaise. Once again, his knees separated mine, making room for his hips as he pressed his weight onto me, picking up where he left off in the van. A glorious shiver ran through me as Jake hovered above me, finally closing the distance between our mouths. His kisses were hypnotic: demanding and sweet, breathing into me, taking pleasure and giving it back. I was dazed. Illuminated, by his glorious blaze, dancing in the fire he kindled.

I heard myself whine with guilt and delight as he lifted my shirt. Guilt, that I had snuck off and left Avery, and delight, because Jake felt so good, and more guilt because I was acting like such a groupie, but I didn't care. I couldn't stop. I could only be thankful that I borrowed Avery's black lacy bra. It was a little too snug, but made my boobs look great. I yanked Jakes shirt off in turn and tossed it aside as his fingers moved to my jeans.

Jake was the one who stopped, but only to investigate the small set of lines over my hip bone. His thumb grazed my side. His brows knit together as he tugged the top of my jeans a little lower to better see the marks I had given myself as an experiment. As I was trying to remember which underwear I was wearing, he backed up onto his knees and I realized what was happening.

Chagrin gathered in my cheeks and I confessed before he asked. "I'm not a cutter. I just tried it a few times."

"What do you mean by _tried_?"

"Well . . . uh, my friend, she does it. She says it helps her feel better and I wanted to know what she meant, so I did it with her." I kept Avery's name out of it, knowing she'd want me to.

"Create a hurt that she could feel. And take away. To make it heal." Jakes eyes drifted as he spoke rhythmically, as if he were reciting a poem or lyrics. Then his gaze came back to mine with renewed ferocity. "I get it. But you shouldn't do it anymore."

I nodded my agreement, setting my hands on his beautifully bare stomach. He was lean, with subtle but powerful cuts around each muscle group. The thin line of hair below his belly button felt silky under my fingers as Jake leaned into my touch.

"Turn over." He commanded, with dark eyes.

I hesitated a moment, confused. Then, did as he said. Jake grabbed my hips and lifted me up onto my knees. The denim slid slowly down my legs and I fell forward as he pulled. I felt him touch the exposed skin on the backs of my thighs as he peeled the denim away.

I'd never felt as vulnerable as when his lips touched low on my bare back. I liked the way it felt, but it was so unexpected, so alien. I froze like a thief caught in a spotlight; glad he couldn't see my face.

The heat of his breath disappeared. The cushion beneath me shifted. "Angel?" I turned to face his raised eyebrows. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"I want to." I was glad the lights were low. I didn't want him to see how tense I was.

"You're sure?"

"Yes." I nodded.

Two thumps and Jakes shoes hit the concrete floor behind him. Quickly standing, Jake removed everything from his lower half in one motion. Before I could appreciate the sight of him, he swooped back down, forcing my body onto the chaise until he was, once more, completely on top of me. His magical kisses relaxed me. His gifted hands held me tight.

A languorous moan rumbled through my chest as he moved his mouth down my neck. "Oh, I like that." Jake whispered as he nibbled my ear. "Are you noisy? Should I make you scream?"

I gasped and froze; too shocked to remember what I was doing just a moment ago.

Jake pulled back just enough to look me in the eye. "I'm making you uncomfortable." It wasn't a question.

My hands suddenly tingled. My flushed cheeks ran cold.

Jake sighed and sat up. "It's okay, Angel. I'm not trying to take advantage of you."

I sat up, too. "I want this. I do. It's just—I've never . . . you know. And I don't want to disappoint you."

His shoulders dropped while the gaze he'd kept trained on me shifted to the wall beyond. He offered a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. "This is wrong." He shook his head. "We should wait."

My heart seemed to crack at those last three words and I couldn't hide my regret for telling him. I couldn't explain how I felt. I hadn't snuck away that morning, planning on throwing myself at Jake. I was just going to watch him sing and pretend he was doing it for me. But he asked me for this and I was more than willing to give him my all. I just didn't know how.

The hot pricks of tears swelled behind my eyes, as did the shame of my inexperience. I wanted to disappear and drew my knees up to my chest. The thought of stopping, of not having him, made me wilt.

"Hey." He reached out, taking hold of my shoulder. "What's wrong?"

I took a pleading breath. "I've been waiting my whole life."

After thinking for a long moment, he spoke. "You can be so sweet," Jake grinned. "Are you sure?"

I nodded.

"To be honest, Angel, the second I said 'wait', I wished to take it back."

"You did? You want to?"

He placed the backs of his fingers against my cheek. "Are you serious? I can't be the first guy to try. I mean, you're so damn beautiful. I wanna . . ." He moved his hands erratically in the air between us. " _Do_ _things_ to you. You make me feel like a caveman."

My mind filled with a cartoony image of Cro-Magnon-Jake. It stretched my face into a grin. "You wanna club me and drag me away by my hair?"

He gave a slight smile, running his fingers down my side, to my hip. His eyes held no humor when he said, "There'll be no clubbing, Baby Seal." He put a hand across my throat. I watched, mesmerized as he ran his tongue across his bottom lip. "I might go for some hair pulling, though."

My whole body seemed to go up in smoke, singed by those erotic words. My heart fluttered, feeling his fingers around the sides of my neck, his thumb grazing my throat. The touch relaxed every muscle in my body. "That's the sexiest thing I've ever heard."

Jake moved closer, resting his other hand by my hip. "No, being the one you choose as your first is sexy."

With a kiss, he tipped me back, pressed his full weight onto me, letting me feel his long body as his lips sank to my chin, my collar bone, then my shoulder. My entire body shuddered at the intensity of this new touch that somehow felt right and familiar. Like coming home to a place I'd never been. My insides throbbed. I needed more than his lips. Then, his hands explored me: creating new planes over my body. New sensations that made my breath catch. When I started breathing again, I was suddenly desperate, possessed, and wanting things I never knew I could. As he whispered my name, those talented fingers that had sexily strummed his guitar, slithered over me. I bit my lip and squirmed at the deep, dark ache left in the wake.

Glorious shivers washed through me when Jake said my name, connecting our bodies in the most intimate way. There was no pain, only my souls' recognition of its mate: my Jake and his breath, this song his body was singing to me. The rhythm of his heartbeat and my breath conjoined in kisses. Our hearts crashed like waves, mingling in a passionate sea as the chaise lounge began to creak. It was a beautifully violent march—harsh and slow, building into a grating that scraped over the concrete of the pool area.

My feelings, the sounds made me smile.

Jake's fingers knotted in my hair, drawing my attention to his off-centered gaze. The look burned so bright through the dark, that I could see the multihued hazel in each eye, but only half of his pupils. His hair fell forward—disheveled, the roots tinged with sweat—and the volcanic heat that poured from those fiery orbs commanded me to take what he gave, while the way he moved promised I would love it. The way his bottom lip curved up under his teeth as his eyes pleasurably rolled back made me want to beg him to never stop. Whatever he was feeling, I never wanted it to end. I wanted to watch him like that forever.

His passion shocked to my core. A sudden ripple shot through me, from the very center of my being, out to my fingertips: it was a liquefying cadence, beating from the heart of every cell in my body. It made me want to scream and cry his name, but my breath was gone.

I melted into him, took on his shape as he held me closer, curling my head into his chest when he relaxed against me; his heart beating so loud against my ear. When he fell beside me, I still felt his pulse racing, heard his labored breathing. Jake laid an arm under my head and wrapped another around my waist, pulling me against him.

"Happy Birthday, baby." He whispered, landing a trail of kisses from my forehead to my mouth.

The tingling ease that filled me disappeared. Suddenly hollowed out, I hid my face in the crook of his neck, kicking and cringing internally for listening to Avery. After what we'd just done, how was I going to tell him I lied? I shoved the unpleasant question into the proverbial box and locked it away, deciding I'd deal with it another time. And moved closer, clinging to the rapidly fading sweetness of the moment.

All it took was a little time, a lot of Jake, and I felt like a different person.

We made our way back to his motel room and slipped into a pallet on the floor. The lights were out, but Jake turned on a lamp and set it beside us on the rug. Avery was asleep in the far corner of the room, tucked into a tight ball on the extra wide chair. Jake pulled a tablet from his nearby duffle bag and began writing _._

Then, he wrote a song for me. He called it my birthday present. I tried to refuse, but he looked so disappointed, saying I needed my own song, that I deserved it because I was his friend first. The guilt I had tucked away reared up, but I didn't know how or where to start and kept my mouth shut as Jake called me loyal; because I never let them put me on a guest list, even though sometimes it was hard to pay for my ticket, even though going to see them play sometimes meant I had to hitchhike. But the band wasn't with a label and what kind of fan would I be if I didn't show my support?

In its' original form my song, oddly titled _Eve_ , was heavy and lurid. Sweet passion wrapped in a dirty melody. And the lyrics were beautiful. I think that's what made me love Analog Controller so much—their music, in and of itself, was fantastic, but the melody and content of the lyrics took it all to another level. It was like the most delicious frosting on the world's greatest cake. Decadent and sexy. Addictive. Yeah, that was Jake.

I can admit now that I was a little obsessive about it, but at the time I didn't see it that way. Hero worship can make you see reason in the crazy.

5

—Angel

When I woke up, I was the only person in the room. Avery was gone. I found a note she left on my pillow, saying she'd walked the eight blocks back to the club to get her moms car. After peeking through the bathroom door that had been left slightly ajar, I determined Jake was in the shower. Andrew and Max were out somewhere, too.

I was wondering if I had time for my own shower when the motel phone rang. I hesitated, but then answered, in case it was important. It was Avery. She said some jerk-wad had slashed two tires on her moms' car. She was already with the tow-truck driver on her way to get them replaced and said I needed to take a bus back because I'd get home faster.

The foster family I was staying with had been out of town that weekend. Their natural daughter and I were told to stay put. The daughter took off with her boyfriend and I took the lack of supervision as a sign that I was meant to see Analog Controller. But the only way I was getting away with sneaking off was if I got back before my guardians did.

Since Avery was stuck at the tire shop for the next few hours, I planned to take a Greyhound back to Eager, the slightly larger neighboring township that had a transit system. From there, I'd walk the last couple of miles into Carlisle. But when Jake got out of the shower and I explained my plan, he was not having it.

His coppery brown hair was hanging damp over his forehead when I followed him out to the corridor for a smoke. His hair shimmered in the new daylight, casting hues like fallen leaves. I examined each color; the sparkle of reds and browns with just the slightest tinge of golden blond. It was just then that I realized I had never seen him in the daytime. He was so much more beautiful in the natural light.

"You want me to drop you off at a bus station? That's stupid. We're going to the same place." He pulled my ear lobe with his index finger and thumb, taking my attention away from his hair. "Besides aren't you too young to travel alone, Minor?"

He grinned darkly at my shocked expression, throwing up his hand. I gasped when I saw my student ID—the one that was supposed to be tucked safely inside my wallet—between his sneaky fingers. "You're a junior. So that makes you, what—sixteen, seventeen?"

I snatched it away from him with a righteous offense I didn't deserve. "You were snooping? And I just turned seventeen."

Jake's dark smirk grew. "Yes. I'm a snoop. And you are a liar."

I sighed, hating the turn our conversation had taken. "Why? And I will be seventeen next month. Honest."

Jake shook his head. "Because I'm nosey and I don't like being lied to."

"Well, I don't like people going through my stuff." I felt my chest constrict and closed my eyes. I never should have said it was my birthday, I knew that, but he had no right going through my things. "If you want to know something about me, maybe you should ask."

"I did." He stepped closer, unfolding his hands to set on my shoulders. As he looked into my eyes, his beautiful bluish-hazel confections with flecks of gold in the center reflected the color he was wearing. Black. "Promise not to lie to me anymore and I'll let it go. And maybe even ask you out."

I scoffed. "You want to ask me out?"

"Maybe. Maybe this kind of thing doesn't happen to me every day."

"And you're asking me out?" I needed clarification. He had me in knots. He was mad. And he wanted . . . _what?_

"Maybe I want to ask you to the movies or out to dinner. Maybe just over to my house. But only if you promise not to lie to me anymore."

I shouldn't have hesitated. What he was asking was not so terrible. But I lied a lot back then. I had to. It was how I got what I needed, the way I covered my ass when I forgot stuff or found myself suddenly in a room I didn't remember walking into.

Just then, Max and Andrew—who'd come back at some point during our talk—came out of the motel room and walked in between us. Jake stepped back and thumped Max on the head as he shoved passed. "You're driving, asshole."

Andrew winked at me as he called shotgun.

Once the path between us was clear again, Jake stepped back in, picking up our conversation. "Look, you're taking the ride whether or not you make the promise. But I need to know," Jake pressed a finger against my cheek, turning my face, making me look at him. "What else are you trying to hide?"

I froze, staring into the Atlantic depth of his eyes, unable to find words.

"Well?"

The blaring burst of a horn broke his spell.

"Come on."

Taking my hand, Jake led me to the side of the van. We had to cram ourselves in between stacked amps and drums. But we both fit in the limited space that was a little more snug than the night before since the guys duffle bags were now crammed in there, too. We were about halfway back near the sliding side door with our feet down in the well of the step.

Jake set his arm around me and pulled me closer. Pressing my hair back from my face, he set his palm against my cheek. "Would it help if I told you that I don't care about whatever it is that you think is so bad? You don't need to hide from me."

I kept staring. His face was so close and lovely, his presence so strong beside me. I had his undivided attention and was smashed up against him and still didn't feel close enough.

"Angel. If it's what I think it is, it won't change my mind."

I wasn't sure what he was saying and still couldn't form a response. There was so much he didn't know about me and I was afraid to tell him. I settled for placing my hands in between our laps and staring into his hypnotic eyes, hoping to find courage.

Still cupping my cheek, Jake leaned closer. I thought he was going to kiss me and felt heat bloom in my chest.

"Last night wasn't your first time, was it?"

The petals of my desire wilted. "What?"

"You know, a guy can tell. And you didn't have to pretend. I'm not one of those assholes that's gonna judge you. Just be who you are."

I was mortified. And totally confused. My neck suddenly felt very hot. "Wait. What are you saying?"

Jake dipped his head, speaking so low I could barely hear. "Lack of pain . . . and or hymen?"

My cheeks blazed in a chagrin fueled inferno. I smothered my face in my palms. "Oh god. I knew it. Now you think I'm a slut."

"Did you hear anything I just said? Because if you did, you would know that's fucking ridiculous."

"You think I do this all the time." I wanted to disappear.

"No. I don't. Even if you did, that's none of my business. What the hell? Angel, I like you, why would I think that?"

I had to take a deep breath and let his words sink in. Look him in the face and search his eyes. He didn't seem to be angry and I sensed no sarcasm. But his opening the discussion on something so personal with such a casual manner, it was painful.

But it wasn't his fault. All Jake knew was I had already lied about my age. I knew he needed truth and he didn't trust me to give it to him. And that bothered me, but more than my nonsensical irritation, I wanted to give Jake what he wanted. Even though I feared, once I told him he wouldn't want me anymore.

"Well, you're right about one thing, Jake." I took a deep breath and exhaled, imagining the small breeze from my mouth was pushing him away, like dry leaves in the wind. "You are nosey. You want the truth? Fine. Here it is: I've had a royally screwed up life. I'm busted in every way you can imagine and probably a few that you can't. I'm sorry for trying to shield you from that. Truth is my hymen was broken when I was five years-old."

His eyes widened. My words had him in recoil. I could see the theories and scenarios playing across his concerned face.

"I was in a car accident. It killed my mother and I almost died, too. In case you're still curious, I might never have kids because of it." I shut my eyes tight to keep from seeing his reaction. "I don't have a family and I can't make one. I have been in foster homes, living with people that either steadily ignore me or beat the shit out of me, for the past eleven years. I don't talk to anyone about my life. Not even to the doctors who ask about the bruises." I was nearly panting, my body rigid with the suffocating feeling that accompanied any topic involving my mother.

The blood drained from his face. "Is all that true?"

I almost rolled my eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"Whatever."

"Not 'whatever.' Angel, look at me." He took my chin and made me obey. "We all have parts of ourselves that we don't like to share. I understand that. I just forgot it for a minute. I really am sorry."

I shrugged, deflated. "Not your fault."

He pulled me back under his arm. "I upset you. I didn't mean to."

I relaxed into his hold, stuffing my face into the crook of his neck. "Please don't ask me about it."

"I won't."

Breathing in his scent, I decided to make the most of my last few hours with him. I was going to stay like that—nose flush against him, feeling the freedom, listening to the hum of the road under the vans' tires and the punk music burbling through the speakers—for as long as I could.

"Would you be interested in being the girlfriend of an asshole like me?"

I went rigid again and pulled away to look at him. He was so beautiful, with his wide-eyed expression and soft smile. "Why, Jake? Why would you want that?"

"Is it so tough to believe I like talking to you? And I started writing your song months ago. Did I tell you that?" Jakes brow was scrunched, but his eyes held amusement. "Besides, you're so damn hot. That alone is reason enough, right?"

I waited, watching him. I enjoyed being coveted, but even I knew that was nothing to build a relationship on and that was something I didn't know I wanted, because I wouldn't let myself think it, until Jake touched me and kissed me in that greedy way he had; as if he were starving for something only I possessed. And looking at him in that moment, recalling the feeling of him the night before, I knew I needed something true and lasting from him. I needed him. I needed him to say that he needed me. So I waited, hoping.

His affirmation was barely audible over the music from the radio. "Come on, Angel. It's not like we just met. We've been talking after every show for the better part of two years. Do you think I do that with everyone?"

He looked deep into my eyes. "Well, I don't. I like you. More than I should. I like how sensitive and attuned you are to me. I like that you understand how important my music is. You don't assume anything or talk too much shit. And you're really sweet. Thoughtful." His eyes were soft as he grinned down at me. "But above all of that, I love the way you look at me, and the way it feels when I do something that makes you smile. How it makes me feel . . ." His palm rested against my face, gently sliding down to my mouth, "when I touch you."

The heat coming off of his confession charged the air between us. Our mouths were mere millimeters apart. Every other part of my body was flush against his—my shoulders and both arms, my side, my hip, and the whole length of my leg. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to taste those delicious lips to see if they were as sweet as my memory told me they were.

"You do?" My heart leapt inside my chest when the edges of his lips curved sweetly up.

"I'm a sucker for laying it all out like this, but yes. Very much," Jake said. "The only thing holding me back was I thought maybe you were too young. I was right about that."

I cringed at the reminder of my lie. "It's only three years."

"It's closer to four. So I need to be able to trust you—especially if we're going to keep doing what we did last night." He smirked, and the arm that was slipped behind me reached down my back and into the tops of my jeans. I felt his fingertips tug at the lace of my panties and blushed furiously.

"So? You promise?"

"I promise. I won't hide anything."

"Good, Liar." He closed the gap between us, sending beautiful shivers through me.

6

—Angel

It was a blazing Saturday afternoon, a little over a month since that first night at the motel. I really was seventeen by then.

Jake and I were lounging in the pick-up truck he'd borrowed from his mom. We were parked in a small patch of shade behind one of the few drive-thru burger stands in Carlisle. The small tree only shaded my half of the cab. The radio was tuned to a local rock station which played an eclectic mix of modern and classic. As I sat beside Jake on the bench seat of the Chevy, the speakers churned out Sebastian Bachs' aching screams about the tragedy of being eighteen.

A gentle breeze floated through the windows, cooling the beads of moisture building on my neck and back. I had my feet up on the seat and my back against the door.

Jakes' expression was raw. It had been that way since he surprised me with his pledge of love in the line of the drive-thru only a few minutes before. He was thoughtfully staring at his half-eaten burger peeking from the foil wrapping.

In a way that always seemed so very Jake, he began speaking mid-thought. "I mean, you get it, right? I'm too young and I'm still four years older than you."

"Three and a half," I disagreed.

He locked his entrancing gaze on me. "It makes you way too young."

"Does my age really bother you?"

He shook his head. "Not as much as it should."

"It doesn't bother me at all."

"That's because you're the minor." He ran a hand through his much shorter hair. "There's every reason to go slow. So much I don't get about you and me. Still . . ."

From his place in the sun-drenched driver seat, he watched as I sucked the frosty chocolate milkshake from a freshly dipped fry. He grinned when a melted droplet fell onto the spaghetti strap of my tank top. Reaching over, he wiped the mess with his thumb and put it to my lips. I took his fingertip in my mouth.

"I should, at least, have something to offer you." He shook his head, smiling at my scandalous ways.

"I can work for what I want. But there is serious misery in those three little words."

"Misery?" Jakes' eyes darkened as he set his burger on the dashboard. He took my food next, placing my fries and sweating cup in the hot sun beside his. He leaned over my outstretched legs. "Just misery?"

"Other stuff, too." I breathed, caught in his spell.

"Like what?" He smoothed my feet over his lap and came closer.

"Good stuff."

"How good?" He asked, leaning and shifting to come at me head-on.

"Extra-super-good and extremely fantastic."

His knee came up onto the seat as he stretched, pressing his weight against my thigh and the vinyl bench. "I used four words, remember? 'I fucking love you.' Does that scare you?" His voice was husky, his eyes on my mouth.

The radio's commercial break ended. Joan Jett and her Blackhearts began a wailing chant about hate and love as I adjusted myself, preparing to receive whatever Jake wanted to give and bit my lip. I wasn't sure I should say what I felt, but Jake was always very open with his feelings, and encouraged me to do the same.

"Well, does it?" He whispered, sending my heart into double-time as he swooped through the small bit of space between us, pinning one of my raised knees against the seatback and the other against the dashboard. Jake occupied all the space in between.

My breath caught. The burning sun had nothing on him.

"I don't—" I stopped, swallowing a deep breath before starting again. "I can't believe how good it is to be with you. Jake, I don't care about what that means." I watched his beautiful face, trying to guess what he was thinking. The steamy air of his eyes never wavered, making me think his thoughts were as naughty as mine.

I shook my head to clear it, still needing to answer his question. "Maybe that's irresponsible, but everything besides you and me feels secondary."

"Us," he whispered, as if trying out the word. The smirk that followed gave me goose bumps.

"And I—don't judge me, okay." I rolled my eyes, feeling pathetic and needy. "When I think about what's ahead, I get really worried about what might happen when Analog goes back on tour."

Jakes soft eyes immediately hardened. "I'm not a cheater."

"No, that's not it." I smiled, embracing the warmth of this admission, though Jake had never given me a reason to doubt his fidelity. "I'm worried . . ." I took his hand from the dashboard and set it over my hammering heart. "What if this—what we feel like—changes, if we're apart for too long?" If he met a girl who could create like him, understood music like he did, who could offer him things I couldn't, like stability and a family—it would break me.

"My whole life, I've been shoved from one place to the next. Every single person that was supposed to love me didn't, but you, Jake, you say you do. As unbelievable as it feels, I believe you; but that makes me need you, Jake. And that terrifies me." It was only half true. I'd needed him from the moment he first kissed me, but could only now bring myself to admit it.

After a moment of waiting for his response, I had to know. "It's the potential for misery. I wouldn't know how to go back. Do I sound as pathetic as I feel?"

Jake answered by taking his hand from my heart and gripping the back of my head, pulling me closer to him. His heat shot fire through my veins. His teeth gently scraped my lips as he kissed them, and then pulled away. "I'd sooner forget my reflection in the mirror, how to play guitar, or the way my mother smells. The way I feel for you, Angel, it's part of me."

My chest filled with flutters as his lashes brushed my cheek. Jake whispered in my ear, "There are millions of songs, baby. Sonnets. Monuments, even. It's a story as old as time. It's the inspiration for the greatest works ever produced by mankind." He leaned back minutely to look in my eyes. "They are all devoted to our cause. Because they know that you never let go, not when it's real. Love lives, like music. It's ageless and indelible."

He closed his eyes, kissing me again, deeper than before. His hands moved down my back pressing my hips forward until they smashed his. The sundrenched seat burnt my legs, but I barely noticed.

"What are you doing to me? I sound like a pussy." Jake chuckled into my mouth. "But I'm keeping you, anyway."

When his tongue wrapped itself around mine, it was like two unstable chemicals meeting. Reacting. It was explosive. The heat rippled through me in waves, burning over every fear I had. Jakes' kisses could do that: chase away everything. Until there was only him. And me. _Us_.

I fought when he pulled away.

"I promise . . ." His lashes scraped my brow and I knew he was waiting for me to look at him. When I did, he cleared his throat. "I promise you, my angel, that no matter what—even if it breaks up the band—I won't go anywhere you don't want me to. If you _really_ need me to stay, tell me. And I will."

The electric air crackled as his fingertips grazed the skin of my throat. "More than anyone or anything, baby, I need you, too. I want you so bad."

My lips skimmed along his jaw. "Take me, then."

# \+ + +

7

—Avery

This place has a way of picking you apart. You think you're whole, that you're complete, but only because it's never occurred to you to be anything less. Being inside, like I am, it's a whole other story. The methods they use to keep us in here have a way of washing over you, overwhelming you, until your cracks are exposed. And then all you see are the cracks, the breaks, the insufficiencies and imperfections, and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you need . . . more.

My own cracks came at the cost of expressing myself. I can't crack anymore, though. Not in this place, where no one listens. I'm suffocating in here; on this island of locked doors and barred windows. Caged like some kind of animal, but treated like a zombie-slash-puppet, forced to brush my watercolor feelings onto paper, forced into silence with pills and schedules.

There is no longer any such thing as conversation or interaction. There is only division, regret, and ruin. Cracks are dark recesses with deaf companions. My voice, waiting to be heard.

In prison, it's all routines inside walls drenched in mildew and sweat. I spend every second surrounded by guards who don't actually see me. I don't get to talk to anyone anymore. Not that I was ever interested in engaging with people. But now . . . I'm not even here. I have no name. I have nothing. Not even my own will.

I'm a ghost.

And like every ghost, I spend a lot of time haunting the memories of the life I lost.

No one cares. Certainly not Angel, who occupies those haunted places with me but hasn't spoken to me in ages.

That last night, when we were still free, I looked at Angel and knew. _Knew_ that I had pushed too far. Way beyond 'too far.' So far that any control I might have had in what happened next, was gone. I forced the situation and it got out of control. Seems like it happened so quickly. In a moment, things were said and done that shouldn't have been and I had to take responsibility for that. I tried to. Angel still hates me for it, though.

I can't stand that she won't forgive me: that she hates me so much that she'll look right through me, pretend like I don't exist. If I don't have her attention, then I have no ones.

I don't have right now, so that only leaves what was. All I can do is look back and wish that I would have chosen a different road. Maybe then our lives would have turned out differently.

We used to be our own little clique. Most times, when we were together there was perfect synchronicity. A strange family; small, but true. There was me, the older sister-type, struggling to be everything she needed: a nurturer, a friend and confidant.

Angel was always the most frail and dependent between us. I admit that I sometimes preyed on her weaknesses, but that doesn't change the fact that I love her. She was the best friend I ever had, the only person who had ever seen the true me, the one I hid away from the world. Those glimpses ended up costing her but she still stuck around. Still let me in and appreciated me. I loved her more for that.

And Jake was a fool. For needing her like he did. For taking her at her word. For thinking he could be truly honest with her. For thinking she was strong enough to take the hits that came with being his girl.

He was a damned fool.

# \+ + +

# 8

—Angel

I toss myself onto my thin bunk and close my eyes, glad to be out of that suffocating room and back in this little cell that is no less cramped, but feels a little more comfortable. I've been out of there for over an hour and still have sweat rings on the underarms of my jumpsuit.

Taking a deep breath, I let my mind drift. It was tough and wonderful talking about him, but I haven't gotten to the hard parts yet. I still don't understand how I got from that reasonably happy girl to waiting to die. I mean, I know how it unfolded, I just don't understand how it could happen to me. And I'm stuck in it.

This situation leaves me nothing to smile about. I used to think of my nomadic life as a curse, but I would give anything to go back and live there again. To just pick up and go like I used to. If one of my foster parents said I couldn't do something, I would just wait until they went to sleep, or went off to work. Then I would cut and run: do whatever the hell I wanted for as long as I wanted to. Then it was wasting time in juvenile hall—which was like a freaking vacation compared to some of the places I stayed in—or doing time in a shitty group home until they placed me with another foster family. I was disposable, but so were they. That was my way of dealing: at any moment if things got too heavy, I could always walk away. Life got heavy a lot back then.

Then, I met Jake. He changed the way I thought about my life and the choices I was making. The way I looked at myself. He saw something in me. He valued me, I know he did. It seeped into every word he said and flowed from his eyes like a great, winding stream. His care was steady and I grew to need it like my next breath.

I am rotting in this place, decomposing on this thin cotton bunk with its one scratchy blanket and concrete walls—it makes me wish for the one thing I thought I never would. That I had never seen him, never talked to him or heard his voice singing my name. I almost wish I never felt the love he gave and took away. Because being here, knowing all of that is gone is the worst kind of punishment. Being trapped in this place makes even the best, sweetest moment's sting with bitter loss.

+++

My freshmen year in high school, I learned to speak French in two weeks by reading a French-to-English dictionary that the teacher handed out and forgot it a month later. I took a semester of Spanish and quit because it was too remedial; my brain absorbed everything in the text book before we had our first major test. I've retained that easier than the French, but still forgot most of it. I was like that with algebra, too. When I looked at the problems, I knew the answers, but struggled for that _A_ because I didn't know how I knew the answers and couldn't show my work on paper. Most times I can look at a puzzle and know how the pieces fit together without having touched a piece. Fat lot of good that's done me.

All of that stuff that never mattered, I could perform easily. I can still memorize nearly anything on a page, written words and visual aids, too, but most times, that ability doesn't apply to names. And sometimes I blank-out on entire conversations. So many times I have been talking with a person, trying to open-up and let them in on my idiosyncrasies, only to have them tell me they already know. I told them just yesterday or a half hour ago, don't I remember?

Now, I spend most of my days feeling like a dumbass trapped in a fog.

But according to my medical records, I was always an extraordinarily intelligent child, speaking in full sentences by age two. I was reading chapter books by age three. I skipped preschool and kindergarten, hopping straight into second grade.

Then, the accident that did far more than fracture my skull. It took time to heal. By the time I was well enough to return to school, I was the same age as everyone else in my class. And ever since, for as long as I can remember, I've struggled with recall. How's that for irony?

Yet, here I am, six years after the most traumatic night of my life, wishing for the strength to forget, dying to remember, and being asked to give every filthy detail.

The assholes in overcoats: my lawyer, the lady with the tight hair bun, and the quiet man with the sodas, seem especially interested in the most painful parts.

As much as I love revisiting the time I spent inside Jakes world, I know that telling these new strangers what happened won't help anything. It never made a difference before and nothing with me or my case has changed so, I don't see what's so unique about right now. But this is how it goes for me: I have to do what they tell me.

My lawyer showed up at Canyon View a couple months ago, trying to tell me that I had to appear in front of this review board, even though it's only been a few months since the previous appeal was denied. Obviously, it's to review my case—like that's never been done before. But he swears there's a good reason for it and that it's in my best interest to play along.

I don't know why the state wastes its' time or money on this shit. No matter what I tell them, no matter how much truth I give them, it can't make a difference. I am convicted; have been for the past six years. But I still have to talk to them because it's all about the routine. Making sure every T is crossed so they can pat themselves on the back and say, _"We done good."_

Everything in these places is routine. You wake up every day at the same time and go to bed at the same time. Your meals are all planned out and served up at the same time on the same day of a different week. You wear the same clothes, sleep in the same bed. And if you're not in your cell when the need strikes, you have to ask to go to the bathroom. They usually make me hold it.

This routine review comes up every year. It starts with phone calls between doctors and the lawyers. Then, a couple people request my presence at one place or another. They tell me to revisit the places and people I'm dying to forget, but never will. They want to know all about my relationship with Avery—which is stupid because I don't have one. Then, my lawyer calls again or visits, and he's always wearing a stupid jacket. Even in August. Then, after a little more time passes, I get a lengthy letter explaining why I don't matter. They take three pages to say what could easily be summed up in four words: _you're full of shit_.

If the case reviewers do not come to me, I have to go to them. That means waiting for the transfer order to go through, before I get carted off to stand before the next set of judges. Though, there are no robes or gavels in these hearings, there is always judgment and a hefty price for reliving those days.

This is how it is for me: I am confined by their rules.

I hate seeing it. Not that I don't, because I do. Constantly. Vividly. My memories have never stayed shut up in that box. They constantly flail around me, like small birds caught up in a heavy gust of wind. Or dust particles from the musty air vents.

Every day is the same as the one before, except now, I have to take everything I have internalized and spew about how and why I came to be the monster. A number on a shirt. A problem on a sheet of paper. It's because my life is fucked beyond belief, because nobody I knew ever really gave a shit, except the people I destroyed, and the ones that destroyed me. Why do they want me to clarify the difference between what was and is when no matter what I say, they tell me it doesn't matter?

I meditate on the question, slowly drifting into oblivion.

# \+ + +

9

—Avery

My right hand glides along the smooth wall of my cell as I pace. It's already late. The day has completely disappeared. Not that it matters. Every day blends into the next when you've got nothing to do. Every moment plays out like the one before. No appointments, no one to talk to, nothing to do or look forward to. Nothing to distinguish Monday from Friday, just a ghostly nothing, no matter the time of day or night.

Its five long strides from one corner of my box to the other. On the last step, I pivot, snapping back around to walk toward the opposite corner, my left hand now scraping along the dull wall.

As my body moves back and forth along the wall, I force my mind roll back to another time, another place—a moment when the possibility of ending up in a world like this had never entered my mind . . .

+++

It was another shitty Monday. I was strolling into Chemistry, tardy again.

Ms. Shine looked down over the rims of her glasses and scribbled into the attendance log. Changing the absent _A_ to a _T_. Not wanting a show, I tossed her an apologetic look and mouthed 'girl problems,' while gesturing to my stomach.

Ms. Shine acknowledged with a slight nod before standing from her desk and calling the class' attention to the white board where she'd written the assigned reading to prepare for tomorrows' lab. The class was to commence learning right away.

I sat in my assigned chair at the table I shared with Troy Bleecher. As with most days, he did not acknowledge me. He'd already opened his textbook and was searching for the assigned page.

I wasn't usually the one who started our conversations, I left that up to Troy, but that day was different. I needed to talk to him. But no one could ever accuse Troy of making things easy.

_I'm not saying anything_ , I thought stubbornly, leaning down to unzip my back pack. Glancing up, I saw that he wasn't facing me. In fact, the way he was turned, it looked like he was concentrating on ignoring me. I took my binder and text book out to begin the reading assignment as the burn of resentment welled up and I decided he could go fuck himself.

Half way through the second page, Troy had the nerve to lean in. Not much, but just enough for me to know he was going to speak.

"Why did you bother telling me if you weren't going to let me do anything about it?" His voice was so quiet, I could barely hear.

I didn't turn, but effectively glared from the corner of my eye. "Your _doing_ is the reason I'm in this situation. How's your girlfriend?"

Troy had been dating this bitch named Rosa on and off since the previous summer. I suspected, from a fight that had taken place in the girls bathroom earlier that day that Rosa was trying to use Angel to get to me, and from the blank look on Troy's face, I knew the rumors were true: they were back on.

"Good news travels fast." His tone was flat, barely audible.

I cast a quick glance at Ms. Shine before drawing my loaded gaze back to Troy. "Why?" I asked, truly curious, but sounding forceful. I wanted to sound as if I were talking about the assignment instead of our secret, non-existent relationship. "Why did you go back with her?"

Troy shook his head the way he always did when he sensed I might want something from him, like common courtesy or respect. It was his way of warning me that I should lower my voice and the bar of expectation.

"It's not like you don't have your own things going on."

I acknowledged with a tight nod. "You can lock your window from now on."

"I will." He turned back to his book.

For some reason I couldn't unearth, I liked that douche bag. He really was a terrible person and I couldn't stay away from him. Troy was an absurd contradiction of cocky and sweet, smart and stupid, funny and lame. And I had been sneaking out two or three nights a week to see him for the past several months. Even though we would meet in different places—the street outside his house, the park down the road from his place, or sometimes at the stop sign at his corner—it seemed I always ended up sneaking into his bedroom (it's not like anything in Carlisle was open after nine) and letting Troy do whatever he wanted, before walking myself home as if it never happened.

Once, I didn't leave his place until four in the morning. I lived over two miles away and he didn't even get out of bed.

Another time, I left around one in the morning and as I was walking myself home, I noticed a guy on a BMX bike following me. I walked faster, but the strange boy kept peddling, slow as could be, like he was trying to keep pace with me, but also stopping here and there to tie his shoe or light a cigarette—which kept him a creepy half-block behind me the whole way.

When I was nearly home, the boy suddenly sped up beside me. That was when I got my first real look at him. He was about my age—seventeen or sixteen—with extremely thin lips, straggly blond hair, and acne scars. He also had a long scar across the bridge of his nose that curved down to his lip and over part of one cheek. It wasn't an ugly scar, but was thin and long, as if someone had slashed him with a pink marker.

When he spoke, he started with an apology for scaring me. I told him he didn't, but it was a lie. The boy asked if I lived close by, because he had just passed his own house and wanted to make sure that I'd get home safe before he went on his way. It was the first time in my life that anyone had ever worried about _me_. I was blown away—a kindness being offered without expectation? Did people actually do that—give without taking?

Troy certainly didn't.

I had never seen the boy before and decided to test the waters. I told him that I was walking home from my _boyfriends'_ house. He said my _boyfriend_ was an asshole to make me walk in the first place, and a total dick for making me go alone, in the middle of the night. He recommended that I dump his sorry ass.

That made me smile. I told him not to worry, that I was almost home, anyways. Then I pointed to my house.

He nodded. "I'll watch from here, until you get inside." On any other night, it might have freaked me out, but that night I felt safe.

That nice boys' face came back to me just then, as I sat in the middle of chemistry, right beside the person that a complete stranger had so aptly labeled.

"You _are_ an asshole."

Troy's gaping mouth, along with surrounding murmurs told me I spoke the realization a little too loud. I looked up at the white board to find Ms. Shine staring at me. And she wasn't alone. As I searched the room, everyone else seemed to have their eyes locked on me, too. Ms. Shine walked down the aisle, dropping a pink slip onto my open textbook.

"I know the drill." I said, gathering my things.

Troy's face took on that dead look, the one he used when other people were around. It only came to life when we were alone, which only happened in his bedroom.

"Never again," I whisper-yelled, rising from the chair and trying to hide the utter shock of my eyes blurring. He was a horrible person; so _not_ worth crying over. But that didn't matter. The melancholy fit came on against my will, emptying me completely.

# \+ + +

10

—Angel

The morning finds me wide awake. I don't know when I fell asleep, I usually have a tough time of it, but I can tell, when I stretch out, that I feel okay. My brain is foggy, but in a good way.

The clock radio on my small shelf plays an AM station. The Bach piece sends my thoughts immediately to Jake.

If the music of Analog Controller was the soundtrack of my youth, then Jake was the vinyl it was pressed in. Yeah, I had other shit going on; bully's at school, damn appointments to keep and no viable transportation besides my legs, keeping my grades up, and trying to work out how I was gonna pay for college—but none of it was as important to me as my relationship with Jake.

Jake was my heart and soul.

Avery was the friend that always had my back, my voice of reason. We were synchronized, like one organism. Symbiotic. Full of heart and hope. We had potential. We had promise.

Or so I thought.

+++

Inside the interview room once more, I look across the table and sigh.

I still don't know their names: the lady with the gray overcoat and tight hair bun; her name badge is still flipped over. So, I don't know who she is or what she does. It's almost like she doesn't want me to see it, she doesn't want me to know. And the quiet man, I can't read his badge, either. The letters look smeared. I wonder if that means I need glasses.

The committee of two stares quietly back at me while my lawyer and his awful jacket—that is also gray today because it seems he's joined whatever little club the other two are in—stares off into space, chewing on the cuticle around his thumbnail.

Biting back the irritation, I speak up. "I'm jumping ahead to a few weeks before the big tour started."

I close my eyes to focus, imaging the moments I picture are wrapped onto a reel of film, fast forwarding until I get to that time: the one where my world was spinning in two different directions, simultaneously ripping forward and back.

"Everything was coming together and falling apart . . ." My hands unconsciously grip the chair as I open my mind and let the memories fly out, rearranging the space.

Transporting me.

+++

Analog Controller would get their shot. One chance to make their dreams come true.

And with that, the threat of being forgotten became all too real for me. I was happy for the band. I wanted them to succeed. More than anything, I wanted what was best for Jake, but I was terrified I'd be left behind in the process.

It was a real tour with three other bands, a piggy-back set of gigs and a huge source of stress. Mostly for me, because of that fear of separation, of not being enough. I tried to keep it in check, especially since everyone else was so excited. It was a huge opportunity and the biggest tour Analog Controller would be a part of, up to that point. They'd been invited to play six dates with Anemic Psychos. The Psychos had a label backing them, an album dropping, and were known throughout the state. They invited Analog to fill a spot that opened when one of the touring bands had fallen out of the lineup for whatever reason. Some of those dates were filled right away, but someone from another group on the tour, the Proselytes, threw Analogs name out there (Jake had played with them before) and the invitation to finish off the last leg of the tour was extended.

It was so easy, like filling in a bubble on a Scan-tron test. Everything was complete once Analog answered. All they had to do was show up.

The scariest part for me was that the band was actually going to play a few shows in Southern California. The scary part for the band was that they had little time to prepare.

Jake was determined. Los Angeles was the place to be if you wanted a record deal. And to get that, you needed exposure. And to get exposure, you had to be a part of the music scene. That scene played out mostly in Los Angeles and New York.

My mind gnawed on the meaning of this huge opportunity as my feet crept along the wide corridor, aiming for the back parking lot and then the waiting school bus. There was a smear of gum on the bottom of my sneaker. Every other step left a stretchy pink trail along the asphalt. The black diesel fumes coming off the line of buses was unbearable.

My hands were numbed by nerves as I climbed up the steps of the bus. My gaze wandered down the single aisle while a commotion rumbled behind me, reminding me that I should move along as other people were trying to get on, too. I sipped at my can of Diet Coke, aiming to down it before the constant summer air warmed it. The line pressed in as I made my way into the aisle. The bus driver kept the radio on the classic rock station. The speakers pumped an old power ballad by a band whose name reminded me of breakfast cereal.

Quickly scanning for an opening, I snatched up the last empty bench seat, two spaces behind the forgettable driver and set my backpack in the spot beside me. The bus kept filling, the way it always did. Single file, with bland passing faces, just not the ones I was used to seeing. Some looked around unsure while others went directly to a particular spot. Thankfully, hardly anyone took notice of me and the ones who did didn't look hostile. The ever present tension in my shoulders gave way.

The day had dragged on, relentless, but only because I was looking forward to seeing Jake. I smiled into my hand, cupping my chin as I looked out the window into the school parking lot.

It was going to be a long ride, so I settled in, and let my mind wander.

I spent as much time as I could with Jake, but he worked full-time and had the band, so that mostly left the nights and weekends. If Analog Controller wasn't playing a gig somewhere. Even then, I usually had to contend with my foster, Deanna, to let me go over to see him. That's why it was easier to simply take the bus straight from school without saying anything. If the Foster ever asked, I made up a random classmate, saying I had to work with them on a school project. Or said I was at the school library, which was the most convenient place and she never asked on Fridays, because I had to go see my shrink on Fridays. But my appointment wasn't until five-thirty, which left me a small window of time to spend with Jake.

The school bus was nearly empty by the time it hit Jakes' street. After the driver pulled over and opened the door I hopped out, only a half block away from his house—at the corner that opened up into his cul-de-sac. The plain suburban area was filled with older track homes and dead lawns that were as familiar as my own bedroom.

All of Carlisle was brown year-round. What little spring green there was usually dried out by March. Before May was over, the only living green left was cactus. I don't think there is a type of grass that can survive an Arizona summer. Maybe Astroturf?

My feet swept over the hardscaped lawn that made up Jakes front yard. It was all decorative stones and gravel. In the very center, there was a great big cactus with a large, broken wagon wheel resting at the base.

I knocked on the door as my stomach went into flip-flops. My constant anxiety was morphing into hope, because there was no van in the driveway, which meant someone was gone. _Hopefully, two someone's._

He didn't answer the door. Jake never did. His voice drifted from unseen places, "Get'ch your ass inside," over Black Sabbath.

That was a constant—Jake and music—indivisible like those jars of peanut butter mixed with jelly. Couldn't have one without the other. He breathed it: in the nose and out every pore on his body. It made everything around him come alive.

The humming air conditioner cooled me as I stepped into the dark entry. I dropped my bag at the front door and rounded the corner into the hall that met the kitchen. I made my way slowly as my eyes adjusted.

My face heated the way it always did—only for Jake. I could see the side of his face as he stood, his mouth puckered in a look of concentration as he bent over the scratched up dining table that held his favorite guitar, a black, curvy Fender with the sunburst design. I could tell from the wiry mess surrounding it, that I had interrupted him polishing and changing the strings.

The music oozed from the living room stereo into the sparsely furnished, open kitchen.

Jake looked up and his pucker stretched to a welcoming grin. "She's here, my girl, Friday." He met me half way, greeting me with a sweet peck on my forehead, then one on my nose, and the corner of my mouth.

"Drink?" He held out a sweaty twenty-ounce of Coke he'd been drinking on. Jake always shared.

"Water." I veered to the left, towards the sink.

"You'll probably have to wash a glass."

While waiting for the tap water to run cool, I plucked up a nearby sponge and sniffed. _Seems safe_ , I thought and set it under the running water, soaped it, and began washing. Three plates and four glasses later, I decided the water was as cool as it was going to get and filled a special edition jelly jar that doubled as a tea mug.

While I gulped, his arms crept around my waist from behind. His lips fell to my neck, ticklishly pecking at the nape. I moved my head, squeezing him out of the tickle zone and giggled.

He turned me around in his arms, turning the full power of his worshipful gaze on me. "You look sleepy, baby." His fingertips grazed the hollow under my eye. Before I answered, his lips met mine for a wonderful, long-awaited kiss that sent scorching shivers through me.

"Good mood?" Jake whispered against my lips. He loved to talk through kisses.

"The best." I answered, setting my cup on the counter behind me to embrace him with both hands. "Are we alone?"

As much as I liked Max and Andrew, I was really glad when he told me they were gone.

I felt Jakes' lips stretch into a smile. "We got thirty minutes—tops." His hands swept up my back, gaining momentum as he tangled his fingers into my hair, holding me to him. "I missed you."

My heated heart completely melted. "Me, too."

Jakes hands disappeared from my hair, resurfacing on my waist. "Alley-oop." He murmured, lifting me onto the kitchen counter. Droplets of water soaked into my shorts.

I gasped, in faux-horror. "What if they walk in?"

His hazel eyes glowed dangerously. "We won't give'm any."

My responding laugh was interrupted by him plundering my mouth. Jake lifted me again, pressing my legs to his stomach in a way that made me wrap them around his waist. The gentle breeze of controlled air brushed against my back as he carried me to his bedroom—one of the three in the house he'd been sharing with the guys in the band.

I squealed as he hurled me onto his bed. My fingers spread out to caress the smooth, black and green comforter as I watched Jake remove his Dead Milk Men t-shirt. He could undress faster than anyone I've ever seen. One fluid move and he was half way there.

One more kiss and so was I.

+++

Jake jumped off the bed at the sound of tires screeching into the driveway. "They're back." He announced and tossed me my clothes.

My heart sank a little, watching Jake get dressed in one, smooth swoop. Jeans and flip-flops—he was done.

Sated and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, I maneuvered into my panties, quickly followed by my shorts. I heard the front door open as I fastened my bra. Jake moved in front of his bedroom door, staring at me as he leaned against it.

The second my shirt was back on, Max tossed the door open, not caring that he clipped Jakes shoulder, and looked around with a wicked gleam in his eyes. "I've got the fuse for the amp!" He brandished the small tube between two fingers as if it were a trophy. "Practice commences in five, assholes."

"Get the fuck out." Jakes' jaw was tight as he shoved Max back into the hall. Turning back to me, he acknowledged, "I gotta fix that knob."

I took his arms and set them around my waist. Jake leaned down and gave me what I wanted—one more, long kiss—before heading out to the garage for band practice.

+++

At any moment, Jake would start humping his microphone stand. His hips already swayed back, sexily making ready. Making me want to keel over.

For eleven months we'd been exclusive and he still made my chest want to break wide open when he moved like that. Especially when his shirt was off. Forget about coherent thoughts all together when the band was performing. Jake was sex on fire when he hit the stage.

He leaned forward, grasping the long neck of his sunburst Fender; his chest glistened as he opened his mouth wide. Jagger had nothing on him. His neck tensed, vocal chords tightening as he unleashed the vibrant sounds of pain and thunder. Behind him, Andrew slapped at the bass, wobbling his head as he focused. Max wailed on the skins, cymbals, and double-kicked the bass drums in perfect time.

_Nosey Max_.

Analog Controller was on point. Having the guys share a house was Jakes idea and even though it meant suffering Max trying to catch us in the throes of passion and string-bean Andrew eating everything he could get his paws on, it had paid off. All three of them together were more Slob than I could take, but with so much rehearsal time, they were sounding fantastic. Really, rhythmically, tight. Better than they sounded on the tracks they'd laid down at a studio in Phoenix for their third EP. Jake always said the greatest bands sound better live.

When Analog Controller found their groove, it was as if they weaved their own world. A place composed entirely of music. Notes like air, melody like water rushing down a cliff side. It crashed everywhere and everything. All at once, created and destroyed in a beautiful flood that washed away my problems. I soaked it in, never wanting to come up for air.

I went to rehearsals as often as I could, which was never enough. I lived in Carlisle, the next town over. It was hella small, but all that meant to me was that I had to walk everywhere because the only public transportation that passed through my speck in the desert was on its' way to somewhere better.

I slammed my neck, rocking to the beat of the familiar melody—a sound as passionate as my name on Jakes lips. The breakdown was building; all thrumming bass lines and drums playing in time with my heart.

Right on cue, Andrew stepped forward, slapping the thick strings of the bass and Jake straddled the metal mic stand and shifted his hips. His guitar hung over his sculpted shoulders, out of the way for a breathless moment before his rasping wails carried off into the bridge.

Sitting atop a blown out half-stack amp in the corner of the garage where the greatest band ever practiced, I crossed my feet and laughed at seeing my humping prediction play out.

"You gotta make love to that mic." Jake would say and he did.

I covered my mouth when he looked my direction. Jake never liked it like when I laughed during rehearsals. He said he didn't care what anyone else did when he was playing, but when I laughed, it made him feel like a joke.

"Any other time," he'd told me, "laugh yourself silly. I don't care if I'm naked when you do it. But not when I'm playing for you. Please." He was so very serious about his music, and for some unknown reason, about me, too.

Jake started singing again; pulling his Fender up as he tapped the neck, playing the interlude of a song they'd been working on, _Falling Start_.

Avert your eyes.

Don't ask why.

Just forget your name and I'll forget it, too

Cutting the ties.

You know why.

Forget you knew me and I'll forget you, too

Instead of a perfectly timed pick-up in the melody, Jakes fingers banged out an off-tempo fumbling. With obvious frustration, Jake stopped playing, waved his hands to the other two band members, and the music ground to a halt.

He cursed his apology before turning to me with a familiar look. One eyebrow slightly raised, hazel eyes a little wider than normal. A look that said, ' _see, Angel, I told you._ '

"I thought it sounded really good." My standard argument made him turn away.

But it was true. And anyone who had never heard the song before would never know he messed up if he hadn't stopped. But rehearsal wasn't about showmanship, it was about perfecting the tune so when showtime came, they wouldn't make mistakes.

Jake signaled the band. Max began the tally, tapping his drumsticks together in countdown. Then, the chaos of notes began to swirl again. All at once, it was Max with his big drums, Jake nimbly fingering the frets of his guitar, and Andrew deepening the melody. Jake, who lived to play and whose main complaint was that the band seriously needed another guitar player to perfectly capture the sound he wanted, began flawlessly singing and playing the way he always had. It was an amazing thing to behold: one man playing both leads. Jake did it so well.

I glanced at the clock mounted on the back wall of the garage above the Greatest Quotes poster and signaled to Jake.

"I have to leave." I screamed over the music, "I'll be late."

Jake kept playing as he stepped away from the microphone. "I'll take you."

I shook my head, moving towards him. I'd get to stay longer if I let him drop me off, but I didn't want to interrupt rehearsal. "It's not far."

"Tonight?" He asked, with a loaded smirk.

"Yes, please," I nodded.

One, quick kiss was all he could afford, but he still managed to send my stomach fluttering. He eyed me up and down, mouthing the word, 'sexy,' as if accusing me. I grinned, feeling his eyes on me as I waived to all of them and hunched my way out of the half-open garage.

Outside, the heat was just as intense, but there was a light breeze. I turned my face to the warm sky and strolled a few feet with my eyes closed, knowing there was nothing in my path and it was thirty strides to the corner.

I hated leaving in the middle of rehearsals when my opportunities to watch felt so few and far between. Especially because, Jake was always in a great mood afterwards. Good was Jakes' signature move—his way of life—he was always good, in every way. But the most relaxed and happy time of his day was after he played for a while. After shows, he was on another level.

But it was Friday and that meant I had to pay a visit to Doctor Williams. It also meant that it was Jakes' night off from work and the Foster would be working, too.

I loved Fridays.

11

—Angel

I kicked at the gravel on the sidewalk, dreading my appointment. I didn't want to meet with Doctor Elena Williams. Her office smelled like bleach and floor polish, and when I was inside it I'd spend most of my time pretending to be somewhere else.

She seemed nice and all, but I don't know that she ever helped me. Maybe it was her technique that didn't jive. She was always asking questions about how my problems made me feel instead of telling me how to fix them. Kind of made me feel like she was full of shit, to be honest.

She had a very snug space on the second floor at the county clinic. It was an all-purpose type of building with an emergency room and small hospital. There was a cancer clinic held one weekend a month, but the wing I visited was very small; used mainly for psychiatric care.

Walking inside the small lobby, I headed straight for the elevator and waited.

It was going to be bad.

The sweat beading on my neck didn't stop even though I was out of the heat. Rivulets slid down my back as I walked into her office and took my seat.

"Hello, Miss Patel."

Her fingers clicked on a small, gray remote and the sounds of the ocean filled the room. Doctor Williams smiled cheerily while recorded seagulls called. She opened her notepad while running through the customary pleasantries. The 'hi-how-are-you's.

Freaking therapist. No one addressed me by my last name except her and my gym teacher.

My last name is supposed to be Asian, but I'm not sure what kind—Middle Eastern or Oriental. I don't look like either one. My eyes are all round and brown. Not thin and black. And my hair . . . well, it's nearly the same color as my eyes and thin. Not thick and black. But I love the dry heat and can get a wicked tan when I want.

When I was little, I would obsess over not knowing. I used to wish I'd been born in Ancient China. So much so, that inside my head, I built a hazy world set on a mystical mountain top, up so high the only scenery was shrouded in purple, magic clouds. There wasn't a soul in sight to witness my birth. Not even my mother. (My shrink said it had something to do with abandonment issues, but whatever.) I was a daughter of the sky, sheltered by ancient trees and fed by lotus blossoms. Long, lush vines dressed me in flower petals and velvety green leaves.

I could imagine that place so vividly, that I sometimes wondered if it was real, if I was reincarnated and remembering things I wasn't supposed to, from past lives—which made me wonder if reincarnation was an actual thing, because sometimes I felt ancient. Well, stretched beyond my years, anyways.

My birth certificate was a contradictory piece of evidence to those ideas. It said that I was born in a hospital in Flagstaff during the month of September to a mother who was only twenty when she had me. The bracket labeled 'Father' was left blank. So, the part-mystery-Asian-thing was a much more likely possibility than being birthed by nature on a misty mountain top.

+++

"Angel, you're drifting, again," Doctor Williams said.

"No, I am attempting to ignore you." I sighed and tried to let go of the associated stress.

The ocean sounds dissipated as she turned the boom box volume down to background noise and gave a good-natured chuckle.

"You said you'd tell me about her. You have to try."

"Hm, let's see . . ." I tried not to sound sarcastic. "She's dead," I announced with an eye roll, because that was what we'd always come back to. Every problem I ever had was born of my dead mother.

For three months, we had been building up to it, to me telling her what I remembered about my mother. She used the months to prime me with a trigger phrase, _"that day,"_ which she said in very a particular way, in a slow, relaxed voice. But I fought her every time. I didn't want to remember. Half the time, the anxiety that memory triggered made my head hurt—just knowing she was going to use it soon did, too. The other half of the time, I'd imagine my ears melting off my head, sliding into a puddle on the floor. Then, I'd wrap my arms tight across my chest and stuff my fingers into the creases at my elbows and pinch. Not hard enough to leave a mark. If I let myself do what I really wanted—curl up and drift away—she would have had a field day.

"That's precisely why we should talk, Miss Patel." Her voice was all soft and soothing.

" _We,_ " I shook my head. It happened every week. She'd tell me to talk about my mom and I'd tell her to suck it. Well, in my mind. Outwardly, I whined. "Do I have to?"

"We made a deal: one detail a week. That's all. One memory." She rested her folded knuckles over her lap. "We are learning to communicate our feelings, to change those harmful patterns of behavior. There can be no progress if there is no change."

I rolled my eyes. She thought she was _so_ deep.

I picked my brain for something meaningless, something she wouldn't be able to read into. "Her name was Margaret Barry."

But even that small fact made me wince, because if you think about it, it really was a telling detail. My mother never shared the identity of my father with me, just like she never shared her own last name. She so obviously didn't want me and that bald-faced rejection of a simple commonality made me want to contract into a tiny ball. Like that old movie, Incredible Shrinking Woman, I wanted to become too small to see. Too small to feel.

Doctor Williams' spectacles slid down the slender bridge of her nose the way they always did when she was serious. The sounds of crashing waves lingered while she responded, "You gave me that one last week." Her tight curls seemed to stiffen as she sorted through her session notes. "Tell me the first thing that comes to mind when you think of _that day_."

"Empty," I blurted and wanted to kick myself. All the honesty with Jake made me too aware, too open.

What that doctor didn't get was talking about my shit only made it worse. Like a flare gun to the chest, it seared me to think of those days: times when I assumed, as most kids do, that all people are good. I made a conscious choice not to think of her, not to go to that dark place, and still, her two words echoed— _"that day"_ —and a memory flashed.

+++

The scene opened up like a blanket unfolding a backdrop that put me on a roadside. I was there, standing, empty, watching a far away part of my life play out in third-person. I stood at the end of a gravel driveway, looking on at a little blond girl, all pigtails and smiles. She was a sharp contrast to the woman beside her. The woman—the girls' mother—was all dark hair, dead eyes, and a long frown. The day was young and cool, though the sun was bright. The woman lifted the girl by the waist, taking her upon her hip. Their mouths were moving, but I heard no sound. The girls' tiny white dress seemed to sparkle in the stark sunlight as she was set in the front seat of a big brown car.

The overall feeling of the moment is one of . . . wholeness. But only because my five year-old mind couldn't put a label on it. It was not a happy scene. It was a goodbye—my mothers' last monologue, her big send-off—and my young heart couldn't comprehend. I only recalled that moment with happiness because when my mother cuddled me and spoke, I didn't know what she had planned.

It's amazing how much harm a little ignorance can do.

+++

I pulled myself out of the memory. Looking at Doctor Williams' calm face irritated me. I noted the ocean soundtrack seemed to be playing louder.

"I don't get why we have to do this. When people are gone, they're gone. And I barely remember her. It's like she never existed."

"But you remember _that da_ y." Doctor Williams declared, and I felt the pull of that phrase.

The scene . . . her words . . . they sucked me back in. I wanted to run, to shrink away, but the sound of her voice cemented me in that faraway place I'd spent my life trying to forget.

+++

An old brown, boat of a car clipped the curb as it backed out of the gravel driveway onto what I assume was a suburban street and took off a little too fast down a long stretch of road. The little girl in the white dress was standing in the front seat, holding onto the headrest as she bounced up and down.

I couldn't see the edges of the memory. There might not have been any other houses beside the one they left behind. It might have been surrounded by desert.

+++

"You remember her. Why do you feel like she never existed?" Doctor Williams' glasses slipped again and she pressed them back in place with her thumb and index finger.

Her question triggered something and my mind switched back to her office. But then, I let it go again, refusing to focus. I didn't want to be there, either.

When I was sitting in her office, I'd do it all the time—make myself be somewhere else. The images that used to spring up were so vivid, as if I could reach out and touch them. They were full and alive, they could block out anything. Everything.

So that's what I did. I blocked out her office and my session. I didn't curl up and float away I just let my lively imagination explore the first ridiculous scenario that popped into my head when I looked at Doctor Williams holding her pen up near her chin.

+++

I was sitting in a dim lounge at a small round table. Doc Williams was standing at the other end, in the center of a small stage, holding a microphone, staring out at the audience. There was a poster advertising an open-mic night on the wall behind her. The dark tables surrounding the low stage were filled with eager patrons and a two-drink minimum. She'd just told her best knock-knock joke and the punch line was met with silence. Crickets comically chirped.

+++

"Is something funny?" Doctor Williams looked at her watch and back to me. One of her eyebrows had gone crooked. "Miss Patel, I need you to focus."

My mind teetered between three worlds. The world where my shrink's stand-up comedienne act was bombing, the other was in her office—where I couldn't stand to be—and the third was that damned roadside—the last place I wanted to be but could not manage to leave.

It was as if her words were a trigger that pulled the lever on a viewfinder, changing the backdrop on me.

"Tell me about _that day_ , that one memory," She urged, her voice sounding as serene as a song.

And just like that, I was back to that place where the driveway met the road. The injustice of that mournful moment returned. My throat swelled. I tasted bile. "No."

"Alright. Let's move on." She casually shuffled some pages of my file. "How is your friend, Avery? Have you been seeing much of her lately?"

I froze. It was so like her to jump from one impossible thing to the next.

The topic of my friendship with Avery was expressly forbidden. Avery had made it very clear after I mentioned her in one of my sessions that I was never to do it again. "Grownups never like me," Avery reasoned, and knowing her the way I did, I knew she was right. The Foster barely liked her, but she was still diplomatic about our friendship. If Doctor Williams ever met with her, that would change.

"Please, don't make me ask. Avery won't come."

Actually, she might but I hadn't asked her. And I couldn't really see how having my best friend talk to my shrink could possibly help anything. But I was running out of excuses.

"What about a boyfriend?"

That last word caught my attention. "What?"

"You're a pretty, seventeen year-old girl. Haven't any boys approached and asked you out on a date?"

I couldn't stop my answering smile. "Nope. No boys. No boyfriend."

Doctor Williams clicked the pen she was holding and looked down at the notepad in her hand, flipping through pages. "Have you been attending your classes?"

"Yes."

"What about anger management?"

"Just went to my last one, so . . . yes," the's' hissed a little too long, matching the recorded cry of a sea bird.

I'd been assigned, so I had to attend. Social workers and guidance counselors working in tandem with my psychiatrist were all very interested in my every move—being that I was a ward of the state and all. Any one of them would call The Foster if I missed a class.

No one ever called to report good news, like progress. Just the bad. Or if they did, I never heard about it. It seemed that people only took time out of their busy lives to rag on me. So I tried my best not to make waves, keeping my proverbial nose clean so I could continue to do what I wanted, namely seeing Jake. My Foster, Deanna, was never comfortable with our age difference, but told me she recognized that she was not my mother and left the final decision up to me.

The only upside to anger management was that they were over.

"Good for you. Before I let you go, I would like an example of how your newly acquired anger management skills were put into practice this past week." She raised her attentive pad and pen, waiting to jot down my every word.

I wanted to smile because, back then it was a joke. At that tender age of seventeen, I had never been legitimately pissed with anyone but my mother. And I figured I was doing pretty well because if I could cope with knowing my mom wanted me dead, then everything else was tolerable.

Even though there was _a lot_ of everything else that kept me on edge, I was only ever sad or peeved. Righteously irritated from time to time, but never _angry_. Maybe because my first instinct was always to run and hide.

Avery—who knew me better than anyone—once said that she knew, deep inside, I wasn't brave enough to let myself feel the rage. I wanted to roll my eyes when she said that. I mean, hot-headed _Avery_ giving _me_ advice about how to handle anger? The only reason I was assigned to the stupid classes in the first place was because of her.

She'd punched a senior, Shelley Bloom, who gave me a bloody nose for using her gym locker, even though they weren't assigned. I guess Mrs. Ryan, Shelley's softball coach, heard something, because the next thing I knew, I was being suspended. I didn't care; three days vacation from the hell-hole they called school was cake. They sent me home with my assignments and some open-book tests and I was fine. Shelley's eye was black for a week.

I never told anyone Avery was there because she'd been protecting me and the least I could do was keep her secret.

Since Doctor Williams was still waiting for my example—I swear, the woman was never satisfied unless I was filling silence—I decided, on the fly, that I would give her anger management skills something to stew about.

"It was last weekend."

Doctor Williams' eyes were all aglow as I dove into a story all about how it was mine and a made-up best friends' birthday party. "Well, our actual birthdays are only a week apart so we always celebrate together—my foster 'mom', _Chanel_ , was working, as usual."

Yeah, it was the kind of blatant lie that deserved to be called-out. I paused, waiting for her to raise a brow, correct me or call me a liar, but all she did was click the top of the pen she was holding.

So, I kept going, making up more and more as I went. I pressed my fingernails deep into the creases of my elbows, connecting myself to the moment, willing myself to answer her inane questions, when she raised them. They were the type of questions that forced me to elaborate. She wasn't going to make me stop, not while I was on a roll. All sevens.

The story evolved into one I had overheard in the girls bathroom—a typically moronic teenage drama about an ex-friend being confronted over her supposed kleptomania at a slumber party. I concocted a list of names and descriptions—it was good. Really detailed. And it would end with a confrontation, just like she wanted.

The lies poured out smooth, like warm syrup over a pancake. "I gave her a little shove—"

"You physically pushed her?" Doctor Williams was practically out of her chair, gripping the armrests.

"No!" I argued, thinking over all I'd said about a fabricated conflict. "Well, a little, but not because I was angry. I was just trying to keep her from leaving."

Her crinkled brow smoothed out as she tossed her hand, clicking the pen-top again. "You were saying?"

I went on with the lie, paying more attention now, trying not to betray how much fun I was having. "Yvonne slipped, but she didn't fall. I pretended like it was an accident, but then I told her: 'My foster mom doesn't allow thieves in her house,' I said. She crossed her arms, sounding all snotty. 'Don't you mean trailer?'"

"'Mobile home,' I told her, trying to sound just as snotty. We argued a little, back and forth, but—"

"In what way did you two girls 'argue'?"

I kept myself from smiling. "In a very adult fashion."

She shook her head at the snark and made some notes in my file which was thicker than most people my age. But, I'd been through more than most, so there was a lot more to write in there. Much more to force me into talking about.

I've never understood why shrinks feel it's necessary to hash out every little thing that happens. Therapy might have been mandatory, but it never felt like it was for my benefit. It seemed like it was for the doctor, to make her feel better about her own messed up life. And her life was a freaking soap opera. I'd heard her talking on the phone a couple times when she didn't know I was in the waiting room and her office door was open. For someone whose profession required secrecy, she wasn't very discreet about her personal life.

Her son was all depressed and her husband, from what I understood of the conversation, was being an asshole about it. I felt for her, but it wasn't my job to distract her from her life. I had my own shit to deal with. And I found it tough to take advice from someone who so obviously did not have their own life together.

I was so over everyone telling me how to live and I didn't need her therapy. The ocean soundtrack she used was way more therapeutic than her. Music, really, was all I needed. That was the only thing that ever made me feel better. I could lose myself in it. And Jake. He was the calm to my storm, the warm blanket on a cold night. He was my therapy, my panacea for any ailment—him and his music. I'd spend hours, days upon weeks, soaking it all up. It was all about Analog Controller. All the time. I was at almost every show, first row, center stage, right in front of my band and my leading man.

"So, how was this confrontation resolved?"

"I didn't hit her when she called me trailer trash." I shrugged.

Doctor Williams shook her head. "Come on, I'll walk you to the lab."

We walked shoulder to shoulder down the white corridor that reeked of rubbing alcohol, towards the buildings lab to get my blood drawn. She made me pee in a cup once a month. Drug testing to make sure I was on my meds and nothing else, because once I tried some crank at a party and totally freaked out. I also got my blood tested once a month—something having to do with chemical imbalances.

"Miss Patel?"

"What?"

"Have you experienced any more blank spaces?"

I shook my head, "Not for a long time," and turned into the tiny glass-walled office that was the source of the sharp scent.

Blank spaces were an accepted part of my life, like my memory problems; a side effect of the accident. Doctor Williams was the dutiful physician who helped me pinpoint the lost time and got me started on trying to keep track of it. She was keenly interested, which made me want to hide it.

She instructed me, the second I noticed a lapse, to make notes—what time it _is_ versus what time it _was_ last time I checked, or if anything was different in my surroundings: if anything was moved or missing in my room, if I changed my clothes—and bring the notes to my sessions for her to look at and decide whether my meds needed adjusting.

That right there—her solution—created another problem for me.

I didn't like when they messed with my meds. It always threw me for a loop when they changed-up the cocktail or made me stop one pill to replace it with something else that didn't work, but with worse side-effects. Like standing on the edge of the sidewalk, trying to cross the street, and feeling like the four inch curb was a mile high. It's a real shit situation not being the captain of your own mind.

Another issue: it wasn't so easy to find the "blank spots" she mentioned. I mean, how was I supposed to know I was missing time if the day didn't disappear? How was I supposed to know I needed to look for something out of place when nothing appeared jumbled? It's not like I ever woke up with a knife in my hand or anything. My brain would just check out from time to time. The only time I'd ever noticed anything was when I found myself somewhere I didn't remember going—which hardly ever happened.

On my long walk home from my appointment that day, I figured that Doctor Williams was probably busying herself making phone calls. All the blatant lies involved in my elaborate story probably had her in a tailspin.

Of course there was no group of friends. No slumber party. No birthday shared with anyone.

I did mention my foster brother, Austen, but he was never a turd like I told Doctor Williams. When he took the time to talk with me, he was usually nice. Austen's mom, my Foster, her name was Deanna, not Chanel—Doctor knew that, too. I made it up because names were always tough to remember. It was unremarkable and never stuck with me the way her soft face or generosity did. She always smelled really good, though, so I called her a perfume.

At first, it made no difference whether I knew her name or not. I didn't care. I was sure she was just like everybody else and would be done with me after a few months. But she turned out to be different. She was a little cooky—constantly locking away the kitchen knives and scissors since before I got there because her son, Austen, was a sleepwalker or some crazy shit like that—but she was genuinely nice to me.

Whenever I needed to, I'd ask Avery. And Jake sometimes, too. He already thought I was a weirdo and Avery never cared. Avery used to do this funny thing, when I asked her to remind me of someone's name, she'd always give me a word—sometimes one she made up—to rhyme with the sound of the Fosters name.

"I can't remember her name." I'd mutter, sulkily.

"What do you _mean-a_?" She'd grimace . . . and then I'd remember. _Her name is Deanna._

When no one was around to ask I'd just call her Foster. Deanna didn't seem to mind. As far as Fosters went, she was okay. Maybe not the best, but my best.

# 12

—Angel

My bladder feels stretched beyond capacity. I'm squirming, trying to find relief. "I have to go to the bathroom."

It's the third time I've mentioned it. They always say they'll take you the first time around, but they just want to know one more thing. And before you know it, twenty minutes have passed. They just keep on with their questions or ask me to hold it until I get to a convenient stopping point.

I suppose that's kind of my fault, though. My audience has a schedule to keep and I've been going off-topic. My lawyer has cued me with not-so-subtle nods and looks, trying to urge me back in one direction or another. What he fails to understand is that I can't tell just one part of the story. I have to tell them everything. If I stick to just answering their questions, or skip over anything, I might miss something.

The quiet man that gives me the Diet Cokes has been standing between the cameras almost the whole time, just watching. Now, he slinks forward and snatches the remnants of my second can of soda as the woman with the tight bun and squared glasses leans to one side, edging toward the phone mounted on the wall.

She presses a button. A moment later, a crackly voice answers.

"Miss Patel needs a restroom break."

Finally.

Within seconds, the wide wooden door swings open. In its' frame stands two uniforms. One of them is a woman named Jo. She's very plain and has short brown hair with a prominent jaw—too prominent to be feminine. The second one, I don't recognize. He might be new. He doesn't have a name tag or badge.

New Guy steps in first and opens one cuff at a time, releasing me from my chair. He orders me onto my feet and takes me by the elbow, leading me out into the corridor. The walk to the restroom is quiet.

When I first got arrested, I used to think I needed to fill the silences. They seemed awkward, but so was the incessant talking. Now, I relish the quiet.

New Guy has to wait outside the bathroom door while Jo sees me inside. She waits at the open stall door, watching me pee. That used to make me nervous, too. It was hard, at first, to summon the suddenly scared urine down from my bladder. My first two weeks, I refused to poop. It's normal now. And damned depressing, too. As a kid, I never could have dreamed that I would one day be so at ease dropping the deuce for an audience. But today, it's only number one.

I am mid-stream when the echo of Avery's voice carries through the thin partition of the bathroom stall. A face slips into the small space where the front and side panels meet. It's only an inch or two wide, but it's enough to see the watery green of one eye, staring at me and the edge of her frown.

"Angel. For the millionth time, I'm sorry. Please just listen to me. I need you."

I take a deep breath, ignoring the way her voice cracks as she whimpers, "you're my only friend."

I usually take my time washing my hands, singing the alphabet song as I go, but not with her in here.

My hands are still damp when I'm back inside the room. I wipe the remnants of water on the wooly arms of my chair. Jo and New Guy take leave after making sure my restraints are nice and tight.

I adjust myself in my seat, trying to cross my legs beneath the table, but the chains at my ankles are too short. Both my feet go back to the floor as I'm reminded of where we left off.

And then, I continue . . . "When I walked into Sunny Vista Trailer Park, where I was staying with Deanna my Foster, I saw that Avery was already there, waiting for me."

And even though my hatred for her is more sure than tomorrow's sunrise, I keep my voice flat and even, recalling the blissful ignorance.

"She waved from a neighbors' porch."

+++

I was always a little jealous of Avery's tall, thin frame and the way she could rock smudged eyeliner. She was parked on a white plastic chair with her waif-like legs elegantly folded into it. The way she stylishly slouched reminded me of a casual Kate Moss—if she had black hair and green eyes. Avery's legs flew straight out as she jumped up to greet me with a hug.

Mrs. Smith, whose eyesight was so bad she probably hadn't noticed us at all, was bent down, feeling for weeds in her cactus garden.

"She's baking." Avery's mossy gaze sparkled. "I read her the recipe and made sure the sugar was actually sugar."

We both laughed, remembering the last time we suffered Mrs. Smith confusing the tins of sugar and salt.

"I'm helping her listen for the timer."

"What kind?"

"Oatmeal Raisin." She wiggled her eyebrows, singing the name of her favorite cookie.

"Yummy," I sang back. "Share a plate?"

"Bakers' dozen." She patted my arm and walked back to her chair on the porch.

When I passed the grand ole' neighbor lady, I smiled and waved. Mrs. Smith responded by straightening her hunched posture and giving me a questioning look. "Don't you want cookies?"

"Yeah, but I gotta check-in." I pointed at the dented door of the single wide mobile home next door and made for it. She was a nice old lady and for some reason The Foster didn't like her. She said it wasn't right that the woman talked to pictures of her dead husband. I thought it was sweet.

The aluminum door opened without a sound, but the screen rattled. The sound reminded me that Jake would be coming over later, and that made me think of the tour, which always got me worked up. My lips locked together, trying to hold in my mixed emotions—excitement with a smidge of dread. I had to be quiet because the Foster was always asleep in the day time. She worked the graveyard shift at a confection factory. And every time I thought about watching Analog Controller play in front of a crowd I wanted to jump up and down. It felt rare and special.

In a mere month, heaven would swoop down and touch earth. Me and everyone I loved would be on our way to Analog Controller's biggest gig so far, kicking off in Tempe.

I made my way to the hall, gently padding past the door to Foster's room. I wasn't counting on her support when it came to attending. Local stuff, she usually considered okay, but out of town over-nighters were a whole different bag. Foster parents were not allowed to let their court appointed burdens have fun. They were required to say no and make up excuses about rules and unsupervised trips. And even though, Deanna pretty much let me do what I wanted most of the time—as long as I checked in often and kept my grades up—Deanna letting me take any kind of road trip was a stretch. Knowing that it would involve Jake sort of guaranteed a flat-out refusal.

My stomach knotted up every time I thought about asking permission, because that meant giving her the power to refuse me.

Deanna the Foster was always trying to protect me from whatever she deemed _corruption_ and she didn't like rock-n-roll. Well, it was more Jake, himself. She said she liked him as a person and had heard good things about his family, but two years was the age limit in teenage dating as far as she was concerned and Jake exceeded that almost twice over. She said I was lucky she was a reasonable foster parent. I thought I was lucky Jake got knocked upside the head—or whatever it was that happened to him—to make him want to give someone like me the time of day. I was definitely dating up.

No matter the cost, I _had_ to see Analog Controller play. Gigs were so much better than practice. For every band, there's a power that only comes with playing in front of a crowd. Jake, who was always so full of energy, really came to life when he got in front of an audience. He was almost always nervous, but it was like something woke up of inside him the moment he hit a stage. I loved seeing that spark, the way he kindled and fed that fire. He became a pyre, burning for the crowd.

The poster hanging outside my bedroom door showed Jake, Andrew, and Max greeting me. I had it printed at the same shop where I got the t-shirt made. Jake said it was weird to see a giant picture of himself on my bedroom door, but he liked that I had it.

I stared at the picture, concentrating on Jake's face. His thick, brown lashes and hazel eyes set below the beautiful mess that he called hair. He looked a little pale in that picture because it was taken before he got his job at the hardware store. He worked in the 'Outdoor Living' department. Basically, he sold cactus and patio furniture when he wasn't stacking cinderblocks or boards. The work kept him tan and fit, but I felt sorry for him, because Arizona could get hot as hell.

I snatched my walkman from my dresser and put on the headphones. A diatribe of notes swirled into my ears, coercing my feet into their rhythm. My bleach stained red and white Converse scraped over the carpet as I danced my backpack to the bed, singing . . . _Chasing street lights, chasing sonnets, chasing everyone away . . ._

I was like most kids stuck in the system. I got moved around every couple of months or whenever my existence became an inconvenience to my host. It was tough not laying down roots, but I got used to it and eventually stopped unpacking. When you know you're going to have to leave, it just makes life less messy if no one and nothing is worth liking; I didn't have to let go if I never took hold.

But Deanna treated me the same way she treated Austen. She talked to me, asked me questions about my life. I'd gotten comfortable with her. She was kind without reservation and I wanted to please her.

I _prayed_ she'd let me go—because I was going, no matter what. And if I just cut out, she'd call it in, and I'd go straight to Juvenile Hall when they caught up with me. Deanna knew enough about my life to know that they could find me wherever Jake was.

On the other side of my room was a small desk Deanna and me picked out from a junk pile near the dumpsters at the Junior High. They must have been remodeling classrooms or something because there was a huge pile of desks with attached chairs for righties. The Foster found a real sturdy one with hardly any scratches. It has one mark, actually. Well, three words carved into the top: _Princess Bitch Face_

Beside that little desk was a white, wooden dresser with a three paneled mirror on top. One of my three reflections in the paneled mirror looked a little pale, so I took off the headphones, spread some cherry lip balm over my pouted lips, and then headed back to Mrs. Smiths.

Avery was still posting on that plastic chair. Her knees were folded at her chest with both hands set across the tops of her feet, lacing her fingers through her toes. The nails of each were painted bright red.

She grinned wide and wicked.

"The countdown has begun. Three weeks and six days."

We both squealed. Of course Avery loved Analog Controller as much me.

"On a denser note, I must ask, have you finished your English essay?"

"Yes. Well, almost." I corrected. Avery had a sixth sense for BS.

I sang a few lines from _Separate Pieces_ and Avery joined in. We started shifting, dancing together in synchronized moves, to one of our favorite songs from _Dividing Daylight_ —which was really saying something because every song on that first EP was top shelf.

Just then, a buzzer sounded from inside Mrs. Smith's kitchen. Avery grabbed my hand and pulled me with her, heading for the front door. "Well, I want to look over it when you're done."

I rolled my eyes. "So you can plagiarize it?"

Avery giggled. "Not all of us are as prolific as yourself."

The cookie sheet was hot. The oatmeal mounds were plump and round. They smelled a cinnamon-nutmeg type of wonderful.

I called out from the steaming kitchen door for our hostess to come and inspect her cookies. They looked done to me, but she usually performed a touch-test—the tops must spring back—to each and every one. Ave and I each held a tray to ensure they wouldn't over-bake.

Mrs. Smith shuffled through the hot kitchen with her big rubber gloves and round sunglasses. She set her gardening belt on a chair near the door before heading to the sink to wash up.

Avery rolled her eyes, impatiently. If the cookies cooled too much, they'd get all crusty if we had to shove them back in the oven.

I asked, and Mrs. Smith decided, "just this once, since I'm trying to teach you something," that it would be alright to let Avery and me check the cookies ourselves.

They were all good.

We spent the next twenty minutes stuffing our faces with warm cookies and milk, listening to Mrs. Smith's Beatles records. "Real music," she insisted.

13

—Angel

As I walked Avery home, we talked a little more about my essay. It was going to be easy. Our class was reading Romeo and Juliet and we had to write a comparison between the two families, the Capulet's and Montague's. I wasn't worried about it, but told her I'd call if I needed help. I had to go, Deanna would wake up soon and make dinner before she left for work and I had to be there. It was the rule. Plus, I was expecting Jake.

Avery rolled her eyes when I waved goodbye from the path in front of her house.

She yelled, "Go get your fine-ass man, then."

"I plan to." I winked before turning to make my way home.

+++

Jake was running late. He'd called and said that something had come up—he was still coming over, he just wouldn't be able to be there five seconds after Deanna left for work, like usual.

What should have been two hours turned into three.

I kicked the sheets off my bed, pondering and staring at the ceiling.

All I could do was wait for Jake to arrive. And in the meantime, I hoped the coming weeks would lumber along as well—with all the speed of a crippled snail. Somehow, time managed to stretch beyond its' natural limitations whenever I was looking forward to something. (Out of spite, I think.)

I was dreading that tour—the possibility of leaving without permission and probable separation from my treasured boyfriend. Jake was everything to me. And everything in life changes, I knew that. I was used to it. But not where Jake was concerned. He'd been my constant anchor through the storm of bullshit, and knowing that his life would be changing, meant mine was, too, and I was just beginning to realize how unprepared I was.

Outside my bedroom window, unseen cats screeched and tussled in the black night. Occasionally, a car would turn from the roadway into the trailer park, flashing their lights into my window as they passed. I watched the flicker of two beams run across the ceiling and spoke his name.

"Jake." I muttered and turned into my pillow.

I was all alone. Austen had already left for his girlfriends' house. It was the third time that week that he'd left me alone for the night. Things with his girl, Sheila, were getting serious.

A dull thud sounded from the front of the trailer. I sat up, looking out my window to find his dirty van on the driveway.

When I opened the front door, Jake was standing on the porch, leaning on his elbow that was propped against the doorframe. He wore a plain white t-shirt and jeans. His black acoustic guitar was slung across his back. The plain red strap slashed across his chest, adding definition to his delicious structure. The way he leaned put him so close that when I answered, he only had to shift an inch or two for his lips to meet mine.

I fought a smile. "Would you hate me if I said that I only want you for your body?"

He chuckled, "Hate you? I've come to count on these no-strings sexual encounters."

With a touch of his cool mouth I was in heaven, feeling the bursting tingles aroused by his embracing kiss as he expectantly walked into my arms. He planted several quick kisses over my face and neck, mumbling through an explanation of why he was running behind. He gave lots of details about how he got off work late and how band rehearsal was interrupted by a guy who showed up unannounced to audition for lead guitarist.

Andrew had put an ad in a free paper a few weeks before. They hadn't had any nibbles, so it was surprising when someone just showed up. They talked with the guy and listened to him play. Then, just as Jake was leaving, he'd gotten a phone call from a girl who'd also seen the ad and wanted to audition. Jake was so late because he had to wait for the girl to find the house.

"Prospects are looking good." He breathed into the column of my neck.

I told him how riveting it was—"it really is, but . . ." He smiled artfully, almost bashful, as I lifted my nightgown up and over my head. "We have other, more pressing matters to discuss."

Jakes eyes danced with humor and something else as he took the wad of fabric from my hands, unceremoniously tossing it behind me. "I've been looking forward to this discussion." Then his arms enveloped me, pulling me tight against him, as he leaned down and caught me in a breath-stealing kiss.

Jakes' mouth was spellbinding. His lips cast me into another world. Each kiss felt like the first—big and unbelievable. Like a blind man seeing for the first time. I was lost in him and it didn't matter if we made it to my room. We were alone. There was no time limit. And the night was young. Like us.

We did, eventually, make it to my room.

I watched Jakes' striated arms move in the moonlight seeping through the curtains. They embraced and overpowered me. His lips alone burned me up, tore me down, and rendered me to ash before we were done.

And when we were done, he wasted no time starting the conversation in the exact place I cut him off. I traced my hands over the patterned muscles in his back as he talked. "So, the first guy, Gary, will play with us in Tempe and the second in Glendale. Whichever does better at the gig, gets the gig."

I nodded my head, moving in to kiss a mole over his shoulder blade and set myself upright beside him. "Sounds like a plan."

"So, you're cool with this?"

"Jake, I don't get a vote. If I did, I would vote that you keep playing lead and singing, but that's not what you want. You want to be the best at whatever you choose to do. And you choose to sing."

"I'll still play rhythm. I'm just saying, I don't want this to become an issue. I mean, she's _really_ good, babe." His eyes widened, making his point. "Max and Andrew already want her. But I've never wanted a chick in my band."

He smiled when I pretended to be offended. But honestly, I couldn't have been happier that he wanted to keep the group all guys.

"Mixing genders makes drama. I can already see it: one of those two will end up trying to _do_ her and then it'll turn to shit."

"Tell them not to."

"I can't do that. I mean, I did, but I shouldn't have to. I'm not a damn babysitter." His hand pressed into my back as he got out of bed.

I stood alongside, watching him watch me get dressed. "You should write a song about it."

"What would I call it?" He worked one leg into his jeans and started on the other.

"Is she cool?"

He shrugged. "Seems like it, but you never really know a person until you travel together."

We made our way to the back porch where Jake pulled a red and white pack from his front pocket and lit up. If he smoked in the house Deanna would know. She'd just quit a few weeks before and had a heightened sense for nicotine. Jake was planning on quitting, too, but it was tough for him.

A mild wind caught the ashes he flicked into the sandy dirt patch Sunny Vista trailer park called a yard. His hair, which had grown out some since his last buzz cut had transformed into a James Dean-like awesomeness that flipped back and thrust forward at the same time. He really hated it, kept threatening to cut it off again, but I loved it. I reached for the gathered mass in front and pressed the silken lock back from his eyes.

"How about, Psychology of Jackals?"

His perfect profile, illuminated by the neighboring porch light, disappeared as he turned to face me. "For what?"

"For a song title."

He raised his eyebrows. "That's . . . actually kind of cool."

"You're surprised?"

He pulled me close, setting his arms around me. "Everything you do surprises me."

I rested my head against his chest, listening to the sounds of his breath. His heartbeat. His strong arms curled behind my neck and across my shoulder. His talented fingers traced small circles down my arm. Aerosmith's _Come Together_ grooved through the night air from somewhere in the trailer park. Jake hummed the melody as I sighed.

"What did you talk about in your session today?" He was always curious about my sessions with Doctor Williams.

"My mom." My voice sounded small.

"So you didn't talk, then?" I heard the smile in his voice as he tried to make light of the heavy subject and was flooded with appreciation for his unending patience.

Of course, he had no way of knowing just how dark and difficult it all was. I had never told him much about my mother, beyond the facts that she died in the accident and I almost died because she hadn't buckled me up. I didn't have to say how much I loathed bringing it up, he just knew.

"I tried not to."

"You tell her about me yet?"

"No."

He sighed. "I wish you would. What if I wanted to talk to her?"

I pulled away just enough to look up into his eyes. "Why would you want to do that?"

He shrugged, setting his half-smoked cigarette in one corner of his mouth. "To help me understand. I've never been through the stuff you have and—let's face it—you're a walking enigma to me half the time. Is it so bad that I want the tools to help you?"

"Jake, you already help me."

His brow furrowed. "How?"

"By being with me. By caring for me. That's all I need, Jake. If I have your love, I don't need anything else."

"You've got it. In spades, baby. For as long as you want." He reached over and practically pulled me on top of him.

As his mouth trailed kisses down my neck, his heat coursed through me. "I'll always want this." I whispered.

He stomped out the butt of his cigarette and tossed it inside an old coffee can on the corner of the porch while I reached for the backdoor.

Sitting at the Fosters' kitchen table, Jake locked eyes with me through his lashes. Holding his black acoustic guitar across his lap, his hair fell forward, not quite covering his eyes. It gave him a mischievous look that made my heart sing. As he mindlessly strummed, he talked. He loved to talk, and he thought better with music.

I often wondered if he thought in song form. If the notes and melodies that flowed from his fingertips were just a small part of a never-ending symphony within his head. It was a very special thing to witness, to be in the presence of someone who was so inexplicably talented. So anomalous and unearthly.

"I've been tinkering with your song." He grinned, but it didn't touch his eyes. "I think it sounds better on acoustic. It should be tender, like you." I don't know what look he saw on my face, but he stopped playing.

"You changed my song? But I love my song."

"I made it better. Angel, when I first wrote it, all the feelings were very big and felt like they happened fast. So, the music was big and fast." He gestured towards me, guitar pick in hand. "We still feel very big and intense, but I want the song to reflect you and me; our soft solidity. That music is on a different song, now. We'll play it at the show. My lyrics—your words—I'm keeping."

Jake set the pick on the table and plucked the strings with his fingers. It wasn't mindless anymore, but a simple melody. He rocked back and forth with a subtle, joyful concentration. He straightened one leg out before him, resting his big boot in front of my opposing chair.

"Just listen. You'll like it."

The tune was soft and sounded happy. Catchy. I nodded my head with the melody, hoping that he would do what he did next.

Jake had super powers. When he sang, time froze. With a single note he could stretch a moment—a simple pluck of a string or the tightening of a vocal cord—into a lifetime. As he began to weave his magic my well of emotion surfaced, blurring his face. The moment was so raw—my love for him and his gifts so strong and pure, against the words that were so beautiful. My song was remade. Brand new. I listened closely, quietly singing along with some of my favorite lines . . .

The ash in my hand is remade in golden dust

A smile brings sunlight along with the lust

The days begin again, renewed

I wait for miles and miles. Nights become skewed

Searching the skies, cursed with hope

Trying to stand, still on the ropes

...

When the music's loud, I'll seek you out

You're in the crowd. I'll find your mouth

And call you sweetheart. You'll call me king

If I were Adam, then you would be Eve

You would know that you were made for me.

My song was light, melodic, and simple.

"That was beautiful." I covered my lips with my fingers.

"Angel?"

I blinked away the choking wet, trying not to sound so affected. "What's up?"

"I'm glad you like it, baby." The light smile he always carried faded. "Do you remember the promise we made when we first got together?" He took the instrument from his lap to set on the dining table.

"Wasn't there more than one?"

Jake and I made many promises after our first night together in his motel room. As I struggled with landing a new foster family because the last ones kicked me out when I left to make that show, Jake promised he would help in any way he could. We promised we'd stay together even if we ended up far apart.

"We promised to always be honest with each other."

"Yeah, I remember."

It was that major moment in the drive-thru: Jake had just told me that he loved me and I was feeling so free, so desperate, I would have built him an altar and sacrificed myself upon it to have him say it again. When he gave me those words, a sense of value that rarely impressed itself in me was birthed and expanded. Oh, I felt like flying. So high.

And then, I went flying off at the mouth. I forced a pledge; one that his confidence assured me I would never have to fulfill. When Jake said my name, "Angel . . ." it was like a song. He followed with the surprising, stuttering confession, "I think . . . no, I know. I fucking love you."

We weren't in the throes of any kind of passion. We were sitting in his dads' truck, in a line of cars at the drive-thru burger stand. He had just ordered his cheeseburger and my milkshake. And he didn't look like he was nervous or like he was joking. He looked like he knew exactly what he was saying, like he'd put a lot of thought into it.

I told him exactly how I felt in that moment. At first I loved his music, but grew to love him, too, apart from the miracles he created. And he smiled, thanked me for my honesty. Then, we promised one another, at my bidding, that should either one of us ever meet someone else that we wanted more than who we were involved with, that we would be honest about it. Because Jake had talked about relationships before—not ours, but in general—and how they were fundamentally flawed because no one ever tried to stay honest. He wanted his own relationships to be built on truth. His parents were divorced. His dad had an affair and he hated how the lies broke up his family.

So we promised never to lie, no matter the cost. To always be faithful. Even if that meant one telling the other they were attracted to someone else, or just plain wanted something different. Even if it was only for a night. We never talked about how something like that might be put into practice because we didn't know. We just loved day to day and said what we meant.

Right then, as Jake nervously rubbed a water stain on Deanna's kitchen table, reminding me of that promise, I wondered if I was about to learn a lesson.

"What do you have to be honest about?" I adjusted myself in the seat across from him.

"I'm worried."

"About?"

"That girl; the guitar player. Her name's Angelica. She's cool as hell."

I didn't like the direction of the conversation. We'd already talked about her and here he was, bringing her up again. It made me feel small. "I hear hell is pretty hot."

"She's hot, too."

He could've kicked me in the stomach and it would have been less jarring. He was looking at the floor when he said it and I knew why. He didn't want to see my reaction to his honest opinion.

"Why are you telling me this?"

He shook his head and kind of half-shrugged. "I thought I should say something before you meet her. You can be insecure sometimes and I don't want you thinking I'm keeping secrets."

My head swirled, trying to separate the comments from my fear and put them together as I struggled to stay and talk to him. I wanted to run away, but that wouldn't solve anything.

He'd just played my rewritten song. And now . . . what?

"So, in the interest of honesty you're making sure that I know she's an excellent guitarist. And that she's very cool . . . and good-looking—no you said ' _hot.'_ She's _hot_." My throat bulged. "Hot enough that Max and Andrew want to bag her."

I thought very carefully before asking my question, but asked anyway. "Do _you_?"

Jakes' eyebrows drew together at my serious expression. He took to his feet and walked around the table. Taking my hand, he bent onto the linoleum and looked me in the eye. "I'm telling you because she's the better of the two guitar players, because if I don't get my way she _will_ end up in my band. That means I'll have to spend time with her. That means travelling, practice and gigs. That affects us."

It was hard to miss the way he skirted my question. "Do you, Jake?"

His eyes seemed to shine. "No. I mean . . . I don't think so." He turned quiet and thoughtful. "No. Not yet, at least."

I ripped my hands away from him, shoving back so fast the chair clattered to the floor behind me. My thoughts raced down the hallway and into the safety of my room. I wanted to shrink away.

"My turn to be honest: that's a shitty reassurance."

He came at me with both hands, grasping. I pushed him, tearing myself out and away. "Go home, Jake."

I was heading to my room, aiming to dive into my safe-place. My closet. And curl up into a tiny ball where I could cry until everything disappeared. But Jake caught me in the hallway, banding his arms around me, pulling me into his chest. My back pressed against him. He buried his face in my neck. The hot feeling of his breath and strength of his arms gave me such a deep comfort. My resentment crumbled, leaving only the raw hurt.

"' _Not yet'_?" I couldn't keep my voice from trembling. "You expect to?"

"That's not what I meant."

"That's what you said!"

"It just—baby, it came out wrong. I love you. Please, don't make me go. I'm sorry." Jake held me closer, tightening his hold until I could barely breathe.

Outwardly, I stilled. Inside, his confession ripped at my gut. Those two words felt like a tiny little monster, with huge fangs had crawled into my chest to devour my heart.

I thought about pushing him away, what that would be like for me: to feel him loosen his grip, to no longer touch him. And desperation lodged in my throat. I couldn't take it, not even the idea of it. I considered how it would make Jake feel. He'd said he wanted to stay. Who was I kidding, anyway? When it came to resisting him, I never had a shot. For both our sakes, I bottled my tears and told him he could stay.

I felt his body relax against mine as he turned me in his arms. His eyes glistened in the dim light of the hallway as he lifted and carried me to my room. For the rest of that night, Jake lavished me with his passionate remorse, trying to reassure me. But his kisses felt desperate. Mine probably did, too.

The radio fed the low sounds of Warrant into the dark surrounding us. Janie Lane was oozing over heaven and I was sure I'd gotten a peek into hell with those two words that seemed to cancel out everything else.

" _Not yet."_

He held my body, but my mind was beyond reach, thinking of that girl, wondering what she'd done to him to make him say that. What did she look like? Where was she from? But I also knew I would never ask him about her. I really didn't want answers. I just wanted to hold onto him as long as I could, because I had lived without Jake for fifteen years. Now that I had him, I couldn't imagine what my life would look like without him, or that there would ever be a time when I wouldn't desperately need him.

" _Not yet."_

14

—Angel

Garfield had it right when he suggested getting rid of Mondays. That whole weekend stunk. Friday afternoon with my shrink had gotten the stink-ball going. Then Jake and his confusing visit.

" _Not yet."_

I've suffered migraines since I was five. Nothing I can do about it, but they come more often when I'm upset or worried. And Jakes' painful admission that night— _"Not yet"—_ had me stressed to the max. The pain came on early Saturday morning, just before he left.

I didn't do a thing for two whole days except lay in my room and writhe. Jake had felt bad, of course. He wanted to take me with him to visit his mom and little brother, Henry. There was nothing he could do for me, though. So, he went by himself and then picked up some extra shifts at work on Sunday.

And Avery was sick with a flu or something. She'd called a few times, but I told her to stay away. The only thing that could help was silence. Austen looked in on me when Deanna was gone. He brought me water and my pills. On Sunday morning he made _special_ brownies, but wouldn't let me have any. Deanna brought me soup, but I couldn't touch it.

By Monday morning, I was exhausted, poking around in my bag and digging out a thin white binder labeled Language Arts. It wasn't a Language Arts class, it was AP English Literature, but I'd gotten the binder from this shelf in the office where they kept used materials for students who couldn't afford them. I opened the thin binder and started sifting for my writing assignment.

I couldn't remember what I did with my homework. Last Thursday I'd started my essay. I completed the outline and prepared a first draft. Then, after my headache went away, I got it out again to write the final draft but could not recall anything beyond that.

I strained to remember . . . sitting in my room, lying on my stomach. I was on the floor, my knees bent up behind me. I remember, music playing and I was stretching, trying to touch my head with my toes. Then . . . nothing.

Did I fall asleep?

As I sifted through papers, keeping my eyes peeled for the corner of the page—I knew I labeled it with all of the pertinent information and generally, when I started a task, I didn't stop until it was finished.

Finally, I found the details I was looking for and grabbed the page and took the assignment up front. After placing it neatly in Mr. Harmon's basket, I headed back to my desk. Before I got there, Mr. Harmon called me back.

"Miss Patel, is this what you intended to turn in?" He was holding up a paper by one corner.

Trekking back, I looked at the page I'd just handed him. My name was in the corner above the beginnings of the assignment. The top half of the page looked just like it did when I spied it inside my binder. But at the bottom . . . I hadn't noticed. I assumed the essay was complete, but the bottom half of the page he held was covered in slashes of ink. Shapes that looked like someone had drawn a picture of a meadow with a little dog standing in it.

With shame on my face, I took the assignment back and stared, figuring Austen was playing some kind of stupid joke on me. He was always doing stuff—nothing mean, just lame tricks—like he'd always horn in on my conversations with Avery, acting like I was talking to him and not her, or tell me that I already washed the dishes when I know I didn't. Or say I forgot something at the store that wasn't on the list Deanna gave me just so he could go back and get it. It was his way of trying to get more allowance to spend on his girlfriend.

"Can I turn it in tomorrow?"

Mr. Harmon nodded. "Yes, but its ten points a day—I'll have to dock you if you don't get it in by the end of the day."

I returned to my seat and opened my text book to the page written on the white board and dug into the lesson, resolved to talk to Austen about messing with my school work. But first, I was going to kick the reading assignments' ass, and hopefully have time to redraft my essay.

When the bell rang, the class collectively sighed in relief. I scrawled out the last two sentences of my essay as everyone filed out. Mr. Harmon gave my cramped hand a high-five when I set my completed assignment and essay into the basket on his desk.

Out in the hallway I was desperate, nearly jogging as I cut a path through the flood of students. I had to pee and had been holding it too long. It'd gone away for a while, but returned with a vengeance the moment the bell rang.

School bathrooms were the worst. They were usually filled to capacity or totally empty. Either way, they all smelled like shit and hair spray. And there was this girl, Rosa Dominguez, who'd been taking her turn messing with me that quarter. She was a senior, like me, but she had a lot of friends and she was on the Softball team. Damn jock-chick with rotten breath and horrible bleached hair that clashed with her brown skin. She had to have dyed it herself because it had a distinct orange tinge. It was ugly. Like her soul.

Rosa had a gift for finding me at the most inconvenient times—usually when I went to the bathroom. Sometimes, in the girls' locker room, too. The locker room I understood—she was a jock—but damn if we didn't constantly end up using the same bathroom at the same time. Every freaking time. So I tried not to use any of the bathrooms in the main building and _never_ went near the ones by the gym. That pretty much left me the English and science wings.

When I finally made it to the end of the passageway, I hooked into the middle-section, the corridor that housed the freshmen lockers, and launched myself through the swinging door and into the first available stall.

My nerves were tight; listening to the voices of carefree freshmen, listening for the one voice I didn't want to hear.

There was exactly seven minutes between classes. Three probably expired before I got to my preferred toilet. As I relished the release of two diet colas, I heard the rumble of girls piling out, complaining about their hair or a boy, all sighing as they herded to class. In a rush, I buttoned, flushed, grabbed my backpack, and flung the stall door open.

Rosa Dominguez was standing in front of the mirror. Of course. She tousled her long orange hair, smoothing the sides. Her reflection caught mine and her eyes flickered. Two girls still, lingering near the sinks, tucked their heads down and shuffled out.

"You know I told you to stay away from my boyfriend, right?"

My mouth dried up. Her boyfriend was in my science class. We sat at the same table, but I never talked to him. Not even during labs. But I couldn't tell her that. My lips couldn't move, suddenly stuck to my teeth.

With a quick spin, she was suddenly facing me. "Why the _hell_ do you keep talking to him?"

When she stepped towards me I backed away, landing myself back inside the bathroom stall. I tried to shut the door, but she was too close. Her wide palm clamped onto my shoulder, shoving me and my back pack over the open toilet. She gripped my shirt and hauled me out.

I covered my face right as her jetting fist smashed into my mouth. The soft skin of my lips burned against her bladed knuckles. I stumbled back and felt myself curling in, cowering away, prepping for the next blow which was usually the same as the one before by way of the other fist. I closed my eyes, wondering how I'd hide the bruises from Jake.

The sounds were there, the smacking of flesh and bone, but I didn't feel anything. I hesitated before looking up to find Avery hovering over the orange-haired monster. Relief coursed through me. She had Rosa by the arm and was twisting it behind her back. Rosa was pleading, though she sounded furious. When Avery didn't relent, she started back on the insults.

Avery yanked Rosas arm up further behind her back. Taunting, "Hey, isn't this your pitching arm?"

Rosa cursed and tried to twist out of Avery's hold. Avery kicked the back of her knees in turn, forcing Rosa down and hitching her arm up high. Rosas' already pinched face winced and she squealed.

"Don't," I whispered, quietly begging Avery not to push the confrontation. She couldn't get suspended again. Besides, Rosa was beaten and she had to know it.

The knots in my stomach tightened as Avery looked down. I recognized the deceptive softness as she stared at the girl bent below her. "What if I pull a little higher, Rosa? What will happen?" The girl spit a high-pitched curse as Avery wrenched her captive arm up. "Come on, only a little higher? Would another inch be enough to break your shoulder? Do you think you could still pitch after that?"

A flurry of noise echoed around us and Avery dropped Rosas arm. We both stepped back and away as two campus supervisors rushed through the door. All they saw was Rosa lunging for me, her face twisted in rage. The guards were big and burly—fierce—as they subdued the threat.

"You alright?" The dark eyes of one examined my face. I nodded as my tongue skimmed over my bottom lip, feeling the heat and swelling. He barely scanned Avery and came back to me. "Go to the nurse. Get an icepack for that lip." He looked back to Rosa who was no longer large and threatening but tall, teary-eyed, and complaining about her shoulder. "You're coming with me."

Rosa was hauled out. We were alone when Avery took me by the elbow, inspecting my mouth. "You'll be fine and I'm late."

I gave her a quick hug. "Thank you."

"That's what I'm here for." She grinned and waltzed out the door.

I was finally alone in the bathroom, staring at my splotchy reflection, thinking how much better my life would be once I graduated. No more Rosa or anyone like her. I'd be heading to college and maybe even my own dorm room. No more foster homes. Just Avery, Jake and me, living our lives. Together.

I took a deep breath and let it out, washed my face and scurried out.

On my way to class, I stopped by the vending machine near the quad across from the cafeteria where the picnic tables were huddled together and bought an icy cold soda. Rosa wouldn't be returning to the bathroom anytime soon so I figured it was safe.

I bent to grab the can from the bin on the bottom and when I stood up my heart was racing. A chill ran through me though the open air was anything but cool. I touched my clammy forehead with numb fingers as everything familiar melted away.

Blood seemed to rush into my ears as I stared at the empty corridor that suddenly looked unfamiliar. It was the same, but also out of place. I turned to my left expecting to see the vending machine, but it had been replaced with a sunny open area and picnic tables. The position was all wrong, so I kept turning until I found another corridor and blinked. The sky and benches, the edges of an open doorway; everything was now frayed with a static fuzz that stilted the shapes. I knew where I had been standing a moment ago. I knew what I was doing, but none of what I was seeing matched the map inside my head. Just a moment before, I was in front of the soda machine with the hallway behind me. And that had suddenly vanished.

I was lost. I had no idea where I was.

I closed my eyes, focusing on breathing . . . in and out.

"It'll make sense. It'll come back. Come back. Come back."

I counted to ten, repeating my name and address in my head, my school schedule. I'd just sat through Lit and was supposed to be in Science.

Feeling the cold can in my hand was an assurance. I knew where I got it. If I just stayed still everything would fall back in place. I raised the cool cylinder against my swelling lip and opened my eyes. The vending machine was clear as day, right in front of me, so was the quad full of picnic tables.

I took a steadying breath just as the bell rang and the corridor flooded with a current of students changing classes. It felt like only a few minutes had passed, but I missed an entire class.

+++

I met Avery in the cafeteria. I had her wait for me before she got in line so no one could complain about cutting. We talked a little as the line moved.

"Are you hungry?" She asked.

I shook my head and her face soured. "I'm starving," I lied, wanting that look to go away.

"What'd you say?" The girl ahead of Avery asked as she spun.

It was an innocent question arising from an honest mistake, but Avery never was much of a people person. "I said those jeans make your butt look huge."

I tugged her arm back, stepping closer to girl when her face fell. I didn't know her, but that was an awful thing to say. "Just kidding. They're really cute. Where did you get them?"

The girl swiveled back to face the front of the line that had inched ahead. I turned my disappointment back to my friend.

"Sorry." Avery gave a look that was anything but repentant.

I left the line and walked toward the vending machine against the back wall. I didn't need to wait in line when I wasn't hungry and have to watch Avery start fights for no reason.

"What is wrong with you?" I asked the second she came into my peripheral vision.

"Sorry." She actually sounded like it this time, so I looked. "I'm premenstrual, I guess."

I had to laugh at that. It was the go-to excuse with us, but she used it way more than I did.

We sauntered into the quad for lunch. Avery was beaming as we sat on a cement bench surrounded by cactus flowers. We shared a bag of chips and a pack of jellybeans as we talked. I didn't mention what Jake said— _"Not yet"_ —because I was still coming to terms with what it meant and didn't feel like rehashing that whole confusing night. She'd probably say something I didn't want to hear, anyways. Avery already knew that visit triggered my headache and it was all the ammo she needed to unload on Jake.

I didn't like it when talked to him, so sometimes I kept stuff from her, wanting to quell her urge to straighten out my life for me. I loved her devotion, but it was tiring sometimes.

We stayed on light topics—which cheered me up—carrying on about Analogs' show and I was telling her how I still hadn't corralled my courage and asked The Foster, but regardless, it was decided. We were committed. We were going to AC's shows. Screw curfews and rule books. What was a few hundred miles for true love?

We were both bursting, trying to hide our laughter when Avery got a mischievous glint in her eye. As I was about to ask what she was thinking she stood from the bench. Her arm drew back and sprang forward.

I watched the yellow jellybean she threw peg an unsuspecting freshman. He was just walking by then— _boom_ , right to the temple! It bounced down his cheek and fell into the open pocket of his backpack. He turned and glared at us.

"That was just a practice shot." Avery looked at my empty hands and then across the quad. "Ate yours, did you?"

"You're on a tear today, Miss Menstrual. And of course I ate them. You know jellybeans are my favorite."

I followed her glare to the spiky hair of one Troy Bleecher. He was in our senior class. He was also kinda hot, which meant he was a snob, which also meant he had money, which meant he was a complete want-for-nothing dickhead. He was very, very popular.

When I first came to Carlisle I didn't know a soul, except Avery of course. She moved around a lot because of her moms' job. Anyways, Mr. Popular—Troy Bleecher—asked me out on my second day of school. Jake and I weren't a thing then, so I considered the option. But Avery said he was a jerk, so I turned him down. The next day, he crept up behind me in the lunch line and paid for my food without asking, and then he asked me out again. And asked again the day after that. I wasn't used to guys talking to me, at least not ones with so much confidence, ones who were still polite after I said 'no.'

Troy was so sure we'd have a good time together I thought maybe he was right. So, I let him take me to the movies. He was the perfect gentleman; didn't make a move to hold my hand or kiss me, save the little peck he placed on my cheek right before I got out of his car. The next day though, everyone in school was listening to Troy tell a story about how I tackled him inside his car after the movie and begged him to have sex with me.

Avery, who hated him enough for the both of us, handed me one of her jellybeans, a misshapen green one slightly bigger than average.

I tossed it, hard, at the mess of spiky hair half-way across the small quad. His tanned hand flew up and caught the candy. He was looking right at me. Avery started laughing, but I was suddenly sweating.

She remained standing, yelling to him, "Oh, Troy, I didn't mean to hit you in the chest," and blew a kiss. To me, she turned and whispered, "You throw like a girl."

Troy was suddenly standing in front of us. His perfectly styled mess of hair sat over his big brown eyes. In between them was a crumpled brow. "Are you crazy or something?"

Avery chuckled humorlessly. "Yes. I can comfortably say, 'you have made me crazy.' Does that make you feel better?"

She gave me a quick look that said, _stay calm_. She knew I didn't do confrontation. I couldn't help it. The way Troy's shoulders were ratcheting up made me want to hide. I wondered at the veins pulsing in his neck while wishing to be somewhere else.

Doctor Williams had told me that when I felt anxiety, I should imagine I was some place safe. So I pretended to be tucked away inside my room, back in the furthest corner of my closet—where I liked to sit and listen to my music when the world got to be too much. I could almost hear the sweet melody of Jakes' voice pouring from my boom box.

The sun won't shine the way it used to  
My knee deep sky . . .  
All the green dreams died and I'm drawn beneath the moon  
You're mine and gone so far, too soon  
Forever I'll be down here, looking up at you,

Beneath the knee deep sky.

I asked Jake once, why he chose _knee-deep_ to describe a lonely night. He'd told me, "Because people never look away from themselves until they're on their knees."

Troy turned away, sighing deeply. Avery's middle finger flew up tall and proud, daring him to say something.

He kept walking.

# \+ + +

15

—Avery

I hate this place.

The floors are filthy. The food is disgusting. And the people are even worse than the filthy rodents climbing inside the walls.

I need to get the fuck out.

Pacing the hall outside my cell, I wonder what Angel has been doing all day, what she has been telling them about me. What she thinks about me.

I wish I could be in that interview room. To listen like a fly on the wall. I can do things like that: be in a room and go unnoticed. I've had years of practice. I have actually eaten and slept in places where other people could go days without noticing me. I'm just gifted at being overlooked.

Of course, I'm under no obligation to speak to anyone, because I'm not as important as Angel. No, her opinion is the only one anyone cares about because she's the talking head and what's inside it doesn't matter.

I'd love to sit down and tell someone what I know just to see their shit-eating faces. I'd make eye contact with sweaty Darren, first. Fuck him and his diet soda havin' ass. Then I'd move on to Tara. All she'd do is stare though. She's probably gone retarded from having her hair pulled back so tight.

I'd look at all the suits and say, "Story time, bitches. Pay attention."

I would have to start by admitting that I am a terrible person, but I'd also have to say that I didn't start out that way.

In the beginning I was kinda good. Well, I was okay at being her friend at least. I mean, I did my part by being there when Angel needed me. I stood up for her. I held her hand when she cried and listened to her problems. We took the blows together. Until one day, what we were . . . slipped.

I was still there. The blows were still coming, but Angel was gone. She didn't need me anymore. She had Jake. They'd been together about a month and were all lovey-dovey, all the time. It was a real vomit-fest for me, so I started pulling back. I waited for her to show interest, to ask after me. I was coming around less and less.

I don't think she even noticed.

Then, there I was, with all this time on my hands. The energy I used to expend over Angel and her issues was still there. Only there was no place to put it. Some might say I resented her and that's why I did what I did, but I think I was just bored. Or maybe I finally had time to realize I'd been starving for something, too, that I had needs, too. Only I never noticed until then.

Noticing that . . . emptiness really fucked me up. Because afterward, after I found that unnamable, everything else in my life was crowded out. Almost like a gloomy film was suddenly coating every other part of me. I couldn't focus on anything but this newfound irrelevance that shone like a spotlight in my face.

It was suffocating. It was a bitter tang that came on like a boulder rolling down a hillside. Constantly gaining momentum until it smacked into me full force. I'd tried running but it kept pace with me. I buried it underneath boys whose names I never caught but that rock-solid want would always rise up. Drowning myself in alcohol or getting blurred with sweet smoke never worked long, either. The dulled edges would sharpen the moment my high went away—when the waves of alcohol and THC receded, it always resurfaced.

We were rolling alone together.

+++

I was in trouble and I knew it.

I'd held the shame too close, let it gnaw at my chest. Every minute of the day, it was consuming me. I hated that feeling—of disappearing—of being eaten alive.

I had to let it out and I was ready to use anything I could get my hands on to stop it. What ended up in my hands on one particular day was a pocket knife. It had a long, thin blade, ivory handle, and it was razor sharp.

Sitting on my front porch, I knew that no one would come looking for me any time soon.

I held out my arm. The tip of the blade pressed into the crease at my elbow. I kept it there against the thin skin, just long enough to appreciate the imminent sting. Anticipation had stupid tears filling my eyes. I squeezed them shut. The cuts worked like release valves on a high pressure pipe. If I twisted just enough to the left, just enough to let the hot trickle down my arm, some of the weight would hiss away.

As I prepared to shift the slender edge, a noise from the house carried out onto the porch: my mother and her newest soon-to-be Ex were arguing again. I tucked the knife away and hopped up, aiming for the road. At the curb, I hooked right and kept going, walking along the roadside with my head down.

It wasn't long before I heard the hum of an approaching car. I debated jumping out in front of it, but noticed that the car was not passing but slowing down. When I looked up, I saw it wasn't a car. It was a beat-up van rolling alongside me.

The passenger window rolled down and Jake leaned over from the drivers' seat, keeping one hand on the wheel as he called out. "Hey stranger, need a ride?"

I had no plans, so I shrugged. "Think your girlfriend will care?"

He canted his head to one side. "I'm ninety-nine percent sure that she'd want me to pick you up."

The van came to a stop and I hopped inside. My back sunk into the seat as we took off.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere." I examined the colored vest he wore over his green t-shirt. The hardware stores logo was sewn into the left side. "You coming from work?"

Jake took turns glancing between me and the road. "That obvious, huh? You alright?"

I nodded, but said nothing. He wouldn't understand. I hugged my arms together tightly, trying to squeeze the pain from my chest.

The van came to a stop sign.

As I stared down at my lap, Jakes hand came to rest on my knee. "Wanna talk about it?"

A long minute passed. A horn honked from behind us and Jake sighed, slowly taking off and pulling over into the first parking lot he came across. Putting the van into park, he shut off the engine and set his hand back on my leg.

An inch above my knee.

My mind said to move, move, move away, but I could swear that the constant hollow in my chest shrank a little. Not much, but enough for me to notice. So I didn't move.

"I've been told I'm a good listener."

I set my elbow up on the windowsill. As I began to run my hand through my hair, to pull the long black strands off my sweaty neck, Jake grabbed my forearm and jerked it towards him.

"You're bleeding. What happened?"

His question and the shocking amount of blood that had dribbled from my elbow onto the side of my shirt caught me off guard. Too surprised to think up a lie, I set my lips together.

Jake cursed; smacking his hand against the glove compartment mounted in the dashboard. The small door fell open. He kept one hand firmly locked around my elbow as he reached for a plastic baggy inside the glove box. He mumbled some curses while I watched him pull out a package of tissue and clean the crusting mess from my arm. Then he squeezed a thin line of greasy ointment over the small, but deceptively deep cut I'd given myself, and then sealed it with a bandage.

"What the hell are you doing to yourself?" He shoved the plastic baggy full of first-aid supplies back into the glove compartment and slammed it shut.

He was pissing me off. Who the hell did he think he was, getting all self-righteous on me? I didn't ask for the damn ride or the pity.

I was about to tell him where to shove his indignation when he closed his eyes and opened them again, suddenly holding a different expression. He didn't look mad. He looked _soft_. Like he was anything but angry. His forehead was crumpled, his eyebrows knit together. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth.

The expression made me feel naked. I took my bandaged arm from him and covered myself.

"Why?" He set his palm against my cheek and stared.

The raw emotion that seemed to surface with that one word made me want to apologize. But I didn't. "Because I need to feel better."

He closed his eyes again, his features relaying the feeling hidden beneath his lids. He was hurt. "What I mean is, why didn't you tell me? I thought we were friends who talked about this shit."

"We are . . . _friends_." The word felt weird coming from me. I didn't care to have friends. One reason being they were always asking questions. "But I won't talk about it."

My voice carried off when he leaned closer and took my bandaged arm in both of his hands. "Friends don't judge. They listen . . . and maybe make fun of you later on." Jake offered a fake grin, trying to lighten the mood as he continued. "But they can't do that if they don't talk to each other first."

Jake extended my folded elbow. "Friends help each other heal." He leaned down and set his lips to the inside of my arm, kissing at the edge of the dressing.

I tugged my arm back. "How could you help, Jake?"

He straightened, looking me in the face. "Any way you'll let me. If you need to talk or whatever," His brow scrunched again when I fidgeted. "For whatever you need, I'm here."

He sounded so sure and sincere. Considering the way he looked at me and his attempt to help, I decided it might be okay to be friends with Jake.

# \+ + +

16

—Angel

The first time I ever talked to Avery, we were standing over the body of a dead kitten.

She had found the thing and showed me. A black and white bag of bones, covered in fleas, abandoned by its' mother; a stray cat that hung around the apartment complex we both lived in at the time. She'd showed me to an alcove behind the complex, where the trash was kept, and took me back to a dark, stinking corner where the rest of the litter laid lifeless. Four kittens in all; only one had found the strength to make it out into the grass near the playground only to meet the same fate. We cried over the tragedy and gave each a proper burial.

I used to look back at that day and find comfort in the fact that two small girls with so much working against them were able to stare into the face of death and forge a friendship.

Now I look back and see it for what it really was: nothing.

I need to get back to the important stuff.

Where was I? Oh, yes . . .

+++

Avery was staying over.

The bed spread sprawled open and swayed to the floor like a lead feather. "I'll sleep down here. That way, if Deanna checks, I can slip under the bed."

I laughed at Avery's silliness. The Foster worked nights and she didn't care if I had a friend sleep over—so long as that friend shared my gender. "And what if you're sleeping?"

Her mouth quirked to one side. "I'll be the monster under your bed."

"The rails are too low. Your giant head will get stuck and you'll never get out."

Avery's green eyes brightened with humor. "I'll live on dust bunnies and lost socks."

"I'll bring you water once a day."

The trailer had a way of shaking so that the slightest move shifted the house beneath your feet and squeaky floorboards. When footsteps clattered down the hallway, we knew by the beat it was my foster brother, Austen.

Avery straightened and leapt to disappear behind the door as Austen opened it. His eyes swept over me and the surfaces of my room. "Have you seen my headphones?" He kept one hand on the knob and the other pushed his overgrown hair back. It was thick and wavy and awful. He would have been so much better looking if he kept it short.

"In the living room, on top of the stereo, last I saw."

He eyed the blankets and pillows on the floor. "Thanks. Hey, I'm going to Sheila's, later. You'll be okay tonight?"

I nodded, "Yeah."

As he turned to leave, Avery jumped out from behind the door. Her eyes fierce, her smooth face twisted. "Bwahh!!" She shouted, with outstretched arms and claw-like fingers. A very convincing monster.

Austen just rolled his eyes. He'd seen that trick one too many times. When he shut the door, we were rolling, laughing until our sides ached.

"Music." Avery insisted.

I obliged her by putting on _Meta Morph_ by none other than Analog Controller. And turned it up until the speakers crackled. When the first note of the song played, so began our feast for the ears. Our heads were quaking over jerking necks. Four hips shook, matched by thrashing feet. Now the floor was really creaking. My sneakers slipped from my feet onto the blanket.

When the next rotation started, we were thirsty and nowhere near finished. That's when Avery opened her backpack to reveal the treat she'd brought. Her nails, colored in with black marker, were wrapped around the neck of her favorite drink.

"Schnapps anyone?" She offered.

It felt like half a bottle later when I hung up the phone with Jake. The band was auditioning another potential new lead guitarist. Some guy from Phoenix. Jake was convinced that he could either play the lead guitar or sing and wanted my opinion. He didn't need it, though. The band already voted that a new guitarist would be an easier transition. Very few singers had Jake's smooth and rough tones as well as the wide vocal range. I agreed that another guitar player was easier, but I never liked the idea of Jake giving up anything. I wanted him to be able to do everything he wanted. I was going to go over there, but it'd been a while since Avery stayed over. Jake was grasping, it seemed, because he really didn't want that girl in the band. I took a measure of comfort in that and ignored the two words that were still stuck on repeat in my head.

" _Not yet."_

Once we sobered some, Avery, who'd borrowed her mom's car again, drove us to our looking point, a place she and I liked to go to chill out.

There wasn't much to do in our area so football was kind of a big deal. Not to us, but to the rest of the world. Avery parked at the bottom of the lonely mound that overlooked the away side of the high schools' stadium. We climbed up the steep backside to our spot to look out at the empty seats. There was no game tonight, but there were always some lights on. Still, even dim and empty, the open arena was something to see from our small hill.

There was one tree and a patch of grass at the top that dried up every spring, like the rest of the state. There was also lots of sand and a few cacti sprinkled among stray rocks. A couple had ripening fruit. But, I didn't think prickly pear would mix well with cinnamon schnapps.

Hot air breezed past, tossing up my mane, and relieving the moisture that kept it stuck to my neck.

"That feels nice." I combed my fingers through my hair, pulling it up to twist in a knot.

I sat down while Avery stood, looking on at the dark. Her palms were clasped together, fingers twisted in knots.

"Those blank spaces . . . . Angel, how is your memory?"

Something large and heavy lodged in my stomach. My throat tightened. "What?"

"Forget the question, already?" She turned to look at me over her shoulder.

I shook my head, shocked that I was feeling so suddenly defensive. "It's fine."

I don't care how well you know your friends there are always parts of them that you don't question. Pools inside them that are too deep to dive into. It might be because they tell you not to ask or maybe because you don't care. In this instance, it was more that Avery knew me well enough to know never to ask.

She had never, and I mean _never_ asked about my memory problems. She knew about them, sure, but it was one of those things that were not up for discussion because there was no point. She couldn't help me solve them. I never delved into why she was always pretending to be happy when I could see she wasn't, or why she sometimes acted more like a mom than a friend, or about the obvious distrust she had for my meek foster brother. I never asked Avery why she felt the need to cut herself, either because she'd never tell me.

So for her to up and ask about my memory problems was weird.

"Do you remember your first foster home?"

It was like the air around me went cold. "I don't know."

She wrapped her arms around herself and seemed to squeeze, murmuring indecipherably.

Everyone knows one person with real shit for luck. For me, Avery was that person. My life was no bed of roses, but it really seemed that all the bad stuff happened to her. It also seemed that she put herself into those situations, but that was another one of those off-limit things. I cared. I wanted to ask all the time, but Avery wouldn't tolerate it. She'd let me stand beside her, hold her, even let me see her wounds, but she wouldn't let me heal them. She wouldn't let anyone in—not into that part. Only she was allowed into that black part she carried around. Her quiet storm.

As I sat on the dry ground, watching Avery's lonely form in the moonlight, I wondered if this was a precedent, if we were going to start talking about the things that really mattered.

But that wonderment was halted when Avery turned to look at me, clapping her hands together. "Time to get the fuck out of here."

# \+ + +

17

—Avery

People are fake. And who needs that bullshit?

Not me.

For a long time, though, I thought I did.

I was just one of the many lonesome people that walked among the Normals, pretending to be one of them, even though all I really was was transparent.

But there was more to it than that. When that empty part inside me opened up, it was like the second a door shut, the moment I was by myself, that black feeling would stretch over me and I became emptiness personified. A black hole. My skin, the casing that was stretching. I felt the hollow growing, pressing into me, threatening to turn me inside out or obliterate me completely. I couldn't stand it. It hurts to be stretched that way.

All I wanted was relief, and the easiest way to make it go away was to fill it. Fillers were always temporary, though. There was nothing that could ever truly make it stop. Drinking helped, sometimes. But I couldn't always get alcohol. Then, I'd have to grab onto the next best something. Or someone. To anchor me in place, to feel them beside me so I'd know I was still alive, because I couldn't really be evaporating if I felt something besides the emptiness.

+++

The first time I made the mistake of letting Troy-Shithead-Bleecher get near me was at a party. It was one of those nights that I snuck out, alone, seeking something more from life. I didn't know it was Troy's house. To me the party house was just another brown stucco—a suburban-type place—filled with people I didn't care to know. I just needed to get out of my head and feel something.

That night, Angel had come down with a migraine and withdrew the way she always did. There was nothing I could do for her, so I decided that I needed to party.

Strolling in the front door, the house was jam-packed.

I wasn't there even a full minute before some drunk dude—he was at least ten years older than me—staggered over and gave a creepy eye-rape that turned my stomach. I acted like he wasn't there, like I didn't hear him ask my name. I refused to notice him. As he reached for my shoulder I broke right and walked towards a large fish tank.

There were people everywhere. Mostly kids from Eager High. The large living area was otherwise empty—no furniture except for one lamp and the giant fish tank that bordered the living and dining rooms. In the dining area, on the opposing side the fish tank, were four jocks standing over a keg. One was holding a stack of red cups, another was holding a bag. Music played from unseen speakers as I recognized Jimmy Maroney and Curt Brody. People were walking up to them, placing dollar bills into the bag Jimmy was holding, then Curt would pass a cup to each person. A third guy I didn't recognize would pump the keg while a fourth would do the pouring. Jocks turned everything into a team effort.

The older drunk that greeted me at the door followed me over to the fish tank. Someone passing by addressed him as "Uncle Smiley." He stood a few feet away with a hand on the tanks' glass, seeming to watch the water bubbles gurgling from the filter.

I focused on the music. It was a new song, one I'd never heard before, but I liked the sound. It wasn't grunge, but it was definitely good.

Uncle Smiley made a dumb comment about my jeans: how tight they were and how he wondered why I bothered to put them on when he'd heard it was so easy to get them off.

I stared at him, my embarrassment plain to anyone who took the time to notice. I wasn't pissed like I should have been, mostly because it was true and nothing new to me. People always talked to me that way. At that time, I was just coming out of my slut phase—slowly growing careful about whom I allowed to take advantage of me. But that guy looked old enough to be my dad and I thought, judging by his weaving, that he was about to pass out. And the whole scenario just seemed too pathetic.

I turned away from him once again, wondering why I even bothered to try. Those high school affairs weren't invitation only—they went by reputation. By that standard, I was not invited. But I had heard some other kids talking about it and was bored. More than that, I wanted free beer.

Smiley was suddenly at my side again, with his liquor-stink breath in my ear. "Why you do that girl? Huh?" And then, his red plastic cup tipped, sending a stream of beer all over the green silk top I'd snaked from my mom's closet because it matched my eyes.

Free beer indeed.

Uncle Ass-Smiley laughed through an apology, swearing that he'd find me a towel. Then, I noticed Troy Bleecher was posting at the keg. He walked over as I was wringing out the front of my shirt.

"So much booze and not a drop to drink," he quipped. His hair was buzzed down at the time, for football. He whipped a red plastic cup from behind his back and offered it to me.

I examined at the contents. It looked like beer but I was suspicious and gave a quick sniff. "Are you trying to roofie me?"

Troy laughed and took a demonstrative sip before offering it up once more. When I didn't accept the proffered cup a second time, he tipped it up and drank until it was gone.

"Come on, I'll get you a towel."

I followed him through the packed living room and down the hallway to a closed bedroom door. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked it, walked through, and flipped on a light. The first thing I saw was a giant bed and froze.

"Wait here," Troy said, without seeming to notice my discomfort. He walked into an adjoining restroom and returned with a plush, cream and blue checkered towel.

I dried myself as best I could and handed it back. "Is this your house?"

"Yeah," he tapped his fingers along the front of his shirt. "You good?"

I nodded and thanked him. I should have made up an excuse and went back to the party. But at that moment, all I was thinking about was avoiding Uncle Dickwad. I knew he was out there looking for me, waiting to ruin something else.

"Hey, Troy, do you mind if I stay in here a minute?"

"That's cool. Uncle Smiley is trashed and it's not even midnight." He grinned wide. "He's my chaperone." His hands made air quotes around the word _chaperone_ and we both laughed.

Then, awkward silence.

"I could stay and talk with you. If you don't mind." Troy offered, and there was something sweet about the way he asked. Something that made me think that if I said no, he would leave me alone in his parent's bedroom. But I didn't want to be alone.

I nodded. "Okay. But not for sex."

Troy laughed into his closed fist. "Damn, girl, why do you assume? Can't I just talk to you?"

"We can talk." I answered, and a sudden eagerness rose in my belly. Troy said he didn't want any more than my company and I liked it.

He invited me to sit beside him at a padded bench at the end of his parents' bed. He examined the spill-stain down the front of my shirt. "Do you want something to wear that doesn't smell like beer?"

"Sure."

He disappeared once more and came back with a clean, white tank top and handed it over. It looked like one of his. I could tell that he was going to turn around to give me privacy or maybe to point me to the bathroom to change, but I lifted my shirt before he had the chance.

Troy didn't say anything and he didn't turn away. He just stared.

Suddenly, he was the nervous one and I liked that. I took his hand from his side and set it over my bra. He kept it there for a long moment, and then asked for a kiss.

# \+ + +

18

—Angel

Avery lived in an actual house. No wheels. It was in the middle of a giant lot and needed a new coat of paint in the worst way. The stucco was cracked in more than a few places, but it had a wrap-around porch and there were no neighbors. We used to sit on that porch and get stoned when her mom wasn't around. If she caught us she'd have a fit. But her mom worked so much it was almost like she lived there alone. No one took care of the yard, so it was all sand and weeds and the occasional wild cactus. No trees. Lots of lizards. I was as familiar with her place as I was my own. More so, even, because she had lived there since before I landed with my Foster, Deanna.

Avery and me walked up the path to the porch with our arms interlocked.

I took a deep breath and finally asked the one question that had been on my mind since the previous Friday. "Will you come with me to my session this week?"

Instead of immediately rejecting me, Avery shrugged.

"Is that a yes or no?"

"It's an 'I'll consider it. And beat you to the front door.'" We pounded up the front steps and burst into the living room at the same time.

Avery walked over to the stereo set inside the living room and pushed a button. A second later, the chorus of one of my favorite Analog Controller songs flowed through the quiet air. It was one of their only ballads called, _Untitled_. Jake said he wrote it about his moms' depression. And he didn't neglect to name it, he just figured, if someone was depressed, would they care what the title was?

Don't ask why. Don't try. Not you.

Forget you're alive and I'll forget it too.

Forget you saw—this mask, this lie.

You can do without. Don't cry.

I am a moment. A tick. A flea.

The second I'm gone, you'll forget about me.

The kitchen was small and white, bright with afternoon light as she led me in to dig for snacks. I was singing way too loud and Avery joined in, granting me a smile. There was something in the way she looked then. I don't know if it was the music or the words, but Avery's dark green eyes grew brighter for a moment as she stepped in to give me a rare embrace. There was a light in Avery that was not evident very often. But when she drew the shades back and let you see inside, no one shone like her. Jake was different—he was sunshine and life. But Avery gave her embraces with a look. Hugs by osmosis. So this physical act caught me by surprise.

"How are you, really?" Her forearm dug into my back a little. "Good?" Avery questioned and pulled back to look me in the eye. As I thought over her question, she nibbled at a few grapes in the fruit bowl set out on the kitchen sidebar.

Suddenly, she spun to face me. "Hey, can I borrow your portable CD player? I found some discs I want to listen to."

I saw the hope in her eyes and didn't have the heart to refuse her.

Avery waited a moment, then guessed. "You lost it, didn't you?" Her mouth was plump with grapes she'd pressed into her cheeks.

I nodded.

"Where did you have it last?"
Avery had this quality, an ability that made me feel comfortable telling her almost anything. She wasn't much older, but was definitely more mature than me, and easily the most beautiful girl at our school. And she was the one who bought me the portable CD player. A surprise present, for no reason other than she was thinking of me when she found it at the second hand store.

I wanted to loan it to her. Knowing I couldn't because of my own stupidity brought sudden tears to my eyes and a ball to my stomach.

"I don't know. I've been really bad this week. My headaches . . . I'm stressing out." I bit my lip, determined to keep Jakes haunting words, but let everything else go. "School's suckier than ever. I feel like I can't do anything right. I barely got my Literature essay in on time. Report cards are going out soon and the Foster will talk to my counselor if my grades slip. She doesn't miss anything."

Avery raised a pointed finger at me. "No tears." Her words were commanding as she cupped my chin, pressing warmth into me with her soft gaze. It spread quickly, calming me. "You know what happens when you freak out. Do you want another trip to the hospital?"

"No." I have passionately hated hospitals my entire life. Nothing good ever comes out of them.

"Those troubles are mine now, okay? You give them to me. Let me do your worrying."

A surprising grin burst through my tears. "Okay." She was so bossy. I loved it.

"I mean it. You give them all to me." She held up one finger. "I know—I'll make a list. Then, I can go right on down, taking my time, carefully worrying over each item."

Smirking, Avery produced a pen and sheet of paper, led us to the small kitchen table, barely big enough for the three elegantly mismatched chairs, and sat down. "Now, you said your essay." She leaned over the paper and began writing. "And your CD player . . ." She kept up her scribbling. "The migraines. Now, tell me—what else?"

My head was fogged with a dull ache. I grasped it and let out those two terrible words, _"Not yet,"_ and what they represented. I told her about Jake. How I felt him withdrawing from me. And my insecurities over that stupid girl who he didn't even want in his band and what that meant. Did he not trust himself around her? Or was it only my reaction he worried about? Saying it all out loud made me feel even more pathetic. And I changed the subject, telling how I'd been tired, so tired, since my last migraine, and how I felt like maybe I was getting the flu. And the way I seemed to be forgetting more of the small things.

"It's hard to pay attention in class. More than usual."

Avery's pencil moved with righteous speed.

"I got lost at school the other day. After the thing with Rosa; I forgot where I was going and missed the whole period. I walk those halls five days a week. I should be able to get from one place to the next on autopilot just like everybody else."

"Could be a side effect of you migraine medication?" Avery guessed.

"And my shrink won't let up about talking to you. She's driving me crazy." Avery nodded her head, repeating quietly, "autopilot is malfunctioning." She was trying to make me laugh. And I wanted to, but the troubles were pouring from me like a burst dam. She sighed and tilted her head. "Over-active tear ducts, too. Now, that's a tough one, but my mom might have a few clothes pins."

She was the only person who could turn my tides so quickly. I went from wails to giggles in a matter of seconds.

19

—Angel

Back inside my cell, lying in my bed, I'm trying to find the sleep that so often evades me.

Of course, my mind drifts back to Jake, my very own Romeo. And the anxious feeling, the need to find him again is so strong that I cross my arms and pinch at the insides of my elbows.

It's not time yet. My confession must be completed before I can think of taking the next step to get back to him.

I spent so many nights with him; mostly in my bed, but sometimes in his. A memory, nearly forgotten, surfaces like a dream and pulls me in.

My feet were tangled in his sheets as I ran my fingers down his bare back, lingering on his sculpted shoulders, his pecks, and then the finely tuned notes of his taut stomach. Jakes lips pressed against mine as we moved together. Loving me, he whispered my name in a way that turned the word into music. I can feel his fingers gathering the hair at my nape, the little scratches of his nails as he pulled me closer.

Turning to my side, I sink into my thin mattress and thinner pillow, burrowing down, hoping to cry myself to sleep.

But all the talking, cultivating all those memories has my mind going. There are so many moments I left out. Moments worth reliving scattered among times I long to go back and change.

Memories I've long cherish are sprinkled among the signs I thought I saw, but never took them for what they were: a warning.

+++

We'd been together for a several months and Jake was anxious for me to meet his mom. He'd planned to introduce me several times, but I was always too nervous. I made up excuses the first couple times he arranged for us to meet. He didn't like my cancelling, but had been letting me get away with it. By the fourth invitation, his patience was gone. Seeing this, I agreed to go over one Sunday afternoon.

"She's going to love you." He assured me, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the radio. "Just relax." His gaze drifted from the road to the rearview mirror.

Avery was in the back of the van, watching the store fronts blow by. I'd invited her at the last minute because knowing she was there would help me feel confident enough to relax. And Jake didn't say anything when she got into the car, so I assumed it was okay.

"Where's your mom work?" Avery asked.

"Post Office." Jake turned to me and smiled.

"Why do you want me to meet her so bad?" I asked.

He looked into the rearview mirror again. "Because I like you."

Just then, I looked into the back. Avery was staring at him, wearing a small smile that faded when her eyes met mine.

My fingers clutched at a set of knots forming in my stomach. When I looked back to Jake he glanced from the rearview mirror, to the road, and then back at me. I straightened in my seat.

When we stopped at a red light, Jakes eyes went right into the rearview mirror, again. He was looking at Avery, even when she wasn't talking. I understood why—I mean she was so much prettier than me—but it made my chest quiver in a very bad way.

I told myself it was nothing, but couldn't help asking, "Why do you keep looking behind you, in the mirror?" My tone was low, hoping Avery couldn't hear.

Jakes face didn't change, but his gaze shifted to the road ahead. "It's part of being a responsible driver."

"It doesn't mean anything, Angel." Avery whispered, reaching up to pat my shoulder. I swear she had the ears of a jungle cat.

I looked out the window behind us. There were a few cars. The light changed and we started moving. I watched Jake as he checked his mirrors and then switched lanes, but his gaze kept going back to that rearview mirror.

"What are you looking at?" I asked more forcefully.

Jake didn't take his eyes off the road, but they shrank. "Traffic."

" _Who_ are you looking at?"

"Angel." My name was a warning. "Don't start this again."

"Tell me. Who are you trying to scope out back there?"

Jake shook his head and scoffed as he guided the van to the roadside. He parked and turned to face me, pinning me with his undivided irritation.

"Are you trying to start a fight? Because I thought we were going to having a nice time. I thought you finally agreed to meet my mother. If picking a fight is your way of trying to get out of it again, you let me know. The way I'm feeling right now, I will fucking fight." His lips thinned and his voice was stern.

The sliding door of the van slammed. I looked into the back and Avery was gone. I turned to look out my door and found her face in my open window.

"I'm not fighting with anyone." She snapped, before taking off down the sidewalk.

I jumped out after her. She stopped when she heard my door close and turned around, stalking back to me.

"Angel, dammit, would you get back in the car?" Jakes' voice sailed from inside the van.

I ignored him. "Ave—"

"Go, Angel." She told me. "I'm only a few blocks from my mom's store. She'll give me ride home."

"Angel!" Jake called, sounding more upset.

I was torn. "I'm sorry," I told her.

"Angel, you're really pissing him off right now. Over nothing. Just get in the van and go meet his family. It's important to him." She turned and started down the block again.

A second later, Jake was behind me. "Well? Are we fighting or what?"

I turned to face him, but kept my eyes on the ground. "Let's go."

He opened the vans passenger door for me and I hopped inside.

Jake's temper vanished as we drove down the road. My mood improved considerably as I watched him repeatedly checking the rearview mirror.

The ease of his hand on my knee didn't last long. Once we got to his moms place, I was nervous all over again.

I stood in her pale yellow kitchen, fidgeting as she stared me down. Mrs. Haddon collected ceramic roosters. There was a high shelf on the back kitchen wall that was covered with them. The pale yellow curtains over the sink had little white outlines of roosters crowing. Jake had gone off to the bathroom or something and I felt helpless, trapped under her searching stare.

She lifted her Snoopy coffee cup and took a sip. "My son tells me that he loves you."

My stomach dropped at the blatant honesty, but I couldn't hide my smile. I cleared my throat, staring at the faded yellow and white linoleum floor. "He tells me the same thing."

"Well?" Both her eyebrows lifted.

A moment passed before I managed to answer. "I love him, too, ma'am. He's very special."

She nodded. "I thought so. You know, you're the first one he's brought home in a long while."

My smile grew. "I didn't know that."

She grinned and then asked about "my people." When I told her I didn't have any to speak of, her soft demeanor became tender. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "Well you do, now."

I liked his mother. She was so warm-hearted and open. I think that's where Jake got it from. He looked like his dad, but he was sweet like his mother.

His older sisters were identical twins. Both nice and smart—they were off in college before we got together, so I didn't really know them, but they seemed nice the two times I met them. His younger brother, Henry, was three years younger than me.

Jake's mother busied herself in the kitchen, putting an end to our talk. I wandered out to the living room and watched Henry. He liked to rock himself back and forth when he played alone on the living room floor. It was a game no one understood but him. From what I could tell, it required his imagination, a sharpened pencil, and the mumbled sounds of explosions. Jake said Henry played it all the time. He was either painting or crouched on the floor, flipping a pencil.

Henry hardly spoke to anyone and when he did, he never looked them in the eye. Jake said he could tell Henry was listening by the way he leaned his head to one side, inclining his ear. Sometimes, when I greeted him, he'd pat my shoulder as he turned away.

What Henry lacked in etiquette, he made up for in talent. He was a really great painter—he did abstracts in oils, mostly. But there was this one charcoal drawing he'd done of Jake that literally took my breath away every time I saw it. It was mounted in the hallway because Jake hated walking in and seeing himself hanging over the sofa. It was a still-life; Jake sitting on a stool with his legs outstretched. His face held a faraway look, like he was lost in thought with a cigarette in his hand.

+++

After that first day, Jake took me by his moms whenever he felt like it; usually for dinner.

He also used to tease me, relentlessly, about my taste in music that wasn't his. He sincerely disliked hair bands in general, but knew how I loved them. One night, when we went over to his moms place to eat, we walked inside and Jake went straight to the living room, mumbling something to his mom. She pointed at the entertainment center.

Jake turned around, wearing a ridiculous grin. His mom walked over to the kitchen doorway. She paused to wave to me and laughed when she looked back at Jake.

"What?" I asked, loving the greeting and sparkles in their eyes.

"Listen to this." Jake smirked and quickly turned around to the stereo. He popped a tape into the tape deck. The room filled with screeching guitar. I jumped at the sudden noise and he laughed.

"This is my new song for you." He took me into his arms, leading me in a misplaced slow dance to Seventeen by Winger.

We both laughed out loud. "It's fitting. Don't you think so, Liar?"

+++

The memory of his sparkling gaze leaves at quickly as it came and I am alone again, with only my fragmented mind to keep me company. I shut my eyes, willing myself to sleep.

# \+ + +

20

—Avery

The day I first saw Angel was the day of her accident. We didn't talk until the day with the kittens, but I first saw her on the day she was liberated from her psycho birth mother by way of a wreck.

There were large birds in a grouping of trees and I used to like to watch birds. I was standing at that bend in the road, watching and thinking how the long-necked fowl might be some kind of crane. They looked rare, I thought, because I had never seen birds like that in the area. The cranes were drinking from the puddles between the drying trees. I can't remember if it had been raining or if someone had just watered, but I know there were puddles everywhere.

I didn't know anymore about what caused the accident than Angel did—beyond the obvious fact that the mother never used her brakes. In fact, she sped up as the car neared the bend in the road. Angel's mother was way beyond fucked. Had to be, to take her daughter, set her into a car without a seatbelt, and then decide to keep going straight when the road curved just as easy as choosing tea over coffee.

But I did like to watch birds. The way they fly and loop through the air, I used to think it was beautiful. Now that I am caged, I'm sure of it.

When I think about it, I think that birds live mysterious lives. They do the strangest things. A million of them used to gather inside of one, tiny tree in the high school parking lot. They'd sit there, singing their songs and sounding so happy. When they flew away, they'd do it with such uniform grace.

Flying always fascinated me.

I also used to watch the birds playing in the sprinklers at the schoolyard. They'd soar from the crowded tree in the parking lot in small groups and make for the showering spray. They'd start out so high up, then dive down into the fountains shooting from the sprinklers. And then, go back up and loop back down again. Each bird moved according to what the others did. It was if they had no single path, but all shared it—a hundred tiny birds moving as one entity.

Sometimes, when I looked outside my bedroom window at night, I would wonder where the birds were and what they were doing. I wanted to know if they were happy and chirping, or if they were nesting somewhere, oblivious to my wonderings. I wanted to be one of those birds looping up and down, to be capable of taking the things that I needed and float back up into the sky. Far, far away from everything below.

+++

"Thank you for doing this, Avery." Angel squirmed in her chair.

We were seated in the long corridor at Carlisle's rinky-dink County Hospital. There was a long reflective panel that stretched along the wall. As I stared at it, I could hardly believe that I was there.

"You know I'm always here for you." I said, even though I felt like leaving and never looking back.

With a deep breath, I patted Angels' shoulder, stood up, and turned into the heavy door that was the entrance into Doctor Williams waiting area. Her office door was open so, I kept going and took a seat on a thinly padded seat set before the doctors' desk. Adjusting myself in the chair, I set my hands gently onto the smooth wooden ends of each arm. Despite the lacking impression, the seat felt plush.

Doctor Williams gracefully sank into her fluffy leather chair, resting her elbows on the arms, her palms touching.

She was a nice looking lady, I thought. I had seen my share of psychiatrists, but this was my first lady shrink. And she was the first decent looking one. Doctor Williams had smooth cocoa skin with totally invisible pores and a cute, round nose, and these thick lips she painted a deep red. It accented the natural flush of her cheeks. Her dark rimmed glasses slipped down of her nose. She pressed them back with two fingers.

The doctor was quietly staring. The hollow sound of her desk drawer rolling open filled the small chamber. A file folder, dictionary thick, plunked onto her desk.

"Avery?"

"That's my name." I crossed my legs, going for nonchalant and failing. The heel of my red flat disembarked, flopping like a slipper on my hanging toes.

"I would like to talk to you about Angel."

"That's why I'm here." I leaned down and tucked the shoe back on my foot, noticing an old-fashioned pocket-watch on the doctors' desk. It was the kind I'd seen in old Westerns, round and gold attached to a long chain.

"How long have you been with her?"

The exact amount of time was pointless. I shook my head. "Since the beginning."

"The beginning of what?"

"Our friendship." I thought over the answer and almost chuckled. Almost. "If that had a beginning. It seems like we've always been friends."

"Angel has told me that the first time she saw you . . . was . . ." she thumbed through some papers in the folder, "the day her mother died."

"Sounds right."

"And what is your relationship with her now?"

My brows tugged together at her very basic question. _What had Angel told her about me?_ "I'm her best friend. I take care of her. She has her foster-mother, but it's not the same. Deanna hasn't known her as long. I'm who she comes to when she needs to vent. I keep her secrets." _Why the hell was I telling this woman anything about me?_

The smooth skin of the doctors' brow began to furrow before consciously going flat and I reminded myself to watch my words as the low call of sea birds cawed from speakers somewhere behind me.

"What kind of secrets?"

"If I told you, I wouldn't be very trustworthy, would I?"

The doctors' legs, visible beneath the open desk, uncrossed as she leaned forward. "I'm not asking for gory details. Those are right here." She displayed the open file. "What I'm hoping to get from you is more general. I'd like to know if she's safe—if you're worried about her. She didn't attend her final anger management class and I'm supposed to report it. I have cause for concern."

"Maybe you should ask Angel."

"I did."

I nodded. "Good. Why did she miss her class?"

"She said she didn't."

"Maybe she was there, but forgot to sign in. She forgets stuff sometimes."

"A lot of times." Doctor Williams raised a hand to grasp the point of her chin. "Were you with her at all in this past month?"

"I am always with her. Metaphorically."

The gleam in her eye said that she knew I was messing with her. The doctors' dark hands fumbled, feeling around the file folder and scrambling, searching for—as it turned out—a pen. Hasty scribbles began flooding the topmost page on her left.

"I have been talking with Angel about you."

My resting hands balled up into fists, clenching over my lap. "And what did she say about me?"

"Angel spoke very highly of you. When she was actually talking, that is."

Was this a _thing_ with all shrinks? Did they go to school for nearly a decade just to learn how to answer a question while giving as little information as possible? If that was all they could do, then every teenager on the planet could be a shrink.

Her palms unlocked to twist her forearms across her chest. "Avery, I am going to come right out and say this: I don't think you're a very good influence on Angel."

I sighed. "Well, fuck you very much."

It was nothing new, this you-are-no-good gag. Most people actually felt that way. I, myself, felt that way most times. It was not just with Angel. It was with everyone I came into contact with. And it was no secret to me as to why others would think that.

We were very close, Angel and me. Maybe, when we first met, the relationship was need based, but the friendship evolved. It had become symbiotic. Out of that interdependence, our needs were met. It was beneficial for both of us, but very few people understood it. Jake didn't. He barely even acknowledged me, except when he wanted something. But he was a guy and guys were dicks most of the time, so I didn't care.

Doctor Williams, to her credit, didn't miss a beat. "And what is it that you do for Angel, aside from keeping her secrets?"

"Give her advice, help her with homework, make sure she eats her vegetables," I hoped I sounded as condescending as was intended.

"Like a mother would?"

I cleared my throat. "Hell no."

"I have a few more questions, if that's alright."

"I will certainly help in any way that I can." My sarcasm was so thick, it sounded sincere.

"I appreciate your being forthcoming, Avery. Angel is always very careful about what she says to me."

I shivered inside, wondering over what she'd just revealed—if Angel had been telling the truth when she said she didn't talk about me anymore—or if the doctor was just trying to get a reaction. But psychiatrists weren't supposed to lie, were they? Maybe I'd brought it on myself with that 'metaphorical' remark.

I wasn't sure how to respond, so I didn't.

"Angel has told me that you have always been very good to her."

_This woman is ignorant_ , I thought, but answered, "I try, but under the circumstances . . ."

"Which circumstances?

"Any and all things inconceivable; I try to protect her from it."

"How do you protect her? From what?"

I wanted to spit at her; at the entire line of questioning. It was ridiculous and obvious to anyone who really knew Angel. "From her life—from circumstances beyond her control, from the assholes that live in this world—the dicks that attend her school. I'm sure you've heard of them, Doctor. I'm sure, as a psychiatrist, you have seen your fair share of assholes that make it their business to go around inflicting pain.

"They leave these indelible marks on her life without even asking. Angel is more scarred, more susceptible, than anyone I know. She needs protection and what use are you—or me—if we don't give it to her?"

Doctor Williams leaned in, searching me with a keen gaze. I stilled.

"Perhaps we've gotten off track." Doctor Williams softened, leaning back placidly into her chair. "I've summoned you here to specifically discuss your relationship with Angel."

I smiled wanly at the oddity in her tone.

Doctor Williams nodded. "Are you aware that I consider the relationship toxic?"

Before my mind could conjure a way to make her sorry for what she said, I took to my feet and walked out the door, through the hallway, down the stairs, out the lobby and into the street.

The way I had always tried to look at mine and Angels' relationship was like this: we all have problems. I had a lot of problems. A shit-ton. But that didn't mean I wanted to be defined by those problems, so I kept them to myself.

I never told anyone how I ate too much. Way too much. So much that I felt like my stomach lining may tear. I'd go through bouts where I could eat so much, so often, that I'd start to feel comfortable with being over-full. I wouldn't notice right away, but then my body would do this betraying thing: it would start to think that just because I didn't feel over-full that I must be hungry and then, I'd keep eating.

After a while of everyday feeling so full that I could bust, my stomach would stretch. Around the time my jeans were feeling too tight, I'd start to feel sick from all the food and then decide to make myself throw up because the fullness was tiring and overwhelming and I only wanted to feel better.

That pattern would carry on for a while: eat too much and throw up. Then, I would actually start losing the weight I gained and I'd feel better about myself. So I'd keep going. More and more often. And then, maybe, people would start noticing that I was losing weight, and some of them might say that I did it too quickly. No one would actually say it directly or out loud. But I knew what they were thinking.

Well, no one except Ms. Traynor, my PE teacher who thought of herself as an amateur nutritionist. Her sun bleached lips would purse as she scrutinized me. "You look like you've lost weight." And then I knew for sure I was losing too much. So I'd make myself stop. But I couldn't stop eating. I had to live. And so the cycle would always repeat.

I never wanted anyone looking at me like I was a walking eating disorder. I didn't need that judgment or it's 'do you know what your problem is?' I lived in my body—I knew what the problems were. Once, it got to a point where I was so hyperaware of my yo-yo weight, I couldn't let anyone see me eat. I still have trouble with that shit.

I didn't need anyone trying to define me by my issues, so I've always kept them to myself.

Did that damned doctor even hear herself? I'm no good for Angel—did she not realize that Angel was already broken by the time I came along?

She was shattered, like glass. Like the windshield she flew through when the car went off the road. She lost her mom and her home in one morning with the cranes and the dying trees on the side of the road. She had no one left, no one to take care of her. I knew what that felt like, and so I became the mother-figure in her life. I didn't do it on purpose. I just took care of her in the only way I knew how. It's not like I hid my issues from her.

Well, maybe I did, but she knew about them. If she paid any attention at all, she knew.

"Don't sweat the small stuff," was the motto I tried to continually beat into her, though I had miles to go before I could walk that shit out myself. Because I knew that the small stuff is what destroys a person. Only with Angel, nothing was ever small. Even the littlest things were mountains in her mind. She would sweat _everything_ and the more her troubles piled up, the more I felt the need to drive them away because just watching Angel try to deal with stress was painful.

I've always thought the world of Angel, but she's weak. Weakness could be a good thing, I guess. Angel was a good person. A really good person—but she was also a perpetual victim of her position in life. Other people were always doing shit to her and I was always running interference, always trying to make sure they didn't get away with it. I had to make time to check on her in between classes. But that was okay, some people weren't fighters.

Being peaceable shouldn't mean a person deserves testing at every turn. That's why the world needed more people like me. Not _all_ like me, but some parts might be okay, under the right circumstances.

I never got the bullying thing. So what if I did it sometimes? I only gave shit to people who deserved it.

It was not okay to pick on someone who was as sweet and vulnerable as Angel. Or anyone so small. It wasn't right to make fun of someone because they didn't have a home, or parents, or new clothes at the beginning of the school year. It was not okay to hurt a person just to make yourself feel better.

I saw that shit happen to Angel all the time. When something like that pouncing in the girls' bathroom happened to someone that was so exposed and unprepared, what kind of friend would that make me if I just let it happen?

Rosa Dominguez was lucky the campus fuzz found us so fast. She was lucky I never laid eyes on her again, because if I had, a broken shoulder would have been the least of her troubles.

If I'm being completely honest, sometimes, when I'm watching TV—one of the lame teenage dramas that always seems to be playing, I compare myself to the people in those shows. Sometimes, I think maybe I was never very good at being a friend. But I kept trying and that should count for something.

So, when people like Doctor Williams tried to tell me I was no good for Angel, I could look at what I did for my friend and know that they were at least a little bit wrong. Angel was good and having her made me a better person.

Even standing here—in this prison where they turn us into refuse—I would do it all over again, suffer any consequence in defense of my friend.

And still, she goes out of her way to ignore me.

But it doesn't matter.

One need not observe human behavior for long to learn that we require companionship. Some more so than others.

Not that it matters.

I'm not an actual person. I'm a ghost. So it doesn't matter.

It will never matter.

# \+ + +

21

—Angel

I wake to the sudden buzz of interior lights.

A dream lingers on the edge, just outside my confinement. His song sails from my freedom into captivity, making me ache. I'm on my side, facing the wall of my cell, feeling wide awake though my eyes are still closed, trying to see the page, to grasp the moment I held it in my hand.

Why do you go and where?

Silent steps—leaping.

I chase, but you're too far ahead.

I sense the dread—heaping.

I laced our fingers and held my head.

Choking silence—creeping.

One of Jakes unfinished songs. He never named it, but wrote the lyrics in a notebook he borrowed from me and told me to keep it. He wanted to let it set for a while so he could think about the rhyme scheme.

Maybe it was going to be a ballad or his own song, separate from Analog Controller. It might have been the first single on his solo album. I'll never know because it remains forever unfinished. Like his promising career.

Like his life.

The thought makes my insides curl and twist in devastating knots. The depth of my need to find him is so real, it's almost surreal.

I dreamed that Jake was sitting at the foot of my bed, singing and playing his black acoustic guitar. He didn't look at me. His mouth was moving and I heard that song, but he wouldn't talk to me or look my way.

There is no rhyme or reason clever enough to turn this wrong thing to right. Sometimes I feel like the only person in the world who knows what it's like to lose the truest of true loves. Well, maybe Juliet knows, she never did get her happy ending with Romeo.

I sit up and turn on my clock radio and take my position on the floor for some morning stretches, determined. Not because I care about being limber or anything—only because I've got this one thing left to do and I'm going to do it right and stretching helps sharpen my mind.

As I finish my morning routine, breakfast arrives through the slot on the door. I take the tray and set it aside.

When the guard's scratchy voice calls to me from the open doorway, I see Avery poking her head in from the hall. She's wearing a big, stupid smile that makes me hate her a little more.

"Good morning!" She calls to me, waiving like an old friend who's spotted me in the middle of her Sunday morning stroll. My first instinct is to spit on that moronic grin, but I just ignore her. With Avery less is always best.

Avery watches, waiting. "Let me guess—you're still ignoring me?"

I won't look her way.

"I'll see _you_ later, then." She waltzes down the corridor as I'm led out. Right before she turns the corner towards the community room, I assume to brag that she can go wherever the hell she wants, her middle finger flies up at me.

My first instinct is to laugh, but damn, there's nothing funny about it. Why the hell does she care what I do or say? She gets to remain unaffected no matter what happens to me. I just have to keep pretending like she doesn't exist.

+++

When I am finally back in place, back in my horrible metal chair, safely restrained to the frame, I take a deep breath.

As soon as my lawyer waltzes in with his signature long jacket, and settles down with his pen and pad, asking how I slept last night. I mumble something sarcastic about how thick and wonderfully soft the beds are and he graces me with a horrible smile.

Tight Bun and Quiet Man take their seats, each one scratching a pen to paper, asking me more stupid questions about Avery; wanting to know if I've seen her and what she was doing. I answer no to everything, anxious to get through the ritual.

Before I have a chance to start an orderly is buzzed into our small room. She's wearing the typical badge and navy blue scrubs. She's got dark chocolate skin. Her hair is unnaturally straight and pulled back into a twist, held in place by a wide barrette.

I don't have to look at the contents of the half-size plastic tray in her hands; I know why she's here. This is a dance I do every day, though my partner varies from day to day.

The tray holds three small paper cups. No one has to say, "Open." I just do it and tilt my head back so she can dump the contents of the first two cups into my mouth. My pills. Next, she holds out the third cup, waiting.

I keep my hands at my sides, though I could reach up with one if I wanted to. I'm restrained by a lap belt and one wrist harness. They've been letting me keep one hand free. Still, I never reach for anyone or anything, because I see how it makes the guards nervous. So, I wait for her to set the cup on the table in front of me. When she has taken her step back, I raise the cup to my mouth and swallow the tap water inside, washing down my prescribed medications.

Once the door has shut behind her, and we four are once again the only people in the room, I am asked to begin where I left off yesterday. But I feel the need to remind them of something:

"What happened chronologically is insignificant. It's how I saw it that matters." It's the one point that seems to stick. "My choices have always been dictated by my perception."

And then, I pick up near where I left off . . .

+++

I'd been bulldozed by another migraine over the following weekend and had missed spending time with Jake. The store where he worked was only a half-mile from my trailer park, in one of Carlisles' only strip-malls. There were two at the time: one for family shopping, complete with Movie Theater. The one I was heading for had a selection of small shops—the busiest of which was _Carlisle's Largest Hardware Store._

It was also across the street from the Plain Jane combination convenience store and gas station. They had a Slurpee machine. My plan was to walk there first and pop-in on Jake at the hardware store on my way home.

The tour would be starting soon and I wanted to spend as much time as I could with him. I didn't know how if he'd want to stay a few weeks in California or come right back. Either way, I was looking at a stretch of time without Jake and that had me on edge.

The tall cup that held my Cherry Coke flavored Slurpee was sweating as I crossed the blacktop. Wisps of blurred heat looked like puddles of stagnant water at the edges of the lot. I kept a steady pace across the blacktop, clinging to my oversized cup, until the whoosh of controlled air swept over me at the stores' entrance. It was cooler inside, but not by much.

There was a salt and pepper haired woman in a green work vest manning the register. Her name tag said _BECKY_. She greeted me, offered to help me find whatever I needed, and I waved her off. I stayed in the main aisle near the front, sweeping down each row in search of Jake. I found him near the back of the store, in the open area, surrounded by hanging plants and patio furniture. His back was to me. I wanted to sneak up and throw my arms around his waist, but when I got closer, I saw he wasn't alone. He was standing beside an older guy, maybe mid-forties with shaggy blond hair, who was dressed in worn-looking jeans and faded brown work boots. Jake was holding a large book, one of the catalogues the store carried. He seemed to be in deep conversation as he rested one of his big feet on a low pile of dry cement bags, pointing at a page in the catalogue. The man leaned back against a large flatbed cart that was stacked with black tubing, and flagstones.

"Hey, you," a voice called from behind me.

I turned towards the sound.

Troy Bleecher was standing a few feet up the aisle. I waved robotically and turned back to wait for Jake. He hadn't seen me yet and I didn't want to distract him, so I stayed planted where I was, several yards up the long aisle.

Soon, Troy was standing beside me. "That's my dad." He gestured, keeping his gaze fixed ahead.

"That's my boyfriend," I muttered, unintentionally mocking Troy's tone.

"I know," he said, and turned to look at me. "I wanted to say I'm sorry."

My brow furrowed. I never talked to Troy Bleecher. Not since our one date last year, when I found out that he told half our school that he slept with me.

"For Rosa; she's kind of a bitch. And for me, too, for the way I acted. What I said was messed up."

"Oh," I murmured, remembering the way he scared the crap out of me in the quad the week before. Maybe he delivered apologies in bulk? "Okay."

I turned back to Jake and found he was watching me. What little cool air there was inside the open garden area became heated with the stare Jake was giving.

Troy's dad called him and he walked off after him, the two heading for the register.

My grin was uncontainable as Jake sauntered up the aisle towards me. I held out my sweaty cup of Slurpee. Jake leaned in, locking eyes with me in that salacious way that he had and took a long sip. I could tell by the lack of frosty bubbles in the clear straw that my drink was nearly melted. Once his lips released the straw, they took mine. His mouth was cold as his warm hands affectionately grabbed my face, holding me in place. His tongue burst between my lips, filling my mouth with the cool cherry soda flavor and igniting my blood.

When I stepped into his grasp, wanting to deepen the kiss, he pulled away. "Tastes good," he grinned, taking the drink from my hand. I watched him take another long pull. "Good day?"

I nodded my head. "No more headache. Want me to go get you one?"

Jake shook his head with the straw piercing one side of his mouth. "I already got one."

I giggled at the silly, mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

He looked around the store, in front and behind us, then swooped down on me again, closing his lips around mine and pouring cool melted Slurpee into my mouth. I threw my arms around his waist, pulling him closer.

"Missed this." He mumbled against my lips. And then his fingers, wet with condensation from the cup, were sweeping down my cheek. He pulled away. "Okay. No more or I'll get in trouble." I wanted to fake a pout but just grinned.

"You know Troy?"

"No," I shrugged. "Well, not really."

"What were you talking about?"

I shook my head, "Nothing. I think he was trying to be nice."

"Nice? Troy-Shithead-Bleecher? What'd he say?" Jake's eyebrows shot up with interest.

I didn't want to get into it. I couldn't remember if I ever told him about my one date and there was no way I was mentioning the thing with Rosa. Jake would get upset and there was nothing he could do to keep it from happening again. Besides, I was pretty sure Avery had taken care of it.

"He told me you were talking to his dad."

Jakes bright hazel eyes darkened. "I hate that guy."

"Troy's dad?"

"No. Troy. He talked some shit to my little brother. Can you believe that? A fucking senior picking on a handicapped freshman? The second he's eighteen, I'm kicking his ass. And I don't want you talking to him, either."

"I don't."

"Good." He took my hand and pulled. "Come on."

I followed him towards the back patio area that was teeming with young trees in barrels and hanging plants. He led the way to the last section of patio furniture near a back corner and stopped in front a covered bench swing. Taking a seat, Jake patted the spot beside him.

The moment I sat down, he hooked his hand behind my neck and yanked me in for another kiss. It was too quick to enjoy anything beyond the initial spark of contact.

"So what's up?" he asked, eyes now shining. "Did you miss me or something?"

I took the drink from him. "Nope. Not one bit."

He grinned and pressed his feet into the cement floor. Starting the swing. "Angel, will you move to California with me?"

I burst into a surprised laugh.

Jake stopped the swing. "Don't laugh. I'm serious. Angel, I need you to come to California with me."

My heart leapt into my throat. "You're staying out there? For sure?" It was the fear and possibility that lingered in my mind since I learned how far away the tour would take them.

"I'm gotta try. You'll be eighteen in another couple months. Aged out of the system. No one will come looking for you. We can stay there, together."

"But school—"

"Is out in a few weeks."

"I'll miss my graduation." Not that I gave crap about it. If Jake wasn't going to be there clapping for me, it didn't matter if I walked. But I'd have to leave Avery. The Foster. And as much as that scared me, I was considering it. Seriously leaning towards an emphatic 'yes!' because if Jake was going, I needed to be where he was.

"You don't have to come right away. If you want, you can wait until schools' out. But I won't be able to be at your ceremony. I have to go. It's now or never for me."

"Why? I mean, why so sudden?"

He smirked. "Not so sudden. My world keeps spinning even when you're stuck at home. I've been talking to a guy named Pierce. He works at a label out in L.A. It's an independent, but they've got distribution. He was visiting his cousin who lives down the street from me. He heard us practicing, Angel. He's gonna come to our shows in Tempe and Glendale, to watch the auditions. If he likes what he sees, he wants us out in L.A., working the scene. He'll sign us, babe."

A shiver of fear rippled through me. First the big tour with Anemic Psychos and now this. It was starting. This was happening: everything Jake ever wanted might suddenly be within his reach. Yeah, it was only an indie label, but that was just a beginning.

I knew there was no way that Pierce guy was going to walk away. Talent was talent and label reps never showed their hand. They always acted like they were doing you a favor. But the band had also never been so ready. Pierce was probably worried they'd get snatched up by someone else, which if true, meant there might be more than one shark in the water.

It was easy for the guys in Analog Controller to pick up and go. They were all out of school. The lease on their place would expire in another month. None of the guys were seriously involved in anything other than music and replaceable jobs. Except Jake. He'd tethered himself to me.

And he wanted me to go. He was asking.

"Okay." I breathed, feeling how easy it was to give him what he wanted. I wanted it too, more than anything.

"Fuck, yeah, baby! We're moving!" He clapped his hands and whooped before leaning in to really let me have it; a long, open-mouth, send-the-fire-through-to-my-toes kiss. I melted into his expert touch.

He mumbled against my lips. "Deanna working tonight?"

"Yes," I mumbled back.

"Good. We'll celebrate."

22

—Angel

My unseeing eyes stare at the air of the interview room, still caught in that moment beside Jake. I can smell his deodorant. He didn't wear cologne very often, so that was the most recognizable scent. And he always smelled so good. I can't even describe it, because I haven't been around anything scented in a long time. It was just a Jake smell.

Without thinking, I try to raise the wrong hand, to run it through my hair, but just feel the cuff cutting into my wrist. My other hand is still free but any sense of freedom that lingered in my memory disappears, replaced with bitter resentment.

"I'm pretty sure that all of this is my mothers' fault. Because of her, I have been trapped my entire life."

Some people choose to take a lonely path because they like the solitude, but some people have no choice. Some people just live a loveless life: they can't pass on what they don't have and so, remain alone. Even after they get married and long after they have kids.

It's not a crime to live without love; it's just a shitty road to take. My mother didn't love herself so she couldn't love me. It's that simple.

Taking a deep breath, I let the words I usually keep down, surface with my anger. "She treated me like her perfect little doll: comb my hair, put me in pretty dresses, but don't feed me. Don't listen to me. Definitely don't talk to me, because that might make you want to care. No. Just set me in the car. Don't let me buckle up. And drive as fast as you can straight into a tree."

What recourse is there when the people who brought you into the world reject you? You're small, helpless, and have no way of knowing that life should be different.

There was nothing to do but try to deal with being born to a father I never met and a mother who tried to kill me when she killed herself. The part that really eats away at me is that I don't think she put that much thought into killing me.

For all I know she had no plans to include me at all. I was an afterthought. She decided to drive off an embankment into the trees, and on her way to the car she saw me and thought, _"oh yeah, I should do something about that."_ How pathetic is it that I want to think she cared enough to plan to my murder?

Love is the most wonderful and powerful force on earth. It's the drug that gives you the most wonderful highs and horrific lows. It means the most to people like me, who grew up deprived.

When you're young and desperate, and you're presented with something you want, you don't think twice about it. You take it without even knowing what it means. Life with the boy you love, who has no idea he barely knows you—that you barely know yourself?

_Take it._ Don't think twice about what it means to run off two months before you turn eighteen, to turn your back on the one woman who spent the last year nurturing and caring for you without a second thought. Leave the only friend you ever had to move off to a place you know nothing about. _Do it for the boy._

Jake was that important. I didn't think twice. Not an ounce of apprehension after those first five seconds of shock.

With Jake, I felt truly loved by the one person that mattered more than any other and having that was like . . . oxygen or sunlight. I depended on it. As long as I had him, I knew whatever we came across we'd be fine and I gave it no more thought beyond those three words— _go with me_. It meant he loved me. That he chose me.

+++

Jake showed up twenty-five minutes after he got off work—a whopping nine minutes after the Foster left for her graveyard shift at the confection factory.

When I opened the front door, he was just climbing out of the van. I stepped out onto the porch wearing a bright yellow sundress. It wasn't really my style, but Jake liked that the straps tied up on my shoulders. He was freshly showered and carrying two forty-ounce bottles of beer.

"Contributing to a minor?" I teased taking the sweating bottles from him when he reached the porch.

"That's nothing new." He tugged at the ties on my shoulders with his newly freed hands and smirked. "So, Austen's home?"

Both of us turned to the curb out in front of the trailer, where Austen's faded gold Mustang was so obviously parked. "Yup."

"Damn."

I put the beer in the fridge and stirred the sauce that was warming on the stove. As I plunked the spaghetti noodles into the pot of boiling water, the echoing riff of Rush's Dreamline began drifting from the living room. I glanced back to see Jake moving from the Fosters stereo cabinet. My heart thundered at the sultry way he strolled towards me. It was slow and deliberately provocative the way he lifted the front of his shirt to touch his stomach.

"Honey, you cooked?" His dark grin made my insides melt.

"Oh yeah. You know me." My sarcasm was obvious. I couldn't do much beyond boiling water.

The Foster made the sauce after she got up that afternoon. I had already eaten with her and Austen, but I guessed that Jake would be hungry when he came over.

Jake crept up behind me, taking me by the waist, and kissing my neck and shoulders while I tried to prepare a plate for him.

"This foods gonna end up on the floor." I sighed, leaning into his chest. The plate teetered.

Jake stepped back and eased into a dining chair at the small table in the kitchen. He said nothing, but slowly looked me up and down. I tried to focus on the food, but the heat he exuded had my blood blazing.

"Hey, man." Austen greeted, appearing from the hallway.

Jake halted his visual groping, releasing me from the spell, and turned to greet my foster brother. I took advantage of the clarity and drizzled a little olive oil over the noodles, followed by a sprinkling of salt and pepper before hitting them with the sauce. It was the way his mom served it when I went over for dinner once. I remembered because it was odd to me that she kept the noodles separate. I'd never had it like that before.

Jake got a very goofy smile as I set the plate in front of him. Like his face was made of taffy, it softened and pulled further than I had ever seen.

I poured some beer in a glass and grabbed a napkin before setting them in front of him and taking my seat.

"You know how I like my spaghetti." He set his napkin in his lap and started twirling his fork. "Thank you, baby."

"You're welcome."

Austen was on the couch, folded over to tie his shoes.

"You want some beer?" Jake offered, nudging my arm.

"Nah, man. I'm leaving." Austen got up and walked back towards his room. A minute later, he was back, standing in the mouth of the hallway, staring into the open kitchen at Jake and me. His car keys jingled in his hand.

Jake waived—his mouth full of food. Austen waived back and locked his stare on me. "I'll be back in a while." He turned towards the door then paused. "My mom's not off until seven."

Jakes eyes widened. "Seven in the morning?"

Austen kept his eyes on the door in front of him as he explained. "They got everybody pulling overtime for the next couple weeks." With that, he stepped out the door.

"He's still with that girl?"

"Sheila. Yeah."

"Good for him." Jake took his empty plate over to the sink and set it inside. "Come here," Jake commanded, using that sexy, stern voice of his as he leaned against the counter.

I walked over, but not fast enough. Hooking the tie of my dress strap with his hand, Jake pulled me closer. When I leaned into him, he widened his stance, making his tall frame shorter than usual. I got up on my toes to kiss him as he set his arms around me. I felt every ridge and ripple of his lean body through his Ozzy t-shirt and sank my nose into the smooth cotton and inhaled. He always smelled so good.

"Did you tell Deanna?"

I almost laughed. "No."

"Why not?"

I pulled back to look, alarmed by his suddenly wounded tone. Sure enough, his forehead was creased.

"What if she tries to stop me?"

He shook his head. "It's not right. She's been good to you, Angel. She'll be worried. You need to tell her."

All the air left my body. "What am I supposed to say? My boyfriend wants me to skip out on my graduation to follow him across state lines?"

"That's a start, but you might also mention that I love you and how we're in a committed relationship." He slipped his hands into my hair, cradling my head. "I have every intention of taking care of you. I'll be there with you, if you want. We can tell her together."

"She's going to say no. She doesn't like me going to see you play. How do you think she's going to react when I tell her I'm moving away with you?"

Jake sighed. "Angel. What she says doesn't matter. It's the principle. If you and me are doing this, we're doing it right. You have to give her the respect she deserves as the woman who took you in. You may not like what she thinks, but you have to let her voice it. Besides, she's a reasonable person. She didn't try to stop you from seeing me, did she?"

"Well . . . no."

"Even though she doesn't approve, because she understands she can't control you like that."

"But what if she doesn't understand this time?"

"We can explain it to her. Baby, I can't risk cops chasing me across the state. It's bad PR."

As soon as he said it, something clicked. "You talked to Pierce about me?"

He tightened his hold on my waist. "Of course I did. He's trying hard to impress us and . . ."

I waited for him to finish. When he didn't, I asked, "And?"

"And that scares the shit out of me."

I looked up, touched his chin. " _Scares_? I thought you wanted it?"

"I shouldn't be concerned about someone offering me fame and fortune on a silver platter?"

What he said caught up to me. "He tried to sign you already!' I swatted at his arm, "Didn't he?" Jake shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. "Did you turn him down?"

"No, but I haven't agreed. I need to know more: what he's about, what he can offer us. I'd be stupid to take him at his word."

"So he's pushing?"

"Hard." He took a hand from my hair and set it on the back of his neck, rubbing the stress. "I'm not comfortable with the contract. The way some of its' worded. And it's fucking huge, Angel. Pages and pages of legal bullshit. How am I supposed to understand what I'm signing? I told Pierce, I want to keep doing what I'm doing—I have to maintain our sound. I can't sign something that will make me change. I can't have a team of people putting their stamp on my music to dissect and sell. I have to do it my own way and they want me to sign it all away."

I thought for a second. "So Max and Andrew . . . ?"

"He talked to them before me. I'm the hold-out."

"Wow." I thought over what that meant. He was living with two anxious, persistent, musicians who wanted exactly what Jake wanted. "He talked to them. Before you? And he knows you write the songs?"

"Of course."

"Jake, there has gotta be other labels sniffing around."

"I haven't heard anything."

"Well, there is a reason he's pressuring you. You're smart to wait. You need someone who understands contract law to make sure you're protected. How much does it cost to get someone to explain something like that?"

He sighed, setting his forehead on mine. "If it's this much weight just being approached . . ." Tucking me into his chest, he breathed in my hair. "You're the only one who gets it."

I looked into his eyes and felt the words bubble up from the truest part of me. "I love you, Jake. I want what's best for you. And I'm so happy that you asked me to go with you." My hands stretched around his back.

"Are you kidding?" His hazel eyes smoldered like coals over his black t-shirt. "I can't believe I had to ask."

"What?"

His lips stretched a little, like he was trying to hold back a laugh. "Naturally, I assumed you were coming. I mean, why the hell would I go without you? But you never said anything and you started getting more headaches and acting weird. I wondered if it was because I didn't come right out and say what I thought was obvious. Then, when you came by my job, I figured better to be safe than sorry."

He dropped his hands, his forehead crinkled. "You were surprised, I could tell. Angel, why didn't you know?" My lips trembled as he cupped my face. "Because you should know by now, baby."

"Know what?"

"That I'd never leave you behind."

He said it so matter-of-factly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Hearing those words, watching them form on his lips, it was like being born again—they made everything new. I wasn't being left behind. Jake considered my part in his life such a permanent thing, that my leaving with him was never in question. The two torturous words he fumbled were quieted and the threat of that guitar playing girl seemed ridiculous. His assumptions, the feelings that put them there in the first place, were the only thing that mattered.

My chest expanded, filling with a sensational high.

"I told you from the get-go." He moved closer, touching the bridge of his nose to mine. "I won't go anywhere you don't want me to. Even if it breaks up my band," Sweeping his lips gently over my mouth, he whispered. "Even if it breaks my heart, baby. You are more important to me than any of that shit."

He covered my lips with his and picked me up, setting me on the kitchen counter. I stretched both arms around his neck and held him to me, deepening the kiss. My legs snaked around his waist.

I whispered when his mouth moved to my neck. "I shouldn't be so insecure. It's just you said 'Not—"

"No." he pulled back, staring me in the eyes. "You shouldn't be insecure. Because _I_ want _you_."

"I want you, too."

A groan echoed from Jakes throat as I pressed closer; a wonderful humming that drove me crazy. Our mouths collided and the wonderful heat coursed through me. Little explosions of excitement rippled over my body as I wiggled to the edge of the counter top.

Jake picked me up and waltzed into the living room where he laid me on the carpet and hovered above me.

With a light tug, he untied a shoulder strap on my sundress. Promising, "I'm gonna give you rug burns."

# \+ + +

23

—Avery

No one will ever sit me down and ask me questions the way they do with Angel. It's her accounting of that night that everyone cares about. Like she's the only one that can offer anything of substance.

I should be used to this by now. It shouldn't matter.

But see, this time we're serving has never been about just that one night. It's about everything: every single second that has been wrapped up into what is my whole life. The tragedy of each and every preceding night that led up to the only one the system cares about.

No. It shouldn't matter to me, but it does.

+++

"Just leave," I screamed, slamming the passenger door. There were people all up and down the sidewalk staring at me, but I didn't care.

"I don't think you're supposed to go alone." He ran a hand over his short blonde hair, staring at the rearview mirror.

"I don't need you, Troy." Screw him and his pity.

Angel didn't even get an invite. She was at home with a migraine and if I couldn't have her, then I sure as hell wasn't having Troy.

"I'm trying to take care of my responsibility, alright? How long is this gonna take?"

Shielding myself with my arms, I stepped away. "Rosa's waiting."

Ticking off the seconds in my head, I didn't even get to five before his posture relaxed. He stared out at the road as his furrowed brow smoothed out. I wanted to puke, seeing how glad he was. Not another second passed before his Honda pulled into traffic.

Troy never looked back. Not once.

Usually, night was when I had the toughest time. That was when the quiet world screamed, so loud I couldn't sleep. But watching him drive away, it was like everything that made me who I am faded a little more. Like, my very essence was no more than the dust behind his tires. I was an obligation, an afterthought, a miserable reflection in his rearview. Just a flat shape spread across the glass; not quite human. I was a passing deviant thought he'd already forgotten about. I was the snide remark he might think, but never say out loud because anyone within hearing distance would point. Surrounding conversations would be replaced with half-cocked eyebrows and whispers at my uttering.

Raw anger boiled in my stomach as images of that cocky bastard and all the ways I could make him sorry painted my thoughts. I was on the brink and it was only nine in the morning.

I took in a deep breath, curling my hands into fists. The only way to face what I had to do was to keep my head down and move. So that's what I did. I put one foot in front of the other until I made it through the line of picketers into the controversial downtown building. I signed in with her name and took a seat.

Barely ten minutes later, I was getting escorted to a changing room. After putting on the hospital gown, one scrub-clad worker directed me to follow the next scrub-clad worker to a desk sitting in an open hallway. I sat down and held my arm out, palm up, as directed by the next person in scrubs.

The nurse jerked the bend from my elbow, stretching it along the length of the half-desk as the hall behind me filled with passing patients. The tourniquet was too tight.

"Why are you taking my blood?"

"It's a standard check for disease. Make a fist."

I did. The needle plunged in, quick and stinging. I would have jerked away if I wasn't being held. The vial filled up quickly. Warm and red.

A string around the nurses' neck had a card with her picture beside the name of the clinic. I tried to read it, but she kept moving; withdrawing to cap the needle.

"Go on down the hall to room three. A technician will be with you in a few minutes." She didn't even try to look me in the eye. Not once. The nurse knew the crease of my elbow better than my face.

I grabbed my pile of clothes from the floor near my feet. It cost a dollar for a locker, but I only had one dollar and needed it for bus fare. "Can I put my sweater on?"

Now the nurse looked at the goose pimples running up and down my arms. Not my face. "After the ultrasound." The blades of her eyes cut back to the sticker on the side of the fresh tube of blood. "Angel, is there a last name?"

"No."

She pointed with her pen. "Down the hall, to the right. Room three."

The corridor was filling up with blank stares, waiting to get into the tiny lab chair to have their blood taken by a nurse who won't look at them. Half the towns' female populace must have been in there, but I did not recognize anyone, guessing that they came from another community. That was the smart thing to do if you wanted to make sure you didn't run into anyone that might recognize you. But I already knew what people thought of me and I didn't care.

At the other end of the hall, more girls walked with hunched postures. No one knew how difficult it was. No one wanted to. So, no one was asking, speaking softly, or even pretending to comfort us. We were cattle, lumbering through the course laid out for us; being herded from one station to another. And no one had sympathy for cows.

The hallway was covered in thin carpet, no padding. My socks, hanging loose over my feet, had slipped down during the herding. I stepped into them, shoving my cold toes a little further back in with each step on my way to the next room.

The term 'family planning' seemed ironic. Most the girls looked school age. Maybe some were drop-outs, but all of us were there. Together and alone. There were a couple of boyfriends in the waiting room, a mom or two, but none of them were in the back to witness the herding. They didn't want to know how the meat got to the market.

I wondered what it was like to work in a place like that. To be that woman, the one who took the blood. She probably hit the snooze on her alarm a few times every morning because she didn't want to get up—probably because she didn't like her job.

I didn't like her job, either.

I'd bet good money that Blood Lady would've preferred working in a cancer clinic—a 'health planning' clinic. I knew that the nurses in a place like that would be nicer than the ones I was seeing. The doctors, too. That's why no one was smiling: none of us had cancer. We were going to keep living, wondering how we became the confused little shits who didn't know we were choosing to be there the second we said _yes_ to the Troy Bleechers' of the world.

_Such an asshole_.

When I woke up afterward, I felt sick—misshapen—like they gave me the flu by tearing my insides out. The nearest nurse assured me that it was normal. She told me not to sit up, that I had to wait for at least twenty minutes. But that was not going to happen. I had to get up. I had to leave.

I made the nurse carry my clothes while I hung onto the wall, steadying myself along the corridor that led back to the dressing rooms, ignoring her protests. Once I was there, an old lady with an icy gaze handed me a huge pad: a giant diaper to catch the rest of my insides.

"Second stall," the icy nurse pointed towards a swinging door.

It reminded me of the dressing areas they had in the shops at the mall. There were no mirrors like a department store, though. It was probably a good thing: I wasn't ready to look myself in the eye.

On the other side of the door, I heard the voices of the icy old lady and another girl. They were arguing. I listened and surmised that the other girl had dropped her diaper when she was putting her underwear on and now she needed another one.

"You get one. That's it."

"But it was on the floor. What if I get an infection?"

Cancer patients had to worry about infections, too, didn't they?

The mean old lady huffed. "Don't drop this one."

When I was almost done dressing in my sweat pants and flannel shirt, the stall door flew open. Ice Lady was staring at me. "Are you finished?"

I grabbed my shoes from the lonely chair in the back corner, ignoring the pleasured thought of smashing that chair over her head. Passing through the door, I locked my eyes on the old woman.

"You're a bitch."

I used to wonder if I belonged in the general population. Not the depressive wondering in the abstract, like I was curious about my place in this great big world. No. I've always known there is no place for me. My wonderment was relegated to the safety of the general population, if I were a part of it.

If they were exposed to me, was it safe for them?

Chewing over that question, I shoved my way through the crowd that was content to ignore me the second time around. They only bothered with the girls on the way in because once we're done in there, they were done with us.

The inter-city bus passed right by the clinic. The receptionist inside said it was ten 'til one. That meant the bus would be there any minute. Walking the fifty feet from the door to the bus stop was exhausting. I thought for sure that I would fall apart before I got there.

The bus bench was hard and warm to touch even though it was shaded from the beating sun by an overhang. I welcomed the heat. Pulling the flannel tight around my empty stomach, the hot Arizona weather was not enough to chase away the cold I felt. It seemed to radiate from within.

"Hey, are you okay?"

I opened my eyes to find a girl with two blond braids and a baseball cap. She was resting a sign at her feet. It was a good one. Must have taken her hours to mutilate and paint a naked baby doll before tacking it to poster board.

"Aren't you supposed to have someone drive you home?" She sat on the bench beside me, tucking her sign away behind her. "My dad makes me come to these things. He doesn't know, but I had to have one last year." She almost smiled, like revealing this secret gave her so much pleasure.

"Guess you really showed him." I rolled my eyes as they filled with cool moisture.

"I have my license. I could take you, if you don't live far. The car's just around the corner. My dad won't even know I'm gone."

"Go away."

"But, you look green."

I needed to go home. I had to disappear into the feathery goodness of my pillow for at least forty-eight hours. Inhaling deep, I let out a long, relaxing breath. That damned water pricked at my eyes, but I clamped them closed and turned away from the girl. "Why are you here? Fuck off, already."

Glimpsing back at the street, I found myself alone and let out a breath.

It was a pure, self-centered tragedy the way I reached for things I'd never have. Sometimes, when the void was gaping and clawing, it was tempting to forget that no one like me should ever be around children. My leeching would drain them. Any family I created would end up hollowed out—peeled like old paint from dead wood. Bleached bone and ash. Whenever I forgot to remember that, I ended up making things worse.

# \+ + +

24

—Angel

This whole day has been one giant mind-job.

The two guards accompanying me back to my cell are new, like most things in this place. I've been here about a week—I was called here for the states' convenience. My case is unique so the review is expected to take a while and it was probably cheaper to move me here than to put the supervisory board up in a motel.

It's more important now than at any other time of my life, that I get this right. I have to give them everything—every heart-wrenching, explicitly misconstrued detail.

_I hate her._ I think, keeping my gaze fixed on the shiny, off-white floor and imagining Avery's face getting smashed under my steps. Her image is flat, moving along with me under the sheen of tile that encases like a trap. Her arms flail the width of hall we're passing through. The very edges of each doorway are just beyond her reach.

My instructions are to be honest and not worry about what the lady with the tight bun or the thin quiet man thinks of me. _Tara and Darren_ , I remind myself. Mister Brandon says they don't have to like me. They just need to know that I don't pose a threat to myself or others, so I need to be forthcoming.

_Yeah, that'll help._ The sarcastic thought has me biting my lip.

When I get to my cell, the metal door is open. The lights are on, like always. I wait for one guard to walk in before me. After he turns to face me, I'm nudged inside. Behind me, the second guard directs me to turn and face him. I do, then numbly offer my bound wrists when he directs.

The first guard watches while I'm released from the restraints, then makes his way out the door. After he's back in the hall, the second guard nods and steps out backwards, never once taking his eyes off me.

When the solid door slides shut, I turn to the small shelf mounted in the wall at the end of my bed. On top of it sets my dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby. I pick it up, plop down on my squeaking bed, and set my mind to Daisy and her well-intentioned but destructive relationships.

I'm barely through the introduction before the racket at the door announces dinner is sliding onto the half-shelf just below the slot. The hard plastic tray is lime green.

I move to the floor, considering the food—you never know what you're in for when they serve spaghetti and lime jello—and trying not to think about what must be said tomorrow.

Of all the things I've told them so far, most of its been soft. It was unfiltered truth, but it's still only what happened _before_ —that's how life was _before_. And I don't know if anyone will ever truly understand what that means.

_Before_. It's a terrible word.

Now, there's just after, which actually means lonely.

I imagine there must have been millions of moments when I might have seen a look and didn't know it. But to recognize, one must first suspect and I never suspected. There were probably words, harsh ones, some arguments, too, that I overlooked because I was so deep in denial. Is it actually denial if one is wholly unaware? Part of me thinks I _had_ to be conscious on some level, but that level must have been so deeply buried . . .

Pain shoots through my stomach when I think about what happened—and what I have yet to say. Out loud. Will they think I'm stupid? Will they hate me, too?—yes, the harder stuff begins again tomorrow. Unlucky for me, not until the afternoon. I think the hardest part is knowing what's coming and having to wait until after my shift in the library tomorrow morning. The dread runs like ice in my veins, numbing my hands like freezing water.

The stomach ache I've been nursing all day is too much. With one fist clenched against my abdomen, I lean over my dinner tray and take a few bites of jello. The pain subsides after a few minutes and I slip into bed.

Turning on my radio, I'm hoping the balm of music will soothe me, but the tune echoing from my usual station is too upbeat. I roll the dial, searching for something more suitable for sleep. Every station is either in Spanish, only plays country music, or in the middle of a damn commercial break, so there's no way to tell what type of music they've got.

Finally, I stumble across an orchestral arrangement. I'm not sure of the composer, but my nerves find it soothing. After some listening, I recognize the piece as Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. I turn the volume up and shut my eyes, letting my mind slow, despite the quickening pace of the piano.

Letting the notes build their world behind my eyelids, I imagine a thick black line stretching across endless white, painting the scene like a sheet of music. There's a wide, black note like a beanbag chair. I take my position in the center as it begins moving in time with the melody—skating up and down along the scales. I float with the notes, over and under, around the arches and through the twisting paths.

The beauty of the ivories dancing makes me relax.

# \+ + +

# 25

—Avery

What is it like to be me?

Imagine waking up to your alarm clock, but it's still dark outside. There is no difference in light between the morning and the night.

No sun.

No electricity.

Try getting ready in the dark. Taking a shower without using the light: how would you even find the soap to wash your face? You'd probably fumble, break some shit, and hurt yourself.

That's what it was like for me.

The days were blending; there was no light, no break to separate one moment from the next. I could not hold myself together. I was fumbling, trying to find my way in the dark and I did something way more stupid: I went back to that shrink again.

"Do it for Angel," I'd told my reflection in the mirror that morning. "Show that bitch you're not who she thinks." I scoffed at my own stupidity, and then went anyways; while Angel was out living her rose-colored life.

And the session was weird.

Doctor Williams had the controlled air set too low, which chilled me to the core. And I didn't like the way the shrink watched me—like I was some germ under a microscope or a snake about to strike.

"Avery."

"Shrink Lady." I mocked her monotone.

"I think it's important to establish mutual trust. For that to happen, we need to be honest with each other. When I ask you questions, it's to help you and Angel. Alright?"

I tried not to fidget in the chair in front of her desk. The soft sounds of sea birds echoed from a boom box placed somewhere in the room. Did she know I liked birds? Had I told her that? Did Angel?

Doctor Williams pressed her glasses up the slope of her nose with one finger. "I would like to talk to you about family."

"My mom is around, but she's an absent parent. I don't know my dad."

She sighed and waited. When I said nothing more, she started again. "When is your birthday?"

That question was too stupid to consider. I crossed my legs, feeling overexposed.

Doctor Williams sighed.

Then it was me who sighed.

"Okay." Doctor Williams nodded at her notes then looked up. "Avery, I would like you to draw a picture for me." She pushed a blank sheet of paper and a pencil across the desk. "A self-portrait."

I felt the tug of a frown pulling at the corners of my mouth. I couldn't remember why I thought this was a good idea. I didn't want to give her anything. It would end badly, I could feel it. But I made the little drawing like she asked. I penciled my oval face, my black dash eyebrows, my thin lips and nose. I even asked for a green crayon for my eyes—which she didn't have.

As I passed the drawing, a surge of indignation drew me to my feet. I locked my gaze on her. "I won't be coming back."

26

—Avery

Part of the problem was I had been clinging to Angel—aiming to make myself whole by sticking to my friend. That's what they're for, right? I often wished for a way to fold Angel up and stuff her inside my chest, sure her fluffy soul could pad my bared walls and alleviate the throbbing.

Angels' presence was a lively, contagious thing that held the ones she loved upon a pedestal. A high place where I enjoyed sitting, looking down at the emptiness that could not touch me. A place where I could relax. But I was hardly there anymore—on her pedestal. It seemed that Jake was the only one allowed up there.

+++

One night, we went to the hilltop overlooking the schools stadium. It had a decent view and there was no one around for miles. It was kind of our thing. But that night, the one place Angel and I could always go and relax felt like the sharp lip of an abyss. I had a feeling that my feet would slip at any moment, send me plummeting. More aptly, the hilltop was the point of a knife. One wrong move could thrust it into my belly.

When I was with Angel and we were full of liquor, standing on the hill, I could forget everything. But not that day, because of what I did at the clinic. I kept that secret to myself because I knew she would never understand. Especially about stupid-ass Troy.

So, I stood on the hilltop, pretending everything was fine, staring out at the schools' stadium that would be packed with the junior varsity team in less than twenty-four hours. The stands would be filled. Then, when the seniors played on Friday night the occupancy would double. The whole town would shut down for that game.

What would it be like to be one of them—the Troy's of the world—the ones everyone came to see? I wondered if it would be as satisfying as it sounded.

For nearly a week, Angel had been upset with Jake. Of course he had no idea because he was an idiot who thought when a girl said she was fine, she meant it. I understood her insecurity better than anyone, but also knew Angel stressed too much, in general, and even more so over all things Jake. She had nothing to worry about there. Angel had nearly a years' worth of a solid relationship over a girl who wasn't even an official band member. I told my girl not to worry, that if it actually came down to that chick being in Jakes' band, all she had to do was talk to her and lay down the boundaries.

It had been days since that conversation, and there we were: Angel perched on a small patch of dried grass, curling her knees into her chest, staring at her hands. I watched from the corner of my eye as she crushed her bent knees in, tighter and tighter. Almost like she was trying to shrink.

"How's Jake?" There was not a doubt in my mind that he was the issue.

Angel shrugged. "I'm surprised you remember." She'd been a little short with me the past few days and I could hardly blame her.

"It's on my list. And I remember everything."

If I thought hard enough I could probably remember my own conception or a past life if I wanted to. I didn't, though, because the life I was living was more than enough.

Most days I wished to forget.

My earliest memories were vivid. Not that I told Doctor Williams any of them. It was none of her damned business. Besides, those memories were hard to articulate. There was no color or sound, only strong feelings and bodies without faces, but I was short and spent most of my early years staring at the ground.

What I remembered most were long legs covered in denim and a pair of big hands that used to grab my waist. They held on so tight, I could never get away. It seemed to happen a lot in those first years, whenever my mother was away—at least I assumed, because no one ever came when I called out.

Every time I went to the bathroom denim clad legs would appear in the doorway. I'd see those big hands . . . And then, the room blurred. I was never sure if it was the lighting or my eyes, but when the room would come back into focus, I always felt like a gutted fish. I could never remember my face or my own hands, or even my clothes when the hands touched me, so I couldn't say how old I was when it happened or long it went on, or even who did it. But looking back, it seems like it happened all the time.

I was too small. Fighting was useless. Crying for help did nothing. So I figured I had to guard myself; I stopped drinking to avoid using the bathroom, where it always happened.

I used to get stomach aches whenever I looked at a glass of water. It didn't matter how thirsty I was—if I drank, I'd have to go and I would have gladly died rather than went willingly into a bathroom. No matter if I felt sick, if the sides of my throat were stuck together, I would pass it by.

Maybe I was in second grade, because I remember being in music class at my elementary school. All us kids were sitting on the big blue carpet. It was a special place the teacher reserved for group singing. The whole class was in a circle, chirping the words to it bitsy spider or something equally lame while the teacher demonstrated the hand motions to the song. Suddenly, the room tilted.

I woke in the nurses' office. And I don't know what it was—maybe the lady's kind, round eyes or maybe it was that she simply asked, "What's wrong, honey? Why won't you drink anything?"

There was water, apple juice, grape juice, and even lemon-lime soda. All of them had been offered to me. But the voice that came with those denim legs and mean hands had been very clear with me. The blank face promised that telling anyone would make things worse, that no one would believe me anyways, and I would be punished. But he didn't know how much I hated what he did to me.

I stared at the four cups set beside me. I was so thirsty. I decided that I was going to tell and then guzzle everything they had. And if the nurse would not help, then I would run away.

To my amazement, the kind school nurse listened. She never said I was making things up. Her face was frozen through the whole confession, though. A look I later realized was shock, but at the time she just seemed very quiet. Then, she promised that I would never have to live with the mean man ever again. She wrapped me in a blanket before leaving the small room to make a phone call. While she was gone, I drank down all four cups. When she came back, I asked for more.

And it never happened again—in that house, anyways. We moved away. My mom never asked about it and I never told said a word. Something in me knew that she wouldn't believe me. She just kept working like she always did, and soon another pair of hands came to grab me when no one was looking. I was so stupid; I thought all I had to do was tell. I didn't realize that day in the nurses' office, I'd been lucky.

People think that because someone is small they have no value. Yet, fat people are a common topic of conversation in news and magazines. A person could get on TV just for being fat. Not smart or pretty, or talented. Just huge.

People like big things just as much as they like scary things. Big monsters, especially. Godzilla, King Kong, Jaws—they were all huge and got movies made about them. That marshmallow monster from that Ghostbusters movie was everywhere for a while, but everybody ignored the kids he crushed in the streets.

Years after being eaten alive by my very own monster, I still remembered everything. I was still digesting. The feeling would never leave me. Like an elephant, I would never forget what my mother said when I told her. _"You're lying! Why do you always ruin everything?"_

I know the spiel: none of it was my fault. It was them. Not me. I didn't need to feel like the pariah, the reject, the mistake. I didn't have to lie in bed at night with my ears covered, I knew it. But knowing would not make the feelings stop. Nothing could do that.

". . . Avery, you're my best friend."

Angels' voice broke my trance and I looked back to catch her eye. "Prove it. Talk to me." I pointed at her tight pose. "You curl up like that when you're upset and since Jake told you about that chick, you're curled up all the time."

I really disliked the way Angel thought she needed Jake to survive. She was stronger than she knew, but she would never learn unless she freed herself from that dependency. Independence was a muscle and it needed to be worked in order to grow. Not that I could knock my friends' taste. Jake was hot. Super-hot, in every way, even the way he seemed to reciprocate Angels' feelings. But it didn't mean it was good for either of them.

I was glad Jake and the guys were heading out to California. Angel needed time to get to know herself again. Since she met Jake, everything had been about him and I missed the days when it was about me, too.

Angel set a hand over her forehead. "I drank too much."

The line sounded very much like one of Analog's early songs, which made Angel smile, so I jumped on it and started singing, "Too much, too much drinking! Better call a cab or we'll never make it home!"

# \+ + +

27

—Angel

The lights wake me with their morning buzz.

I sit up just as my breakfast tray slides through the door. Oatmeal, canned peaches, a pat of butter, packet of sugar, a cold piece of toast, two sausage links and a box of orange juice.

No wonder most of the prisoners are fat.

I shove the food away, disgusted. The morning dose of meds will make me puke but I'd rather suffer that than touch the slop they serve. That lime gelatin gave me nightmares.

Back at Canyon View, after breakfast it was shower time. Here, one of the regular guards comes to escort me to the prison library. He says I'll be taken for a shower around ten.

I'm not allowed to mingle among the regular inmates. They keep me separated at all times, for my safety, they say. From everyone except Avery. She always seems to locate me, goes out of her way to bother me. If I'm in my cell, on the toilet, or even out for exercise, she'll find me wherever I am and try to talk. But I won't listen.

The prison library is small and plain. Well, comparatively small. Canyon View, the place I'll be going back to once I'm done with this formal rejection, is a much larger facility and has a library at least twice this size. They have reading groups and a section where you can listen to music.

In this library, my task is to take the books from the return carts, mark them as returned inside the log book, and set them aside to be re-shelved by someone else. It's not interesting, but it keeps me busy.

Everything is done before my shift is up, so they let me leave early.

Just as I am about to get thankful that Avery didn't show up, I spot her walking out of the hall that leads to the showers and nearly jump out of my skin. She walks quickly past, wearing her orange jumpsuit and towel-turban. The bile is rising in my throat and I can't avert my eyes—maybe because she doesn't say anything to me or even look my way.

After my own shower, I'm taken back to the small plain room before the review board. With lights gently flickering, the cameras are already recording as I'm led inside by an orderly and two guards.

The woman has her hair back, still just as tight as yesterday and it makes me wonder if she ever gets headaches. I can't wear my hair like that without feeling a _thump, bump, thump_ , in my brain.

The quiet man is not as quiet today. He's not particularly chatty, either, but I do get to hear his voice at full volume when he knocks on the one way glass that covers the back wall, asking a question to someone he must know. "Hey! You getting it, or what?" I don't see an earpiece, but he nods, as if he's heard something from beyond the glass and then turns to face me.

My fingers brace the scratchy arms of the chair, turning white, going numb with anxiety. Now that I'm in here and thinking about what I need to say . . . . Cold trickles through me as I try to think. I've been dreading this part of my confession, putting so much energy into the idea of telling that I hadn't really considered the actual words to use.

Shaking my head, I say the only thing that comes to mind. "You have no idea how much I hate her."

"Who?" Tight Bun asks.

_Me. Avery_. "That doe-eyed girl in the trailer. Serving up spaghetti and smiles."

"Why?"

"Because she's an idiot." _I was._ "She had no idea what was really going on." _I didn't._ "She had everything and let it slip right through her fingers." _I did._

"Could you elaborate, please?" Quiet man asks, adjusting himself in his chair when I meet his eyes. "We are attempting to understand."

I nod, gesturing to the chains that keep me bound. "Most people think they know what it's like to be this way because they read about sorry's and bullshit. They can study and imagine, fixate on the demons; but at the end of the day, they get to go home. They don't know anything." I'm being passive-aggressive. They know I'm talking about them.

"But I know. I understand everything now."

"Understand what?" My lawyer asks and I notice he's wearing that chicken frying white jacket again.

I roll my eyes. The point I'm trying to make is far too serious to be distracted. "The more love you give a person, the more power they have to hurt you." I sigh, aiming to disengage myself and explain. "When you look at . . . a _painting,_ " I'm struggling for an image. "If you keep your eyes wide open and still don't see the whole picture, what does that say about your ability to interpret its' meaning? What if I see a sailboat and someone else looks at the same painting and sees a lighthouse?"

I could not see what was happening. I think I literally blinded my own eyes to maintain sanity.

"Sorry. That's a shitty metaphor. What I mean is, with my specific . . . _situation_ —being in the midst of something that is so glaringly obvious to you—it probably seems like a lie when I say I didn't know, but it's the truth. I had no idea what I was up against."

"Tell them what you were up against, Miss Patel." My lawyer directs.

This is what happens to me every freaking time: I get flustered. Embarrassed—humiliated might be a better word—that I can't find a way to express myself. This is the point where I have to say the hardest hard shit.

I sense the sheen of sweat coating the back of my neck and building up on my temples. My mouth feels so dry. My throat is swelling. I don't want to say anything, and worse, I don't know if I can. I wonder briefly if it's possible to skip over it and try to think up something else to offer.

Nothing comes to mind and I think: _maybe I won't say anything at all. Maybe I'll just sit here and pretend to be invisible and after a while they'll move on._

I want to tell them what Avery was doing. I want to shake my fist at them all and spew the filthy details, but they already know. Studying me as they have, it's been obvious from the beginning. Still doesn't make any easier to say.

I bite my lip, aiming to think every word before I speak it, so they will understand. "All any of us knows is the information that our brains take in. It processes our surroundings. Right?"

I sound like an idiot.

The one thing I shouldn't do is the one thing I want to do—shrink into a tiny ball.

# \+ + +

28

—Avery

Some of my best times were the ones I spent at Angels' house. Even if Deanna didn't like me she was still cordial. Even if there was nothing to do over there, I'd still show. I'd sit at the dining table wearing a stupid grin because even being bored over there was way better than doing anything at my house.

"You should totally try that." I whispered in Angels' ear, one night as we sat in the living room, watching a movie with Austen. It was Natural Born Killers.

Angel wasn't paying attention to the movie. She'd started wondering if Jake would stop by during the opening murder scene in the diner and by the time I whispered in her ear, Mallory was splayed on the hood of some car, getting nasty with a guy that wasn't Mickey. Angels' glazed look came into focus on the TV. "Try what?"

Austen glanced our way but I pretended not to notice.

"You've never wondered?" I kept my voice low, eyes widening. One of my hands was twirling a strand of long, black hair. I gave my best salacious gaze, flashing it at Austen, then back to the TV.

Angel rolled her eyes and got up, making for her bedroom. She was in a sulky mood and there was no talking to her when she got like that—when she had that withdrawn air about her, it was best to leave her alone.

But I was in a mood, too. I tightened my eyes and grinned, daring Angel, begging her to say something contrary to my intention so I could spend the rest of the night proving I was way more brave than she thought. It was just one of those nights when I wanted to let go and do something stupid.

But Angel wasn't having any of my attitude. She was too caught up in Jake and his asshat ways. Analog Controllers' tour was starting soon, and she hadn't been asked to go to California. Then there was his inglorious fumbling confession: those two words might as well have been tattooed on her forehead. She thought I didn't hear her mumblings under her breath. Whenever Angel was thinking really deep over something, she'd speak her thoughts aloud.

Angel sighed, gave a semblance of a wave, and disappeared down the hall. She was done for the night. I stayed on the couch, sifting the possibilities of this uneventful evening. I had no plans, nowhere to go. Nothing.

I settled for subtly shifting my weight, leaning towards Austen, who still sat on the other end. Yes, he had a girlfriend. But she wasn't there. His skin was colored like caramel. His hair was too long and he really needed to consider washing his face more often, but . . . like I said, I was bored.

"Moms' got the night off." He murmured, and I wondered if he could read my mind.

I tossed a bemused look. "Am I that predictable?"

He shook his head just as Deanna walked in from the back porch, padding quietly through the kitchen, carrying a tall glass of iced tea. It was late and she looked wide awake. Her sharp eyes examined the two bodies on the couch.

"What are you two whispering about?"

"This movie's weird," Austen complained. "I'm going to my room. I want to listen to music." As he got up, his gaze scraped past me.

Deanna snorted, "Good. Remote's mine." She fell into the newly open corner of the couch. It was the best spot, directly in front of the TV and right under the vent of the perpetually running air conditioner. There was a standing rule that whoever nabbed the coveted spot got the remote. Austen was the one who started the rule, which was never really enforced since Deanna worked all night and slept most of the day.

"You mind if I change it?" Deanna asked.

"Go ahead," I waved absently at the TV and crossed my arms. "I'm not into ironic commentaries on violence in modern society."

Deanna commenced channel surfing. It was late and there was nothing on except cable movies already in progress and re-runs of old sitcoms.

We could hear Austen's music creeping up from the hallway. I nodded my head, singing along to Cult of Personality. I loved the guitar hook. During the second chorus, I turned to Deanna.

"Is it okay if I go listen to music with Austen?"

My question was met with her easy smile. "Go ahead." Deanna stopped the clicking the remote, settling on an old episode of M.A.S.H.

I smiled, casually lifting from the sofa. "Thanks."

"And close his door, would you? I don't need that noise."

"But it's Living Colour." I reasoned, sounding slightly disagreeable, as if closing his bedroom door might impede my listening capability.

Deanna scanned the dim room and gave a wide wave towards herself, gesturing to her dark skin. "I got plenty color."

I hummed my way down the hall, glancing into Angels' room as I passed. She was wearing headphones and dragging a blanket into her closet. I stopped for a moment, waiting for her to notice me. I assumed she'd look on quizzically and then I'd give an exaggerated wink before dancing into Austen's bedroom. But that didn't happen. She just sat on the floor of her closet and curled her knees to her chest.

I continued on to Austen's room and closed the door behind me.

"What are you doing?" Austen asked, wide-eyed, from where he sat on his bed. He held an open binder on his lap. It looked like I was interrupting him trying to study.

His eyes were wired with surprise, but followed my hands as I slid them down my hips, along my thighs.

Austen's cheeks flushed. His eyes darkened. "You're pure evil."

The temperature in the room shot up, like the earth suddenly shifted closer to the sun. I almost told him he could call me Sheila if he wanted, but decided to lift my skirt up around my waist instead.

"You might even be the devil." Austen whispered, closing the binder.

I was on him before he set it on the bed side table.

+++

It was almost like I never left. I was back in the living room, my curiosity—and only my curiosity—satisfied, just as the ending credits of M.A.S.H began to roll.

"Back so soon?" Deanna smiled and patted the cushion beside her.

"Yeah, Austen's taste in music is terrible."

She chuckled. "I tried to warn you."

29

—Avery

I was not taking anything that wasn't offered.

He never loved me. Matter of fact, by the end I'm sure he hated me. Truth be told, Jake only responded to what I did; Angel was the one he pursued.

Part of me understands why she hates me, but another part is still unsure why it bothered her so much. All things considered; we were best friends. We shared everything.

+++

The night air was sticky. I'd walked for a long time and my feet were hurting almost as much as the ever-present ache in my chest. It was throbbing so badly I couldn't sleep. I had already drawn the lovely lines on my hip, but it did nothing. I was afraid I might go deeper and threw the razor blade I took from the pencil sharpener out the window, into the dirt before climbing out.

I had to get up and move. I was too restless and there was only one thing that could relax me, but I had no idea what that thing was so I just started walking.

I came upon Troy's house without meaning to. All the lights were off; none burned from inside or over the porch. Both his parents' cars were on the driveway. I imagined his sleeping house, how peaceful and cool it must feel inside.

I thought of climbing over the back gate on the side of the driveway like I used to. I almost did. I was at the top of the driveway, dragging a knee up on the hose mount to hop the fence when I heard a distinct _clinking_ noise shoot from the other side.

I cautiously looked between the slats of the wooden gate and saw two electric eyes darting back, accompanied by a low growl. The mean Rottweiler they usually kept inside was out, roaming the yard. I turned on my heel and booked down the driveway. The dog barked as I hustled over the empty road onto the sidewalk across the street and up, until Troy's house was out of sight.

I wondered if Troy did it on purpose; if he had shoved Lucille outside to keep me away from his window. The possibility was gnawing at me, making me want to punch Troy's face until it was as bloody as I felt. The anger burned so hot, I was sure the flames would consume me from the inside out if I didn't find something to distract me.

I kept on walking, sticking to the right-hand side of the road, following the sidewalk out of the neighborhood until I came to another development. One with slightly older homes in the standard and slightly varied lay-outs, though they all essentially looked the same. I recognized the track homes right away and moved along the next four blocks to make a left into the cul-de-sac.

The white passenger van was on the driveway. There were no lights on inside that I could see, but they didn't have a dog. I walked over the gravelly yard, passing the cactus with a broken wagon wheel at the base. Without pause, I passed through the unlocked side gate and into the back yard.

When I got to his window, it was wide open as if he had been waiting for me. The bent frame of the screen easily popped out. I poked my head inside.

His bed was up against the outer wall, just a few feet from the window. Set right in front of me was the nightstand. I licked my lips and climbed inside.

The first time it happened, I hadn't planned it either. As a matter of fact, I never planned anything. I pushed—I pushed knives into my arms, I pushed teacher's buttons, I pushed my luck in hundreds of ways—but I never planned to. Jake was no different.

Perched on top of the bedside table, I watched him breathe. In. Out. Slow. Shallow.

The air inside Jakes bedroom was muggy—just like outside. I hopped down from the small table, hearing the scrape of my shoes over the wooden top. There must have been gravel stuck in the treads.

Jake shot straight up, looking around the dark room with wide eyes. They landed on me. He let out loud breath. "What are you doing here?"

"Couldn't sleep," I explained, kicking my boots from my aching feet.

"So you decided to walk two and a half miles—" he stretched back and snatched the alarm clock from a shelf on his headboard—"at four-thirty-seven in the morning? And climb through my bedroom window?" He set the clock radio back behind him as REO Speedwagon began floating into the dark air. I knew the radio was on that station because that was where Angel liked it. My stomach should have turned a little, but it didn't. I was going to take it on the run just like the song said.

I shrugged. "Basically."

A chuckle growled from low in Jakes throat. "Oh, you got it bad."

I did not return his smile. I didn't say anything. I never wanted his affection, or to take anything away from Angel. That wasn't even a possibility. I did not want him for myself. I didn't want him for anything. I just needed to feel like a whole person, if only for a few minutes and even if it cost me more than I was willing to pay.

I wanted—no, I needed—a distraction and Jakes' touch had always felt like a balm to Angel. I wanted it to heal me, too.

I couldn't make out Jakes' form, but I heard him pull back the sheet he was covered with. I unzipped my pants, shoved out of them, and my tank top quickly followed.

"I'll give you a ride home." Jakes' husky voice carried from his corner in the dark.

"Don't you want me here?" I wished I'd thought to consider the possibility that he'd reject me, or at the very least, asked the question while I was still wearing clothes.

A small lamp flicked on. It was sitting on his headboard, pointing straight down, but still giving plenty of light to Jake's studious gaze. His eyes were glued to my body.

"Dumb question." He shifted in a way that showed me he had no intention of making me leave.

I didn't let myself feel the relief of acceptance; I simply took away the space between us, shoving Jake onto his back. I saw his lips part and leaned away. Jake gasped when I forced his boxers down with my feet. He sat up so we were nose to nose—pressing his lips to my shoulders and neck. He tried to cup my face, but I turned my head.

Before he could change the encounter into something resembling intimacy, I grabbed his long hands and shoved them down to my waist so he could feel the lines, so he'd know what I needed and why. He'd seen the marks enough times and he said I could count on him.

Don't cut yourself. Come to me, first. I'll do what I can."

"One of those nights, huh?" He whispered in my ear, and then took my soft flesh into his rough hands.

The second we connected, it was there—a little silence, almost a glimmer of peace. I nearly howled, so pleased to feel something more than the angry nothing.

It was helping, but I couldn't clear my mind, not with his eyes right there watching me. I tossed his hands away and leapt to the middle of the bed, facing the wall. Jake followed, wordlessly gripping my shoulders. I relaxed again, feeling him tense up, aiming to deliver the help he promised.

And then—the glorious ache. I started to cry out, but Jake set his hand over my mouth. "Shh!"

Oh yeah, the doorknob still wasn't fixed.

His fingers knotted into my hair and I groaned, begging for more. More pleasure, more pain, more everything. Anything to make me stop thinking.

"Any more and you'll go through the wall." Jake whispered into the skin of my shoulder, but kept pulling my hair because he knew I needed it.

His moves were concentrated and wonderful, shooting my aching void and the nagging beast inside it to the moon.

+++

I lay beneath him panting.

Feeling his hot breath against my back, his voice was husky. "You're crazy." His lips skimmed my shoulder before he rolled over to grab a cigarette.

"I've got school." I scrambled out of bed, grabbing at my discarded clothes.

Jakes face soured. He flicked the lighter on and drew in a puff of smoke. "I'm driving you home."

"No." I turned around in search of my shoes.

"Hey," He touched my arm and I froze.

His fingertip felt like a brick flying through a plate-glass window. I was broken and desolate all over again.

Another mistake.

Another fucking colossal mistake to add to the flurry of shit that followed me wherever I went.

Another reason for Angel to hate me.

"What is it?"

"Nothing." The word came out like a bullet, with force. "I just want to walk."

I carried my shoes with me outside, scrambling to put as much distance between me and that house as I could before I broke.

No amount of speed could carry me fast enough to outrun the emptiness that opened again, more ferocious than before.

The tears were coming.

Still, I tried to outrun them.

30

—Avery

Of course Angel decided to chase Jake out to California. Worse: she expected me to be happy about it.

She was the one leaving everything behind—except me, of course—and still stressing on how to make everything easier for Jake. It was typical Angel: so sure she wasn't worth Jakes' time and constantly trying to make-up for that bullshit. But Jake had that effect on people—he could make them do things they never thought they'd do without a second-thought.

I hated that about him.

As far as I could tell, Angels' exit strategy depended entirely on Deanna being okay with Angel skipping out on her own graduation. But Angel was determined—no matter the sacrifice—that she would make the tour and the only way that was going to happen was if she got permission to leave. The flipside was; if we followed our instinct and just ran off, someone would give chase, and Jake couldn't have that inconvenience. So that was the choice I was leaning towards.

I watched Angel busy herself; making her bed and a pallet before leaving the room to pop some popcorn. She brought back drinks and a movie and kept moving around the room, a bundle of nervous energy, sifting through the bags of clothes I brought over.

"You haven't talked to her?" It didn't sound like a question.

Angel shook her head and squeaked out, "I tried."

"Chill out. I'll tell her for you." I almost cringed, hearing the words come out of my mouth. I hadn't planned on offering.

"You would?" Her pitch went up at least two octaves; it was hope rising, taking her voice with it.

"It makes perfect sense." I reasoned, "You told Jake you'd do it. Now, he's not here for you to fall back on. That only leaves me." It was true, but I felt like a bitch for saying it.

Honestly, I didn't want to get involved. Angel never liked like the way I handled things. She thought I was too forward, too gruff or some shit. But I couldn't help myself. She'd made up her mind to go and I had no choice but to go along. She was my only family.

"He offered," she looked down at the floor. "I told him no."

"I'll do it. It's not a problem. Besides, I'm much better at speaking your mind than you are." I sighed, only half-kidding, and stared at the clock. "It's late. We should get some rest. The Foster will be off work in a few hours."

Even though I'd put my foot in it, I figured me talking to Deanna couldn't be the worst thing in the world. Worst case scenario, she's say no and we'd leave undeterred. Jake would be pissed, but that wasn't really a concern.

I was still glad I stayed over—I didn't like Angel being alone with Austen. Angel swore he was alright, but I didn't trust his greedy eyes that lingered a little too long on my friend when she wasn't looking. I wanted to be there in case he said something to her—but we'd lucked out, Austen left not long after I got here.

I was staring off into space when Angel poked me in the ribs with the rim of the popcorn bowl. The lights were off and the small television on her dresser was turned on. Opening credits were already rolling.

"Earth to Avery. What is going on?"

"Nothing—I want this trip to work out for you."

Angels' entire face lit up. She smiled so wide, I wondered how much further her skin could stretch before it ripped. "Me, too."

It felt rare to see her so deeply happy. Only Jake could push her to a pointed extreme: make her glow with delight or fade into a depressed vacuum. Lucky for him, he kept her dreamy-eyed most of the time. Just then, she was radiant and it was a sight.

"Everything will work out the way it needs to." I assured her. We'd planned on using my mom's old car. It was a total hoopty that she never drove, but would get us into Tempe.

"Thirty-nine hours," she sang.

It was as if Angels' enthusiasm poured into me, washing my frustration away. And then my feet suddenly had a mind of their own. They shot out in front of me, stomping with excitement, rattling the floor, shaking the trailer.

Angel pulled out two wide sheets of newsprint and squealed at the bands' publicity photos. Thanks to Pierce, Analog Controller had landed a two-page spread in a Phoenix weekly circular. The paper featured them as 'The Band to Watch.' The photos showed the three of them, standing shoulder to shoulder. They had these bad-ass looks on their faces that made me roll my eyes and Angel giggle, but every other girl probably thought they looked tough and sexy.

Angel nearly died a few days before when Jake showed up with his hair shaved down. He had just come back from that photo shoot with the paper and went straight to her house to show her. He told her that he knew she liked his hair longer so he only planned for a trim, but his regular barber was out. Another guy cut his hair and messed it all up. So Jake had him use the clippers. It was now only about two inches long. Jake wasn't going to let himself be photographed with a shitty haircut.

Angel said she wanted to cry, but it wasn't like Jake needed her permission. And I liked the way it looked. It made him look dangerous. Besides, the shape of his head was nice and round. No flat spots or lumps. No scars.

I let Angel rattle on over the pictures while I sat back down, losing myself to deeper thoughts. We'd been disagreeing more than usual lately—not fighting, just not sharing the same opinion on everything anymore and that was weird. It was Jakes' influence. He was changing her. So long as Angel was happy.

It was guilt that made me offer to talk to Deanna, she was a tough lady. I was determined to convince her to let Angel go. Even if it meant that she wouldn't come back.

"I'm going with you, right?" I asked, needing the reassurance.

Angel turned from the television to face me. She looked sleepy. "What?"

"I'm going with you to California, right?"

Angels' mouth curved up at the edges. "How could I go without my other half? You're my best friend and you're already eighteen."

Something about the way she said it, sent my mind into overdrive. Planning, making the adult decisions on when and where to push, crafting a way to make what needed to happen, happen. And in the midst of that, we were both so excited we had to make ourselves settle down enough to sleep.

31

—Avery

Angel was snoozing on the floor beside me, curled into a tiny ball with her mouth hanging open. A line of spittle led to a damp circle on her pillow.

The screen door slammed shut, signaling Deanna's arrival. I stumbled my way down the hall to the kitchen where Angel's foster mom was unloading groceries into the refrigerator. She smiled when she saw me peeking in from the hall. I waved.

"Good morning, Sunshine. How are you this fine day?" She was nauseatingly cheerful. It was almost unfair for me to be the one witnessing the good mood. Angel loved that stuff. She ate it up.

"Good."

"Was Austen bothering you last night?"

"No," I shook my head. "He went out after all."

Deanna extended a hand bearing a prepackaged blueberry muffin. "You want coffee? You must have been up all night."

"Why do you say that?"

"Bags." Her two fingers traced the valley below her own eyes, in gesture.

"Actually, I wanted to talk. Well, to ask you something." I set the muffin on the counter.

I'd try _nice_ first.

Deanna leaned back against the stove, arms crossed. "I'm all ears."

I was already sensing an impasse. "You know Jake's band? Well, they're playing tomorrow night in Tempe and—" Deanna was already shaking her head. "But you know how much—"

"No."

"Please! It would mean everything." I had to choose my words carefully when talking with Deanna. She was always a little too observant. A little too sharp and a lot too stubborn.

"Not a wise idea. That relationship has gotten too serious and Tempe is too far."

I lowered my voice and stepped in very close. "It's not too far. And I wasn't really _asking_ for permission."

Deanna slapped her hands on her hips, wasting no time getting all turkey-necked. "I won't have this-this attitude. What has gotten into you?"

I stepped back, composing myself. I couldn't be that way with Angels' Foster. It wouldn't end well for anyone. I thought of what Angel would say and used that as my argument. "It's just music. It's one weekend."

"There's a lot more to it than that and you know it. Money. Transportation. Supervision. Curfews. That Doctor Williams wants me to meet with me. No. There's too much going on." She reached for her purse spread across the far counter and was suddenly holding a cigarette. I looked at her, semi-surprised—I thought she'd quit.

"I started again." Deanna announced, holding the cigarette with her teeth, answering my unspoken question as she lit up and took a long drag. Her muscles relaxed as she exhaled. The smoke streamed from her nostrils like two steam pipes. "We've talked about you running off like that, and nothing has changed since the last conversation. Or has it?"

I wasn't going to let her drag me into whatever direction she thought the conversation needed to go. So I ignored her question, deciding to take a more direct approach.

"You know, the eighteen year mark isn't far away. And we have _all_ decided to go to California. Together."

"So, 'we' includes the too-old boyfriend?" She raised her head, eyes darting to the ceiling and wiped at her mouth.

I nodded. "Him and his band that will be signing a two-record deal with a label the moment they land in LA." I breathed slowly, mechanically moving forward again. "You need to let us go."

Deanna's eyes suddenly cooled. She flicked the ashes of her cigarette onto the kitchen floor. "Are you stepping to me, little girl?"

I flung my palms out, slapping them against her shoulders. Deanna stumbled back, shocked, but didn't fall.

"No." I answered, my voice firm as I glared, willing the hollowed out core I kept so carefully concealed to show, just for a moment. Deanna needed to see what I could do so she would know why she shouldn't shove back. Her eyes widened for a moment, but she didn't move.

"You've never been put out by this foster care situation." I began to explain; wondering if the path of least resistance was the lesser of two evils. I had to consider my next step. If she gave me another reason to push I would, without a doubt, but I had to think of Angel; what she'd want.

"You've always been comfortable, because you've never been asked to _do_ anything. And just so you understand, I'm _not_ asking. I'm telling you: we are going to California. We are not coming back. All you need to do is continue to be comfortable. To do nothing."

Deanna's dark skin paled as I took away the last inch between us. "In a few hours, when that bedroom is empty, your responsibilities as a foster parent are officially over and you get to keep the next few checks. It's a good deal for you."

"Austen! Austen, get out here!" Deanna called to the hallway behind her while backing towards the living room.

"He's not back from his girlfriends.'" I reminded her and could have kicked myself for offering such a glaringly normal response in the middle of this unprecedented assault. I was going for bad-ass and informative didn't fit.

Deanna took advantage of my distraction and moved into the space behind the end table at the far end of the living room. I told myself to get my head in the game and eyed her, closing the gap between us once more, effectively blocking her path to the door.

Deanna had always reminded me of a chocolate bar. She was dark, smooth and smelled sweet. She was also a little nutty sometimes so I had to watch my step.

"So help me God, I will call that case worker right now if you don't back-up."

"No."

"Now." She grabbed the cordless phone on the arm of the small couch beside her.

"You're not calling anyone." The tight balls of my fists pounded the words into my thighs.

This was not the outcome I wanted. Not that I thought convincing Deanna would be easy. When I promised to ask her about the concert, I was going to avoid temptation and reason with her, but she didn't let me even explain.

She went right for the throat and that meant I had to go further. I thought over our short exchange, trying to piece together what might have set it off. Would a simple apology set things right? Deanna was usually lenient when she felt she was in control. But, then there was still the problem of leaving.

I knew how to handle Deanna, but my way was definitely not the recourse Angel hoped for. In fact she'd totally disapprove. But I was cornered; she had the phone and made a threat.

She'd taken away my alternatives and sealed her fate with a threat.

I dropped my shoulders. "Deanna, I'm not trying to hurt you."

"Damn right." She didn't sound scared, but I examined her tight posture, her cornered positioning behind the end table and knew different.

My mind explored the possible next step. What if I kept pushing? What could Deanna really do? What would be her next step? How would I react? The base of the phone was plugged into an outlet in the kitchen. Could she punch three numbers before I got to it? What was I willing to do to keep her from making that call?

"I started hurting myself again." I spoke softly, letting my voice crack.

After a moment of quiet deliberation, Deanna's hard expression cracked, too. She softened, though there was still significant frustration in her eyes. "Things can't be like this between us. You know that."

I nodded. "I didn't mean to."

Quickly unbuttoning the topmost part of my jeans, I yanked the material down to reveal the fresh red lines.

Deanna was a person that took in kids who needed help. So by showing her, I reminded her that I was one of those kids.

There were four new lines: exactly alike, perfectly straight, and evenly spaced. Each equally painful and therapeutic.

Deanna covered her cheek with her hand. "I explained this to you. You are not able to stay in my house if you're doing these things to yourself. What happened? I thought you were talking to that doctor and working things out?"

She reached for me in the strangest way. It was cautious, maybe gentle, too, but I took a step back. Deanna tensed and stepped forward, coming around the side of the end table.

"They look real red." Her eyes strayed up to mine and then went back down to my hip. "I'm going to check for infection."

She was no longer holding the phone when she lowered herself into a squat beside me; the small bird-like girl that bled herself to find relief.

"I don't understand." Deanna ran her index finger along the skin near the outermost line. Her fingertip was warm.

"Because I like how it hurts."

As Deanna looked up, I clearly saw the shift from confusion to surprise in her face. One second she was in control; doing what she always did. She was a savior at heart and had followed that instinct, like I knew she would. At first, she had no idea what was happening, but as the lamp I snatched from the end table came down on her back, it was there: a clear flash of understanding. And then fear, as I drew back and came down again, smashing the base of the chrome table lamp on the back of her head. When she tried to turn over, I got the side of her face.

As I stood over her, catching my breath, feeling the freedom of rage and adrenaline, it was as if everything suddenly stopped: the noise, the stagnant boil of my temperament that kept me on a hair-trigger, the sharp chaos in my head, the screaming voices I was constantly holding at bay; it all stopped.

And there was this . . . quiet . . . no, I could only describe it as _peace._ A deep sense of peace that came over me and I could think clearly for the first time in my life.

Part of me said I should have been disturbed by what provided me with this revelation, but a bigger, more reasonable part of me knew that it didn't really matter, because what was done could not be taken back. And even if it could, if I had to trade the light, the complete and silent peace, the hope and euphoria it brought, there was no way I'd take it back.

No fucking way.

So what if it wasn't normal? It was the most real thing I've ever experienced in my entire life.

Maybe an hour later, I was still feeling wholly euphoric as the engine of my mother's car turned over. Never in my life had the corners of my mouth defied gravity and pulled up on their own, but there was a constant grin affixed to my face.

Angels' head still rested against the glass, a light snore escaped her mouth.

I had to let her sleep to properly explore these new sensations, to think about what I had done to receive them and how I was going to keep them.

My hands rested against the steering wheel as we jetted from Sunny Vista Trailer Park for the last time. I planned to explain everything to Angel once we were a safe distance away. Everything that needed explaining, that is.

# \+ + +

32

—Angel

My hands still grip the thin woolen arms of the chair. If they weren't cuffed, I might press one to my mouth to keep it closed. Biting my lip doesn't keep a keening cry from escaping; just like being bound doesn't stop my body from shaking.

I heard the womans' name. Quiet Man addressed her a minute ago. I need to focus on something else until I calm down, so I focus on committing her name to memory.

Tara. Tara. Tara.

Tear-a. _Tear-a . . . nother piece of my heart out._

Tara with the tight hair bun—her lips don't move, but pucker. I can't figure her out. She gives so little in the way of emotion, it's tough to decipher between surprise and disgust. She could be thinking. Or maybe she's bored.

"Take your time." Tara says, surprising me.

It takes some effort, but I gather my wits, managing to look Tara in the eye. "Have you ever been in love?"

Quiet Man leans forward in his chair. "I know we've maintained a level of informality, but you must remember this inquiry is about you. Your diagnoses and your needs."

"Darren, please. It's fine." Tara sets a hand on his forearm. She looks first to my lawyer, who nods his head, then back to me and says, "Yes."

I take a modicum of comfort. Though, no one could ever love another person as much as I loved Jake, I think she might get it. The cries threaten my throat again. "This is hard to say." It's irritating—that three-letter word, _say_ —it cheapens what I am about to disclose.

"Do you need a break?" Darren asks.

I shake my head. I have to focus, try not to contract into a fetal position. Looking to the other coats in the room, everyone is quietly staring, waiting with blank faces.

The images roll through in my mind. A reel of film, showcasing the memories of what I remember from the morning we left.

"Just like I had lost myself in the corridor at school, I don't recall anything but waking up in the car that morning. I had no idea how I got there, or how where 'there' was. We were just driving through the desert."

+++

"Wake up, Princess Bitch-Face."

My eyes fluttered open and the first thing I saw was the long road. There was static-filled music playing. The wind coming in through the half-open windows was dry and hot. Avery had the widest, dumbest grin on her face.

"Where are we?" I sat up, rubbing my watery eyes. The sun was too bright.

"We've been on the road an hour or so." Her eyes swept over the clock on the dashboard. "You were totally out of it, I thought I'd let you sleep."

I was suddenly confused, staring at the old Plymouth we were riding in. It was Avery's moms' car; white with blue-gray seats. It looked an awful lot like those unmarked cop cars we used to see outside the courthouse downtown. Avery called it the _Narc_.

" _Back_ to sleep? What do you mean? I don't remember getting in. What did Deanna say?" My chest tightened as the questions kept coming. "Did you talk to her?"

Avery turned her eyes from the road to look me over. "You really don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

"You were right there at the dining table. You and Deanna talked for a long time. Well, I did most of the talking. I told her how much you need this, Angel. You talked about Rosa and how hard things have been for you at school. Then, you started crying about Jake leaving . . . and, well, she totally bought it." She clapped her hands together, grinning. "Dude, we had her feeling so sorry for you." Avery shrugged. "What's a few lies among thieves?"

"She said I could go?"

Avery's eyes widened as she shook her head. "Well, first, she said it was a terrible idea, and she smoked a few cigarettes—I can't believe she started again—and I reminded her you're a free bird soon, either way. This is your chance at building a future where you don't become a fucking statistic like every other foster kid that's homeless when they age-out."

My heart was pounding like the bass drums in the breakdown of _One_. I imagined Lars Ulrich, if he heard, would've been proud my heart could keep time with his double kicks.

"By the end of her third cigarette, she agreed that she had to let you go. You really don't remember any of this?"

I shook my head.

"Maybe you blocked it out. She was kind of screaming when she finally gave in. Hey, have you been taking your Clozapine on time?"

I nodded, "Yeah. I take it every night before bed because it makes me so dizzy."

The static radio signal completely cut out and the car grew quiet. After a moment, Avery chuckled, "Well, shit. I guess you'll have to take my word for it. So be happy knowing that she was pissed, but being cool about all of this. Oh! And I haven't even told you the best part, yet." Her eyes were glowing as she described the reason we had gotten on the road as soon as humanly possible.

"Your Jake and his Analog Controller will be in Tempe, at their hotel, as you know. But I talked to Max and he told me they're doing an interview with a newspaper there. I heard they might be on the radio, too."

My mouth fell open. The dry desert air immediately zapped the moisture from it while the depth of what Avery said sank in, bone deep. My whole body was simultaneously seized by sadness and extreme joy. "I can't go back. I can't thank her."

"You did. And, hello? McFly?" Avery knocked on my head. "Focus. We're starting a whole new life, Angel! We are masters of our own destiny. We get to watch both auditions. We get to soak up the California sunshine."

Avery wanted to keep the conversation to the positive side. So I let her. It was easier to let myself concentrate on the fun we were about to have: meeting up with the tour, watching the shows, lying out on hot, sunny beaches and spending the rest of my life on one with Jake.

I never felt so high in my life. My spirit lifted from the bitter earth and into wild euphoria. I never wanted to come back down. I wanted to stay up, up in the air with Avery, with Jake and his music. Forever. And for the first time in my life, that seemed like a possibility.

We were in an area between radio stations—between worlds—leaving one to begin another. And I don't remember if I spoke the thought out loud or not, but somehow we ended up in a deep conversation about the power of music, which got me talking about Jake. Naturally.

"It's like, he creates words that have a power to bring me to life."

Avery eyed me, switching her gaze between me and the road. "That's so profound."

I couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic, but I hoped not, because I meant it. Avery had a way of looking in and seeing everything and her deep green eyes made me think she was being serious. I distinctly remember smiling back, feeling thankful that she chose to use her powers of persuasion for good instead of evil.

Jakes eyes were like two hazel windows that led into an old soul. In them, I saw purity. Even when they were glossed with alcohol, there was wisdom looking back from inside. Jake had the kind of eyes that drilled a deep, pointed sense of focus into you. The kind that changed your biology. He was mysterious. There was a spark in his stare. When he looked at me there was no one else. It was a mystery and a miracle that Jake could carry such surety and purity and release it so freely in his music.

My insides twisted with anticipation every time I thought about the show. Because I knew better than anybody how Analog Controller could move a room. There would be a sick mosh pit going, I just knew it. Jake liked to jump in with the crowd when the music allowed. But sometimes, he would just play and watch.

I imagined how the bodies would be packed shoulder to shoulder; the crowd moving as one when they played Killing Season _._

Underneath the night sky,

Underneath the moon,

My dead dreams come crashing down,

Littering the tombs.

But I stay alive drinking from your veins,

Hooking up while going down,

Down into my grave.

+++

The motel was a single story, two-tone brown affair with a kidney-shaped pool behind a painted iron fence at the back of the building. Commercials were blaring from the local radio station as the Narc pulled into the lot. When Avery parked, we both went for our seatbelts. She set her hand over mine.

"Wait here. I'm gonna see what the rates are."

We hadn't discussed gas money or room rates. "I have like two-hundred dollars." More than I had ever had, but still, not much considering there was no payday in sight. I would have to get a job the second I got to Los Angeles.

Avery grinned, vacating the driver's seat. "Don't worry. This one's on me."

"Via your mother," I assumed.

"I kind of stole her grocery money." She laughed at my shocked expression and turned towards the office.

In less time than I expected, Avery was back in the driver's seat handing me a single, silver key with an orange tear-drop key ring. "Room number one-six-six."

"It's around back."

We scanned the lot for the tell-tale white van, but it was nowhere to be found.

The second we romped into our single star room with en suite bath, a fifteen-by-twelve palace, perfectly suited for trailer-park royalty like me, it was a race to get into our bathing suits. I snatched a few towels and we were headed for the pool in less than five minutes. Not to swim. At least I wasn't planning on swimming. I wanted to bake in the hot sun for a while; catch a little color.

While Avery familiarized herself with the spring of the diving board, I spread out my towel and commenced with sunning my back. The dry desert air swept across my skin, soaking me with warmth. Before long, every cell in my body opened wide, keenly craving the radioactive burn—minus tan lines. I reached back and untied the string of my top, flopping the black laces down around my sides.

It was so peaceful.

+++

My eyes flew open at the first scent of a vomit inducing stench. A rank wind kicked up while I napped. I smoothed my hair behind me and spotted a dark shape. The sudden closeness kick started my heart and I flinched before the shape registered—I was beside a trash can.

Avery was lying at the edge of the pool, beside the cool blue water. Her long body looked still like the sparkling surface she aligned herself against. With one hand extended over the concrete ridge, her fingers traced the surface of the water.

Just passed the edge of the nasty trash can, I found the shape of magnificence: a white van in the parking lot, a passenger model of American make, dirty inside and out with a dented back bumper, and way too many bumper stickers. Only three spaces away. It was parked sideways because there was a small trailer hitched behind it.

My stomach flipped.

Being with Jake was like being with two people. My Jake was quiet, panther smooth when he stalked me, super-sexy, and unintentionally brutal in his honesty. Also a little awkward in the way he'd get excited sometimes and talk with his hands. He was so completely talented, it blew my mind. When I was with him, I was me. But when I glimpsed Jake, the lead vocalist for the up and coming band Analog Controller that I loved longer than I'd known him; he was loud, raucous, and his performances exuded enough energy to power a small city. It turned me giddy. Every time I saw the front-man I devolved into the mumbling fan-girl he met in a dark hallway with his face plastered on her t-shirt.

From behind the van, carrying a long duffle bag, a pouch of drumsticks and a guitar case was the very mischievous Max Sims—the tall, brown-haired cutie.

"What are they doing at a shit-bag motel like this?" Avery snickered.

"It's no five-star Inn, but they offer free continental breakfast until eleven."

We were wrapped in towels and moving towards our room, keeping to the shadows like stalkers until we reached our door.

"Do you think they're all staying together?" Avery asked and I knew who she was referring to: the auditioning guitarist.

I shrugged. Avery shrugged back, stretching around the doorframe to see what she could see.

Her declaration came in a hoarse whisper. "Angel, they're all here." She jerked my arm forward and simultaneously fell out of my way so I could see.

Out from behind the van appeared the lanky form of Andrew Greene. He was wearing his favorite Sex Pistols t-shirt and faded jeans, carrying a backpack, and just behind him, a beautiful, talented dream. The lead singer. His head was covered with a black skull cap. Just below the edge, on the sides and back, the milky skin of his head was visible under newly shorn hair.

I was drawn, like a magnet, into the open corridor. Jake was looking down, adjusting the straps of the bags he was hauling. Just as my lips began to form the first sounds of his name, Avery's hand reached from inside the room, yanking me back.

"Angel," The corner of the towel that was around my waist was now in her hands. "It's supposed to be a surprise!"

My hands rushed to my cheeks. "I don't know if I have the patience to wait until tonight."

"Think of it as letting Jake concentrate on the interviews. Besides, I like playing stalkery fan-girl and I want to have my friend to myself a little longer. Will you let me? Once he knows you're here, this tour is going to be all about you two and I'll be back to third-wheel."

Looking at her pouty face, I totally caved.

Avery rewarded my loyalty with the first shower. Probably so she didn't have to witness my meltdown when I looked through the bags she packed for me. Nothing cute or sexy; only black jeans and t-shirts. To her credit, she did pack a lot of silk underthings and my favorite lacey bra that I stole from her.

"That's my bag." Avery wrapped herself in the last dry towel. "Yours is on the other side of the bed, on the floor." She plucked a short round bottle from the counter and began moisturizing.

I was already frustrated and sweating. "What if they leave?" The contents of my duffle bag flopped onto the bed. I was sifting through the assortment of denim. Blue, black, acid washed cut-offs . . . "Yes!" My favorite pair of faded Levis; men's, with a button-fly. They were tight, but there was still room for my butt. They hung low on my hips. I slipped into them, feeling the soft material mold itself to me.

"Wear this, too." Avery extended a finger, on which rested a long black tank top. It had the bands initials stenciled on the front in red puffy paint. I liked it because the curve of the letters made my boobs look bigger.

"Thanks." I grabbed and tossed it on and got busy on hair and makeup.

Avery watched and critiqued, humming to Soundgarden blasting from the local rock station. The fact that it came in so clearly made me question the usability of the radio in the car since we were short of music nearly the whole way. We listened with hope at hearing the deejay announce anything to do with Analog Controller.

"There." I tucked a strand of hair back into the knot that was Avery's sloppy bun. We each stared into the mirror, examining one another with approval.

"You're flawless, but natural." Avery added, "Like you're not expecting to run into anyone. But he'll be happy when you do."

We both smiled.

The local radio station was still playing. I turned it up all the way after they mentioned Anemic Psycho's show at The Mystic Muse. It was the first time I heard the tour mentioned on the radio. Then again, Tempe had a bigger scene. I wanted to bust into Analog's room and find my man to tell him, but I promised my friend I'd wait.

"We drove nearly three-hundred miles to see this band." Avery mused with a wry look. "Better be worth it."

"Only a little while longer," I was practically hopping with anticipation. "I want Jake to sleep with us, in our room. Is that cool?"

"Since when have I turned down a chance at having a hot guy in my room?"

Avery waggled her eyebrows and I laughed.

# 33

—Angel

By sunset, the movie I'd been watching was rolling credits and I was out of patience. I shot up and off the bed, dusting the popcorn crumbs from my shirt. Avery was in the bathroom, changing or primping—I'm not sure which. Instead of fighting with her for the one sink, I went to the window and peeked out at the parking lot.

The van was gone.

"They left!"

Avery's head poked out from the bathroom doorway. She was simultaneously raking one brush through her hair and another over her teeth. "They . . . for . . . club. Has . . ."

I moved closer. "They went to the club?"

She spit foamy white into the motel sink. "Doors open in two hours and they have sound checks."

The thought got me even more pumped. "Sound check!" I checked my hair, brushed my teeth, and combed my top for lint. "Let's jam."

I was almost regretting the stop we made to get burgers when Avery pointed to the long, curving line on the front sidewalk. "It's getting so long."

I didn't want to wait in it, but it was a great sign!

The Narc passed, slowing into the back parking lot where there were still a few open spaces. As we pulled into the back lot, I spied the tail end of a trailer hitched to a beat up white van.

The back of the alley was lined with dumpsters, but in the far corner of the brick building, there was an area cordoned off. Smoke billowed in the night air. Around the half-fenced, circular space, a few patio chairs and a large ashtray had been tossed together to form a smokers patio. Inside, were three guys; two of medium height and build. I'd never seen them before, but the tallest one was gorgeous, lean but muscular, with a short, neat haircut and come hither eyes, even when he rolled them like someone just made a lame joke.

Avery cut the engine. "Damn. Even being on the guest list, we still have to get in line. We'd better hit it, before it gets any longer."

I was already moving: gathering all the trash that had accumulated in the car. Her mom would want us to keep it in decent condition. "Here," I tossed Avery an empty plastic bag.

"What's this for?"

"We're going to toss this stuff in the dumpster."

Avery smiled wickedly, like she could read my mind. "Because the car will smell like stale fries if we don't get this trash out."

By the time we reached the line of trash containers in the alley, Jake was gone and the other guys he'd stood with were filing into an open doorway. So no one was watching as we flung our garbage into one of the dumpsters and ducked across the alleyway to hop the short fence of the smokers' patio, undeterred.

The inside hall was black. I paused and closed my eyes, waiting for them to adjust.

"Dude, it's nasty in here." Avery complained.

Our shoes crunched over unseen filth as we made our way up the hall. The Mystic Muse looked exactly the same and somehow not at all like I remembered. Outside, it was the normal, dingy looking spot, but as Avery and me made our way around the sticky corridor, we could see where new construction had taken place. The hall was still narrow, only now there was a long, windowed wall where several rooms used to be. The room where Jake invited me to surrender myself to him was now a glass-walled enclosure. Clearly the band hang-out room had been remodeled. The closed door was labeled with a sign that read: 'We're already disturbed. Leave us the fuck alone.' Musicians were draped over sleek, modern furnishings, though none of them were members of Analog Controller. It looked as though the club had taken over an adjoining shop, too—the extra space extending the bar and VIP lounge.

When Avery and I were outside, we'd heard the signs of a sound check. It wasn't Analog, we could tell, so we weren't missing anything. Most bands, at least the ones I'd seen, would do this lame, sort of do-I-really-have-to routine as they went through their checklist. It was all dead voices check-check-checking the levels on the monitors, single blasts to individual drumheads. But when Analog did it, they'd always surprise you.

As Avery and I made our way through the winding hall, scoping out each room, we heard the deep bluesy riff from a bass ripping into Sweet Home Alabama. We came upon the backstage area just as the drums kicked in.

They were all there: Max, tapping his symbols over jumping knees that smashed the kick drums—Andrew, thumping the thick strings of his bass, rocking his head, moving his feet. They loved this; they lived and breathed for it. Jake was making a beeline from the back of the club with a mic in one hand and a plastic cup in the other. He leapt onto the stage in one swift move, set his drink on top of someone's stack and plugged in his microphone.

Then his voice was booming. His smoky, sweet voice rang, pitch perfect. "The skies are so blue . . . Up—monitor one."

Avery and I stayed hidden, watching as he navigated the stage. He looked nervous to me, but I could tell he was working through it the way he always did, swerving around the bodies, members of other bands who were still setting up their equipment, neatly navigating the many cords. Jake stopped periodically, pointing to monitors and giving hand signals to the sound techs in back as he sang and strummed. It looked like chaos to the untrained eye, but it was more like a complex orchestral arrangement. If everyone did to their job, the music would take care of itself.

An older looking man crossed the stage and spoke into Jakes ear. Jake nodded. The man walked off-stage and reappeared a minute later with a plain white electric guitar and plugged it into a large amp stack. When the guitar sounds picked up the next verse of the song, I made the connection.

"That's him?" Avery asked. "He's like . . . older than dirt."

I shook my head. "Don't be an age-ist. It might just be his clothes." I examined the baggy khaki pants and black _Velcro_ sneakers. Good-god, what was he thinking when he bought those? His shirt was alright, though. An old Zeppelin tour tee.

"He probably bought that at the show." Avery pointed at the vintage shirt.

"He's not so bad."

"I bet his parents made him shovel dinosaur shit from the yard after school." She giggled.

"He's not that old. It's the hair, that's all." The front looked fine—follicle troops nicely assembled in an orderly, clean line. It was the shiny patch on the crown that aged him—a fray had erupted within the ranks and the hair soldiers were scattering, seeking shelter in the ears. "Don't judge. I'm pulling for this guy."

Avery rolled her eyes. "So am I. I just wish old Long Tooth didn't make it so tough."

"Who let you in?" The sudden boom of the clubs' bouncer sounded behind me.

"Chill," Avery commanded, sounding so sure of herself. I kept quiet, staring at the very heavy, super sweaty, tattoo-laden hired muscle. "We're with the band."

"Which one? Anemic Psychos? Proselytes? Analog Controller or Playing Doctor?"

Avery pointed at Jake. "Ask him, he'll tell you."

In the same moment, Jake moved stage left and spotted us. His eyes lingered on me. He winked and waved before turning to direct a very thin, short man with overgrown, filthy hair not to tape the cords down yet.

The bouncer rolled his eyes and stalked off, yelling for someone to keep the damned doors closed.

The music changed and Jake began to chant, "My infectious disgrace," but his heart was not in it. Still, I listened to the melody, leaned into the pull, and let it carry me.

Souls entwined, binding you, reminding you.

I'm in your head, patiently churning, secretly burning.

Dear sick love, your berry lips are sweet decay.

You are my infectious disgrace.

Souls entwined, binding you, reminding you

To write your letters, say goodbye.

I'll tape your mouth, watch you cry.

Dear sick love, we're sinking souls.

Anchored. Going down.

We are infected with disgrace.

"Is that?" Avery asked, recognizing the tune.

I'd been singing it to myself since Jake played it for me. The new song—well, the tune that used to belong to _my_ song. But that was different now, too.

"Yeah, it sounds really different."

"Old-timer plays it well." She pressed her lips together as if surprised. "The arthritis can't be too bad."

They didn't play the whole song, and though I loved it, I was glad. It felt a little like a stranger peeking into my diary.

"I have to go to the bathroom." Avery shrank back. "They'd better be clean."

Jake approached, sitting on the stage, letting his legs dangle in front of me. "I thought I might see you soon." He opened his arms, inviting me in. He felt so soft and safe. I melted into him.

"You're really hot. You come here often? What are you doing after the show?"

I played along. "Nope, never been here. I was just gonna watch a few bands, maybe pick up a cute guy."

"My girlfriend says I'm cute."

Jakes' shy smile made me want to lick his delicious face—"She's right."—just lap up all his sexy goodness.

"I could ditch her after the show tonight. That is, if you're a sure thing. Are you opposed to random sex with strangers?" His eyebrows shot up and I could tell he was trying to look serious.

"Yes, filthy boy."

"Filthy is right." Jakes sweet smile, the one he saved for me broke through, growing wide with an uncontainable energy. "We're doin' it, baby! There's a local TV station in the back, filming."

"Jake, that's great!" I set my nose to his chest and inhaled, letting his scent wash through me.

"You want to talk to them?"

My stomach balled up. Tight. "Hell no! Me? Why?" I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

The contours of his smooth face . . . his perfect lips, sharp jaw, silken eyes . . . they smiled at me, stealing my breath. He was beautiful even without the uncontrollable hair that I loved. Its' absence made him look older. I touched the thick silky stubble on the back of his head. He felt like a velvet teddy bear.

"No reason. Just thought I'd ask. Pierce got them here."

"He's been very busy. Is he here, now?" I looked around the dim club. "I don't see any triangular fins."

Jake swung his legs unconsciously at the excitement. "Not yet, but he should be here, soon. So, Lou—the guy with the camera—" he hooked my neck and turned my body as he pointed at a short guy near the bar that appeared to be flirting with a lady bartender. "That's him. You avoid him and you'll be fine."

"How 'bout you interview me? One on one?" I teased, "We could talk in my room. It's really easy to find. It's the one you'll be sleeping in tonight. Three doors down from the rest of your band of lunatics."

Jake laughed. "You pickin' me up, Stalker?"

"How do you know I wasn't there first? Maybe you're the one stalking me."

He jumped from the stage and pulled me against him, wrapping his long arms around my head and shoulders. "Yeah, I can see myself stalking you." Every word, every syllable flittered in my chest.

Beneath the edge of his embrace, I saw Avery's feet. She said something—I couldn't understand because my ears were buried in biceps—and Jake's chest rumbled with laughter. Then he was staring me straight in the face, our noses touching. "I should get back to work." He feigned a grimace before resting his lips on mine.

My body burst into flames at his subtle, sweet touch that never lasted long enough. I threaded my fingers behind his neck, but he pulled away, looking back to the stage where a whining guitar riff plumed.

"What's his name, again?" I asked, leaning in so he could hear me.

The electric pulse of him thrummed beside me and I fought the urge to wrap myself around him, to bury my nose in his neck and draw in his scent again. There'd be time for that, later.

"Gary," he scowled.

"Not very rock and roll. How old is he?"

Jake took out the mic he'd stuffed in his back pocket. Staring at it, he answered. "We could call him 'G'? And it doesn't matter how old he is, he just needs to kill it tonight." He merely winked before walking back to the sound board.

I watched him talk to the guys back there for a few minutes before making his way back to me on his return to the stage. He smacked my butt as he passed but didn't meet my eyes, not until he was back on stage, back in the persona of the lead singer.

Looking at him, raised up the way he was, my chest swelled. "I'm your biggest fan."

Jake's sexy face cracked into a goofy grin. The hand that wasn't holding the microphone rested over his heart. "You better be." He wiped his hand on his jeans and stalked stage right to talk to Andrew.

34

—Angel

Analog Controller was playing third—second to last in a line-up of four bands. Huge improvement from the last time they played at The Mystic Muse. I wondered if that guy, Pierce, had anything to do with it, or if Analog was bumped up because he got a local TV and radio station to mention the show. Either way it was his doing. He wanted them bad.

Once the sound checks were all done, the loitering band members began to disappear. Night rolled in as the club filled up. Noise and body heat increased, wrapping me in anticipation. Avery and I stood in the back, watching the first band come and go. They were pretty good, but lingered a little too long in between songs. They'd have to work on that or the bands they played with would get ticked off. No one wants to cut their set short to keep the show running on time.

The next group was the Proselytes. They were a five man band I'd heard of, but never heard their stuff. When it came time for them to take the stage, the crowd pressed forward. I was pleasantly surprised when they started to play. They were pretty good. Gritty guitar and catchy hooks, but the drummer was definitely the star of that band. I didn't know anyone's names or the style they usually played, but when the sixth or seventh song started, it had a familiar guitar riff. The notes lingered clear and long, rippling through the joint. I was surprised that a hardcore punk band would cover an Aerosmith song—especially a slower one. They added a nice twist to it, sped it up a little, too.

The singer, a skinny and shirtless twenty-something dude sporting a black and white Mohawk and an anarchy symbol tattooed on his left pectoral, addressed the crowd. "Thank you all for coming out tonight. Give it up for Anemic Psychos!" The crowd cheered for the headlining band. "This is our last song. One we're playing by special request for a friend. Everybody, give a shout for the next band, Analog Controller! Here's Jake Haddon!"

I stopped breathing.

People cackled and clapped while others screamed. Cheesy smiles and lighters littered the crowd as the punk-infused ballad played. Small flames waved in the smoky club, as Jake took center stage. Clad in my favorite black leather pants and grey wife-beater tank top, Jake was without the usual guitar when he put a microphone to his lips and belted out the first three words of a song that bore my name.

My heart stopped. _What the hell is he doing?_

He kept singing—brilliantly, giving Steven Tyler a run for his money—as his eyes searched for something.

I glanced at Avery, whose mouth was hanging open. She shoved me forward. "Go, go, go!" We were still in the back, leaning against a pillar.

"What?"

She didn't answer.

Since I was always front and center when Jake played, I figured that was where I should be right now and began wading into the cramped crowd. Voices sang along to every word of the sweet, sad, love song, encircling me. I moved forward, looking through a parade of raised hands and small licking flames, swaying to the song.

It was all so surreal. My feet were stumbling, eyes glued to the crooning figure commanding center-stage. Then Jake found me. His face outshined the spotlight he was in. He pointed at me, mischievously grinning. A very cat meets canary type of smirk. The crowd held together in compacted layers. We were all caught in Jakes spell and as he locked his hazel eyes on me, beckoning me forward with a curling finger, the entire audience answered, forging toward the stage. Stances tightened as I snaked my way between shoulders, around pushy females and irritated guys. No one wanted to give an inch to let me by fearing they may not get it back.

Then, there was a hulking body beside me. It moved in between me and the bodies that blocked my path. The bouncer cleared the way, dividing the restless natives to the right and left. Once he reached the edge of the stage, he stepped aside and waved me forward.

Jake stood at the edge of his platform, just behind the bouncers shoulder. He leaned down, extending a hand from his high pedestal. There were anxious grabs from women and men waving for him, trying to wriggle into his grasp, but he shoved them back and took my hand. In between the monitors on either side of the narrow space, I had no idea how to navigate my way up with only one free hand and no steps.

"Without your love—" Jake sang and gestured to the crowd, cupping one ear as if he were hard of hearing.

Then the sounds around me changed. The strength of the melody flew out from the stage, lassoing the audience, possessing them. They were caught up in an anthem, evoked to chanting. There were shouts and whistles mingled with the sing-along. I caught people that looked too cool to know the words singing at the tops of their lungs. At one point, the music stopped and the crowd kept going.

Jake had synchronized a room full of strangers with a wave of his hand. Amazing.

Two big palms grabbed me and my feet lost the floor. Suddenly, I was on the stage, standing in front of Jake. I wanted to turn and catch his view, to face the crowd I had just waded through and see what he did, but couldn't bring myself to move. I was planted in place by the feel of all knowing eyes burning into my back.

Jake locked me in that glowing gaze of his and took my left hand. He gave me a wink and dropped to his knees. My free palm flew to my mouth, covering my shock. He spoke into the microphone as the crowd continued to serenade us.

"Baby, all I've got are my dreams and my last name." His voice came from everywhere. "I'd like nothing more than to share them both with you."

The collective coos from the club roared as Jake set his microphone down and produced a ring. In the palm of his open hand—it was a simple golden band, so lovely it broke my heart.

"You're proposing?" I finally managed to speak through the tether on my throat. My mind was racing a million different directions. _Did he really want me for life?_

He gave me a heart-melting grin; lopsided and sweet. "Did you honestly think I would take you all the way to California just to live in sin?"

The crowd was louder. They were still chanting but I couldn't tell what they were saying. It didn't sound like lyrics anymore, but I couldn't afford to listen. I was stifled by this sudden turn of events. Jake was proposing: he wanted to marry me. And I knew, deep in my gut, that I wanted the same thing. But did I want it at seventeen?

The music started up again and Jakes smile grew intense while I pondered.

_What a question to ask!_ I thought. Because I had barely finished high school. I was in the midst of leaving everything I had ever known and following this boy to a strange place, a different state—a whole other world—in hopes of standing beside him, having the mere privilege of watching his dreams come true. And with this question, Jake was proving that he wanted me to do much more than watch. He wanted me to be a part of it, to participate, to make a new start together. To that honored request, I could only give one answer.

I laughed into my hand and sank to my knees, leveling the field.

Jake took up the microphone again and spoke into it so everyone could hear. "What do you say, baby? Will you have me?"

I leaned towards him and the mic. "Hell yes!"

My voice echoed for half a moment before everything broke into chaos. Jake took me with him as he got to his feet holding me so hard, I almost couldn't breathe. He shouted into my ear as the decibel level in the club shot up. Suddenly there were people crowding the stage. Music played much louder now as the band looped back into the breakdown.

Black And White Mohawk was singing now. "You're the reason I live, you're the reason I die . . ."

Clothes were flying. The crowd was nuts. Plastic cups and bottles littered everywhere around us.

Dazed, I was passed from Andrew to Max, to every member of the Proselytes and who knows how many others. Everyone was hugging me and punching Jake, screaming their expletives and well-wishes over the noise before doing a stage dive into the crazy-ass crowd. I searched for Avery as I was passed from this person to that one, but didn't see her anywhere.

By the time Jake got back to me, his shoulders and biceps were covered in red welts. But he had a huge smile and open arms that I immediately leapt into.

We kissed through the riotous racket of the audience and then were suddenly in the confines of a small room just off-stage that was meant for the bands to wait in while they were introduced. It was the room where Max had warmed up. I could see his drum pads set up on a small table in one corner beside a case of water bottles.

"Were you surprised?" Jakes' eyes danced. His hands rested on the bare skin just above my jeans, holding me as I snaked my legs around his waist. He hunched low and shoved me against the wall beside a second door that led out to the hallway behind the stage, pinning with his hips. "You aim to marry me, Angel?"

"I can't believe you did that!" My breathless laugh gave way to gasps when he pressed his lips to my neck. "Yes, Jake. I want you. Forever."

He growled, smashing his body against me so hard it almost hurt. "And I'm aching now, because we've only got ten minutes and no place to go."

I giggled again, overflowing with joy.

"No locks on these damned doors." His fingers knotted into my hair, scratching my scalp, making me look at him. His eyes were blazing. Molten desire.

I grabbed his red, bare shoulders and kissed each one. "Do they hurt?"

"No," He cupped my face and pecked my forehead. "I'll keep you happy, Angel."

The clouded look in his eyes made my heart prance. "Can I see my ring?"

Jake shook his head, "Oh, yeah." He pulled away, letting my feet rest on the ground for the first time since we left the stage. "We have a day off in Phoenix and can get it sized there."

I kept my mouth shut tight when Jake slipped the band onto my finger. It was beautifully simple and way too big. Even for my thumb.

"This is the ring my grandfather gave to my grandmother. She had fat fingers, but they were married for sixty years, Angel."

"Good omen." I choked on the words.

Jake tucked an arm around me and eased my chin up, whispering. "My Angel, my Angel. I love to sing your name. I'll sing it my whole life."

My insides liquefied with that smoldering poetry. His body radiated a heat that lit me on fire. The kiss that followed was pure, undiluted passion. His soft lips savored mine, spinning me, stretching time, encasing me in the weightless flames of his scorching tongue, burning me up and taking me down into the deepest depths of love. Every cell in my body was filled with worship and desire for him as he bit into my bottom lip.

His hand gripped my throat in that way he had, shooting a grievous need for him deep into my belly. I moaned into his mouth when his fingers grazed the skin of my back. I reached around him and gripped his leather-clad behind. He was just describing the scandalous things he planned to do to me when a short rap on the door I was pressed against interrupted us. I felt it disappear as it opened. Jake kept me pulled into his chest while discreetly adjusting himself.

I was surprised to see Max stepping inside the small room, looking between Jake and me with a nervous smirk. He'd actually knocked. "Hate to interrupt—" Jake guffawed at that—"but it's almost time, assholes."

Andrew fell in behind him, bowing in an uncharacteristic, genial way. "Please accept my most heartfelt congratulations, assholes."

Jake and me both smiled, but said nothing. I slid the huge ring off and pressed it into Jakes palm. His forehead lined with concern when he looked at it.

"So I don't lose it," I explained and he relaxed.

He looked nervous again as he stared out at the door to the stage.

"As soon as we're done tonight, you both should go." Max muttered. "We'll load the stuff on our own."

Jake slapped him on the back. "I don't know. Can I trust you assholes not to lose my shit?"

"We'll get Gary to help." Andrew announced, looking behind me where old Long Tooth himself was ambling in. He smelled like beer. "You won't lose Jakes' shit, will you, Gary?"

"Only if he asks me to; for insurance purposes." Gary smirked, looking at me and Jake. "That was priceless. I thought you were gonna faint, you looked so damn surprised."

"I was." My face cracked into a beaming smile.

"I could never do anything like that." Gary bellowed.

His volume was sheer and bracing inside what was a quiet space. The band was usually somber, spending their last preshow moments reflecting on their goals for that nights' performance. Even though we'd been talking, every ones voices were subdued. The noise was outside. It was Jake's ritual, but that night he didn't seem to mind Gary's jovial air.

"Man," Gary looked quizzically at Jake, "What if she said 'no'?"

_As if there was any danger of that,_ I thought, shaking my head.

Jake answered, "That was the whole point. No way she'd deny me in front of a crowd."

Gary nodded, thoughtfully, "Entrapment. Smart move," he turned to wield his loud manner at Max, inquiring about merchandise.

Jake held me tighter, leaning in to whisper. "You know why I picked that song?"

"The name?" I whispered back.

I felt his smile against my cheek. "That song was playing the night I found you again. _Angel_ was coming through the speakers. Angel was staring at my package." He chuckled when I gasped. "Don't you remember?"

I leaned back, looking down at his body and taking in the sight: his taut torso beneath the ribbed cotton of his tank top, those sexy leather pants that hung on hips in just the right way. "I've always loved those pants."

His breath tickled my ear. "You had that shitty band picture on your shirt, but my face was right over heart. I knew then, it was all mine."

I turned my head up and pecked his cheek. How did he know that as I stood there in the hall that night, watching him walk away, that I had secretly given him my heart? "You have it always, Jake."

The music from the clubs speakers cut-out. That was my cue. I took Jakes' hands in mine and kissed them, muttering my preshow blessing. "Kick their asses."

Jake pressed a palm to my cheek and moved closer. The obvious hunger in his gaze had me pressing my thighs together, aching over how much fun we could have with only ten more minutes and a bathroom stall. Jake closed his eyes and granted me one last, knee-buckling kiss. Everyone was watching, but they said nothing. Even Gary must have known better than to screw around right before hitting the stage.

After quietly showing myself out, I checked the hallway and bathroom before making my way back to the front, anxiously searching for Avery. It wouldn't be long before Analog's set started and I needed to be up front. A few people—girls mostly but some dudes, too—nodded and waived and mouthed more well-wishes as I made my way through the crowd. I could feel the heat in my cheeks rising with every blessing the strangers dispensed. I was so damn proud.

I found Avery waiting up front with a huge smile and a _Wet Floor_ sign propped near her feet. She was saving my spot at front row, center stage, directly in front of Jakes' mic stand. When I got to her, she tapped the security guard nearby and he removed the propped up sign, making room for me.

"How does it feel Misses Analog Controller—I mean Misses Haddon?" Her hug was warm and fierce. "It's really coming together for you." When she pulled away her eyes were wet. "Congrats."

She jerked her head, gesturing, "I better go punch a few bitches." She headed to the crowded spot right in front of Andrew like she always did. No punching was necessary; the girls already standing there moved aside.

I planted my feet, preparing for the onslaught of the crowd that looked to have doubled in size since the last band played. A club staffer performed the final ritual set-up of Analog's last piece of equipment; taping up the set-lists. The houselights dimmed to black as the MC-slash-club manager announced the band.

I heard the close shuffle of feet over the excited crowd that suddenly pushed from behind me and leaned into the pressure.

The clicking count of Max's drumsticks further excited the throng. With the ring of the first note, the drums kicked in, the bass thumped, and lights flashed on. Shouts blasted like rapid gun fire. Fists went up, pumping the air.

Jake's long, melodic enthusiasm was ringing above it all. " _Yeahhhh . . ._ " he began. "This one's for my mother _._ "

I couldn't stop my bursting laughter. He was so bad—in the very best way. Jake looked down at me, gave a quick wink and tossed a foot on top of the monitor at his feet, leaning out, addressing the crowd with his sarcastic song about lies and revenge.

I felt the building of the crowd behind me, pushing with renewed ferocity, inching me to the very edge of the stage as Jake played and sang. A glance back proved what I suspected. Before the first chorus, the mosh pit was going, bigger and badder than before. I turned my attention back to the stage, touching Jake's leather-clad legs when he leaned within reach.

I sang along to every song and loved every second. It is what the stuff of sonnets, like he said. It was life and love and fun. It was Jake doing what he was born to do and I couldn't take my eyes off him.

My magician cast a powerful spell.

+++

After the set, when Jake made his way out to mingle amongst the common-folk, I did my duty and stayed back. Though I wanted nothing more than to tackle him and drag him back to my room, I had to let the wannabe groupies—that night most of them looked old enough to be his mother—have their fun trying to charm him. But Jake was the one who did the charming. He smiled and signed shirts, EP's and flyers, a few arms, a boob. It was crazy.

I watched him talk with the guy from the TV station. It was a short interview. The reporter congratulated him on his engagement and then jumped into questions about the changing music scene and asked Jakes' opinion on the new direction of Rock and Roll. There were so many different types of sounds converging in 1994. New genres were birthed, and Analog Controller seemed at the tip of it with their mingling of halted and melodic vocals poured over hard rock and punk influences. When the spotlight shut off, they asked Jake to spell out the name of the band and the venue where they would be playing the next night. The edited interview would air during the eleven o'clock segment.

Once the reporter left, Jake introduced me to Pierce, who didn't look at all like I thought he would. For one, his teeth weren't pointed. They were bleached an unnatural white. Second, he was much younger than I'd assumed. With a name like Pierce, I imagined a balding, stuffed suit, but he had spiky blond hair and Bermuda shorts. He asked me my name and where I was from, and before I even answered, he launched into a technical critique of the bands performance, telling Jake he should consider playing a different guitar called an LTD, which lost me right away. I loved watching Jake talk, though. And the way he listened; with his eyebrows slightly crinkled and his full lips resting in a subtle pucker. He was so engaged in everything—a sponge wanting to soak up as much as he could whenever possible. As he conversed with Pierce, more people approached, interrupting and dragging his attention away. Soon Pierce was leaving, but the crowd around the band—namely Jake—grew. He talked to each person, taking their attentive questions and familiar postures in stride, though I knew he didn't like when strangers just threw their arms around him. But it was his element; he shined so bright inside it.

To pass the time, I made my way over to the booth where the merchandise was being sold. Gary was there, peddling merch, taking cash for tee shirts and passing out free stickers to any girl he thought was cute.

Andrew, who had followed me over, eyed him. "You know those cost a dollar each just to print."

Gary, whose performance I completely forgot to watch, looked confidently back. "It's free advertising. Besides, I'm keeping track. I'll pay for'em."

As Gary turned back to the line, Andrew found me, setting his sight on a spot next to me. He was staring at Avery who had seemingly appeared from nowhere. She grinned at me, smelling of sweet smoke.

As Andrew walked over, Avery stepped in front of me, meeting him half way.

He spoke right into her ear. Most of what I caught was mumbles, but I clearly heard Andrew say, "I'm going to tell him."

Avery scoffed, "I should care because . . . ?"

Andrew shook his head and made a slash across his throat with his thumb. The message was clear: a no-vote for poor Gary. My stomach plunged to my feet, taking my confidence with it. That chick was already in the lead and she hadn't even played yet.

Those poisonous words crept back in.

" _Not yet."_

+++

It was so late by the time Jake was done talking with all the new fans that we all just headed back to the motel together.

Avery decided to take advantage of the empty pool and the warm air, heading out for a night swim. I was going to go with her, but Jake asked me to stay while the band talked about Gary's audition. He'd left a little while after Max demanded that he stop giving away merchandise. He paid them, at cost, for the stickers, and this upset both Andrew and Max because every band knows that merchandise is where you make your money. Club owners don't always pay up at the end of the night, but fans do. They want the souvenir concert tee and wrist band or sticker for their binder. And that night, they'd made a killing—but that was not the point. The point was that you don't give merch away unless you can afford to and Analog Controller could not.

We were in a circle. Max and Andrew sat in the only two chairs at the small table near the window and Jake and I were sitting together on the side of the bed to face them. I pulled my legs under me, settling in to listen though I knew what was going to happen.

"Gary's out." Max stated, swirling an open bottle over his lap. "You don't walk into a conditional situation and start making decisions without consulting the band."

Jake nodded, but said nothing.

"Sorry to say it, man, but I agree." Andrew looked to Jake, whose hand was moving along my thigh. "I know you don't want a girl in this and I get that. But he was wrong, dude. So, it's either Angelica or you keep doing what you've been doing."

Jake turned to look at me. He took a deep breath. "What did you think of the show?"

"It was fantastic. But you—you're vocals were so much stronger. It surprised me. I didn't realize how much you were holding back to play lead."

"Yeah, man, I got a lot of comments from other bands, asking if you were taking voice lessons." Max chuckled. Andrew joined him.

"Potheads" Jake almost smiled. "I wasn't restrained. Playing rhythm was easy. I could focus on singing."

"You focused the shit out of that crowd." Andrew saluted with his water bottle.

Jake sighed. "Basically, what I'm hearing is that if Angelica can play half as good live as she did in rehearsal, she's in?"

"She's in." Andrew repeated.

"And if she doesn't give our shit away." Max added.

+++

I held Jakes' hand on the way to my room. He was quiet, his shoulders set noticeably lower than a few minutes ago. Once we were inside, he coolly sat on the bed, holding his head.

"You're taking this awfully well." The sarcasm was supposed to distract him, but he just sat there.

"Do you ever get that feeling like something is about to happen?"

"No. I'm always surprised." I thought he'd see the irony and laugh, but he stayed quiet. When Jake raised his head, I was shocked by the stress in his face. "You just had one of your biggest shows ever. You're signing with a record label . . . What is going on with you?"

"I've had this knot in my gut for the past month and I can't figure it out."

"It's probably nerves about all the changes that are happening. It's nothing."

"Or maybe it's everything."

I took a deep breath. The mood should have been buoyant. Happy. But Jake was a ball of stress. Those two words passed through my mind again and I felt frustration cover me like a blanket.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know . . ." He looked down.

I took my hand from his knee and sat back, irritated. "You know, but maybe you don't want to say it. You've been stressing since you told me about that girl. What I don't get is why?" Those two words played on repeat in my head. _'Not yet . . . Not yet . . . Not yet.'_

He nodded, picking at a string on the motel bed spread. I waited for him to say something to break the silence that felt very intense. He just kept pulling at the threads of the blanket. It wasn't like Jake to be so quiet. Not with me. We talked about everything. And that silence he was emitting felt like it spoke volumes, like he was trying to tell me something he couldn't say, something I didn't want to hear.

" _Not yet."_

I huffed, "Do you want my permission to fuck her?"

His head snapped up. I saw a second of outright shock before his eyes blazed. "What the hell kind of thing is that to say to me?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" I was just as shocked. I'd never spoken to him like that before. And asking the question out loud made me realize how ridiculous it sounded, but there was no other explanation that I could see.

He grabbed my hand from my lap and pulled it towards him. "I just asked you to marry me and you're jealous? Over somebody you've never even met?"

I had to scoot closer to keep from falling over. "I don't know why I said it. This isn't supposed to be about me."

He kept pulling until he had my hand behind his back. I was cinched to his side by his unrelenting grip. "Sit in my lap." He ordered.

I climbed up on his legs.

"Facing me." He directed, and released my hand so I could turn to straddle him.

Jake's flat eyes stared up at me. "Now, kiss me."

I leaned down. He didn't move at all, didn't lean in or close his eyes. He just let me plant a soft peck on his stilled mouth. I retracted, my heart pounding at his non-response.

He sighed, taking a long blink, setting his hands at my neck. There was a challenge in his eyes when he opened them. "That's not doing it for me."

I felt tears pricking at the backs of my eyes and blinked, focusing on the way Jakes gaze was suddenly blazing with the dark fire I loved. My heartbeat slowed and kicked up again, not with fear or irritation, but with desire. The man had me thrumming on all cylinders with a simple look.

"What do you want?"

One side of his mouth quirked up, though his expression remained serious. "The world is full of beautiful girls, Angel. California is said to have the most. I've heard the songs, so I know."

He tilted his head. "It's not easy to be the one waiting for me to give you the attention you deserve. I'm sorry you have to do that." He palmed my cheek. "But that is part of what I do and I _need_ you to understand. None of those girls matter to me. You're my beauty, my everything, my soon-to-be wife. So fucking act like it." He smacked my backside. "That's what I want."

35

—Angel

Clanging metal echoes off the walls of my cell as the door closes. The mattress at my back is so thin; it's feels as if I'm lying directly on the unforgiving metal frame. The sides of my throat stick on each swallow. Today's session has left it parched and sore.

When my dinner is delivered, I thank the guard on the other side of the small window. I'm thinking of Avery—probably sitting in a corner somewhere, curled up and quiet, resolutely present even though I can't see her—as I walk over to the open bathroom area to shovel the shit they call food into the toilet and flush.

I don't want to think about food. I want to stay inside that room with Jake, holding him. But there is no way I am going to give up that night. I'll tell them anything else. Everything. Except my last good night.

I can hear his soft, sweet voice in my ears, feel his touch.

+++

"So fucking act like it." Jake smacked my backside. "That's what I want."

The room was quiet as I contemplated. What was Jake trying to tell me? He wasn't threatening to dump me for another woman. He didn't even mention that other guitarist chick.

I was the one who thought about her all the time. I was the one who brought her up and made him angry. Jake wasn't trying to segue into asking for a threesome, or any other stupid demeaning thing like I always feared he would. So what was he trying to tell me? What was I doing wrong?

"Angel," he spoke softer, kneading my stinging rump. "I think we can both concede that you're a complex woman. I've never pretended to fully understand you, but you have always understood me, baby. I need you to do that for me, right now. Understand that what I'm feeling isn't about anyone but me, and give me what I need. Please."

I looked into his wide hazel eyes and something clicked. Jake was commanding me to have confidence in him and his love for me. He was telling me to believe in myself and in us, because he couldn't always be the one to do it. He needed me to rise up and be for him what he was for me: solace, a place to rest.

Jakes' life—his choices—they were exhausting. Being in his band meant he was constantly chasing—whether it was a song, a moment, a performance, or an audience—he was actively seeking to make his dreams a reality. And Jake was the one who chased me most of the time. He loved doing it, it was in his nature, but he needed me to chase him, too. The second I got that . . . Jake was Houdini, again. He made the insecurity disappear and brought out that feeling of value; the one that would help me take control and make love to him until the bad feelings went away, until he forgot that he was ever worried about the future.

He wanted me to make him forget everything but us and he did not want to ask me for it. He wanted me to put myself in his position, to understand what he needed, and react.

I took his face in my hands and claimed his mouth, tasting him with renewed fervor. His hands gripped tightly around my waist as my fingers traced the planes of his chest. He groaned when my fingernails scratched his back and shoulders underneath his plain cotton shirt.

I peeled my top off. Next was his. I leaned back on his knees and unbuttoned his jeans, but didn't go further. Instead, I stood, staring at him as I undressed. Jake did the same, his eyes never leaving mine.

Pushing him back down to the bed, I took his hands and stretched them out at his sides, then, began trailing my lips from his palm, up along his arm, to his wonderful strong shoulder. I went for his neck, suckling at his hot skin. Jake held my head and leaned his back. When I sat up to examine my handy work, a large red love bite marked his creamy skin.

Jakes' eyes were dancing as he sat up, placing a hand on either side of my face. "'I wish I was Adam. Then you'd be my Eve. And you would know it's true when I say you were made for me.' Do you get it?"

My chest filled with his sweetness. Heat blossomed in my belly. He was reciting the last lines from my song. And the way he said it, I knew he really felt that way.

"Jake. You're Shakespeare."

He rolled his eyes, but those lips of his came down with righteous enthusiasm. He scraped his palms over me, digging his fingers into my hips. He lifted me from his lap and laid me down on my back. His mouth was soft, moving languidly over me; making me want to scream and cry, and thank him for loving me. Or for breathing. His existence made the world a better place.

The delicious feeling of being everything to the man I loved danced inside my chest. I reached for him. He pulled me up from the bed until I was on back his lap. Cocooning me in his embrace, his tongue parted my lips; dancing against mine and filling my mouth the same way his body filled mine.

He spoke into my mouth as we kissed; sweet poetry and promises. I closed my eyes, focusing on the feeling of being devoured, being consumed by him.

His husky voice was in my ear. "Say it again. Say 'yes'."

It was an exquisite feeling, making love with Jake. So intense and encompassing. I did as he commanded, repeated everything he told me to. I was his. Body and soul. And he was mine. We kissed sweetly, reverently, holding each other in the most intimate way.

He opened his shining hazel eyes. "Angel. I love you."

The look on his face was so intense, it made the tight coils of my desire break. Shredding and shattering me into a thousand glorious pieces. Jake watched me come apart and then wrapped his arms tighter around me, uttering my name.

Once we caught our breath, I turned on the television in time to catch the two a.m. repeat of the eleven o'clock news. Jake was quiet and red-faced through the three-minute edited interview they aired, but I was so proud. They mentioned his proposal but thankfully didn't air any of it. And then, we made love some more.

As far as either of us knew, it was just one of the thousands of nights we would have together. We were sure our future was just beginning.

# \+ + +

36

—Avery

I am curled up in the corner of my cell: knees tucked up into my chest, my arms curled around them, trying to hold myself together, like always.

I think the problem was that everything was changing too fast. When we left that morning, I had never felt so alive, so free, so at peace, but by that same night, I could hardly catch my breath. I should have been content with leaving my screwed up life behind. I should have been happy standing beside Angel as the one thing she had in her life finally came together.

But I couldn't.

+++

The bathrooms in the Mystic Muse were perpetually disgusting but I'd had like three sodas. I had to wait for someone else to open the door to let me out because I didn't want to risk contact with the handle.

When a fat chick barreled in with a spray bottle and a push broom, I slunk out into the hall opposite the bar. The whole club smelled like beer with subtle whiffs of green smoke and urine. It seemed strongest near the trash can that'd been left outside the ladies room. It smelled like someone pissed in it.

As I wandered around, people were pouring in. The night looked promising.

When the first band was introduced, Jake left his spot near the front, pushing past the growing crowd and I noticed how so few people recognized the greatness passing by. I knew that, in a few years, when him and the band were well-known, the clueless lot that let him through might recall that they once saw Analog Controller perform at a local club, but none would recall the tall, hot guy with the boyish features currently pressing into the crowd against traffic, repeating, "excuse me," in an oddly polite way.

I loved Analog Controller. But unlike Angel, the guys in the band never seemed anything other than normal to me. I didn't get why making music would suddenly elevate a person inside the minds of the people that heard them. Was a persons' capability so closely entwined to their value as people? If that was the case, I was in trouble because I could barely breathe most days. The guys did make great music, but they were still people.

Angel was leaning against one of the pillars in back and I kept an eye on her, but wanted to see where Jake was rushing off to. As I pushed through a group of guys, one of them grabbed my ass and squeezed. Normally, something like that would have me pivoting to sucker punch the asshole, but I felt the constant ice in my chest melt for a second and it threw me off. Took me a second longer to mull over what should happen next.

Who the hell did _whoever_ think he was, touching me like he knew me? What gave him the fucking right to familiarize himself with _my_ body? The black inside me wanted to boil over, but I took a deep breath, reminding myself to stay in control. To be careful.

I spun back around, catching the drummer and bassist from Anemic Psychos laughing at me. Morons, that's what they looked like, with their nicotine stained teeth and chain wallets. I wanted to punch them both before killing one to force-feed his remains to the other. I'd seen them at sound check, but didn't know their names. They were both tall and lean, both smiling at their probing conquest. The fucking egos were twice the size of the puny Indie label they were on.

"Which one?" I pointed at them each in turn.

The drummer pointed at the bassist, while the bassist pointed at the drummer. Neither spoke.

"That's the way you want it?" I stepped in between them, threw both my hands out, and simultaneously grabbed both their scrawny asses, kneading a shocked musicians' cheek on each side of me. The drummer jumped, belting out a surprised laugh, but the bass player leaned into me.

_Yeah, he's the one_ , I thought, and looked him square in the eyes. "Don't touch me. Ever. Again."

When I turned back towards the stage, Andrew was watching me. Well, gaping might be a better description. I winked at him and walked back to the pillar where Angel was watching on the opening act.

Amid my little foray, I'd lost track of Jake, but he'd turn up sooner or later. I took the time to talk myself down. Grab-assing was par for the course at shows like this. Both those idiots smelled like booze, too. I wanted to dismiss it and set my mind on the show I was supposed to be enjoying instead of the shitheads trying to ruin it for me.

The second band, Proselytes, took the stage and it was a major improvement over Playing Doctor. As I listened, I noticed Jake peeking from a doorway just off stage. Studying him, I saw something mischievous in his eyes. That look . . . it meant he was planning something. It had to be something for Angel.

For some reason that I could not unearth, that upset me. Being left out was nothing new, actually it was standard procedure. But what was new to me was who that feeling was being directed at. My girl was getting what she wanted and I was happy for her. Wasn't I? And why did her fulfillment make me feel so angry with Jake?

From the beginning, I did not think Angel's life would change because of him. I had never seen a relationship bloom before. I didn't know what the buds looked like. I thought their little encounter would start hot and fizzle fast; for whatever reason it didn't.

Jake wasn't exactly some douche trying to get Angel to give it up under the bleachers. I knew what he did with me played no part in how he felt for her. He never had to say it. It was obvious. It didn't bother me. Not at all. I knew I was not the 'take home to mom' type of girl. Angel was. And those two had this . . . connection, like this visible thread that seemed to tie their souls together when they locked eyes. It was nauseating to watch half the time, but seeing the way she smiled made it worth the pukey-burps.

I'd made a habit of disappearing when Jake came around Angel. So it was no different when Jake walked onto the stage during the second performance. I always came up with an excuse—I had to go to the bathroom or needed some air, or a smoke, or whatever would fit in the moment. Angel never noticed the excuses. She never noticed anything but Jake.

But then he sang for her. Sank to his knees for her. Poured his heart out for her in front of a room full of rowdy, drunken strangers as they openly made fun of him.

Angel was the third person to fall to her knees. First it was Jake, when he asked his question. And then it was my turn. I couldn't believe he was asking. And then she said yes! She sank to her knees and said _yes_. What was he thinking? She was seventeen years old. Didn't she want to continue with school? We grew up watching the shit that happened to girls that married too young and hadn't we decided that an education and independence was more important? Weren't we supposed to get a place together in California? Then, she said _yes._ To him! And that made me realize that my answers were _no_. _Hell no._

After the shock had time to sink in, I went and had a nice conversation with my reflection in the bathroom mirror; reminded myself that _I_ loved Angel and wanted her to be happy, that the whole trek out to the land of sunshine was _for her_.

Jake gave her the _forever_ kind of memories, the kind she'd look back on and smile, long after they broke up—which was inevitable and unmentionable as far as my best friend was concerned. I didn't want to take that connection away from my friend—but also I really didn't want to look at Jake when he was looking at Angel.

Jake's proposal surprised the hell out of her. He left her no choice, really. Angel would never humiliate Jake by turning him down in front of an audience. It seemed that Jake had no problem with putting her in that position, though. Did he ever ask her what she wanted? Did he care? Being Mrs. Haddon had never been part of Angel's dreams. She would have talked about it with me, otherwise. Even though there were things that I did not tell Angel about my life, she told me everything. She loved Jake—that was obvious—but that love wasn't supposed to lead to marriage. What a selfish asshole.

This was wrong, but I couldn't jump into the fight and take over like I usually did. This was Jake. Angel had never been so entangled with someone else, aside from me. And she was such shit at protecting herself, which was why I had to do it for her.

I'd have to watch for her. I'd have to do my duty as her friend, and decipher how Angel really felt. If she needed me to step in I would, but if she didn't I'd have to bide my time. Watch and wait. No pushing until the time was right.

I put on the happy face and left the bathroom. Made my way to the front and held her spot. I felt the conviction of my choice as I embraced her. Warmth flooded through me and into my eyes as I took in the burning smile on her face. She was floating, which told me that the weight of her decision had yet to sink in.

And then I disappeared to my place in front of Andrew. I watched the show—which was awesome. Gary may have looked too old, but had the energy of a young guy. He had the transitions down. He was really good. Played every song exactly like he was supposed to, took the stress off of Jake, too, and he sounded better than ever.

But then, after the show, Gary fucked up. He was giving out band stickers. I admired his tenacity, and knew he was right; it was good advertising. People were going to put those stickers on their bumpers or car windows or binders, and other people would see them and wonder, _"Who is Analog Controller?"_

I wanted to say something, but Andrew was eyeing me. He was always watching. He walked away from Gary and towards me. "I saw what you did. That was fucked up. And it wasn't the first time."

I set my lips as close to his ear as I could without touching. "Are you jealous?"

"I'm telling him."

"Who, Jake? Go ahead." I wasn't sure what he was referring to but refused to ask. Jake had no claim on me and Andrew had no right. "I should care because . . . ?"

+++

We'd been back at the motel for a while. I was done swimming, but Angel hadn't given me the signal that she was done with Jake—she was supposed to open the window—so I had to wait.

Damn, Angel had it so bad for him. It worried me because that girl worked herself up over everything. Perfect example: that first show at The Mystic Muse, when those two first hooked up. Jake showed some interest and a little kindness; Angel overreacted and slept with him. He asked for marriage and she couldn't wait to drop her life and leave school.

I made mistakes, too. For one, I forgot to remember that Angel isn't normal. That sounds bad. She was normal—yeah, Angel totally was. But also, well, she kind of wasn't. Really, never has been. She's always been kind of needy and dependant. Not that that's a bad thing—so long as she's careful about who she leans on. I didn't say the right things when Angel told me Jake wanted to bang her. I pushed my friend into it, figuring a good rub down might do her some good. The way Jake carried himself I knew he'd be good. I stood in the background and watched Angel do her thing because I loved her more than anyone. I loved her too-tender heart and super-thin skin that sometimes seemed stretched over a vacuum. Angel was too vulnerable and it sucked people in. They sensed how ready and capable she was of loving so completely that she completely blinded herself to any of their faults. People like Jake were totally not worthy of her level of commitment. I didn't deserve it either, but at least I was looking out for her best interests. Feeling responsible for her like I do made it necessary to take a step back when Angel was around Jake. I didn't want to control her, but the more I thought over the naïve choices she was making, the more I realized I couldn't just watch.

I needed to know what was going on inside that room. Did they talk? It seemed that Jake was acting strange since his surprise at the concert. Maybe Angel told him she'd changed her mind. Why else would they look so weighed down when they walked from the bands motel room back to the one I wanted to be inside of right now?

I sat by the pool in the dark, passing my fingers over the water, watching the ripples bend the moonlight, waiting for the window to open.

# \+ + +

37

—Angel

The morning came before sleep did. All night long I tossed and turned, arrested by Jake and remembering his words. He had such a way with them. I've read hundreds, maybe thousands, of books and none of the characters ever talked like Jake. None of them ever could because there was only one of him and he doesn't live in this world anymore.

But I'm on my way to find him. Wherever he is, I will get to him. I will be with him again.

+++

I was thankful when the review committee sent for me early.

When I get back into the interview room, Tight Bun Tara and Quiet Darren are already there with my lawyer, as expected. I roll my eyes at the coincidence of all three wearing gray coats.

The three appear to be in conversation when I'm brought in, but stop whatever they're saying and begin doling out the obligatory morning pleasantries. How did I sleep? Did I eat breakfast? Have I had my meds already?

"How do you feel?" My lawyer asks.

"Fine." I mutter, even though every muscle in my body feels sore.

And then jump back in time . . . my soul aching as I speak the words. "Jakes' bad feeling was contagious . . ."

+++

I awoke the next morning with a heaviness settled over my chest. It felt like a hangover, only I hadn't been drinking. I slept, but could not recall falling asleep. I laid in bed for a few minutes, feeling the empty sheets beside me, wondering where Jake had gone and how long ago.

Aerosmith played from the radio as I washed in my tepid shower. Steven Tyler sang, _"Tell me what it takes to let you go,"_ and I wanted to reach out for the radio and break the damn thing, but with my luck, I'd slip on the smooth bathroom floor and crack my head open.

As I ran the conditioner through my hair a pair of hands suddenly gripped my waist. The one thing that kept me from screeching was the sight of Jakes wet face when I whirled around. He was too good at sneaking up on me.

Breath _whooshed_ into my lungs. "Jake! You scared me."

His brows pulled together. "I'm checking on you. You were kicking so much I barely slept, so I know you couldn't have."

With that, he released me and adjusted the shower head so the water hit us both. He hummed, taking the bottle of shampoo and squirting a dollop on my head. The bottle made a gross noise and we both chuckled. I was already done washing, but let him rewash and condition my hair. My blood heated as he caressed me with his soapy hands. I wantonly pressed my back against his chest, but he didn't take the next step. I turned to face him as he stared at me, water pouring down his face. He looked so sad.

"Are you alright?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine." I wrapped my arms around him and set my head on his bare chest. The spray from the shower beat down on us.

"Let's get out."

Jake was pensive, sitting on the counter, watching me blow dry my hair. When I finished, I decided to make use of the silence. "Where did you go?"

"To get clean clothes." He hopped from his post on the sink top and ran his fingers through my hair. "We're pushing out." He set a paper in my hand. "Motel address. Meet us there."

"I hoped to be riding with you."

He caressed my cheek with the back of his fingers. His reserved gaze held an air of something I could not identify. "There's so much shit in the van, I'm riding with the guys from Proselytes. But I'll see you when you get to the motel. We'll bunk up tonight, too."

I felt my face light up.

"I can't stay away from your skin," he ran his nose along my neck, caressing my jaw with his scruffy one. "Angel," he groaned in a rough whisper that sent shivers through me. "I love you."

"Jake, I want to ride with you."

"Oh, I bet you would love that," he teased, "but we have an interview to get to and you're not ready." He stepped away from me, holding both my hands as his eyes pointed to the towel I was still wrapped in. "It's going to be a few hours before I get back to the motel, anyways. Take your time. I've got some meetings and promotion shit."

Whatever had been bothering him the previous night was still an issue, I could feel it. I couldn't think of a way to broach the subject, so my response came without words. Jakes' eyes widened as I threw my towel on the floor.

"Well," a wicked grin stretched his face. He ran a hand down my rib cage, making my skin tingle. "Why didn't you say so in the first place? There might've been time for foreplay."

My fingers grasped for his hair that had been shorn away. "I demand foreplay."

"I only got, like, five minutes." Jake bit his bottom lip and then attacked me with greedy, lingering kisses and expert, groping hands. He played me like his favorite instrument; with familiarity and fervor.

It was over too quickly. From start to finish, he was on me in a heartbeat and then he was getting dressed again. Jake was never a quickie-type of lover. He liked to take his time, so the fast encounter, though satisfying, felt very _wham-bam_.

"I'm working on something." Jake fussed with the buttons of his fly, pushing my hands away when I went behind him, trying to unbutton him. "A surprise."

"Is it good?" I smiled, though I saw the stress behind his eyes.

"Baby, it's me. Of course it's good." I rolled my eyes at the way he cockily tilted his head. Jake attacked me once again, pressing my lips apart with his, sucking and biting at my bottom lip in one fluid motion. I shamelessly moaned as one of his glorious hands clamped around my neck while the other smacked my backside.

And then, nothing. I opened my eyes to catch him running out the bathroom door.

His scent lingered, but I was alone. Empty without him. But I had to suck it up because this was the tour. It was his work, not a vacation and I was not going to get my way all the time. If things went like I wanted, Jake and I would have made love through the day, left for the gig when we felt like it, and that guitarist chick, that wannabe band chick, would have been lost in the desert, never to be heard from again.

I had to follow along, play the game. I wasn't going to worry about how Jake seemed to be pushing me away on the day the band was meeting up with that girl. I was not going to wonder why Jake didn't want to ride with me in our car. I would not let the presence of some random girl turn me into one of those petty, jealous bitches. It was my insecurities—my issues—that made it seem like there was a chasm growing between us. It wasn't really there. At least, that's what I told myself every time those words repeated.

" _Not yet."_

Brushing my hair, I couldn't help but see his exit as running off and shuddered at those two cursed words. He doesn't want her.

Not yet . . .

Jake had his reasons for leaving without me, I told myself. Those meetings he mentioned had to be very important.

Avery was just waking up when I opened the front blinds. The van was already gone. I started sifting through the room to pack.

"Didn't go so good with Jake, huh?" Though she'd just woken up, her voice sounded smooth.

"It's fine. I was going to let you sleep."

"Who can sleep with Jakes' loud mouth running? Jeez, he's a performer—everything with him is so theatrical." She sat up, stretching.

I stopped packing. "What do you mean, 'theatrical'?"

"Dude. I totally heard him." She stared unabashed, "I didn't know you were into dirty talk."

My face went tomato red.

"I had to sleep somewhere. Scratch that, try to sleep somewhere." She hopped from the bed, fully clothed. "I'm ready. Let's go."

"Don't you want to shower?"

"After we get there. First, we got to check-in and track down that chick that's giving Jake so much trouble."

"What is his deal?" I muttered, anxious to change the subject, but still bothered by Jake's overt aversion to Band Chick. "Since when did I become the stable one in this relationship?"

Avery laughed. "Times, they are a-changing."

Jake occupied most of my conversation on the short trip to Glendale. The late sun was beating on my arm in the passenger seat as I blathered on about how he was confusing me. Yes, he wanted to marry me, but that didn't tell me his central concern; why was he allowing this chick in his band if it stressed him out so much? If he was so very sure it was a bad idea, why didn't he just put his foot down? They would be with a label one way or another and could hire a studio musician, or hold more auditions in L.A. They didn't need that chick or her San Diego style.

Avery just drove and listened, and barely spoke herself, except to offer the occasional sound of agreement. I waited in the car while she checked us in. The whole time, I was scanning the lot, looking for their van, but it was useless. They were heading straight to the Brick Lounge.

My mind was covered in a haze of concern.

Was she with them already?

I barely noticed we ended up in a room at the back of the motel or that Avery nearly hit a motorcycle trying to park. I did notice how small and plain our room was. Most of the limited space was taken up by two full size beds. But it had a decent air conditioner and a good-size bathroom. The cool air of the dark room hit me and I plopped the bags onto the floor and folded myself onto the bed, totally exhausted.

Avery hooted that she'd found the coffee machine and started a pot.

"You nap. I'll shower."

"Wake me up before you go-go." I mumbled and fell into rest.

+++

I woke up in front of the bathroom mirror, soaking wet, naked, and holding a lock of hair under my nose, as if to sniff. It smelled like soap. My breath came short and quick as I looked around the steamy bathroom.

"Avery!"

She opened the door enough to peek inside. A line of concern at my panicked tone crossed her forehead. "What's wrong?"

I squeezed my eyes shut to clear away the pooling tears. "I w-woke up in here." My hands felt numb and I gave them both a limp-wristed shake.

Her head tilted to one side. "No, Angel. I woke you up about twenty minutes ago and you walked in here. You don't remember?"

I shook my head. "Did I say anything?"

"You yawned a lot, said you needed a hot shower. Don't overreact. You just need coffee, that's all. I'll get some." Her face disappeared from the half-open doorway.

"But I already had a shower." I mumbled to the empty room.

Examining myself in the mirror, my gaze wandered down to the sink. My prescription bottles were set out. A small pile of pills lay on the counter. I grabbed the water glass from the sink and filled it, then swallowed down my meds. I should have taken them when I first woke up.

_I'm fine. I'm fine._ I repeated it until I believed it.

+++

I searched the crowd for Jake. The bands' van was in the back lot, unattended and empty. The stage was full of equipment belonging to various bands. AC's was among them. I would know Max's drum set anywhere. Andrew's stack amp stuck out from on one end of a pile of amps. The Sonic Youth sticker on the side was a dead giveaway.

House music was pumping through the area, raising the voices of people in various conversations. Two guys who looked like roadies crossed the stage. Right behind them, a slender woman followed, carrying a fluorescent green guitar strap.

My stomach dropped. No one had to tell me. I knew it was her. The girl that wanted into the band, Angelica.

"She's _really_ pretty." Avery stated the obvious. "Like, could-turn-a-chick-gay pretty."

My eyes followed the woman with large, dark eyes framed by long black lashes and hair with perfectly placed purple streaks down each side. She was wearing all black—thigh-high laced Doc Martens over leggings, and a small vest in silken black, under that she wore a tight AC/DC tee with the sleeves chopped off. She took to the stage like she owned it, strutting towards a black and white Les Paul. She set the neon green strap over the guitar pegs and hooked it around her shoulders. After giving a long look at the near-empty club, at Avery and me, she took a pic from between her perfectly plump, burgundy lips and strummed.

Her chords were light and airy, bluesy almost. She gave a quick toe-tap at an enormous pedal board on the floor and the chords changed. It doubled the sound of each strum. She tapped another place on the board and the chords distorted. Smooth tones running rough. She tilted her head down, pressed her hips into the guitar and really started playing. We both stared at her fingers as they worked up and down the frets, lightning fast. She stopped to adjust the string tension and then began again.

"Max said she was badass."

"Yeah." She sounded freaking fantastic, like she had ten fingers on each hand. And she was only warming up.

Jake had merely said she was _good_. What an understatement! He told me she was _pretty_ , but she was absolutely, freakishly stunning. He also said she was _cool._ But if everything he'd told me had been so downplayed . . . "I'm gonna find Jake."

Almost immediately I spotted him in the back lounge, a roped off area behind the bar. He waved when he saw me and held out two fingers. He was talking to someone. A guy in a corduroy jacket with very neat hair had his back to me. Max and Andrew were there, too, but no one else was talking. They were listening to the man in the jacket. All at once, the group collectively smiled and each one shook hands with the man. Jake walked towards me with a business card and wild eyes.

When he reached me, I spoke first. "I'm worried." I confessed, even though I knew the club wasn't the place for this. "I feel you pulling away. And she's more than pretty, Jake. She's . . ." I couldn't even say it.

He sighed, raking his hands over his head as if he wished he could pull at the hair that used to be there. "I warned you." He looked around at the people passing and spoke lower. "I can't have this conversation now."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "When?"

He looked like he wanted to smile for just a second. Then a flicker of something passed in his eyes. It was gone before I caught it. "Not now."

I took a guess. "Are you mad?"

He nodded and the flash was back. His lips barely moved as he muttered, "Fucking furious."

"At me?"

His mouth became one angry line. He said nothing. It was his pointed stare that told me I'd guessed right.

"I didn't do anything."

Jakes scoffed, opening his mouth as if to speak. The moments passed as I waited, watching the calm he'd been holding disappear, leaving clear, unveiled fury. Still, he kept quiet.

"Jake?"

"Don't push me, Angel. Not now."

"But I don't—"

Jakes hands were suddenly gripping my arms. He jerked me so close, our noses were touching. "You make me look like a fucking idiot!" He whispered, but it was so harsh, people passing by stared. Jake dropped his hands and took a deep breath. Sounding much more controlled, he said, "We'll talk later. Everyone's running behind. We still have sound check, another interview. The show. I'm too busy for this."

I couldn't let it go. "You know I can't take it when you're upset. Tell me. Please. Why are you so mad at me?"

He shook his head. "You don't want me to answer that now. Trust me. I need to calm down."

"What does that mean?" I reached for him, but he stepped back, turned and walked off.

He left me standing there.

Turned away like he hadn't heard me.

Like he didn't care.

Like I didn't matter.

Avery was at my side talking, but I couldn't hear. The blood pounding in my ears was too loud. I felt myself curling up, wanting to dissolve and vaguely aware of Avery leading me to a small table and sitting me down.

I didn't know what to do. Jake had never been so upset with me and I had no idea why. And that girl—I knew wherever Jake was walking off to, she would be there. She could talk to him and I couldn't. She could stand beside him while I was shunned. The thought made me sick. He hadn't given me any answers, only more questions. Was _'not yet'_ inevitable? Had he changed his mind about me? About us? Was he leaving me behind already?

A bulging pulse beat up my neck and I knew I had to decompress or I was going to get a migraine. So, I replayed the conversation in my head and changed it, pushed the bad parts away, filled it with the sweet words and promises Jake had made the night before. Over and over. Jake loved me. He promised he would never leave me. I was the one he wanted. For life. So, whatever he was mad about was nothing.

It had to be nothing, because I didn't do anything.

If my reaction to the guitar playing goddess was the reason Jake was so angry, I could understand why he'd been nervous about my seeing her. I hadn't even spoken to her and already wanted her gone. It didn't matter how good she was or how much she could bring to the band. As a matter of fact, that was the reason she needed to be eighty-sixed. I didn't want Jake anywhere near her, because any girl that beautiful had to be a terrible person. She was probably a monumental bitch.

"Nothing happened." I told Avery when she returned with a bottle of water and asked, again, about my conversation with Jake. "It was nothing."

# \+ + +

38

—Avery

Angel asked me to leave her alone. Not an unusual request for most people, but from her it was alarming.

I asked her what was wrong and she said, "I'm fine."

A lie.

She must have told Jake she didn't want to marry him. And because he's a controlling, manipulative dick, he was probably mad. He looked mad when he left. I wondered what he'd said, because Angel looked devastated. But she wouldn't talk to me, so I walked away, too.

Not long after giving Angel the water bottle I snaked from one of the back rooms, Analog did their sound check. Angel stayed at that back table where I left her, staring at the floor. I thought she'd be all over sound check, considering that girl was right next to Jake. The two talked a few times. I kept my ears up and spied every exchange. There didn't seem to be anything between them. Every time the girl stepped in to talk to him, he stepped back. Jake looked to Angel several times—checking for her reaction, I guessed. His face kept shifting between irritation and concern—but they didn't communicate.

After, Jake reappeared with the rest of the band back in the VIP lounge. It was a roped off section right behind the regular bar. Not just anyone was allowed to use the pool table or sit on one of the scruffy, puffy chairs—or heaven forbid—the long leather couches.

Max was there, sitting beside Andrew. They looked too cool with their I-just-rolled-out-of-bed hair styles and I'm-too-hip-to-wash-my-clothes-or-use-an-ashtray attitudes.

Jake was seated beside his band mates at the end of the couch, directly across from a man in a plaid shirt and bulky framed eyeglasses. There was a tripod beside him. The camera on it was being run by another guy in a Jack Daniels tee and nasty jeans. Jake and Plaid Shirt shook hands, and suddenly everyone sat up a little straighter.

Angel came up beside me, wrapping an arm over my shoulder. Her eyes cast longingly on Jake. "It's the last interview."

"I think they started, already." I pressed my shoulder against Angels'. "If you want to watch you better go, or you'll miss it. I'm getting a drink."

Angels' eyes were soft, but she had one hand pressed against the back of her neck under her hair. Her posture was sort of hunched, her arms set tightly against her sides like she wanted to disappear from the room.

"You alright?"

"It's all so exciting." She sounded like she was trying not to fall asleep.

"Are you getting another migraine?"

Angel didn't shake her head, but set a hand on her cheek and rested against it. "I'm fine, and I don't want to miss this."

Angel should have been much more than fine. She should have been dancing on a glory cloud. My irritation with Jake was getting stronger by the second.

"Playing Doctor is about to go on, so the interview will be short." Angel practically whispered, then headed over towards the rope at the edge of the lounge.
I snatched an empty stool at the end of the bar, searching the printed t-shirts of patrons milling around the place. There were several people wearing Analog Controller tees. The bartender looked at my wrists, noticing I had no orange wristband that said my ID had been checked at the door. It meant I was not twenty-one and was not supposed to occupy the space at his bar because he couldn't make money off me.

"I just want water."

He was kind of old with heavy eyelids. "Two dollars."

"It's for me." A girly voice chirped from behind me.

When I looked, it was that wannabe band chick in heavy makeup. She took the last few steps to sidle up on the neighboring stool. She had short, black fingernails, four silver rings on each hand, leather bands on her wrists, and no orange bracelet.

"Don't send minors to the bar for your shit." Heavy Lids pulled a water bottle from somewhere near his knees and set it in front of her.

"And a beer, please."

She got the beer, too.

"Thanks, Bernie."

"Yeah, sure." He wiped his hands and moved down the counter to serve someone else.

I still had no water. Until Band Chick slid her bottle over to me.

"It's the planets' most plentiful resource and he's charging." She had a sarcastic tone, but it was subtle.

"Thanks."

"I mean, global warming. The ice caps are melting. The planets drenched in the shit. We should be charging to breathe."

I shook my head, remembering that Jake said the girl was from San Diego.

"I saw you with Jake earlier. Are you two friends?"

Maybe it was an innocent question, but there was a gleam in her eye that I didn't like. So, I changed the subject, because screw her. "I saw you playing earlier." I shifted my gaze and nodded at the band just getting up from the sofa. "Are you in the band?"

"Yeah. Well, not officially, but yeah. I'm playing tonight," she pointed across the bar at Jake, "as you know, and he is singing."

"I'm Avery."

"Angelica," she tipped her head and I had to do a double-take when I saw the strange color of her eyes.

"Are you wearing contacts?" I asked, scooting closer. She could not possibly have purple eyes.

"No." Her forehead creased.

"But your eyes are purple."

"Oh, no, they're not. But yeah," She shook her head and pointed to the purple streaks that framed her face. "They're really light blue and catch the color I'm wearing." She shrugged. "I mostly wear black, though, so I keep the streaks in my hair."

I nodded as if this weren't some freakish anomaly.

"Nice talking to you, Avery." She took her beer, her freaky eyes, and her perfect figure into the VIP lounge, following after her soon-to-be band mates as they headed to places no one else could go.

# \+ + +

39

—Angel

I was determined not to get a headache. There was no reason to get one. I wasn't stressing out. Well, I was trying not to. And I might have been a little grumpy from travelling and I didn't sleep so well the night before, but that was nothing new. I'd just gotten over one the weekend before and usually could avoid getting them more than once or twice a month. I was happy. I was engaged! To the most beautiful, amazing man on the planet, no less. Jake was the love of my life and I was travelling with him and the worlds' greatest rock band.

Ignoring the tightening muscles in my neck and shoulders, I watched the stage in front of me, kept my fingers on the edge. Later, I'd tell Jake to kiss my neck. His touch always loosened me up.

When the lights went out, the crowds' volume rose. My tightening muscles dissipated, relaxing as the cheering crowd reached crescendo. Fists rose higher and I could see the shadowy form of my Jake slinking to the mic stand. I reached out and touched his leg.

The stage lights shot up and the music kicked on, loud and vicious. Sounding so full and harmonious and passionate, it epitomized the struggle that the song spoke about. Jake was beautiful, screaming, grimacing with my torment and delight. It spiked my lust for his illicit mouth. His lean, towering frame, draped in brown and black commanded the audience. The beads of sweat grew as he worked the crowd, touching outstretched hands. The moisture poured down his glorious face as he sang and played my favorite songs. I watched, in awe, as he raked his hand over his dripping head. His fingers, my fingers, flicked the drenching wet into the faces of the crowd. He smiled. I smiled.

The audience was both captive and captivated by the strength of his voice. Pitch perfect, it never cracked or wavered. His finely tuned instrument unleashed its' resonance through parted lips, shooting through the air, piercing the hearts of everyone privileged enough to hear. Behind him, the bass thrummed in perfect compliment. The guitar wailed in adoring tones with perfectly meshed punk, blues and metal. I think there was even a little Latin in the melody.

That Angelica chick was good. Really freaking good. Too good to complain about. So good, that the entire band sounded better because of her. Electric and easy to watch as she played, looking out at the crowd like, 'what's up, bitches?' She had so much confidence—she was the shit and she knew it. She was a star.

She was terrible.

The drums thrashed in quick succession, carrying the rhythm of my heart; steadily pounding while the crowd chanted along. The culmination of sounds was all for him. My singer. He directed us, took us to our knees and made us dance while our ears burned from the volume. We screamed for more. We wanted to bleed.

I took a chance, glancing back at the crowds behind us. Avery was laughing and dancing. Everyone's heads were jerking back and forth, banging in time with the music. Of course they were. How could you not love it? The electricity! The energy of the band was a flood, washing over all of us. We had to move or drown in it.

I dove into the mosh pit, hanging onto Avery as she marched. Thrashing. Pounding. Arms and legs flew everywhere. Our cadence was violent and addicting. We marched in an endless circle matched only by the eternal beat of the music.

I kept my eyes trained on Jake, not wanting to miss one second while he thundered in his glory.

The song ended in a heart rending note that sailed up higher and higher until it broke through the ceiling into the sky. It hummed into nothingness while the band panted. Jake set one hand on his knee, bending down to take a long drink of water.

I took my spot back in front of the stage. Right in the center. I reached out and touched the cold metal of his mic stand. That caught his attention. He looked down at me with his big, beautiful eyes and smiled the most stunning smile.

All mine. Solely for me.

I mouthed two words: "We okay?"

Jake nodded and kept his eyes trained on me, scraping over my face. "Yeah," he mouthed back.

An excited laugh gurgled up from the pit of my stomach. Because my heart could hear his—it was so clear—it was like he was screaming at me. He wanted me there just as much as I wanted to be there. He chose me, still. He might be upset for whatever reason, but it wasn't enough to come between us.

The music began again, a tune I knew very well. It was one of my many favorites. I pumped my fist into the air and howled. Right on time, my Jake started singing. It sounded so much better than last night. I felt him reading my heart like his favorite book. He knew my every line. I heard my voice carrying over the others and wondered if Jake could, too. My hands floated with the music. My head sailed with the sounds of heaven.

Most of the people there didn't know this song. It wasn't recorded. They played it through twice during sound check, making sure they had the volume levels just right. They played eleven songs—five that would be on the new CD which was going to be recorded once we made it out to Los Angeles.

The last song was their most popular. It was called _Sweet Pain:_

Sweet, sweet pain

You caught me dancing in your rain

Soft, sweet lies

You know I'll always compromise

The music lingered, stretching until it disappeared into wild cheers; a seismic enthusiasm that shook the clubs wooden floor. The house lights went out again and the band members cleared the stage. The lights came up once more so crews could break down the instruments. Band Chick was helping. She waved in my direction. Avery and I waved back.

"What's she like?"

"Kinda bitchy. Kinda cool. She smells good, too. Like Lilacs or some shit. You might like her if she wasn't so fucking perfect. Come on, the merch booth is opening." We cut across the sticky floor, kicking empty bottles and trash out of the way—people were such pigs—and squeezing between couples to get to the growing line.

My heart was getting heavy again, thinking about what Jake said. He had no reason to be mad at me. Did he? I had decided at some point without realizing, that whatever it was, I would apologize. I would do whatever I had to do to smooth things over with him.

There were t-shirts and wrist bands with the bands' newest logo. It was the silhouette of a winged figure colored in red set against a black shirt and white lettering. White tour tees with the same logo. There were also a few black ones at the far side of the table, old band tees with the banned logo. It was a thick, red plus sign surrounded by a circle of stars. But the Red Cross, who had an ass-load of lawyers, sent the band a strongly worded letter about the similarities of the emblems. So they had to get new shirts.

Avery and I were stocking up on the old ones which no one seemed to want even though they were cheaper. But we each bought one for this tour, another hard copy of the album we already owned, and one wrist band.

Band Chick was suddenly behind the table, shoving the tweaker-looking stand-ins—a guitar tech-slash-whatever-you-need guy—out of the way. Band Chick started taking orders. Avery and me were already holding our merchandise, waiting to pay.

Band Chick looked at me. "Avery, right?"

"Angel." I corrected, wondering if she got my name wrong on purpose. And if she did, what did that mean?

"Angelica." She nodded. "Let me see what you got."

I handed her my stack. She looked through it, checked the shirts. "The old logo . . . in small. Half-off—we have trouble moving that size."

I almost gagged on her use of 'we.'

Once _we_ thanked her, _we_ took our change and made for the car. All our stuff was going in the trunk. Except the CD. The fan girl in me wanted to get it signed and add it to my collection. It must have seemed silly to some people that I acted like such a fan, but at the end of the day, that's what I was. It didn't matter that I knew them or that I was going to marry the singer. I loved the band. Their music saved me on a daily basis.

Avery double-checked she had the marker before we headed back inside.

Once the next band started playing, most of the crowd rushed to the front. Only a small group of people hung back, near the bar. I counted eleven. Mostly dudes drinking. Until Jake and Max appeared, freshly showered. Then, the barrage began. Men and women, young and old were clamoring, pressing passed Avery and me to get to them.

"Where did they come from?" Avery was laughing, getting jostled around.

A man shoved me aside; I bounced off a womans chest as she moved around me. The womans' eyes shrank, chastising me—which set Avery off. I begged her not to make a scene and get us kicked out.

She sighed and stepped to her right until she came face to face with Max. The two exchanged a few words. The only voice I heard belonged to Max. As he watched, Avery turned and walked away.

"But, we'll see you back at the motel. Right?"

Avery grinned at the comment and I knew then and there what she was up to. Max saw none of it when she turned back to give her answer. It was a limp stare. "Whatever."

We took our time strolling to the door. As I scanned the room for Jake who had been swallowed by the crowd, Avery stuck me in the ribs.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"You shouldn't always be the one waiting. You have to make him wait sometimes, too."

"Hey!" Band Chick appeared alongside us. "Jake wanted me tell you it'll be about thirty minutes before he can head out." She smiled. "In rock-speak, I think that equals two solid hours. Laters, Chicky." She patted Avery's back and disappeared into the crowd.

I rubbed at the lumps of stress forming at the back of my neck. "Why do I hate her so much?"

"Because she can do something you can't and that makes you feel inadequate." Avery put her arm around me when tears formed in my eyes. "I didn't say she's better than you or that you should feel threatened, because you shouldn't." She pointed between a few heads. "Look at them."

The throng was surrounding Jake, Max and Andrew. Band Chick—Angelica—was standing behind them with her eyes on Andrew. She was watching him sign a girl's arm. She didn't look unhappy about it, but as I continued to watch her, I noticed her gaze never left him. She only looked at anyone else when they spoke to her. Jake didn't speak to her at all.

Avery explained, "No one is trying to take your man, aside from the obligatory groupies." She amended. "But you're the only groupie he's interested in." She pointed again and I looked back.

Jake was standing in the midst of a herd, all clamoring for his attention. There were at least four people talking to him and more waiting for their turn. And in the middle of that chaos he was looking beyond them, at me. He mouthed a word, I think it was _soon_. And then he shifted to pose for a picture, shifting his eyes away from me to the camera in front of him.

Maybe Avery was right. Maybe I should make Jake wait, too. He'd shut me out, wanted me to suffer for answers that he could have easily given and alleviated my stress. It seemed like I had nothing to worry about from Angelica. She was glued to Andrew. Jake was the one acting strange, worried for some unspoken reason, he was the one pulling away from me. Since I joined him on the tour, I'd been waiting in the wings, begging for any morsel of affection.

Once my mind was set, I thought up a lot of reasons why we needed to leave the club. We had to get back to the motel room because there would undoubtedly be some kind of celebration for the newest band member.

Avery reasoned, "We have to welcome her with open arms. You know what they say about keeping enemies closer."

So, we should be ready with party essentials. Plus, I had to shower. I smelled like the mosh pit.

On the way back, we stopped at a local dollar store and begged the checker to let us in even though they were closing in exactly one minute. We grabbed junk food, and more chips and sodas and some mint gum.

The motel room was a huge mess.

"How did we do all this in just a few hours?" Avery was staring at the cluttered bathroom counter.

"We live and breathe." Immediately, I was grabbing the towels from the floor to hang them up.

"I'll make the beds." Avery twirled from the doorway. A second later, music was playing.

Once the bathroom was picked up and our clothes were put away, I headed over to help Avery, who was barely finishing the first bed.

After everything was nice and tidy, we sat down to watch the end of Sleep Away Camp on the free HBO and munch. Surely, the nights' celebration would call for beer so I needed something in my stomach. Also, if Jake planned to go a round with me over whatever set him off, I'd need two beers in me. Even if I offered up an immediate apology, he would want to talk through it.

After the first bag of chips, I was tempted to start on the second, but opted to share a small tray of cookies with Avery instead. After the movie was over, we decided to see what else was on and ended up watching a cooking show. The chef was starting swordfish.

Avery hopped up and drew back the curtains after her third check of the parking lot yielded nothing. We settled back in, remembering that everything takes time.

Anemic Psychos were just taking the stage when we left. There were a lot of people at the club and Jake wouldn't want to leave until he'd talked to and signed stuff for everybody. Then, there was always the chance of getting drawn into something with some of the other guys from the other bands on the tour.

By the time the swordfish was served, I was stuffed with junk food. I popped a piece of gum and watched Avery channel surf, wishing I wouldn't have followed her out so easily. I should have stayed behind with Jake. It didn't matter where I was or how assertive I intended to be. I was still the one waiting.

Time seemed to drag. The window was cracked open and there wasn't a sound from outside.

"I'm going to sleep." Avery announced and my heart sank. "Don't wake me up when they get here." She plopped down on the other bed and rolled to face the closet, adding, "I'm pissed."

When I looked out the window, the moon was high. There was also a white passenger van parking a few doors down. People piled out, but I didn't see Jake.

Or Angelica.

I turned back to tell Avery.

"I don't give a shit." She covered her head with a pillow.

After a quick look in the mirror and a quick brush of my hair, I opened my door. There were several people out in the lot. Max saw me right away and started towards me. I met him halfway.

"Hey girl," he said, "Jake's not with us." He slumped down to speak in my ear. "He came back a while ago then left again."

My stomach dropped. "Why?"

"Uh, he's doing something—said he'd talk to you about it when he's done."

I nodded my head, feeling disappointment flood my eyes. "Where's your newest member?"

"Over there." I followed Max's pointed finger to a small dark car that was pulling up beside the van and watched Angelica get out and walk toward Andrew who was standing with a mix of guys and girls, all smoking and talking. She was present and accounted for, at least.

I couldn't remember Jake mentioning anything about leaving me alone. That morning he'd said we'd bunk up again. Then, he was upset with me and wouldn't talk until he calmed down. I left him at the club and now he was openly avoiding me.

I wanted to close my eyes and let the pain wash over me. Instead, I opened them wide to keep the emotion from falling down my cheeks.

Max still noticed and gave me a big, warm hug. "You're good. He's just not ready to talk yet."

I wanted to know why Jake ditched me, but couldn't bring myself to ask. If it was something bad, I didn't think I could take it. Besides, I'd never asked Max for anything like that before. Then, I was distracted by a girl standing behind him, one who'd gotten out of the van at the same time he had. She was waiting over by the door, and then she was half way to us with a hand on one hip. She cleared her throat, reminding Max that he had better things to do.

Max turned and told her, "Patience is a virtue." Back to me he said, "I promise it'll be okay." He planted a kiss on my forehead. I was almost smiling when he pulled away. "You're his girl. He might be pissed, but he's still gonna take care of you."

I nodded, disappointed, but also comforted as Max walked away.

The night was muggy as I stood in the lot long after everyone was gone. Sweat was building on my neck and back, watching other people pass by. They were living their lives and I felt like mine had stopped. Jake was mad and gone and it was work to take a step in any direction without him.

Eventually, I decided I should get back to my room. But on the way, I couldn't help but notice how extremely loud the lights in the parking lot had become. How unusually bright they suddenly seemed compared to just a moment before. Suddenly lights burst and flickered across my vision, blinding me with their bright and leaving me in the dark. The muscles in my neck and back seized in hulking knots that drew my shoulders up. My stomach constricted in a violent crush that took my legs out from under me. Avery's voice called out to me. I pictured her in the doorway of our room, imagined her lips moving, forming my name. Her voice was drowned by the extraordinary buzzing noise that burrowed into my ears.

Lights flashed, bringing me back to the parking lot. My knees were on the coarse asphalt. The night was so, so bright, like staring at the sun, or the end of the matchstick that lit the fuse of a migraine.

It was another migraine sweeping in, making me want to wail. Every cell in my body went into overdrive, preparing for the onslaught. Yes, I was hurting and I could barely see, but this was nothing. It was only beginning.

My temples started to throb, the pressure building and drawing inward, deep into my brain. My blood cells were skyscrapers inside my undersized head, trying to force their enormity through my insufficient corpuscles. They ripped everything in their path, tearing me fiber by fiber. I braced my hands over my head. How was I supposed to stay together? How was I supposed to survive? To breathe, when it hurt so badly?

All I could do was let Avery take me into the motel room. My legs didn't want to work. I couldn't see or hear anything beyond the ripping in my head, the rush of blood and the absolute hell it brought to the veins in my forehead, eyes, my neck and shoulders. My throat had closed. My mouth watered from the horrid pain. There was only one place I could go. Only one thing I could do to combat the migraine. I needed my pills and I had to lie down.

My vision cleared long enough to see Avery's lips moving. I think she was saying something.

Then, _BOOM_!

The room exploded with noise. Blaring lights from the lamp on the dresser. The piercing confusion of lights from the parking lot. The TV set: I swear, people could hear it from a hundred miles away.

Avery dropped me on the bed. Her deafening whisper blared that she was afraid to move me. She knew it would get worse if I didn't keep still. Although, I couldn't imagine I could possibly feel anything more than I did in that moment. But that is one thing about pain: you can never imagine anything worse until you feel it. Then, it's a whole new level of torture you never knew existed.

There was nothing that I could do except lay still in a dark, quiet room.

Avery shut off the blaring TV and the click was so loud, I think my eardrums burst. She rubbed my forehead trying to soothe me but even the slightest touch of her painted fingers just prickled in my skin and made me scream.

I cried, "Bathroom." I had to be on a hard surface. Carpets made noise. Beds were worse. The thicker the fiber, the more noise it made. I had to be in the bathroom. When I puked I had to be near the toilet.

Avery helped me from the bed and into the bathroom, somehow managing to touch me as little as possible. The biting pain of my headache made me crumple onto the tile and beg to be left alone. Quiet was my only solace. Darkness, my only friend.

"Light." The painful sound of my voice was like a chainsaw to the brain and needles to the eyeballs. It made me want to pull my teeth out for counter-pressure.

Avery turned off the horrible buzzing light and left the room, closing the door tight behind her. I knew she felt bad. She'd told me once that she wished she could trade places with me. As much as I hated to suffer those headaches, I would never ever wish it on another human being, but just then, I wanted to reach out to her, to beg her to take it away.

After some focused concentration, I managed to calm myself enough to deal quietly with the dread that seeped into my bones, corrupting every fiber of my body. I had no control over this pain; how bad it got or how long it lasted. I simply wished for the mercy of an axe. The explosive throbs felt as if grenades were going off inside my skull. The pieces of them ricocheting around my head, banging one spot and then another, but I somehow stayed intact. The reverb bounced in waves through my bones, into my jaw, down my shoulders, through my spine, and into my back. My teeth hurt, the soft skin of my mouth ached like my cells were crashing into each other. It would have been much more tolerable to just die.

The sounds outside my chamber tapered off, but the horrible buzz of the lights in the parking lot were still on loudspeaker. I tried to take solace in knowing that the sun would come up and the slicing buzz would eventually shut off.

The door to my tomb slowly swung open. Avery tip-toed in her socks over the tile—the noise was fingernails on a chalkboard—and set my pills on the floor near my mouth. Next to that, she set a glass of water, then tip-toed back out, carefully shutting the door behind her.

What was I going to do? Jake was coming. Part of me hoped he'd take pity on me and forget the whole anger-thing. But another part of me worried: how was I supposed to go out to California with him? What if the pain didn't go away before we had to leave tomorrow? What would happen if I got one of my migraines out there? What if I was alone when it happened? Who would help me, then?

Beyond the thin walls, I heard Avery moving. A soft _tap_ on the clock radio and the low hum of Guns 'N' Roses, "Don't Cry" was playing. She knew that music always soothed my senses like a balm. I embraced this small mercy. _Click-click_ from the door as it locked, a slide of the window and grating rings of the curtain rod as she closed the curtains. The music helped soften the sharp sounds, spreading its' white-noise over me.

Having a migraine is like suddenly gaining super-sensitive hearing. A most horrifically uncool superpower; a gift straight out of hell. A cursed present straight from the devil himself. I once explained it to Avery, and she was like, "But that sounds awesome." It was not. It hurt to hear people chattering five or six blocks away, hearing a fly crawl across the wall, or a light bulb burning. The fly may as well be playing castanets into a loudspeaker. His wings may as well be flapping into an amplifier set at decibels meant to destroy eardrums. It hurts like nothing in the world. And it had been my curse as long as I could remember.

The sound inside the room—my breath on the tile, the whistling blood in my ears, and temples, my horrible heartbeat—if only I could stop all of it. Find a way to press that button to halt the automatic breath, or mute my heart.

It took some time, but I managed to taper my breathing to a shallow pull. When it still bothered me, I reached slowly up for a towel hanging on the rack. The motion brought my migraine to a new level, but once I got the terrycloth under me to muffle the reverb of my breath on the tile, I could concentrate on the hum of the music coming through the door.

I let the tears seep out. It hurt to cry so I couldn't actually throw a fit like the pain demanded, but letting the saltwater drip down relieved some pressure. I just had to tell myself that I was not hearing anything. No one can hear tears.

After some time, maybe a month or only a few minutes, I managed to bury myself in the haze of music enough to relax.

I imagined I was inside my closet back at the Fosters trailer. I was listening to my music and curling into a ball. My arms tightened around my raised knees. I hugged them to me, forcing myself to get smaller and smaller. I tucked in and shrank. I got so tiny, that the pain couldn't find me, and slipped into fitful sleep.

40

—Angel

Mister Brandon is leaning in and mumbling.

While he blathers, I am wishing, for the millionth time, that an artery had burst—a peaceful and massive brain hemorrhage—and I never would have woken up that night.

But then, I note the smooth of his murmuring and know that my lawyer's actually trying to get my attention. He's probably been trying for a while because he tempers his tone when he's frustrated. The more upset he looks, the more relaxed he sounds and right now he sounds like he's fighting sleep.

I should probably care about what he's saying, but I just don't. My eyes are blinded to the room I'm in: as if my mind is still there on that dark bathroom floor and my body is miles away, stretched beyond the abyss of time and space. I am here and there. Divided and singular. Two different entities: a bird and the wind—soaring together, yet remaining separate. The memory is a whirlwind breaking across my feathers, making me falter, making me remember that I never had wings. I was never free.

My fall concluded with an earth-shattering smack. I'm already dead, skimming over my autopsy photos, scanning the wounded memories from that box inside my head.

Cobwebbed. Dusty. Though the blood is still fresh.

Blinking, I force myself to focus on the table in front of me. I have been completely lost inside the past and realize that I'm not sure which parts I have shared and which I've kept to myself.

On the opposite side of the table are two empty chairs. The small lights on the cameras that have been steadily glowing through every session are now black. A hand belonging to my lawyer snaps the small button on the base of the microphone that sits in front of me, shutting it off.

His overcoat is shiny charcoal gray and noisy. The material has a large weave to it, reminding me of the hospital gown, the fabric scrapes together as he turns to me. "Miss Patel."

I keep my eyes on my left hand, forcing my fingers to relax, though I feel like punching something. "Yes."

"I'd like to talk about how you're feeling."

I shake my head, letting my overlong hair fall forward and block my peripheral vision.

"I'm fine, Mister Brandon—" I hate his name. I knew a kid in fourth grade named Brandon. I think he might have been nice, but having a lawyer with that name ruins the vague taste of the memory—turns it bitter. "I'm splendid, actually. Just trying to talk about the most painful night of my life."

"Miss Patel, I think you've misunderstood the purpose of these interviews. It is not, and I repeat, _not_ to relive the events of the night that led you here. The purpose is to allow you space to reflect on your actions, which help us determine the proper course and security level for further treatment. While doing so, you may recall the finer details of that time, but this session is not for that purpose."

There are parts of that night I don't remember and if I have any say, I never will. But I'm not telling him that. "I can remember simple instructions. I'm not incompetent."

His shoulders seem to relax. "Whether you believe me or not, whether you like me or not, I'd like you to remember that I am here to help you, Miss Patel. If you need anything, all you have to do is ask and I will do my best to satisfy your request."

I'm not falling into that trap. The last six years has taught me this: nothing is free. And the only one that can help me is _me_.

"I've been thinking about what I saw when I woke up."

His face softens. "Have you recalled anything new?"

I shake my head.

"Well, don't strain yourself. We're all aware of your diagnoses and want to make this process as simple, as relaxing as possible."

I drop my eyes back to my useless hands. I don't even know what that fucking word means—relaxing.

While I stare at the slightly frayed material on the cuff of my short sleeve jumpsuit, the door opens and the slapping sound of feet hit the worn floor in time. I keep quiet while the two agents of the court reenter to talk with my lawyer. Funny thing is I didn't even notice they were gone. When each side of the table seems satisfied with whatever the hell details they're trying work out, I am prompted to delve back into that night.

My guts begin their crawl back into frigid knots.

I'm a dumb fish, gasping on the bank beside violent river waters; cast out when I tried to swim upstream. I can't take in the air, coated in dry dirt. My hands clutch the arms of the chair. Hot tears prick at the backs of my eyes as I dive back into that terrible torrent: the place I'm dying to get away from and the only place I can breathe.

"It's all fragments—snapshots of the larger picture. A dark shape on the floor." I take a deep, slow breath, forcing my eyes to stay open. If I blink, I'll see. "I thought it was a pile of laundry . . ."

+++

In the cool dark on the bathroom floor I found myself wide awake and sweating, wondering how I had managed to sleep. Cautious fingers groped my head and the knotted muscles of my neck. My migraine had receded for the most part. My head still hurt, but I could think.

There was a stretch of light creeping in from under the door and a . . . a staggered sound—almost like a whimper—coming from beyond on the wall. It was low, but still a shrill sound. A howl. Like a dying animal. I banged on the nearest wall—no, the front of a cabinet—and called out for Avery.

_What's going on?_ I wondered, making my way onto my hands and knees, cautiously probing the cool tile as I approached the door, because even though I was crawling without irritation, I was sure my headache would come back if I got up too quickly. Carefully, slowly, I stood and reached for the knob.

The room was darker than I expected. From inside my hole the light that streamed in seemed so bright, but the room was actually very dark. The strange howl had stopped, but I made out the echo of breath, a grunting or hoarse gasping like a runner makes when they've just finished a sprint. My eyes went to the carpet, where I caught sight of a pile of laundry that had been tossed in the corner, between my bed and the wall.

+++

Shaking my head, I look across the table at the blocky framed, emotionless eyes of Tight Bun Tara. "There's a black spot right here." This memory photo is blank.

"That's alright. Just move along to the next thing you recall." Tight Bun nods her head, waving a hand towards me.

My eyes lose focus, letting go of what's in front of me once again.

"It was a feeling like . . . I literally left my body."

+++

I was floating in a vat of black. There was a burning—it felt like a light switching on. First there was nothing and then it was everywhere, strong and solid, but it was more than that—it was like light was breaking. There was pain everywhere; I didn't feel it as much as sensed it. What I felt was dread; as if a giant fissure had opened up, wanting to drag me down. I was yanked out and away from the center of my universe, into something strange and unknown, where the sun had exploded or died or blew a hole in the fabric of space and it was sucking every particle of good from the cosmos.

That's what the black felt like.

I couldn't see anything. I could feel the floor under my feet, the air moving through my lungs, but that was all there was. Besides the dread that held on like a poisonous whirlpool.

A cry came ripping from my throat like a rush of red pouring from a gaping wound. I didn't know why I needed to weep aside from the thick sense dread at what I couldn't see.

Something was very wrong.

I blinked several times and kept at it; counting to ten, telling my eyes to start working. I took lots of deep breaths until the motel room came back into focus.

Then all I saw was Avery. She was standing beside me, saying, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. So sorry," repeating it, like a mantra.

+++

"She kept saying it over and over and over. Slow at first, and then faster and faster, until it stopped making sense."

The soft blue walls take in my words as my mind skips to the next thing I remember. As I try—and fail—to simply deliver the words and _not_ to picture it, the interview room shrinks.

"I don't know how, but I was . . . on the floor."

+++

Everything was a puzzle. I was lost, just like that time in the corridor at school. I was in my motel room, but there was no more room, or carpet, or bed, or light. There were only my fingers, curled around someone else's. I followed the length of them up to a wrist and an arm. I studied the pale skin, utterly confused by each detail. I was just trying to breathe, waiting for what I was seeing to make sense. The palms of the exposed hands were marked with thin slashes.

Red marker lines.

I knew whose hands they were, I knew it, but there was something blotting out my understanding so I kept staring. Familiar fingers and those forearms were crumpled awkwardly across the chest. I remember thinking, _he_. It's a _he_. And even in that vulnerable state he looked like he was trying to protect himself. When I straightened his fingers, the cuts on his palms relaxed apart. A long, deep gash that stretched the length of his forearm made my stomach wretch.

The synapses of my brain were not firing. I couldn't find words to identify what I was seeing or think of what I was supposed to do about it. I knew there was something, some kind of instruction for moments of holy terror, times when you find limp hands. But I couldn't find the answer; like it was trapped behind a brick wall. Everything I saw was a question picking at individual bricks, but my mind stayed blank. There were only my feet stuck to the floor and my stunted brain, my hands grasping relaxed palms, and my eyes stuck on a sleeping face my mind couldn't comprehend. I couldn't find the language to process my situation or what needed to happen next.

The only thing I could put together was this: the motel room was a dank, dark place where terrible things happened. Whatever those things were, Avery was responsible. _Why else would she apologize?_ Thinking her name triggered another and then the pieces of what I was seeing started falling together. Not all of them, but enough to start hating her.

His name came into my mouth. "Jake?" I fell on him, pulling at his hands—the hands that had spent hundreds of hours holding me—and pressed them to my lips, feeling how cold they were.

All the strength was drained from my body. I let go of the room, willingly this time. I had to disappear and made myself shrink, keeping my grip firmly on him. If he was no more, I wouldn't be, either. I would take him with me into my tight, tiny ball, where neither of us would exist. Together.

+++

I'm shrugging, trying to disconnect myself from the picture in my head. "I had no practical experience. I mean, I'd left dozens of people, but I had never said goodbye to any of them. I never said hello, either."

My voice quavers. "I said hello to Jake every time I saw him and there was so much after those hellos. So many moments that changed me."

Can they understand? Do they know now that I would never hurt him?

Tight Bun Tara's eyebrows are drawn together as she studies my every word.

"Before Jake, I didn't know what love was beyond the songs and lyrics I had heard. It was this phantasmal thing: intangible and unreachable, a poetic dream of something higher that died with Romeo and Juliet."

_I didn't know_.

"Then, I met him and heard his music. I was afraid I would forget what it felt like, that I would never find it again.

"How was I supposed to know the 'hello's' were over? That it was time for goodbye?"

The blue interview room seems to flicker red while I ponder the limp word. _Goodbye._ It's insufficient. One word formed from two meant to imply that leaving someone is a good thing.

"Before I knew losing him was possible, he was gone. And I was . . . crushed."

+++

When I found myself again, I was holding his head in my lap. Tears were falling down my face, landing on his and he wasn't flinching or complaining, or trying to wipe them away and comfort me, the way he always did. He was just laying there with his eyes closed and the sight was so painful, I couldn't get past it to even think his name. Recognition was enough.

I caressed the stubble on his cheeks. My memory flooded with images of us; giggling at something stupid I did—the way he would cover his mouth when he tried not to laugh at me. The way he'd sometimes dance with me in the crowd while the other bands played. His pouty lips; the way they always twisted when he was really concentrating. The way they molded around my name.

He was just laying there in my lap. So still.

Too still.

He was supposed to be waking up in a few hours and packing his bags, heading for his future; a record deal, a recording studio. We were supposed to move to California and work and make our dreams come true. Jake had often told me that I had an eye for talent, so I planned to use that instinct to help him. I was gonna go to business school and learn how to be the bands' manager.

But none of that would happen now.

He was stuck. Still and cold in my lap. His eyelids weren't twitching as he dreamed.

His dreams were dead.

"I'll die. I'll die, too." I rocked him in my arms, feeling warmth run through me at the thought. I had to be wherever he was.

"If we start a fire, there'll be sprinklers and alarms." Her voice broke through my concentration.

The image of those words threw horrible pictures into my head. "What?"

Avery walked over and knelt down. She was in shorts and a t-shirt. No shoes. She set a hand over mine, both of us touching _his_ chest. "I was only thinking out loud. We need to leave, though. We can't stay here."

"What?"

Acid burbled in my stomach. The idea of moving, talking, breathing, or having to do anything was absurd. It was over. Nothing came next. There was nothing left. There was no reason, just plain nothing.

Utterly lost, watching Avery's long hair as she wrapped it into a neat bun, I noted that her moves were kind of jerky, halting in a strange rhythm that matched the beat pumping from the radio on the nightstand. _Was she dancing?_

"Angel, you're just along for the ride. I'm taking care of this." She offered what I think was supposed to be an encouraging smile that ignited me.

My arms wrapped tighter over him. I looked down at his sallow face and offered the only thing I could: my word. "I'll fix this, I swear." I didn't have anything left, but there was something I had to do. For him. It was a stupid promise and impossible to keep and I had no idea how I would even try, but then . . . something happened.

There was noise. A loud banging. _Thump, thump, thump._ Then, Avery was talking. I couldn't understand anything she was saying. Once my ears caught the beat coming from the radio, I couldn't hear anything else. I wanted to stop her from saying whatever the hell it was, stop the irritating music, stop the world—but couldn't think of what to do to make that happen.

Another impatient thump, coupled with a familiar bellow. "I know you're in there!" It was coming from the door.

The voice of Deanna. Her name was security. _Deanna!_

She would know what to do. She would help. I wanted to jump and scream, and shout at her to look around, to explain to me what was happening, but none of that made it to the surface.

I could only hold him.

Avery must have opened the door, because suddenly Deanna was inside the room and they were talking—rambling actually—but it all sounded like mumbling over the blood pumping in my ears and the music on the radio.

After Deanna's arm dropped from my shoulder, I realized she had been touching me. Avery was saying something again. It sounded like a cough. I threw up on Deanna's feet.

Through whatever was going on: the noise and voices, the indifferent rap music, the cruel light that showed how green he'd become, how still and lifeless . . . something else happened.

It was only my mind playing tricks on me, but it felt so real—it anchored me in the moment. My magician, my Houdini—the man who could take any broken thing I gave him and make it right—opened his eyes!

It wasn't real.

It was just my mind trying to comfort me by making me see the thing I wanted most, but the relief of that lie helped me focus. So when his lips seemed to move, I knew to lean in and pressed my ear to his mouth.

He magically whispered a single word— _the_ word that had been evading me in my search for what to do. The one I couldn't find before or after I realized it was _him_ on the floor of my room and not just a pile of dirty laundry. My chest burst open. I think I screamed, because suddenly my voice was the only sound to be heard.

I don't know how I got to my feet. I don't remember seeing Avery or Deanna as I opened the door. I wasn't consciously moving. I just flew. I might have been screaming the whole time, I don't know, but I remember the hot, predawn air grazing my skin as I hammered on every door I saw on my way out to the road. It was early—only a hint of pink was on the horizon. I scrambled to the roadside, thorns and pebbles digging into my feet, but it didn't matter.

Waving my arms, frantic, I kept screaming—begging for someone to come. Demanding help. It was like the second I heard the word, I couldn't stop repeating it.

Help, help, help, help, help, HELP!!!

A brown station wagon was on the road. I thought I saw it slow down, but it didn't stop. Then, a motorcycle, too. And another car—a tan one—I flew over the yellow line into the far lane, still screaming Jakes' plea.

"HELP!" It was my mantra. The one thing I needed, the only thing I could try to give Jake, even though it was too late.

The car screeched and swerved. And then my hands were on the hood, and then I was flying. Floating. The sky became the ground. Cacti sprouted from brown plumes.

And I was burning.

Still screaming.

+++

My default state in this interview room: my face, coated in snot and tears.

"Miss Patel, did you say you saw your former guardian, Deanna Midler that night?" Tight Bun Tara's face holds a strange expression beyond her squared spectacles.

My throat is too clogged with emotion to clarify, so I nod.

"And you clearly recall leaving the motel room?" Tara continues.

"That's enough for now." Mister Brandon murmurs. "Take a deep breath. Breathe in the blue calm . . . exhale. In with the good, out with the bad."

While I work to calm this most recent emotional upheaval, my unhelpful lawyer announces the obvious to the room: "She's too worked up."

I believe he uses the word _hysterical_ in his next sentence. Says I should be sent back to my bunk where I can take the remainder of the day to rest and recover from the terrible stress of this conversation. Hearing the lame excuses has me rolling my eyes. Yes, it's difficult—but I don't want to stop.

I don't point out that there's no amount of distance that can take me away from what's buried inside. I have to keep my mouth shut. Defiance has only ever left me sedated to a stupor.

Obedience means a measured walk back to my unit—slow because the guards at each elbow are watching me snivel and shake.

Tonight it's easy to flush my dinner down the toilet, sitting on my bunk afterward though—not so effortless. My mind is still stuck in that dark part. When I'm there in the moments after, I can't function.

Jake crumpled and lifeless on a bloody carpet. The nearby wall smeared. A single pristine handprint—a wide palm and five long fingers—etched into the eggshell paint. I was down on the floor when I saw it; my gaze passing over as I looked to the ceiling, praying for the world to end. I somehow know the height of the print matched the level of Jakes' shoulder and knowing that makes me shudder each time I blink because I can see him standing there in the small space between the bed and the wall. He's leaning against it, trying to stay on his feet. The images are burned into my eyelids so I can't close them.

Instead, I tell myself lies: it never happened, I am not in jail. There is no such thing as a new millennium. I am not a murderer.

I fold myself into the comforting lies my mind conjures: me, standing inside Jakes garage. There is no tour to prepare for, no search for a second guitarist. No lingering echoes of _"not yet."_ He never packed and moved. It's quiet. Jake is visiting his mom and Henry. Max is probably at work and Andrew, the tattling asshole, is going to be replaced.

I am alone and at peace, staring at the blown out half-stack I always sat on. Max's drum set quietly sits with the sticks lying in X formation on top of a tom. Jakes favorite sunburst guitar is upright, on a stand beside the bass. I'm seeing the numerous band posters and stickers tacked up on the walls, but I am looking at the one poster that was different from the rest.

My poet used to wax philosophical sometimes. He once said, "Through the ages there have been millions of quotable things said. Phrases that seem to fit every situation." Jake liked to collect words like that—the kind that stuck with you. He had this cheesy poster in the bands practice space with hundreds of quotes on it.

His favorite one was a quote by Thomas Edison: _"Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is to always try one more time."_

Jake never actually used it, but he told me once that one line was why he bought the poster.

I used to read it when the guys were trying to work out a kink in a riff or transition. Some of the quotes contradicted each other; like this one about how the greatest gift you can get in life is friendship, but another said health was the greatest gift. I wouldn't know about either of those.

I liked the one from Mother Teresa. It went something like: poverty is more than being naked and hungry. That being unwanted, unloved, or uncared for is the real poverty. In that sense, I've been poverty-stricken from birth. Rejected by the only family I had and passed around from house to house, barely tolerated by most of the Fosters that took me in.

I think, if I had just one parent that would have been enough. But my dad was a ghost. And my crazy-ass mother never wanted me—not because she had anything better, but because of her disease. I wonder, in her schizophrenic mind, if she was trying to show me that she did love me by taking me with her in the car that morning. Maybe she didn't want to separate from me, even in death. I could understand that.

There was another quote on that poster about how there is more power is in rising after you fall than in never falling. I like that one. But how can you get up when you're locked in freefall?

Another quote said something like, _Freedom is something you have to win_ —and maybe it is. For the ones who still have hope.

I think being remembered is the greatest gift. It is the only thing I can give to Jake. I can burn my candle and think of him. I can sing his songs. I can remember him. I can never make up for what happened, but I can keep vigil until I find him again in the next life.

# \+ + +

41

—Avery

If I had met Angel at any other moment in her life, I would not have felt a need to protect her. It's a no-brainer. But I first saw her at a pivotal point: the moment of her breaking.

Literally, one second I was watching a group of cranes drink from a puddle between the trees, and the next I was watching her bones fracture. That boxy car rolled down the road: a little bump before it took a short flight from the pavement, then flipped. Something small and white burst from the space where the windshield had splintered into a million tiny shards and landed in the crook of two unsure tree branches.

A small tree, planted several years before was growing beside the roadway, and by pure chance, it caught her.

I've seen some shit in my life but that was, by far, the most terrible one. Something inside me burst as I took it all in, and I knew that I had been put there for a reason—that I was supposed to take care of her. That I was meant to keep her from ever having to go through anything like that ever again.

Okay, so I didn't always make the best choices, but none of this shit has been painless on my side. If anything, I have suffered more. I realize it wasn't easy on her, but she needs to understand that I have always only ever took what she gave me and dealt with situations as they came up.

There's no prep course for this shit. No one's ever written a guide on how to be second-best. And let's face it; that is all I have ever been.

I was just trying to protect us. How can she _not_ get that?

Angel and me are different types of particles—maybe even opposites—but we're made to cling to one another to achieve balance. Or we could be like what my high school science teacher said. He said that outer space is black because light particles need other particles to grab onto. Since space is basically empty, there is nothing for the light to hold. So it just keeps traveling, never touching anything until it enters earths' atmosphere and finds something to cling to.

Angel is the light.

I am the one hurdling through the outer nothingness. Searching. Grasping.

Space and I have a lot in common. If only I could have known sooner, maybe I would have studied harder. I could have become an astronaut. I could have landed on the moon or docked in a space station with a Russian dude named Vlad. He might have held my tether when I went on a space walk.

I would've cut that tether, joining my emptiness with the great vacuum of the beyond. I might have found some peace.

I can't believe my shit for luck. I should be the one the review board is talking to. Angel's just gonna tell them whatever she wants and I'll have to live with it.

Being powerless is a feeling I will never be comfortable with. I just won't. I've tried. I've been taking the backseat through this whole damned process.

Maybe I haven't pressed hard enough.

# \+ + +

# 42

—Angel

Hopefully, today is the last I'll have to suffer through. When I'm done serving up my guts on a platter, I can go back to Canyon View to rot and wait for death to take me.

Guards escort me back into the small blue room. I'm put into my seat at the vinyl-wood table. Today, I'm anxious to vomit the words. I have no intention of waiting for anyone to prompt me. But my plan is interrupted by Darren, the quiet man whose name reminds me of the guy on that old TV show about the genie.

"What happened when you woke up in the hospital?" He asks.

This throws me. "I don't remember exactly what was wrong with me."

"We have the hospital records right here, if you'd like to go over them." Quiet Darren sets his thin hand over one of the many manila folders on the table in front of him.

Tara and her tight bun are sitting beside him. She looks a little pale.

I shake my head, refusing. I don't need to see the records. My own memories are enough for now. I'll check theirs out if or when the time comes.

"I was in a lot of pain. My left shoulder was sprained, my left wrist, too. My arm was in a sling, but I'm right handed, so . . ."

My lawyer lightly shakes his head. Tara looks down. Darren sits back in his chair.

They must think I'm so stupid, that I don't realize the magnitude of what's not being said. I know I can't always trust my own mind, that's why I made the point that this proclamation is all my perception _. Mine._ What I saw. When I saw it.

What they don't understand is how it feels to be me.

Living with my problems is like trying to negotiate a one-way maze. I can only go forward and every passage, every choice, looks the same. All I see is the path I think I should take. Nothing is certain—there is no logic, only guess work. So what seems like the right place to turn can end up a dead-end. If I could've only gotten some distance, some height, I could've seen where I was going wrong. But I'll never get to go back, never start over. I look back now and see the wall of problems for what they were. I have accepted that I made wrong turns and am living with the dead ends.

At seventeen, I was working inside a complex problem with limited information. I didn't know I was afraid of Avery's choices. I still am. She has always tried to push things, push people and their situations. IN her mind, she needs to test every boundary, every person. She needs to know when they'll break.

When she twisted Rosa's arm behind her back that day in the girls' bathroom, I knew she wanted to break it.

Once, when she was taking a shower, her mind just went off on some tangent, wondering _'what would happen if I just stayed in here?'_ Because she was curious how people might react. But mere wondering is never, ever enough. She has to know the answers. Avery stayed inside that shower until the hot water was gone, until she got all pruney, until she was freezing, until someone came pounding on the door, until someone broke it down, until they physically dragged her out of the shower and made her get dressed.

Pushing, pushing, and pushing just to see what might happen when a person is faced with the unexpected.

I know Darren asked me about when I woke up in the hospital, but that doesn't seem so important at the moment. "I first saw Avery on the day of my accident. Did I ever tell you that?"

My mouth is all watery and my throat feels a mile wide. "Her mean-streak was showing the first time I talked to her. That was after my accident, after I got out of the hospital."

I have to shake my head at my own unbelievable idiocy, the same stupidity that kept me blindly comforted from the first. "It wasn't like I saw what she was doing and thought, _'Oh, she is violent!'_ It was more like I couldn't understand and made no judgment. I was a stupid kid."

+++

I was placed with my first foster family after they released me from the hospital, after the second surgery to repair my skull. Avery happened to live in the same apartment complex. I was upstairs and she was down.

On days when my head was hurting too much to go to school, I would lie in my room and look out the window at the playground behind the complex. Some days, Avery was there. Most times, other kids in the complex were out there, too. I thought, at first, that she was playing with them, but as I watched I saw that she was only playing near them. It was interesting how she didn't seem to care that the other kids weren't talking to her or inviting her to play.

I have no memory of the accident itself, only some parts that I dreamed about, but I always remembered Avery being there. I saw her on the ground, calling to me after I hit that tree.

One day, when Avery was out there alone on the playground, I snuck outside.

As I walked along the path that led to the swing set, Avery's back was to me. She was standing in a patch of tall grass at the end of the path, staring down at something I couldn't see. Then she turned aside, walked to a large planter and removed a decorative rock. I watched her carry it back into the grass. Once she reached her previous spot, she stopped, raised the rock over her head, and slammed it down.

There was this odd noise and I thought maybe she was laughing.

I inched closer.

She picked up the rock again and slammed it back into the grass.

I didn't identify the high-pitched cry until it cut-off.

It was a mercy killing, she'd said. She couldn't find anyone to take the starving kitten and it had no mother. She was helping it.

43

—Angel

All three of them are scribbling in their note pads. I am sure they have a million questions, but I have exhausted that subject.

Switching back to the previous topic—the question of waking up in the hospital—I answer as if I never veered away in the first place.

"I was sure I must have run at least a few blocks from that motel before I got hit by that police car."

+++

I remember feeling relieved for half a second when I saw the IV in my arm. I was actually glad I wasn't dead. Until I remembered how I got there.

I took too long to go for help. I ruined any chance Jake might have had because I fell apart. Every second I hesitated, with every breath I took, I betrayed him.

I would never touch him again. I would have to live the rest of my life without holding him, kissing his face, resting my head on his chest to hear his heartbeat. I would never watch his eyes crinkle when he laughed or feel his strong arms embracing me. Never feel his breath on my ear as he whispered my name.

My heart cursed the minutes that carried him away, the room he was laid in, the hands that threw him into that reposed state where I found him, and my own lap—for so impotently bearing his weight after missing the moment when he breathed his last. And my broken brain for not knowing what to do about it.

All of him was taken—who he used to be, who he would have become, the future that he was building for himself was gone and I was left behind. Alone.

A deformed tree struck by lightning—I was ruined.

I was on fire. Furious with myself. With that bitch I'd called a friend.

And the doctor was out of his mind. He strolled in, all nonchalant, and broke into some kind of speech about how I was _lucky_.

I kept my mouth shut, too consumed with ideas of how I was going to hang Avery when the cops came to question me. No, I didn't see anything, but what I saw after, and the sounds I heard, and the way she apologized; those were the nails in her coffin. My loyalty was to Jake and she would pay for what she did.

The police came in as soon as the doctor left my room. One of my nurses said they had been there waiting for me the whole time.

The moment I laid eyes on those two officers; it was as if the burning ache—the one that said I was somehow betraying myself by talking to cops—had been waiting for that sign of authority to make it all real. Their presence solidified my allegiance; it justified my speaking to them. And I needed that, because even though I was going to spill my guts, there was still that innate part of me that naturally distrusted cops.

There was the dual smack of righteous rage and Jakes' resolute absence. My anger was the tip of a flickering flame that grew to a scorching inferno when his name tipped into it. Like gasoline, the two ignited.

My shame for cooperating—for the nerve of my breath after Jakes had stopped—was buried beneath the rubble for the moment. I sat up, watching the two cops place chairs at the end of my bed before sitting down.

I told them everything I could think of before they said a word. Every little detail, before they even asked for it. The way the night didn't go as I expected it to. How that chick Angelica was so beautiful and awesome on her guitar, that I was jealous when she performed alongside Jake because she was doing something I never could. She complimented him in a way I only dreamed about. And then Jake was mad at me and left me hanging. It was too much stress and I got a headache.

In the fantasyland of this legal drama, I was articulate. I told the cops everything and they believed me. They were going to arrest Avery and I was going to be their star witness to testify against her.

Reality was a cruel slap to the face.

44

—Angel

"Why is that?" Tight Bun Tara asks. When I stare at her, she clarifies: "What 'reality' felt like a slap to the face?"

My back straightens. She knows damn well _what_. "They said I was lying."

Her eyes move from mine down to the paper in front of her. Pen in hand, she scribbles her notes across the page. "How did that make you feel?"

I scoff. "How do you think?"

"Betrayed?" Her eyebrows lift over the squared rim of her glasses.

I'm very tempted to scream, _"DUH!"_ But calmly explain, "Betrayed is an accurate description."

"Did they tell you what they believe happened? What their theories were?" It's Darren asking this time.

I nod then look at the microphone, remembering I'm supposed to speak. "Yes, they did."

"And can you repeat those theories to me?" Tight Bun Tara asks.

She's probing. _Why?_ A weight settles between my shoulders as I ponder the question. Since the beginning of this interview, Tight Bun Tara has seemed the nicest, or maybe the most accessible of the three people questioning me. The direction she's taking right now and the way her pen keeps flying across her notepad gives me the feeling that I have misjudged her. Maybe her soft demeanor was meant to fool me.

All the faith I had—more than I realized, judging by the rampant disappointment coming on like a wave, vibrating through my chest—all that faith in her, in the belief that she would see _me_ , the person inside; the love and dreams that I've lost . . . the hope.

It's gone.

I can feel myself shrinking, deflated like a popped balloon. Only, I am not trying to block them out. My legs are not curling up, my arms are not clinging to my stomach. Still, I feel as if I am being oppressed, losing energy and I can't stop it. I don't think I want to.

My breathing becomes labored. My eyes lose focus.

# \+ + +

45

—Avery

I remember very well, the whole pathetic scenario.

The cops had me cuffed, sitting in the interrogation room. I was giving as much attitude as I got. From the moment I was bulldozed into the station, the whole set-up reeked of a bad cop show—some chick-cop set each of my fingers over an ink pad then rolled them, one at a time, onto a page with boxes that labeled each print with a name and corresponding digit. She said the ink would wash right off, but my finger tips and palms were covered in inky blotches for days after.

Then, I was strapped into a hard plastic chair and left alone for hours inside a little room as they attempted to bore me to death.

When the two idiot cops that arrested me finally came in, saying stupid things like, "play time is over," all I could do was laugh in their faces. I mean, who they fuck did they think they were? They didn't know me.

I sat there as the two cops hammered me with question after question. They were too worked up to bother hearing anything I said, so I dropped my head, trying to reach my cuffed, discolored fingers with my mouth. I wanted to lick them, to see if the ink would bleed.

". . . You wouldn't know anything about that would you?" The younger cop, Gutierrez his badge said, preached at me, still pretending to want answers.

I took the opening—it was too easy. "Know that you're a tool? No one had to tell me. It's obvious."

Leland was the other guy. He looked older and was dressed in street clothes with a badge hanging around his neck. He raised a hand at the younger cop, Gutierrez. My guess was to keep him from hitting me.

"The old neighbor lady . . . Mrs. Smith, she says you stole her car keys right off her kitchen table. A vehicle registered, to her, was found parked in the motel lot and your prints are all over it. Got any idea how that happened?" Leland asked.

Watching my black-tipped fingers resting against the metal chair, they looked strange, like they weren't mine. They were just sitting there, like rude guests ignoring my commands to find a way out. Limp noodles.

"Look, I'll tell you whatever you want to know. But you have to promise Angel walks. She had nothing to do with any of this." I imagined we were in the middle of a scene on one of those cheesy cop shows. I was trying to sound exactly like a suspect that the cops had in custody, whose instincts told them was guilty, but they couldn't nail for lack of evidence. I thought I did okay.

Just like a cop show, Leland took a pencil from his shirt pocket and smacked it onto the table. "We're not accepting any of your crazy bullshit. Tell the truth." He shoved a notepad beside it and pushed both across the tabletop until they were right in front of me, just within and yet without, my reach.

Next thing I knew, Gutierrez was in my face, ripping the pages from the table. "You're not fooling anybody. We don't need a confession: we got you, your prints, two victims, the motel room, the stolen vehicle, dozens of witnesses that place you at the club, and everywhere else you been for the last ten years! Ward of the state—that's you!" His hot, rancid breath made my stomach roll. I wished I had to burp or puke. I wanted to make him sick right back.

He still smoothed the paper back on the table and unlocked my right cuff.

"I'm left-handed." I waited until he put his keys away to say anything.

Gutierrez hesitated. Leland nodded and cursed while his partner did what he was supposed to—like a good little civil servant—and relocked the right cuff around my wrist before releasing my aching left. That skank at the finger-painting station twisted it behind my back.

I started doodling while Gutierrez pulled a small remote from his pocket, pointing it towards a video camera in the corner. I heard the thin buzz of the lens adjusting.

The pencil in my hand was long and thin. The tip was sort of sharp. Brittle. It made me wonder . . . _what if . . ._

Clutching the new pencil—I didn't even think about it, really. It wasn't something I could think about. I just raised my hand and thrust it down as hard as I could, feeling nothing as the wood and led skewered the flesh of my thigh.

The supposedly fierce Officer Gutierrez paled. That was enough for me; my sweet reward. My smile grew bigger than a crescent moon as Leland jumped from his chair and ran for the door, yelling.

I couldn't bring myself to remove the pencil, but I made a fist at Leland as he passed. It was another beat before both my hands were restrained once more.

Then, there was only pain. The chasm had opened again. It was sucking me in. I was drowning.

+++

When I opened my eyes, the interrogation room was gone. The new room was not white. The walls looked like exposed cinderblock. The only sound was that of metal. _Clinking_ , _clanking_ _._ Handcuffs thrashing against the metal frame of the bed.

Echoes in an empty room, I mused. How appropriate.

I was as good as dead—drowned inside the bottomless chasm—sinking in the emptiness, groping for a flotation device, wishing to make myself stop breathing. That was the worst part, knowing I could drown in the black feeling but couldn't stop breathing. I tried holding my breath, but that just made me pass-out and start again.

I kept my head on the pillow and waited for whatever shrink I knew was coming to appear and make a decree.

After a while, a small man came through the locked door and folded himself into a single chair against the far wall. His hair was gray like the walls with mismatched dark brown eyebrows.

"Do you know why you are here?" He asked.

Because they want to pin me with bullshit battery and homicide charges!

Because I'm a fucked up nut-case with mommy issues!

Because the world hates me and I hate the world right back!

I turned away and shut my eyes, barely enough energy to inform, "I'm not. Here. At all."

# \+ + +

# 46

—Angel

The three judges stare at me while I watch the mirrored wall, wondering over the blank faces behind it, the ears that must be listening. I don't feel much better, but a little more unfurled.

"Society wants us, as individuals, to think that we're so strong. But it's a lie. We're slaves to the physical elements of this world. We're impotent."

Taking a deep breath, I look at my own pathetic reflection in the mirrored glass. "Think about this: how much does it take to knock us from our towering achievements onto our knees? A breath from the earth would do it. The slightest shift in her axis and we're all done for."

More minutely, all it might take is a phone call. Like the one Jakes mother must have gotten. What happened to her when she heard the words, _'Jake's dead'_?

A split-second decision to go instead of stay, to chance the yellow light, to ignore the little voice in your head that says this turn might not take you where you think.

A few words of judgment, the bang of a gavel, and just like that: instead of spending my eighteenth birthday on a California beach; I'm coming of age in lockup.

"One wasted second, and we fall like dry leaves from a dead tree. How often do we take the time to think about that?"

Quiet Darren leans forward, looking at the clock. "We'll pick this up tomorrow."

+++

I can't listen to modern music. I don't want to hear any overrated Grunge or Metal with its' thousands of sub-genres or trendy bands. I'm most comfortable with the music I grew up on. The stuff Jake hated.

_Heaven isn't too far away . . ._ The sound of Warrant hums from my little clock radio. The irony of the song clenches my chest and even though I have spent the better part a decade lamenting, I can't help but break when Janie Lane says that no one really cares.

He's right. Everyone's gone. But unlike the song says, I will not keep trying. I decided before I ever got here that this case evaluation would be my last. The moment my testimony is over, I will be, too.

But I'm not done yet. I took too long today, went too slow to finish. So, for now, I must keep breathing and close my eyes . . .

I'm still seventeen, slow dancing with Jake inside his dark living room, in between the glass encased stereo and the wooden coffee table.

I feel the ghost of his lips skimming their way up my neck as he talks about what heaven is really like. "It's nothing," _kiss_ , "like what you think." _Kiss_ , "It's better," _kiss_ , "than you," _kiss_ , "can imagine."

+++

It's after twelve when I finally get into the room with my idiot lawyer, Tight Bun Tara, and Quiet Darren. They're all waiting for me in their matching jackets. Today's color is white. Again. The lawyer is supposed to be here for me, playing on my team. So why the hell does he look so dang comfortable with opposing council?

There's a sweating Diet Coke waiting for me, opened and waiting with a bendy straw. Right next to that is a bottle of water. I take the drinks because they help. Taking my meds without food isn't getting any easier. Makes me so dizzy I want to puke. Sometimes, I do.

After I'm cuffed to my chair and take a few long sips of soda, I start in on my declaration, reminding everyone, once again, that what I am telling them is the way things looked to me. It is my picture, the one my mind drew up while I was navigating the maze.

I remind them of my leaving Carlisle in early June. "I'd expected to have my first taste of real freedom. I was graduating from that shithole high school. I was turning eighteen in September. I was in love and had just gotten engaged." My eyes swell. "Before June was over, Jake was gone. By July, so was I. I don't remember September. Someone said it rained." The vague memory of a weather report whispers to me.

It took months to get to court, but I don't remember most of it because the stress and depression had taken its' toll; I was having near-constant migraines and was literally scared shitless. I couldn't eat, sleep, or shit. That time was just a haze; with the general feeling that I didn't care. I didn't want to hold myself together. Nothing mattered.

But one thought kept sticking to me: there was no news about Avery.

"You've stated on several occasions that you do not recall the details of your arrest or the charges against you." Darren asks, looking to my lawyer who clears his throat. "Why do you think that is?"

Why do they continually ask questions they know the answers to? "My memory has always had holes in it."

Darren nods his head. "Yes, and that is often the case with persons having your diagnoses. What I'm curious about is how you can recall the most minute details of every moment you spent with Mister Haddon, but not recall the very important details of the crimes the state of Arizona saw fit to charge you with."

My back straightens. "Ever heard of selective amnesia? Maybe I don't want to remember."

Tight Bun Tara stretches her hand across the table, getting my attention. "We're veering off-topic. If we could continue?"

I turn to her. "My next clear memories are the handcuffs."

+++

I came out of my constant daze with sudden clarity. As if I had passed through a fog that cut through time. I simply appeared there, on my feet, in a white jumpsuit.

I found myself standing between two guards in the midst of a large, plain room filled with small round tables and caged windows high up on the cement walls. Just like a cafeteria, but smaller and less smelly. An empty visiting area, it looked like. But no one was going to visit me. Everyone hated me.

"What's happening?"

The guard at my left didn't meet my eyes so I turned to the one on my right and asked again. Right-side Guard removed his arm from mine only to replace it with another set of handcuffs that latched my chains to a loop molded on the underside of a table, and directed me to sit.

"You've got a visitor," the guard said.

Before I could get my hopes up, a grey-haired man walked into view, passing through a different doorway on the opposite side of the large room. A doorway that let the visitors come and go—not like the tricky door that I'd come through—which led me in but would never let me out.

The guards posted behind me as the gray-haired man, who was a little taller and a little more plump than he looked from across the room, sat down on the opposing bench. He set a briefcase in the space beside him, then popped it open. He rested a thick accordion file on the table, and then set both his laced hands on top.

"Are you a lawyer?"

The man shook his head. "No, dear."

"It's Angel."

"Angel, my name is Doctor Bender. Do you remember me? We met once before."

I shook my head.

"Well, I am a psychologist. I've been appointed by the court to examine your mental health on behalf of the state of Arizona."

"Another doctor?"

"I have been advised of the charges against you, the incidents in the interrogation room, and have consulted with your regular physician and a doctor Elena Williams." His brow furrowed. "Doctor Williams sent over her very extensive notes with a copy of your file." His index finger plunked the top of the accordion file. "I would have followed up with you sooner, but I had to go over all the information and gather research."

He popped off the rubber band holding the thick file folder and it sprang open, tripling in size. He removed a stack of papers and adjusted his rimless glasses.

"I've met separately with Avery, but this time I would like to speak with the both of you at once. Would that be okay?"

My forehead crumpled. "She's here?"

I didn't hear any doors open but as I spoke, Avery walked in wearing the same chains as me. She was bound at the waist, wrists, and ankles. She was allowed to sit beside me—at my left. I watched her from the corner of my eye.

Her shoulders were squared, her chin held high. "I will only speak to Doctor Williams. We had a deal."

She twisted my direction. I refused to acknowledge her presence that felt like a weighty collar holding me back. She was so smug and demanding—I could not fathom why she and I had ever been friends.

The gray-haired man looked down at his papers—my file—and one corner of his mouth twisted down. "Avery, is it? I was told you might say that. So I have taken the liberty of asking Doctor Williams to join us. She should be arriving shortly."

As if on cue, the same plain door, cordoned off by chain link fencing topped with barbed wire across the visitor's area, opened. In stepped Doctor Williams and another guard, but he stayed inside the fencing, allowing her to pass through into our chamber, filling in an opening on the opposite side of the table.

She and Doctor Bender quickly exchanged whispers before her eyes locked on me. "I'm glad to see you, Angel. Avery."

I couldn't respond.

Avery screamed. "What happened to Doctor-Patient confidentiality?"

"You are being charged with a felony. Your case has officially been passed off to Doctor David Bender. I am here as a consultant."

"Consulting my ass." Avery spat. "You're glad to get rid of us. No more Angel. No more head-case."

"Your specific issues are not within my scope of expertise, but they are within Doctor Benders. His opinions on your condition and this case may decide what happens to you from this point on."

"We have to talk to him." Her voice was suddenly soft and close. Half of my face burned from her breath on my cheek. She was looking directly at me, speaking into my ear. "Remember, Angel, how I always look out for you?"

My throat swelled with unshed tears. How could she say that?

She paused, waiting. "Don't worry. I'll tell them."

"One moment." Doctor Bender held out his index finger then swooped it down into his briefcase. It reemerged on the button of a compact tape recorder. He set it on top of the table, speaking into the air, aiming his voice at the recorder, stating three names: his, Doctor Williams' and mine. Then he looked to Avery. "I'm ready when you are, Avery."

Avery mumbled, "Don't hate me." And then began in a steady voice, "We are broken, but we have value . . ."

With those few words, I felt a sudden wave of dizziness descend upon on me. It crashed over my left shoulder, rolled me onto my back, and I swear, it carried me away to another place and time.

I was six years old. Maybe seven. I was goofing around with Avery in the family room of whosever house I was staying in at the time. We were running, playing tag. My shoulder knocked one of the bookshelves lining the wall. I fell to the hardwood floor. A tall jar of coins that was kept up on one of the higher shelves toppled over and rolled off the edge.

It hit the ground beside me with an ear-splitting shatter.

I don't remember the name of the family (I wasn't with them very long), but I remember the woman I stayed with had tight curls in her brown hair. She was righteously pissed. She called me a thief, accused me of stealing from her, and then spanked me for breaking the jar. After she searched my pockets and came up empty, she told me I wasn't worth the time it took her to clean up after me and then sent me to stand in the corner.

Avery stood beside me the whole time.

Later, when we were alone, she . . . she whispered in my ear as I stood there, crying. "We are like that jar. We might have been broken," she rubbed the permanent bump under my hair that never went away after my accident. "But we have value. You do. You do."

Hearing Avery repeat those words to Doctor Bender, I knew right away what she was referring to, but it was an odd memory to evoke at that moment and it made me feel so strange.

I didn't know.

I was completely unaware of how much I was missing, and completely alone in that ignorance.

47

—Angel

My chest is bursting with snotty, uncontrolled howls. One of my hands has been un-cuffed to let me wipe my nose. My throat feels unsteady as I try to keep talking, trying to tell them.

"I wish I'd died with him. I'd be better off. But you have to believe me, I didn't know."

Tight Bun leans in. "You didn't know what?"

I want to roll my eyes into the back of my head just to see the look on the face of the guards behind me. I can't be the only one flabbergasted by this stupid, stupid question. The reason I'm here is no secret to anyone.

Even my shitty lawyer is shaking his head.

The swell in my throat threatens to choke me. I clear it as best I can. "What I know now. I didn't know then what I know now."

Tight Bun Tara clasps her hands, setting them on the table in front of her. "And what is that?" This time, her own eyes are glistening as she passes me a replacement tissue. "What have you learned?"

"Who I am."

"Who are you, Angel?"

"I'm—" fighting for a way to explain.

"You don't have to answer that." My lawyer waves his hand through the air, obstructing my view of Tara, across the table. "If it's too stressful—"

"I didn't know the signs." If he thinks he can shut me down, he's got another thing coming. "I didn't do anything—but I am at fault. For J-Jake." My heart wrenches on his name.

They have to know how the two are connected: Avery's words and the night Jake died.

I'm shaking, as if the fault line of my mind has shifted, forcing my whole body into tremors. "I can see now. None of it was—"

"Miss Patel, would you like to stop?"

I turn to glare at Mister Brandon and keep talking. "None of it should have happened. It was all wrong. He was . . . It wasn't peaceful. It wasn't real."

"What makes you think that it wasn't real?" Tara's voice is velvet soft, though she's glaring at my lawyer.

Avery is the fucking devil!

"How else— _how_ could she take my soul like that? It's gone, and I'm still here. Still breathing."

"She's wrecked. Let's leave this for tomorrow." Quiet Darren insists and Mister Brandon jumps up in agreement.

"No!" I sob, throwing up my free hand that had been kindly uncuffed earlier to allow me to wipe my own nose.

The two men look at each other for a long moment before Quiet Darren asks, "What do you think? Should we wrap it up?"

My lawyer waves his hand, "If she's determined to continue—"

"I am. I want to finish." My clenched fist bounces off the table. Quiet Darren looks back to me, his relaxed posture now unyielding. I nod frantically. "Please. I'll calm down, I promise. Just, let me finish."

The two men settle back in their chairs as Tight Bun Tara looks on with expectation. Looking at the three faces, the room suddenly feels much smaller, the air too quiet. Frantic silence floats all around and I am drowning in it.

"It was not real." I repeat, taking a deep breath. "It wasn't. It wasn't." Air like soup, suffocates me. "Until . . . it was.

"When Avery said that . . . about the broken jar, it was like this door inside my head opened up, connecting two rooms that I didn't know were even there. And I was sure the knowledge that flooded in like a contaminated light had to be a lie."

I can see myself back inside that bloody motel room as clear as if I'm standing in it. "I didn't know that I was the only person who set foot inside that room. That there was no one else. That I—that _she_ was _me_."

Something inside me breaks. It's as if I've been kicked and all the air shoved from my body. It takes a minute to draw breath. I'm fighting to stay in this moment, fighting to get the words out. But all that comes are the sounds of giant, irrepressible sobs heaving up my tight throat, folding me in half. I sound like a wild animal and it's fitting that I'm caged like one.

I can't let myself stop now. More than my next breath, I need them to know what happened. I want them to believe me. And if I can't give them my truth now, I won't get another chance. It's a miracle that they've let me get this far into the aftermath, that my lawyer has let me go on. If I give in, they'll stop listening and all of this will have been for nothing.

All I have is breath, so I take it, use it to hold my cries inside and shove the words past them. "Doctor Bender said Doctor Williams was wrong. That I was just traumatized, had PTSD, or something. And that I had a severe mood disorder and the night with Jake . . . was because I was coming down from a _'prolonged state of manic euphoria,'_ which, would be controlled with new medication."

"But I swear— _I swear_ to you on whatever I have left inside me, that everything I am was asleep on that bathroom floor when Jake walked into that room."

Breathe.

Say it.

"And I swear to you, that _I_ did _not_ kill Jake. I love him. Love him. I could _never_ hurt him."

My lawyers' eyes are burning with an emotion I don't care to identify as he stares at one side of my face.

"Doctor Bender lied. He saw what happened, he talked to Avery. He knew that I always forgot everything and that Avery was the reason. She put me to sleep! She took over!"

"Dissociative amnesia and delusions." Mister Brandon mumbles and Tight Bun and Quiet Man both nod their heads, making notes on their respective notepads.

"Doctor Williams spoke to Avery without me there. She _knew_ I wasn't faking."

The words are coming easier now, flowing together with my tears instead of one blocking out the other. "I didn't know. I couldn't see that I—that my eyes were the last ones that he saw. I didn't know that the nightmares I had of—of him dying were m-memories."

I take a deep breath and release it, letting the room fall silent. All the fight gone.

"We're done for the day." My lawyer shoots from his chair, ordering the guards and everyone else in the room to come back first thing in the morning.

I don't get a say in what happens to me, but I'm begging anyway. Yes, I've said the hardest thing, but it's not enough. And in the chaos that follows—my insistence at remaining until the end of the scheduled session and arguing with my lawyer about it—it feels as if the room takes a collective breath.

The two judges on the other side of the table seem dumbstruck, trying to absorb my confession: information I couldn't give the police, another stuid girl treated as fodder. My condition was never taken seriously.

And how could I tell my whole story when even I didn't know all of it? I was trying to come to terms with the fact that my very best friend murdered the love of my life. I had no clue that she wasn't—for all their intents and purposes—real. I saw her and touched her. I hear her still.

But she's a by-product of my fractured psyche.

A projection.

A delusion.

Things that would require years and years of therapy to come to terms with.

I didn't know that no one saw her but me. I never noticed the way people skipped over her in conversations, or only spoke to one of us at a time, never included her in activities. I never saw how we only communicated when we were alone.

I didn't know how hard my mind had to work to save me from my exceptionally shitty life. Avery's emptiness, her anger and memories, the cutting, and sleeping around—all of that was _me_.

It feels like a question, not an answer. How is it that Avery's eating disorder and need to coddle me was just another fractured part of me trying to find a way to cope? To coexist within myself? What type of life did I lead before that accident that I had to make up an entirely different person to handle it?

I couldn't even accept what Doctor Williams was explaining to Doctor Bender until I saw the taped interrogation videos. I looked strange, elegantly folded into a chair, and giving attitude that wasn't mine. I insulted everybody, moving smoother than I ever knew I could. I saw my own lips say, "I'll tell you whatever you want to know, so long as Angel walks." And then I smiled and stabbed myself with a pencil.

A brown-haired, brown-eyed girl, acting like a green-eyed terror.

The times I argued with Jake over what I thought were misunderstandings, weren't.

Avery must have made sure he never found out there were two souls living in my body. I didn't even know it. It seems the only ones who did, weren't sure enough to say anything. Until that day in the jail, when Avery talked about being broken, nothing made sense. And after, it made even less sense.

"I promise to stay calm," I beg my lawyer. "Please. Just let me go a little longer."

Once he gives a reluctant nod, a guard re-cuffs my free hand to the arm of the chair and I am allowed to keep talking, telling all of them what I now know to be true.

"Jake was completely innocent. He dealt with everything and understood so little. He truly loved me. And she—" my voice gives. I clamp my lips in my teeth, holding the urge to cry inside. I can't finish the sentence.

A hand sets a fresh Diet Coke on the table in front of me. Bendy straw and everything. The sight calms my bawling. I thank the quiet man with, what I hope is, a smile and take a long, cool sip.

Darren asks, "Can you tell us what happened that night?"

My lawyer cuts in. "She has no first-hand knowledge—"

"I'll tell them." My lips tremble around the straw as I take another drink.

"Miss Patel, I understand your desire to share, but you are distressed and I am charged with looking out for your best interest." He's closer now, in my line of sight. One hand is extended towards the microphone. "As you recall, that night was never the purpose of this interview. Any commentary on an event you cannot fully recall is reckless. Pointless."

Darren leans towards the microphone and flips the switch. The constant red light on the base goes black. "Mister Brandon, Miss Patel, I ask for simple, professional curiosity. It's not often we have the opportunity to observe dissociative behavior firsthand. We have all the hard evidence in the case file; the forensics, and statements from the band members. Transcripts from your hearing, but as you insist, no one was there except your alter, Avery, and the victim."

"I have dreams about it sometimes. My doctors at Canyon View say they're repressed memories manifesting or something like that. They may not be exactly right."

In my heart, I pray they aren't.

Quiet Darren's forehead has had a constant crevice for the past several hours, but now he leans back in his chair and the crevice smoothes out. He looks years younger. "I can accept that. What about you?" He turns to Tight Bun Tara.

Her eyes widen. "So long as you understand, Miss Patel, whatever you reveal to us will have no bearing on the results of this evaluation. Our decision will not be swayed—neither more nor less lenient. Is that clear?"

"Yes," I say, leaving out that I don't give shit either way what happens after this. Explaining this part was the whole point of my cooperating. So they can all see that I am not Avery. Though we share the same body, we are not the same person. We are polar fucking opposites. I need for that to be clear.

I look at my lawyer. "You know my opinion." Mister Brandon crosses his arms.

I adjust myself in the chair. "The dream always starts with . . . well, Avery. She's alone, standing in the middle of the motel room. The only light is coming from the television."

48

—What Happened

A knock sounded at the door. Avery hadn't been in the room for more than a few seconds. She was still in her clingy clothes, wet from her night swim in the motel pool.

She opened the door minutely and saw Band Chick—Angelica.

"Hey," Angelica said with her perfect lips, "it's getting way too naked over there. You mind if I crash in here?"

"Things not working out with Andrew? And don't you have a room?"

A smirk perked up one side of her mouth. "He's playing hard to get, I guess. I have my own room, but not at this shithole and I drank too much to consider driving."

Avery shook her head, unsympathetically noting the guitarists wobble. "I got a headache. A real bad one."

Angelica's shoulders dropped. "Fuck it. Guess I'll just go pass out in my car."

"Well, I took some pain reliever. Probably come back in about an hour?"

Angelica smiled, "Maybe I can hold out a little longer. Feel better."

Avery closed the door, aiming to change out of her wet clothes. She was just slipping into a dry set when another knock sounded. This time, it was louder and immediately irritated her. She wasn't expecting anyone and she wanted to keep the noise to a minimum to avoid waking Angel.

"Just a second," she whisper-yelled at the door and ripped her dry shorts up the rest of the way.

Jake was standing outside. His arms were crossed and he wasn't smiling. Avery rolled her eyes. She could never take mild-mannered Jake seriously when he tried to look angry. It just didn't work with mellow demeanor.

"Keep your voice down." She mouthed, setting a finger over her lips.

"Why are you whispering?"

"Because I have to, Jake."

He tilted his head to one side. "Headache?"

Avery nodded.

"Convenient." Jake walked inside and sat on the bed, leaning up against the headboard. "You know," he kept his voice low, "I've got a couple things I need to talk about."

"Like what?"

"Heavy stuff. Like something Andrew said to me this morning." His eyes met hers and something flashed in them. "We never talked about when you broke the news to Deanna, either. I know it's not the best time . . ." His voice trailed off, but his gaze was sharp.

"Perfect." Avery snapped, the hair at the back of her neck straightening with the mention of the Foster. "Let's have a deep conversation." Her words gave off that perfect sarcasm she employed as she turned to face Jake with her legs folded. Face to face, both sitting on the bed.

"First: Andrew said he saw you groping two guys from Anemic Psychos."

Avery put up a hand, stopping him. "They did it to me first. It was a revenge grope."

Jake sighed, nodding. "I heard the same from them. But . . ."

"Spit it out, Jake."

"It pisses me off that you'd do that. You're my girlfriend. You should fucking act like it." He met her gaze, a muscle in his clenched jaw twitched. "Andrew also told me he saw you in town a while back."

Avery knew when Jake said _town_ it meant the larger of the two; Eager, not Carlisle.

"Well, isn't Andrew full of useful information? I can see how that might bug you." Jake scowled, but Avery didn't care. "See, I have this little thing called free will and sometimes I use it to go into _town_."

"He said you were walking into that abortion clinic down on Cactus Street." The hard look in Jakes' eyes faltered. "I told him he was crazy, that you might do crazy stuff sometimes, but you wouldn't do that. I didn't tell him about how you can't have kids. That's not his business. Besides, if something like _that_ ever happened you would tell me."

Avery kept her eyes down, wondering how to handle this. Could she sweep it under the rug? Keep it from Angel in the long run?

"Right?" Jake asked, his voice rising. "You would tell me if I . . . if you were . . . Right? Normally, I wouldn't even ask, but you've been acting really weird, lately. More weird than usual. But I told Andrew that he was wrong." He paused again. And then carried on, "You would never do that to me. He's wrong. Isn't he?"

Avery shrugged, deciding on the fly to roll with the punches. He'd already promised to marry Angel, there had to be some security in that. "I might have been there."

Suddenly, Jake shot up from the bed. His hazel eyes turned black as he stared down at her. "Getting a . . . ?"

She crossed her arms.

"But—but I thought . . . how? You were?"

"Yes." She didn't even have the courtesy to look ashamed.

"Damn it!" Jake raised his hands over his head, raking his fingers down his face. "I am so sick of defending you all the time. You fucking lied? What the hell?"

"I didn't think I could get pregnant. I was wrong and I took care of it."

"Without telling me?"

"Why would I tell you?"

"Why?" Jake scoffed. "Because I deserve more respect than a fucking dog. It was part of me, too."

His words were forceful. He was pissed and Avery eagerly fed on that rage like a cat lapping up cream.

"No it wasn't."

The acid in her voice ate right through Jakes' heart. She could tell by the way he jerked back as if he'd been sucker-punched. His whole body deflated.

She felt a little guilty, but part of her was also interested. Angry Jake was a curious thing, an anomaly she was unfamiliar with. Usually, when Jakes upset met her indifference, he dropped it, or caved into her demands. But here he was, looking for a fight and that got Avery curious. Of course, she knew she should apologize, but what if she didn't?

The room became deathly quiet as Avery wondered. _What would Jake do then?_

Jakes' mouth opened, but no sound came out. He ran his hands up and over his stubby, velvet hair and took a deep breath. "I know that sometimes you say things you don't mean. So I need an explanation before I get righteously pissed."

Avery stood, stepping away from the side of the bed, but said nothing.

Jakes' patience withdrew, leaving only rising anger. His mouth cracked into a grimace. "Not _a_ baby at all, or not _my_ baby?"

"Jake." Avery walked backwards towards the dresser where Angels' purse was set. She knew Angel kept a pocket knife in there. She did not know what Jake might do next, but she wanted to find out. She wanted to be ready for anything.

"What the fuck did you mean?" Jake pressed, pointing a finger in her direction.

Avery felt the smooth handle of the pocket knife against her palm and a ripple of anxiety as she answered. "It was not _your_ baby. Not _ours_."

Everything inside him seemed to break at once. "Really?" His breath hitched and back bowed, his head fell into his hands.

When he looked at Avery a moment later, the impossible happened; Jake was fuming. And it was not funny at all. He looked so disgusted, so disappointed, it made Avery's self-hatred swell. She knew that Angel would hate her for it, too. But she didn't want to back down. As a matter of fact, she shoved her chin out.

Jake lunged at her, taking her by both shoulders and shaking. "Who was it?"

Avery remained resolutely quiet.

Jake repeated his question, shaking her again as he shouted, "Who? Who?" Tightening his grasp on her arms, his face went red.

It was always very simple for Avery to shift the hate she felt for herself onto others. It was as easy as changing the direction of a loaded cannon. The fuse was always lit and all she had to do was pivot the giant weapon, shift her hateful aim.

She didn't like the way he looked and touched her. His fingers were a vice around each arm. She's was already on edge, thinking too, of the euphoric cloud that had engulfed after she let loose on Deanna.

Avery focused, going for a direct hit. Aimed and fired. "Troy Bleecher dropped me off. He was the one I called because he was the one who was involved. Not _you_."

Jakes' breathing was harsh. He loosed his grip on her with such force, Avery's back kissed the dresser and it shook. At that moment—the second she was sure Jake was more angry than he had ever been—was the same moment Avery realized the depth of what she was doing.

The irreparable harm she was causing Angel.

"What the fuck are you doing to me?" Jake was shaking. Stuttering, he pointed at her. "Troy Bleecher?" He came closer, pushing her against the dresser, pinching her face in his enormous hand. "You little fucking—" he stopped, his face almost purple. "I would've done anything for you. You take what's mine and give it to someone else, then act like you're so fucking proud of yourself?"

Jake's breathing slowed, his tight angry scowl loosened. He dropped his hand from her face took several steps back. "You're not gonna make me lose my shit. You're wrong and dead-fucking evil, but I shouldn't put my hands on you." Jake turned as if to walk away and then stopped, coming back to finish. "Just know: there's no coming back from this. We are over. Done."

_Shit,_ Avery thought. She had always known things between Angel and Jake wouldn't work in the long term but she couldn't be the one to break them, at least not in such a direct way. Angel would never forgive her.

Avery took a conciliatory step forward and said his name in the same soft way that Angel always did. But Jake stepped back with both hands up as if Avery was made of some contaminating substance. The gesture was plain: he wanted nothing more to do with her.

"I'm not wasting another second with you. And just so you know, Deanna's on her way to get you."

Avery felt her jaw go slack. Jake had to be lying. Avery had hit Deanna hard. Really hard. And laid her in her room, on her bed, as if she were asleep. She'd even taken the time to place some aspirin and a glass of water on her bedside table, to make it look like she didn't feel well, hoping to buy them time to get away. She wasn't supposed to wake up.

Jake's posture straightened, as if he were proud—or pissed—while Avery's shrank.

"Oh, I talked to her." He gloated, "I called to thank her for her generosity in letting you come with me. Imagine how surprised I was to learn that you didn't. That you just fucking ran off!"

"You had no right checking up on me!" Avery backed away and steadied herself against the dresser, keeping the folded pocket knife in her grasp. Was he lying? Did he really talk to Deanna? If by some miracle he did, had Deanna told Jake what happened? Was that the real reason he was so angry?

"Because you're so trustworthy." His hands rolled into fists. "You can tell Deanna all about how shitty I am when she gets here, in a few minutes."

Jake shrugged, as if the news was nothing. As if Angels' plans, as if her life, didn't matter at all.

That was unacceptable.

Avery couldn't flinch, now. The situation was beyond hesitation, beyond the point of return. She couldn't take back what she'd said to Jake. Or what he'd said to Deanna. Angel would suffer, either way. So there was no point in trying to settle anything, was there?

All that was left was the unanswered question: _what if?_

Avery was too curious to stop pushing. Her compulsion was born of a wonderment that would not be satisfied until the confrontation reached crescendo and completion. Avery had to know what Jake would do next. She had to.

"I'm not leaving with Deanna."

"I'm not going to jail for you. I asked you to move in with me. To marry me!" He nearly screamed at her.

"You can't make me leave."

And then, the impossible happened again. Angry Jake got more angry. So angry, that he laughed. He got very close—closer—stepping on Avery's bare toes with his big boot, and whispering in her ear.

"If I have to stuff you in the damn trunk myself, I will. And there is nothing you can do about it. You are a fucking liar and I don't want you here. Maybe you should call Troy, tell him how proud you are. You're his problem, now."

Avery knew his words were actually threats and reacted.

The first two times the blade stuck him between his ribs, Avery expected a big reaction. But it was as if he didn't feel it. Jake simply lumbered back, gazing at her as if she were speaking some unknown language.

His hand moved up over his abdomen. The rippling anger that made him laugh and threaten her pulled back like receding water. It was sucked too far out to sea, exposing too much beach. Jake broke his gaze, looking down at his hand.

"Angel?" He saw the red on his palm and stopped. He got that look on his face again, like she was an alien creature. "What did you do?"

If this were a normal conversation, Avery would have laughed. It was such a stupid thing to say. It seemed that Jake was in shock, but only for a second.

He went for the phone. Maybe because it was closer than the door. Avery's hand shot out to stop him. She was still holding the knife, moving it quickly, wherever she could find flesh. She got his back when he turned, his leg when he tried to jump over the bed and fell. It seemed he didn't want to fight with her and that made her want to keep going. How far would she have to go to make Jake defend himself?

But he kept backing away, like he only wanted out.

Avery saw the fear in his eyes as the blade slashed across his forearm, but she didn't stop. She moved faster, plunged deeper. She couldn't think of anything except, _what if I keep going? When will Jake stop me? How?_

The blade was sharper than it looked and she wouldn't let go of it. Not when Jake tried to take it from her, not when his back hit the wall, not even when he fell to the floor, begging her to stop. When he cried out for help, she just kept trying to make him be quiet. She didn't stop trying until Jake did.

And then, she took a deep breath.

Before she could gather her thoughts, before she felt that surge of peace she desperately needed there was another knock.

It was the busiest night ever, like Grand Central Station or something. Avery never had so much company in her life. When she began turning the knob to see who was outside—she wasn't going to let them in. She was only checking—but Angelica must have seen the door handle move and anticipated. She tried to barge in, probably desperate to get away from the orgy that had formed in the room three doors down and she wasn't going to spend another minute waiting to celebrate being the newest member of Analog Controller. It was the greatest night of her life. They were going to be huge. She was sure of it.

But Avery kept her body behind the door, wedging her foot so it barely opened enough to peek out.

"There's a chubby black lady looking for you." Angelica chuckled, her face falling when the door did not give way to her pressure. "Don't you feel any better?"

Avery's heart was racing. She knew it had to be Deanna. "Go away." She slammed the door in the girl's face and locked the chain bolt at the top.

As Avery paced, her confusion and anger grew. Angelica's message— _'a chubby black lady looking for you'_ —verified Jakes warning.

_And what the hell?_ Avery stomped her foot, enraged and impatient. Why was it taking so long? Why hadn't she felt the rush like before? Why was there no release this time? What was different? And what was she supposed to do about Deanna? Had the Foster called the police? She looked at her clothes, at the knife still in her hand, at the red-stained room, and realized she had messed up.

While trying to think what to do next, Avery noticed Angel standing in the doorway of the bathroom, staring down at the mess she made in the far corner.

"I'm sorry," Avery mumbled and dropped the knife back into Angels' purse. Then apologized again. And again. Angel didn't respond, though. She crouched on the floor in a haze, hearing and seeing nothing but what was in front of her.

Avery had to fix it. She left Angel to her quiet panic and began thinking. Pacing again. Trying to match up the scene with a plausible scenario. Mid-way through planning what Avery hoped would be a plausible lie, came another knock on the door. And then a voice boomed through the wood. "I know you're in there!" Angelica squeaked.

Avery hesitated, but then thought better of it. If her plan was to appear desperate, she'd have to act like a desperate person and answer quickly. So she did. She opened the door wide and threw herself into Angelica's arms.

But, then as Avery tried to explain, the girl saw the mess in the corner, what was left of Jake, and backed away. Avery tried to look as weak and broken as Angel did, leaning over, faking a cry, and gasping as if her world was over. And then she gave the story she thought someone like Angelica would believe.

"He—" she cut off, thinking, _would it seem too rehearsed to come right out and say it?_ Took a breath, the way Angel often did, and finished, "—he wouldn't stop! He tried to kill me!"

And that was as far as her plan had formed. But she'd said it and she couldn't back down when Angelica leaned out in to the motel corridor and called out for the police.

Not _help_ , Avery noted, she said _police_. Avery did not want to involve authorities but reasoned if Angelica believed the accusation, calling the cops was the next logical step. And then Avery knew why Angelica had used that specific word, because she heard the sound of heavy boots in the cement corridor.

The room was suddenly a flurry of noise and activity as two, then three, then five officers rushed into the room. They were holding their weapons and shouting commands. Angelica was the first to put her hands up and so Avery did likewise. But the moment she gave an inch, Angel woke up from her stupor and began screaming for help. She was subdued immediately, just like Avery.

On the way out of the motel room, as Avery was shoved into the back of a waiting patrol car, she looked for the one person she knew had brought them there: Deanna.

She was across the lot, near the office. Her face was covered in bruises, and though she did not look at Angel, she begged for the police to be gentle with her, told them the girl was sick, that she didn't know what she was doing.

Avery thought, _how ironic._

Because she thought she'd killed Deanna. Now Jake was dead and Deanna—who was supposed to be—was pleading, her eyes were filled with tears. After everything, she was still trying to protect Angel.

+++

I am done.

My tank is on _E_.

"I'm finished." I say, and wait to be taken back to my cell.

49

—Angel

The thing about _crazy_ that most people can't understand is: from my perspective, nothing has changed.

I don't feel any different just because the doctors' diagnoses flipped. More accurately, it only confuses me. It makes me wonder why I am the only one who knows what's really happening.

I kept company with figments of my imagination. Or did I?

That means that I continually sought comfort in an abandoned house that I could swear belonged to Avery and her mother. I sat in their mismatched dining chairs. I ate grapes and cookies from containers on the counter and raided their refrigerator.

Or did I?

My mind cannot fathom the deep level of duplicity.

Still, even after all the years I have spent in lock-up, seeing the video recordings of myself speaking as if I am the very person, the liar I loved like family, I can't change the memory of sitting at that table, conversing, and eating those cookies. Drinking and dancing with Avery on the hill, even though I've been told that I was actually alone, dancing in the dark.

I was alone in the parking lot when Jake approached me. I went to all those Analog Controller shows by myself.

All my memories are some form of lie. But I still feel as if I had a lifelong friend that betrayed me. That feeling doesn't change because no one else sees or hears her.

Not one bit.

And after I accept this complex diagnoses, then what?

What am I supposed to do about it?

It's my brain. It's not a computer with a virus. I can't reprogram myself. It's not a rash. A cream or simple change of diet, might help a little bit, but won't clear it up. I can't take a pill to make it stop. I am currently taking about twenty and I still have to deal with . . . her.

Did I block out all the warning signs? Did I think the missing time was no more than side-effects of the accident, or my meds and other people's quirks?

Doctors tell me I was told on more than one occasion, but my short-term memory has always had a very take-it-or-leave-it quality. Most times, unpleasant things never make it into my long term memory because I don't remember long enough for it to make a difference and sometimes, won't let it because the truth is too difficult to carry around.

While I take full responsibility for what happened to Jake, I am somewhat—forgive the expression—of two minds about it. It's not my fault that my genes are infected but I still live with the guilt.

I did it. But I didn't do it.

I was Avery's marionette. She was the one, but those strings of responsibility don't completely absolve. Do they?

Is none of this my fault or is all of it mine and mine alone?

One thing I know for sure is that I'm a broken down factory reject. An ill-conceived, poorly constructed tool that can't pass inspection. A misfit toy.

I was never given a diagnosis of schizophrenia but my mother was, and her mother, too. Just like Marilyn Monroe, minus the beauty and talent.

My current psychiatrist at Canyon View, Doctor Punta, tells me that because of my head injury, I suffer migraines. Because of my family history, I suffer psychosis. And lucky me, there is no cure for the maladies of my brain. Only drugs to try to control the symptoms of delusions, mood stabilizers help too, and therapy—which hasn't worked that well, so far.

Doctor Punta says that without serious, long-term intervention I will continue to deteriorate.

I used to worry about what that would be like—to totally lose my marbles—but living these past six years without Jake has me convinced that losing any self-awareness would be a gift.

The brain heals slowly or not at all. And it can't feel pain. It only processes the signals from the body's pain receptors—like a pin prick on the tip of your finger, or a pencil to the thigh—but poke the brain matter itself and you get nothing.

It controls everything, yet it can't feel. What a fundamentally screwed up organ.

So what difference does any of this make in the long run?

Just let me fucking die already.

50

—Angel

The showers are free and I'm on my way to get cleaned up. I don't much care about washing my hair or my ass, but its part of their routine, to keep up appearances. Because if I act normal, I must be normal. Right?

As I step onto the tiled floor of the shower bay, the female guard that went ahead to check the area for any lingering inmates, appears from around a corner. "Clear." She announces and nods to me.

I'm not shackled. They only chain me around outsiders. I'm holding my stack of supplies: a towel, wash rag, shampoo, and a small bar of soap. The soap sucks. You can't use it to wash your private parts because the lye in it burns.

"Fifteen minutes." The guard waves me forward.

The shower bay is huge. It houses three wide aisles that make up six rows of showers. There are no dividing walls, no privacy of any kind. The same guard follows me in, keeping her distance as I disrobe and turn the lone knob all the way down to start the shower. The water's one temperature: a little too hot in the summer and a little too cold in the winter.

I turn, letting the warmth wash over me, nearly jumping when I find Avery standing a few feet away from the edge of the spray line. She's in the typical orange jumpsuit, but her sleeves are hitched up and the loose material around her legs are tight-rolled. The ends of her long black hair curls from the moisture as her bright green, predatory eyes burrow into me.

My focus stays on the drain at my feet.

"Why do you get to wear a white jumpsuit when I have to wear pukey orange?"

I haven't uttered a word to her since that night I fell asleep in the bathroom. Time has done nothing to curb her desire to interact, though. She's the only prisoner that can get around quarantine.

Leaning my head back, I thoroughly wet my hair and commence washing.

"You're losing too much weight." She sounds her usual bitchy self.

I really couldn't give less of a shit.

My short fingernails dig into my scalp, working in the shampoo.

"Why aren't you eating?"

To torture you.

I start humming a new song I heard on the radio the other day. I didn't mean to listen, but when I heard the singing guitar, I had to take it in. It was brilliant. The front man was doing this new kind of rap-singing and talking about the gift of feeling alive. Not that I have a right to, but the song made me feel a little better for just a few minutes.

"You're wasting away."

I know by the sound of her voice that she's crossing her arms and step back under the hot spray to rinse my hair.

"You can't ignore me forever." She promises, as I keep my wandering gaze averted. I still have a tendency to want to look at her.

The shower timer runs out, shutting off the water. When I step around my company to reach for my towel, Avery shoves her shoulder into me. My feet slip across the slick floor in different directions. I catch my balance for a half-second, but fall anyways.

The sound of my butt slamming against the tile catches the guards' attention. Avery is in the dry stall opposite me when the plain uniform woman stalks over, unaware. Looming above me, her eyes take in my wet, exposed state.

"I slipped." I tell her, because it's the easiest explanation. She watches me get back to my feet and dry off.

"You better start eating. I can make you, you know." Avery calls after me as I'm taken to the dressing area.

+++

Last Friday I finished telling my story to the review board. I assumed that today, Monday, I'd be returning to Canyon View. Instead, I've been summoned back to that damned room. I don't know what the hell they want from me. I've got nothing left.

Lunchtime means macaroni and cheese floating down the toilet. My stomach is constantly pinched, but I like thinking of Avery holding her abdomen and complaining about the cramps.

After they come to remove my lunch tray, two guards step in and shackle me. I'm docile as they lead me back to the interview room.

Tight Bun Tara and Quiet Darren are sitting at the table with Mister Brandon and one other man. New Guy is sitting in a middle chair between the two familiar faces opposite my usual spot.

On the table, there's a small paper cup containing my afternoon medication. I am seated, and take the pills with the provided cup of apple juice, like a good little nut-job, while everyone watches. I hold my mouth open and wiggle my tongue around to show that I've swallowed all everything.

"Good afternoon, Miss Patel," the stranger between Tara and Darren says a little too brightly, "I'm Doctor Schumacher." He is thin, with white hair and gold-rimmed glasses with lenses too thick for the frames.

As I play with the cuffs on my chair, I ask, "What kind of doctor?" even though I already know.

"I am the psychiatrist appointed by the state to oversee your reevaluation."

"Of course you are. Why would the state bother talking to my doctors? I've only been seeing them for the past six years. It's much smarter to get a new guy to ask the same damned questions."

Tara turns her head to hide a smile.

"And you're a little late." I add, "I've already told my story."

"I know. I've been supervising from in there." He points behind him at the mirrored window. "I also have specified reports from your doctors at Canyon View, which are very telling."

I nod, trying not to roll my eyes.

"I've requested your presence this morning to answer a few more questions. Once we're satisfied, we'll officially conclude this reevaluation."

Now he's got my attention.

He holds up his hand, throwing out a peace sign. "Two things. First, I'd like you elaborate, if you will, on the presence of Deanna Midler at the motel room that night."

"O-kay," the word comes out slowly.

"You've been vigilant throughout this evaluation, stating several times that the events of that night were your perception at the time, and not necessarily factual. I am curious to know, Miss Patel, what are the facts as you see them? Anything you contribute to help us understand your state of mind would be of great help."

"I don't remember much beyond what I told you. I can't even remember your name and you just told me five seconds ago."

He tilts his head. "Doctor Schumacher, like shoe maker—one who makes shoes."

I sigh and shake my head. He's using that rhyming trick to help me remember. He has been listening.

"I thought I saw Deanna there, in the room with me that night," I confess, "But I was only trying to comfort myself. I know, now, that she wasn't."

"What did you learn that made you change your mind?"

"The dreams I have—those repressed memories. The videos, too, of me behaving . . . like that _other_ person." I shrug. "I've been wrong about so much stuff, it just seemed reasonable that maybe I was wrong about talking to Deanna that night, too."

"Would you say you weighed the facts you were presented with?"

Thinking for a minute, I nod. "Yeah, that's what I did."

"The facts are: Deanna Midler used the information Mister Haddon provided on your whereabouts to lead the police to you. She was present, but never entered the motel room as you previously thought. Do you agree?"

"Yes."

He smiles, not much but just enough to soften his face. "I believe that information, facts, are the most important part of the decision making process. Would you agree?"

"I guess. But you have to follow your heart, too."

He leans down, scribbling in the file in front of him. "I also want to ask about your references to the second victim, Mister Jacob Haddon."

All the muscles in my body constrict at the sound of his name. This doctor's going to fucking argue with me. I know it. He's just like the rest. He's going to tell me I'm lying.

"Throughout this process, you have repeatedly referred to Mister Haddon's state of welfare after the confrontation as being deceased and 'magically' opening his eyes to ask for help."

". . . Yeah." A lump rises in my throat as I look around the room at the other three faces studying me. I'm the only one ruffled by the turn of conversation. _Was this their plan all along?_

"You believe that to be fact?"

"It was my imagination. I said that." The lump rises in my throat, sharpening like the pointed beak of a crow pecking at my esophagus.

"Are you aware, Miss Patel, that Jacob Haddon was, in fact, alive at that time?"

"I've heard that before."

In the time it takes to say those four words, the pecking crow in my throat has multiplied to a flock. Whirling inside me, the birds are a violent chorus of long beaks and giant beating wings, fighting, trying to climb up and out of my mouth.

"Are you also aware of the fact that he is still living, to this day?"

This is where I stop listening.

"That's a lie." Three pecks slicing through my tongue.

"I assure you, it is a fact. Jacob Haddon is alive, Miss Patel. The fact is that you did not kill him, no matter what your heart tells you. If you had, you wouldn't be here. We would never consider transferring a murderer to moderate security." Doctor Schumacher has a pen in his shirt pocket. I wish my hands were free so I could jamb it in my ear.

"No." Another beak pecking.

"According to your records, the numerous psychiatrists and physicians who've examined you these last six and one-half years all state the same: you have deluded yourself with guilt. You think that Mister Haddon was murdered by your alternate personality, Avery." His dark eyes flicker behind the coke-bottle lenses. "The facts are: Mister Haddon did sustain life threatening injuries that night. He endured forty-seven stab wounds in total, from which he has since recovered. He suffered long term nerve damage, but he is alive."

My head shakes continuously. Fiercely. Like my neck is made of rubber. "No. Jake's dead."

"Miss Patel, I have given you the facts, not perception. One piece of evidence to contradict your belief is that he attended your sentencing."

"No! He's dead!" My eyes clamp shut. "You're lying! Liars! Fucking liars!"

My fingers dig into the woolen fiber of the chair, shaking, tingling. _Fucking liars._

"Jake. Died. Because if he was alive, he would be here! He'd do whatever he had to do to get to me. He loved me; he would never leave me behind. He promised!"

I'm panting, trying to block the fuzzy image creeping into my psyche, thanks to Doctor Shithead. "I wasn't even at my sentencing. How would I know if a dead man was there?"

"He is not dead. He was present at your sentencing, and so were you."

My eyes pop open wide. "What?"

"Consider the facts, Miss Patel. You're presence and Mister Haddon's is a matter of record. You were both accounted for during court proceedings."

I'm shaking my head, but the image won't fade. It's even clearer now, just like he's in the room with me. It's a lifeless portrait, a barely healing and still bleeding man who's too quiet. It looks like Jake in the corner behind Doctor Schumacher, but it's not _my_ Jake sitting there with empty hands, it's just what my mind wants to see. A projection.

It's true that my life would be much easier of Jake were alive, but he's not.

He's not.

I felt the life slip from his body. I held him when his spirit departed. I felt him die and I died right along with him.

"He didn't make music. He didn't sign a record deal. He never went to California." I say to the conjured image. Realizing that I'm speaking to something no one else can see; I clamp my mouth shut.

"Miss Patel, what makes you think Mister Haddon never went to California?" Quiet Darren asks.

"My first lawyer had a copy of Max's deposition before the Grand Jury. He left his briefcase open on the table when he came to talk strategy. I only read the top page, but it told me enough.

"Max said, and I quote, 'she killed my best friend. He isn't going to California to sign a record deal. He can't even play guitar anymore. She ruined Jake at the best time of his life.'"

I sit forward, making my point. "If Jake were breathing, he would be making music."

" _It's now or never for me."_

My Jake is gone off to a better place.

I don't know if heaven exists, or if the next life or whatever is just another plane but wherever that place is, getting there means leaving here and never coming back. So I will find my way to him. He's waiting for me. I know it deep down. Bone deep.

I know it.

"Take some time to weigh the facts and reconsider, Miss Patel." The white haired doctor instructs.

"Can I go back to Canyon View, now?"

51

—Angel

The first song Jake ever wrote was called _Hall Of Fire_. He said it helped him deal with a lot of the issues he had with his dad leaving his mom. I always liked it. It sounded very upbeat, very punk rock. Analog Controller only ever played it at band practice, though.

That early tune comes back to me now, strong and loud.

I move to the far side of my cell, take up residence in the furthest corner, imagining I'm still seventeen, back inside Analog's rehearsal space, sitting on top of that broken amp, and watching. Singing along as Jake stares down at the notebook with the lyrics. He's strumming his guitar, crooning into the microphone.

Take hold of everything. We're gonna make a brand new start.

Give away everything. All I'll ever want is in your heart.

You say, "Kick the cat and feed the dog."

Let's go walking down the hall.

Don't you ever let me go—

If you do, don't tell me so.

Grab hold of everything. Follow me to our brand new start.

I'm keeping everything. We've all got to play our part.

I kicked the cat and fed the dog

Kept you moving down the hall

Said you'd never let me go—

Though you never told me so.

We're gonna make it—

We're gonna make it, after all

(Don't let me fall)

Taken for everything. So much for a brand new start.

You ruined everything, including me and your own heart.

I kicked your cat and fed your dog

And I'm burning down your hall

I hope you never let me go—

But won't ever tell you so.

I am finally getting old—

Drinking Sherry (growing mold)

This life is not what I was sold

We didn't make it—

We didn't make it, after all

(You made me fall)

I should have held him tighter, kept him closer. I never should have gone to sleep that night. I should have fought my migraine. Now, everything has turned out like the song.

This life is not what I was sold. I ruined everything.

We didn't make it. I made him fall.

Closing my eyes, I will my hearts' message to reach his spirit, wherever it is.

I love you, Jake, and I will continue to love you with every fiber of myself, with every heartbeat, and every inch of my soul for the rest of my life and beyond. I promise I'll never let you fall again.

Limp cries echo in my empty chamber as my heart beats in my hollow chest.

The song is over and nothing remains but ash.

52

—Angel

Canyon View is a big facility, but my wing—the one for criminals—is small and plain. I'm inside a ten by twelve foot room at the end of a long, pale green hallway, restrained to my bed just like I was those first few months after my initial placement here. Staring at the wide strap over my wrist, I get an odd feeling like returning home and it makes me want to claw my eyes out.

Why does it take so freaking long to starve to death?

My efforts feel useless, like I'm stretching out towards the only hand that offers to pull me away from my ledge. And falling short.

I have not missed the rigidity and uniform routine that infects every inch of this place. I wasn't watched so closely at the regular prison. My food was delivered to my cell and I could choose what not to eat, more or less. What I was doing the three weeks I was away will not work here. They monitor everything that goes in and out of our bodies because they slip sedatives into the food.

My nose itches. I have to turn my head to one side and rub it against the thread of my pillow to scratch.

"I'm not leaving." Avery promises from the corner, her arms set defiantly at her sides.

I keep my eyes fixed on the ceiling and tell myself that I am alone—over and over, desperate to believe.

She's been on a tear the last few days, hoping to make me start eating. I keep drinking and taking my pills and playing the part, but the weight loss is seriously noticeable.

In the quiet intervals between Avery's ranting, I notice the sounds here are nothing like the other prison. There are no inmates grumbling or whooping over a fight. Just us loons, stuck in our medically induced haze, trying to scratch our noses without using our hands.

It is a terrible, painful truth—one I cannot entirely put to rest as I try to ignore her. We live inside the same body, operate within the same skin. There is no place she has been that I have not because she is part of me. We occupy different rooms in the same brain and that makes us one entity; the before and the after. Different parts of the same play. Opposing sides of a seriously fucked up coin.

Because of her, my life is never going to get better.

I've spent these last six years trying to pretend there is some sort of future in my past, when I know I can't live there.

Thinking about my room; the plain walls, my single-size bed, and one bland chair, and the unwanted guest, I know I can't continue to live here, either.

I have no say in my treatment, no control over what's put into my body. I can voice my opinion, but that will only get me a needle in the arm, or another physician or nurse or orderly in my face telling me what's good for me. Nobody really gives a shit. They only care about sticking to the course of treatment.

Drugs. Pills. Injections. Liquid opiates. Doped up food. Carefully monitored therapy in any and all forms. Meditation. Relaxation techniques.

Bullshit.

Incarceration.

Why can't they just put me out of my misery? I mean, they're giving me all of these things; these pills, treatments, this therapeutic methodology. For what? What is the purpose?

No matter where I might go in life—which is nowhere—I am never going to get away from who I am. So what is the point? Lobotomize me. Put me out of my misery.

They do it for dogs. Why can't they do it for me?

I wish I could just wake up one day and have Avery be gone. I think then, I could keep going. If I knew she would never hurt anybody again, then I could do the time.

But she's so fucking selfish. She knows I need to let go. Why won't she let me?

I've been thinking lately, that if I can find the point where our lives joined, the place where her mind meets mine, I bet I could cut her out. Like the buds of a branch growing from the trunk of a tree, I could snip her off.

"If I can find that," I whisper into the dark of my room, then I can find where we split. The doctor will help me fix it. I can glue myself back together. Like a broken jar.

Six years ago, while I was waiting to be sentenced, I'd hoped they'd give me ten life times. No amount of time seemed like enough. Not for what I let happen. But even so, I never looked beyond twenty-one years. That's how old Jake was, and some part of me assumed that once I hit that benchmark, I would do something—an elusive something—to end my life, too. That seemed fair. But honestly, it is an unfathomable amount of time. I'm only six years in and I can't . . . I can't take any more.

"I'm never going to leave. I'm always going to be here." Avery promises, tapping her forehead like she has heard my thoughts. "You can't get rid of me. Not with meds or therapy. I'm here to stay, Princess. I'm waiting, ready to live your life better than you ever could."

She paces the opposite side of the room, trying to goad me into acknowledging her, but instead, I hum to myself. It's a parched melody from my dry throat and cotton-mouth. A broken song from my shattered heart; aiming to block her out.

I've concluded that the only way to make her pay for what she did to Jake, to Deanna, and to me, is to make it so she can't push anymore.

There is only one way to do that.

To stop Avery, I must stop myself. And if starving myself doesn't work, then the very first time I have the opportunity to grab a ballpoint pen. A sharp pencil. A real fork. A needle. I'm going to take care of her.

53

—Angel

Off-white cushions.

No pictures.

No furniture.

Only me and four padded walls.

A soft floor and no shoes.

This room is a blank canvas. My mind needs to fill it with something, that's all. It wants to create things that aren't there to help pass the unforgiving time.

"It was all you, Angel." Avery stops pacing the room and points an accusing finger at me. "You said you loved him. Then you screwed that troll, Troy Bleecher! All the time. If I had any food in my stomach, I'd fucking puke."

That's the tender point of my raw nerves and she knows it. I fall to my knees. It's not true, I tell myself, but I am the one who created Avery. Her purpose was to take the pain for me.

She did and now she hates me for it.

"You can't ignore me forever. I won't let you."

I want to argue with her or punch her in her stupid pointy face, but that would mean acknowledging her.

Along the blank wall, I imagine Doctor Williams is sitting in her armed chair in the corner opposite Avery's. I try to hear the soothing ocean sounds that filled her office at each appointment and think of how—if she were really here—the two would stare at each other. Avery, all bird-like and wild. Doctor Williams, mature, patient, and clueless as ever.

She eases back into her seat like she used to in the early sessions and slides her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Violence is never the answer, girls."

54

—Angel

From my plastic chair, I pretend not to see Avery walking in circles around the common room and rolling her eyes at the conversations some of the other patients are having.

_Avery_. Bane of my existence. Just thinking her name makes my face hot. She seems so sure of herself as she strolls around, eyeing everyone but me. Does she even care that I am the one everyone sees—the one with the body?

My shrink says that she has no more power than what I give to her. I control myself, not her.

They changed my meds, I think, because I've leveled out. I've had a whole week of continuity, where I can think through the haze. I can even make Avery keep her mouth shut for a few hours at a stretch. Sometimes. Even with the clarity, though, I still feel like the retarded second-cousin of a drooling monkey. Inside the haze is non-existent, but on the outside my reactions are delayed. I stumble around like a drunk after they dose me.

I wonder if _she_ feels the mental clarity and the sluggishness like I do as the plastic spoon I'm holding dribbles pudding down my shirt. My hands feel so alien, I'm not sure it's actually me holding the spoon. I let the little cup of brown goo fall onto the table and leave the blob of chocolate to dribble down my chest. I was just going to puke it up later anyway.

I'm a filthy, useless invalid.

Avery takes a seat in a far corner of the cafeteria. When her hands perch over her growling stomach, I find encouragement. Keeping my determined gaze on her, I wait for her to turn and meet my stare.

It's a risk, but I'm feeling lucky.

I can't actually talk to her without anyone noticing and so speak the threat with my eyes.

I am going to kill you.

55

—Angel

A nurse had an orderly escort me from the common room back to mine. I'm too weak to pretend to eat. I feel too sick to move.

The nurse is demanding I eat a Styrofoam bowl of thin applesauce. That's how I know all the food has drugs in it. They don't let you refuse anything that has meds in it. That and every food item they bring me has a bitter tang.

"Temperature's normal," the nurse says, as she examines the thermometer she's just taken from under my tongue. Her eyes shift to me. "You've lost fifteen pounds during the three weeks you were gone and another four since you've been back. If you don't start keeping the food down, they'll put in a feeding tube."

I don't respond, but take a spoonful of applesauce because it is what I'm supposed to do.

Avery's pacing in the far corner with her arms crossed over her stomach. "Ha! I told you. It's not going to work."

"Can I go to sleep?" I ask the nurse, after a few bites. "I'm sure I'll feel better in the morning."

"After you finish that applesauce." She and an orderly wait until the bowl is empty and I can barely hold back the tears until they leave.

Avery's hands are crumpled into fists at her sides.

I turn to face the wall.

"Angel," she whispers my name. "I never wanted to hurt you, I swear."

A hot feeling passes over me and my stomach contracts. My throat widens. I let loose the applesauce that's come back up.

"Am I such a bad person?" Her breath sounds shaky. "You keep taking from me, when all I have is what you gave me. I had nobody. No mom. No dad, no family. No other friends, Angel. Only you.

"I know I made a big mistake, but why does this thing with Jake have to hang over us?"

I want to scream at the mention of his name, but hold my tongue.

"I was only trying to have my own life. Why does that make me a bad person?"

The shuffle of footsteps pacing the floor fills the silences in her monologue.

"I know I've said terrible things, but so have you. What makes us so different? You're the good one, I'm the bad one. Boo-hoo. I was not the one with a boyfriend. You were. And yes, I was sleeping with Troy. Because he paid attention to me."

My fists clench. I feel the pecking at my throat that makes me want to scream.

"I was only with Jake when you couldn't be. Not because I wanted to be. And he never saw me. He only ever held you. I was your placeholder. Your dirty secret. You hate me for that? For being what you made me?"

There's a long stretch of silence.

"You keep asking why I did it . . ."

My ears perk up at that. The last time I spoke to her, I asked her why she hurt him, why she wanted to take him away from me, and she lied. She said she didn't. I cut her off then and there, because I know that no one ever made Avery do anything she didn't want to.

"I don't have a reason that's going to satisfy you, but I will say—I didn't know it at the time—but I guess I was jealous. I hated what was happening to us. You were getting everything you wanted and I . . . hated that you left me for him. I was lonely. But I still tried to give you what you wanted."

She waits. "It doesn't make sense, I know. But that's . . . whatever."

I hear a shuffling sound, the creak of the single chair in the corner. "Do you remember kindergarten? Our teacher, Mrs. Schilling, was nice. She used to have those anti-smoking posters on the walls. All bright colors and the people in them were set in groups of good and bad. The good guys—the non-smokers—had nice smiling faces and clean clothes. The bad guys held cigarettes in their hands and they had those short, downturned brows that made them scowl and holes in their jeans. But smokers don't really look like that. Lots of people smoke, does that make them all bad people?" She sniffles. "I don't smoke. What makes me so irredeemable?"

Muffled cries.

In a moment of weakness, I speak my thought. "Prove to me that you really care and go away. Disappear."

There's a sharp gasp followed by Avery screaming, "You think it's so easy! Why don't you disappear, then?"

The ring of her sobs fills the room and I cover my ears.

56

—Angel

"Blah-blah blah. Blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah . . ."

The last three days have been hell. I'm paying in spades for speaking to her. Avery hasn't shut up since that night in my room.

"Blah-blah, blah. Blah de blah-blah blah. Blah, blah-blah blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah. Blah de la blah, blah-blah blah . . ."

She's constantly going! Babbling!

Not trying to communicate. No, she's trying to control me. She's trying to push me into reacting!

She's pushing.

Pushing further.

Pushing.

She won't stop until she gets what she wants.

"Blah-blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah. Blah de blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah, blah. Blah de la blah, blah-blah . . ."

I am at my breaking point.

I was never the violent one, but I've been dreaming of squeezing the life out of her.

A few hours ago, Doctor Punta informed me that I lost another two pounds and so he's made a formal request to commence forced feeding.

"Blah-blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah-blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah, blah, blah-blah la blah, blah de blah . . ."

It is crushing me.

I've lost the only hand I had to play. I don't know what else to do.

"Blah, blah, blah-blah . . ."

They think I'm crazy now? If Avery doesn't stop . . . I'll go stark-raving bat-shit.

Staring at the tiled wall of the shower stall, I let the spray hit my head. It washes into my ears and I can't hear anything for one blessed second. Then her voice is back.

"Blurdy-blah-lah, blah, blah, blah . . ."

If I only had a gun.

She won't say anything meaningful and she won't fucking stop!

Determined to focus on anything but her grating voice, I note how the water isn't very hot. It's all Goldie-locks. Not too hot, not too cold, not just right, but okay. The sound of warm spray hitting and dripping helps soften the razor-edge of Avery's incessant pressure, but nothing can block her out.

"Blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah . . ."

There's a sing-song tonality to her bullshit. As if she's delivering a meaningful monologue.

I step closer to the shower wall and wish, again, for a gun. I'd splatter her brains all over the plain white tiles. As my mind conjures the images, I think . . . wait.

Yeah . . . I'm getting an idea.

Yes!

Excitement courses through me as the images of a plan form in my head.

_Yes_.

A damned brilliant one! So simple, I can't believe I didn't think it up sooner!

My chest swells with newfound hope, but I don't let myself smile as I reach for the shampoo and sloppily pour the thick liquid soap, making a big puddle in my palm that runs down my hand and arm, slowly making its' way down my body to the floor in front of me.

A wicked excitement cracks at one corner of my mouth as I massage the puddle between my palms and drag my toes over the dribbled spot on the slick shower floor.

"Blah, la blah, blah-blah! Blah, blah, blah-blah . . ."

Looking at the tiled wall, I am concentrating. I have to be quick and very cautious. On the off-chance that this latest stroke of genius doesn't work, I have to be able to try again.

This has to look like an accident.

"Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah." Avery blabs on, waving a hand in front of her, examining her splayed fingers, as if she's just polished her nails.

I slather my hair with the shampoo that is so much better than the crap at the regular prison and start scrubbing, digging into my scalp with my fingernails. Working up a high pile of lather.

"Blah-blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah-blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah . . ."

I have to turn around. I have to get just the right angle.

As I spin, I carefully slide my other foot across the remaining puddle of shampoo on the shower floor. Letting the lather sit in my hair, I grab the bar of soap and move over, just enough, out of the showers spray to start greasing myself up.

"La-blah, blah-de-blah, blah-blah blah, la blah, blah. La-blah, blah, La-blah-de-blah . . ." Avery's annoying squawk slowly becomes background noise as I focus.

I need every surface of my body slicked down.

Once I'm done, I slyly check the proximity of the wall at my back and run my fingers over the sudsy mass on my head, dragging over my hair, pushing the suds down my body to pool at my feet before running down the drain.

The orderly that's been supervising my shower is just standing there with her hands in her pockets. I can tell by the bored look on her face that she doesn't have a clue.

Avery opens her mouth wide, "Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, la-blah de-blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah . . ."

I open mine, too. But I am singing Jakes first song, _Hall of Fire_. "Now I'm finally getting old. Drinking Sherry, growing mold—"

_On the count of three_.

"Blah, la blah, blah . . ."

"This life is not what I was sold." I let the melody hang, like my head. Tears of joy mingle with the shower spray.

One.

Bending my neck as far forward as I can, my chin touches my chest. _I'm coming, Jake_.

"Blah-de-blah-blah blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah." Avery babbles in tune, singing along.

My feet begin to move, slipping across the floor in what I hope appears to be an impromptu dance to the rhythm in my head. "We didn't make it . . ."

Two.

With one last deep breath and all the momentum I can muster, I jerk and shift, whipping my neck back, aiming for the cement tiles of the shower wall.

I get it now: Good. Bye.

Three.

"We didn't make it after all—"

57

—Angel

I'm a stone.

I have been thrown. I plopped into the water and am sinking to the bottom.

A great river thrashes around me.

Fish float belly up along the surface of the murky damp.

Its cold, but I don't shiver.

Then hot, but I don't burn.

I wait for the water to lift me, to sweep me from this place on its' current.

58

—Angel

I'm awake.

I'm awake?

Shit.

There is a gigantic pulsing pain streaking from my forehead to my neck.

Shitty shit!

And the doctor is convinced I need to see it.

After a cursory glance at the enormous knot protruding over my right eye, I drop the handle of the mirror.

He rattles on about my "intraparenchymal hemorrhage with contusions." Or some idiot crap like that.

I could not care less if I wanted to.

It's useless.

I'm useless.

A complete failure.

Shit. Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Shitty-shit.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

# 59

—Angel

I don't know how long I've been in the infirmary and won't ask. I've accepted that I'm a useless good-for-nothing and stopped trying.

I do whatever they tell me.

It's hopeless.

Useless.

I screw up everything.

Every. Time.

So, when they tell me to eat, I eat. Maybe I'll get lucky and choke.

They tell me to sleep, I sleep. To pass time.

They want me to piss, I piss.

I take their zombie medications and hope for an incompetent nurse and an overdose.

I wish they would tell me to die.

60

—Angel

The nurses and doctors want to know what happened even though there is an eyewitness who told them I was showering like I always did. My supervising orderly would say I was smiling, singing, and stupidly trying to dance in the shower while covered in slippery soap. I know that's what the orderly saw, because that's what I did.

But they're still asking. They want me to say it. They want me to tell them I tripped so they can ask if that's the truth. They want to call me a liar.

"Mister Brandon has been calling every day to check on you. I have the number, so whenever you're ready to call let me know and I'll make sure it happens." Some random nurse says.

"Mister Brandon? I don't want to talk to him." I turn over in my bed, staring at the wall while the patter of retreating feet fades from my room.

The last thing I need right now is another announcement. Another judgment. Another person repeating to me the same words I was told when my trial ended: I will die in this place.

I'd be happy to, but could we make it sooner rather than later?

I scoff, thinking of dying and wishing that A—and stop the thought right there, realizing I haven't seen . . . a certain someone since that day in the shower.

I woke up without . . . and don't want to jinx anything.

If I wonder too much she might reappear.

61

—Angel

An orderly sets my lunch on the tray table.

It's all steaming finger food.

No flatware required. Of course.

The orderly stands quietly, watching while I try to eat.

When I push the tray away, I hear the quiet scratch of him writing. Recording my intake.

Not long after he's gone, another nurse enters. She's got my little paper cups of medication and a clear plastic cup of apple juice. I swallow down the contents of each container and open my mouth wide, showing all my teeth, wiggling my tongue around so she can see I took all of them.

"It would be nice if you could learn to trust me."

She almost smiles. "Trust has nothing to do with it. It's in my job description."

Not long after she's gone, the clean lines of the room and walls fray, but my mind sharpens. Conversely, my limbs are overcome with that familiar leaden sensation.

And the room is so quiet. There are no feet shuffling, no muffled sounds in the corners or creaks in the walls. It's just a wonderful, tranquil quiet. A feeling I don't think I have ever felt before.

I wonder if smashing my head on the shower wall knocked something right, because I have never felt this level of . . . precision. Clarity.

It's strange, my entire life I lived with a sort of confused duality and was never able to recognize it. Now that it's gone, though, I can feel the difference. The neurological oneness.

+++

After I've surrendered to living inside the curtain of heavy haze, Mister Brandon magically appears. I didn't see him walk in or hear a knock. He's just suddenly here, sitting beside my bed. Talking. And even though I didn't catch the beginning of his monologue, I'm kind of following along.

". . . No danger to anyone. The date's already been set. In six months time, Canyon View will be closed."

"What?" My brain is much sharper than it appears. My eyes can't find their focus the way my thoughts have. The tone he's using . . . it's almost upbeat.

With my eyes shut to stop them from floating around, I keep listening.

"Miss Patel, we can talk about this later, if you prefer."

"What does this mean?"

"It means the state is closing this money pit, shipping the remaining patients to other, more efficient facilities. It means you'll get what you need in a more suitable environment."

I open my eyes to find him gently smiling. The gray hair around his temples nudges, but the follicles don't separate. Too much hair gel.

"Which means what?" I ask, again.

"That you will be moving into a more individualized care facility better suited to a person with your needs."

"I don't understand. If this isn't about my review, why are you here?"

"This is about the review, as well as the state's budgetary issues that led to it. Miss Patel, from the outset your placement at Canyon View was meant to be temporary. There simply were no alternative mental health facilities available. You were a troubled girl, lost in a foster care system that failed you."

He sighs. "You should have had a case worker that kept a closer eye on you. Maybe then, your troubles would not have gotten the better of you."

Mister Brandon tilts his chin up, peering down at me. "Your reevaluation was concluded. Doctor Schumacher agrees with the Boards' findings. There are new treatments and better facilities available to you. A few months from now, when the time comes for you to be moved, you won't be going to another maximum security psychiatric hospital."

My forehead crinkles.

He sets a hand on my shoulder. "You will be moved into a moderate secure facility."

# 62

—Angel

### Six Months later . . .

Having so many choices is odd, almost confusing thing because for years I had none. I had to accept whatever choices were made on my behalf.

But no more.

Now, I make decisions every day. I'm doing it right now, actually. "Pancakes, please, with maple syrup."

The first choice I made seemed like a very small one, but it turned out to be huge. I decided to run, and to keep going no matter what. And that going led me here, to this small diner.

"Excellent choice." The waitress is an older woman with short graying hair. She smiles warmly before striding away with my menu tucked under her arm.

Staring at the steaming mug of coffee between my palms, I can't keep from smiling.

This morning, I woke up in an empty house just around the corner from here. I stumbled upon it while I was walking late last night. There was a 'for sale' sign and a loose board over a broken window. I managed to pry the plywood away enough to climb through.

I have learned a very important lesson: not all lawyers are bad. It turns out that Mister Brandon was right.

My review was never about how the cops screwed me, or even about the terrible things that happened to Jake that night. It was all about money and nothing more. Budget cuts: two unlikely and beautiful words that mean something totally different when set apart. But together, they mean freedom.

After talking to my lawyer in the hospital that day, he said to be patient. And I was. I didn't care what happened; which was good, because what ended up happening wasn't much. But it was enough.

Just enough to create opportunity. A small window of opportunity.

The court appointed doctors I talked with—the lady with the tight hair bun and the quiet guy with the sodas—they saw fit to side with my lawyer and convinced that last Doctor, Schumacher, to have me moved. And so I got to leave a few months after they let me out of the infirmary, once my weight reached a healthy number.

That window of opportunity I mentioned was less than a foot wide, shorter in height, and it was mounted in the outer wall of the common room that the new place let me sit in whenever I wanted. Moderate security meant I could sit unsupervised. I wasn't constantly watched and restrained like in Canyon View. It was a secured sanitarium, but not a maximum security and I liked it much better. There were still bars on the windows and guards in every room. It was still surrounded by a fence. But the guards wore no side arms. There were no guards in towers with long range rifles posted outside, either.

The place had lots of small windows without bars, though. Most of them looked too small for a person to fit through and were placed on the upper floors. They were the kind of windows with a crankshaft. The glass lifted out at an angle, from the bottom, when you cranked them open.

Even though us inmates were surrounded by guards, there weren't enough present on that early morning in September. It was the eleventh—a Tuesday. The sun was shining bright. Breakfast was being served. The television in the common room should have been turned off when the Andy Griffith show was interrupted by Breaking News. But all anyone saw was that one burning skyscraper. And then a second plane came into view. Everyone froze, some captivated, some shocked. Then the news anchors started talking about high-jacked airplanes. And then they started saying "terror attack."

The entire staff was distracted. Just enough. Just long enough for me to crank the small window open, slip out, and skid the ten-plus feet down the brick face of the building. I was scared at first and hung there until my fingers gave out. The drop was kind of far and I was risking broken bones, but it was worth it.

So when I say it was a small window of opportunity, I mean it literally. Just enough room to land me here, in this cushy booth, drinking coffee with real cream, waiting for warm pancakes. There were some stops in between, of course. Lots of running, at first. Some hitchhiking, too, along with the necessity of stealing. Only what I needed. Like food. Clothes from a clothesline. The occasional newspaper.

"Here you go." The waitress sets a stacked plate of fluffy pancakes in front of me. They're steaming and swimming in melting butter.

"Thank you."

My eyes widen and close involuntarily as I take the first bite. _So good._ The syrup is so delicious and sweet, it makes my teeth hurt. I wash the bite down with a swig of fresh-brewed coffee. I've died and gone to heaven.

It doesn't matter what happens now. I'm out. I'm free. I am alone. And I'm going to do whatever I have to do to stay this way. To choose what I put into my own body. I can eat or not. I can sleep, or go to the library, or watch TV. I get to choose where I go from here.

I'm still planning on finding Jake, just not yet. I want to take some time to explore my choices first. I know in my heart that Jake will wait for me and he loved me, so he wouldn't want me to make a hasty decision, especially now that I'm rid of . . . the green-eyed past.

It's like I can think clearly. Like finding myself suddenly awake. So until I decide to join Jake in the afterlife or whatever, I'm thinking that I need to keep moving. West has always seemed like an excellent direction, and it will make me feel closer to him to be in the place he was headed.

After breakfast, I plan to walk the two blocks down the road to a giant Wal-Mart. It took a few days, but I've collected enough bottles and cans to buy my very own bottle of shampoo and soap. I might buy conditioner for my hair, too, so long as it's not too expensive.

After finishing the pancakes and coffee, I make for the long hallway around the side of the diner, in search of the bathroom.

In front of the mirror—a real mirror—my image is as sharp as I remember it, though I look different.

I'm a little bit taller. My face is longer and thinner. My cheeks have lost their childish roundness. My hair is still the same style as when I was seventeen. Too long and too straight. Combing my fingers through the tangles, I remember the feeling of each strand slapping against my shoulders as I ran across the open lawn, searching for guard towers that weren't there, heading for the high chainlink fence in the distance. I was terrified, shoving the round toe of each plastic slip-on shoe into the fence: expecting to hear the wailing alarm ringing over my thundering pulse, dreading the sound of pursuit, but there was nothing. Just my labored breath as I climbed.

No one is in any of the bathroom stalls. No girls with black hair and bad attitudes, no greedy eyes peering back at me. I haven't seen . . . that person since that day in the shower and I don't expect to.

I don't need that relationship anymore.

If I have learned anything from this whole experience, it's that I don't know how to give up. I tried before, but I'm a fighter. I can take care of myself now. I can do it. If my mind can make up an entire person and give it a life and a past, dreams and goals, then it can certainly figure out how to survive this span of . . . want.

Besides, when you're a small female like I am, it's surprisingly easy to get what you need. All you have to do is look for it. Most of the time, a man of stature is willing to give whatever I have need of, so long as it's small and doesn't require much time or expense. A ride or a drink. When I can't get people to give me what I need, I have to take the opportunities as they come.

When I walk out of the bathroom stall, there's an older lady standing at the mirror, digging through her purse. I keep my eyes down, washing my hands as she smears on a shimmery lipstick before tossing it back in her bag. She blots her lips, and when she steps a few feet away from the mirror to throw her tissue in the trash, I pass between her and the counter.

Three things happen very quickly. One: my fingers lift her shiny, red designer wallet from her purse and tuck it under my arm. Two: she turns around. But then the third thing happens: I point to the trash can behind her and say, "You missed." Referring to the tissue she's just thrown. Of course, she didn't miss, but she doesn't know that. There are other tissues on the floor. She turns back around as I walk out the door.

I only take when I have to. And if things go the way I hope, I won't have to do it for long.

Out on the street, I take in the warm, fresh air. Looking through the glass wall of the diner, I spot the waitress that served me and walk faster, heading for the corner where the pedestrian light has just switched to green.

Wal-Mart is confusing. A maze of aisles and products I've never even imagined. I'm bug-eyed and lost for at least a half hour before finally stumbling into the shampoo aisle. And just when I start to breathe easy, I am overwhelmed once more by the vast selection. There must be a hundred kinds of shampoo: big and small bottles for every hair type, length, and color. For dyed hair, dye-free, scented, unscented, salon quality, like salon quality.

What's the difference?

I shut my eyes tight and take a deep breath.

Then, remember the wallet. Pulling the shiny red leather from the front of my jeans, I can tell it's loaded with credit cards. But I'm not going to touch those. It would be wrong. Unzipping the compartment on the inside, I find a long, neat pile of bills. Ones on the top of the fives, on top of twenties. Two hundred and thirty-seven dollars is shoved back into my pocket.

Down the aisle, I spot a tall guy in a blue vest. I walk up to him, all false-confidence and bravado.

This is what works in every situation: confidence. I've discovered I can get away with nearly anything, so long as I seem sure of myself. Confidence makes people think you know what you're doing. Act confident enough and they'll believe anything.

"Mark," I say, nodding to the workers' name tag. "I found this in the parking lot." And then I hand him the old lady's wallet. Opened, showing him the edge of the few bills I left in there, as I point at a business sized card. "This is one of those If-Lost-Please-Return-To cards. That's the lady's phone number. If you call, I'm sure she'll come get it."

Mark seems surprised and appreciative as he gives the wallet the a once-over, as if he could tell if anything were missing. "Thank you for your honesty. I'll go hand this over to my manager."

And he's off, waving back at me, thanking me again before he leaves the aisle.

When I look to the left, my gaze falls upon a familiar white bottle. Generic coconut shampoo. The kind Deanna used to buy me. I snatch it and the matching bottle of conditioner. In the next aisle, I locate the bars of soap. It's just as chaotic as the shampoo aisle. Too many choices. I search for the pink wrapper that I remember seeing in the soap dish back in the trailer. It smelled like flowers. Once I find it, I make my way up to the many checkout lines and have to make another tough choice. There are so many types of candy. Chocolate or fruit. Peanut butter. Crunchy, chewy, tangy. I grab one of each type, but two packages of Starburst because they used to be my favorite, and a pack of mint gum. It's been so long since I had access to anything like this, I can't resist. Plus, I'll need snacks for the long bus ride to L.A. Thanks to the old lady in the bathroom I have enough to get me there.

Right after the candy, just above the conveyor where my items are stacked, I spot the news magazines and gossip rags. They all have pictures of the same things: those two burning towers in the middle of New York. The terrorist attack that changed the world and sparked a war. It's been a few months, now. Everyone is afraid of these terrorists, the unknown enemy.

Not me. I know who my enemies are. My demon has a name and face, and I have defeated her. She can't haunt me anymore. I am no longer her victim.

I didn't wait for anybody to give me a second chance. I took it.

I'm moving forward, conquering the terrain, carving my path as I go. I may not deserve it, but I have it none the less. It would be stupid and wasteful not to take advantage, at least for a little while. It is a different world and I am a different person and I can find a way to live that will honor Jake. I know I can.

Making my way through the parking lot with my plastic bag, I'm heading for a new place in a direction. I'm not stopping 'til I see the Pacific ocean. I've never been to the beach before and am looking forward to it.

After all I have been through, all that has been taken from me, I have managed to take something back. And even though I may not have everything I want, I have found hope.

It's a new day. Another opportunity to make up for the past, to take a new direction, one in which my future is not predetermined.

There is uncertainty, but there is also possibility. And I'm not scared. I'm excited.

For the first time since losing Jake, I have hope. Hope for a better tomorrow than yesterday. Hope for a future. For contentment.

I'm grabbing it with both hands.

# Epilogue

Three years later. . .

I was seventeen years old when life as I knew it ripped apart.

At twenty-seven, I'm still mending.

I have something now that I didn't have then: a new name, a new life, and a world that's wide open for me.

The space I set aside for Jake is still there. I feel it every day—some days more than others.

Today is a _more_ day. Mainly because I haven't been able to shake off what happened this morning.

I think I saw him in the park.

I know how it sounds. I saw someone who's been dead for a decade and he was alive. He looked younger, too, which was weird, but he also looked happy.

When I think about the way it happened, it makes me wonder if there is a possibility that it might have been real.

Doubting any part of any detail I see makes me want to puke all over again. I haven't heard voices or experienced any delusions in a long time. I'm careful. I take care of myself: I exercise and eat right. I don't take risks.

This morning I was walking through the park across the street from where I live. It's a short cut to the nearest bus stop. A familiar route I take daily. Then, I heard music. It's not unusual to hear music in the park; people throw parties there all the time. But this is Los Angeles, and the part I live in, most of the music is played by mariachis or has an excess amount of tubas and accordions. What I heard was an acoustic guitar. I looked in the direction it came from and saw two boys, young men really, sitting on the stone fountain in the parks' center. They both looked to be teenagers, maybe early twenties. The one with the guitar was thin and had curly brown hair. He smiled and plucked, then began singing a song I've never heard before. As he got into the chorus, I got closer—stopping dead when I saw the lanky, brown-haired boy beside him. My heart dropped from my chest, because it was Him! Jake—just like he used to look when I first saw him at Joes' Pizza—except he was sitting beside the boy playing guitar, and tapping his hands on his knees, singing a harmony.

I couldn't take the chance that I was seeing things again. I had to be seeing things—Jake is dead.

So, I ran away as fast as I could. I wasn't dressed for a jog either. I was just starting my daily job hunt, wearing my discount power-suit and heels—which I promptly took off once I hit the pavement. I passed the bus stop and kept going until I couldn't see the park anymore. I ran until I had to stop. By then, I was way on the other side of Figueroa.

I went into the first place with an open sign, which happened to be a diner. The waitresses were all wearing roller skates, but they had decent coffee and a ' _Help Wanted_ ' ad in the window. I filled out an application. It doesn't pay much beyond tips, but it comes with a one room loft to make up for it. I don't want to sling hash for a living, but am running out of options.

+++

As I stalk through the grassy park early the next morning, I'm singing a new song I heard on the radio. It's by this band called My Chemical Romance. Humming 'I'm Okay,' I'm careful to keep most of my weight on the balls of my feet so my heels don't sink into the spongy ground.

I left a little bit early because I have a job interview at that diner, but I also want to search the park. The muscles in my calves tighten uncomfortably, like a spasm might be coming on. I bend down and flip my heels off—problem solved. Then, it's a leisurely stroll, through the soft green grass, not caring if the bottoms of my stocking feet are stained for the duration of their short life. The cool grass feels good.

Better still, there is no music playing this morning. No acoustic guitars. No haunting young boys with bronze hair and hazel eyes.

+++

Taking a deep breath, I sit down at the back table, across from an older, heavy-set man. His name tag says, _Zane_. He has buzzed salt and pepper hair and bright blue eyes. His hand rests across the table. In it, he holds my application. Glancing between me and the paper, he takes a deep breath.

"Can you skate?"

I nod, "Yes, sir."

"How good are you?"

"Been skating my whole life. It's one of my favorite things to do."

He nods. "You know this is under the table, right? I need someone who won't ask for a W-2, which is why the job comes with the apartment upstairs and two comp meals a day. Another employee puts Mom and Pop into a higher tax bracket and they're gonna be retiring in a few years."

I nod my head as if this is standard. "Yes. Your parents own the place?"

"Nah. I'm the night manager. I came in this morning for the interview." Zane takes a napkin from the dispenser on the table and wipes the sweat from his forehead. "Mom and Pop is just easier to say than Henrietta and Voytek." He smiles at his little attempt at humor, so I do, too.

"Would I have to buy my own skates?"

Zane shakes his head. "We'll provide you with a pair. What's your size?"

"Six and a half." I mumble. "What about a uniform?" The other waitresses are all wearing black bottoms with monogrammed pockets and hot pink button-down shirts. They look like a ladies bowling league on roller skates.

"It's twenty-five for the uniform. You pay when you can. You know, most people don't want to move for a low paying job."

"Well, it suits me. I don't own a car and I'm in my second year of business school. My night class is just down the street. Right now, I've got five roommates who are all model-slash-actresses moonlighting as dancers. The house is a constant party-zone and I need a quiet place to study."

He smiles wide and sets a small silver key on the table between us. "You'll do. The place is small, but it's clean. I'll give you a few days to get moved in. You can start Wednesday morning at seven."

"Great." My face is stretched in an uncontainable grin.

Now I just have to learn how to skate.

+++

I stare down at the saucer and cup in my hand. The coffee shudders inside the ceramic mug as I set it on the tabletop in front an elderly man. They say he's here every Tuesday. He's not the reason I'm shaking. It's not the working on skates, either. I'm a natural skater. The first time I put them on, I could just do it. It's easy, mostly. And way more fun than walking. I just have to remember not to swing my feet out too far on either side so I don't kick the chairs or roll over the customers' toes.

It's the song on the radio that's playing through the diner. Usually the music is from one of the jukeboxes, but when it's slow, like now, the radio kicks on. It's supposed to be an easy listening station.

This song is anything but easy. _Angel_ by Aerosmith.

The sound of it still makes me want to smile, then I can't help but remember what happened, which makes me want to curl up and die.

Leaving the coffee and cream on the table, I turn and head back to the counter to keep busy.

One of the beautiful things about the state of California, aside from the natural beauty, is when the state asks if you're a convicted felon, and you check the 'no' box, they take your word for it. I found that out when I applied for state health insurance—it's one of those unenforced laws. I have to manage. Management is the most important thing. I needed insurance to pay for my meds and therapy. Part of maintaining good mental health is staying away from stressful situations. Don't get too hungry, too angry, or too sleepy. Those are my triggers. Oh, and I have to ask for help when I need it.

The last notes of the song fade into an Elvis tune as my name is called.

"Sheri-berry!" The grating voice of my boss calls out to me.

"Coming," I call back to Chip, and make one more swipe over the glass pie case before rolling to the doorway of the kitchen to poke my head inside.

Chip is a good manager and a shitty speller. My name is supposed to be _Sherry,_ like the wine. But when Chip printed up my nametag, it was spelled with one R and an I, like some mid-western idiot made it up. So I roll around for ten hours a day with my misspelled name pinned to my chest. Even so, everyone calls me Sheri-berry, rhyming like a stupid playground name game.

For obvious reasons, I had to change it. I chose the best I could—the one that was easiest to remember. The lyrics from Jakes first song gave me Sherry, and then I took my mothers' last name, Barry. I guess I was asking for it.

I've settled into something here at this little out of the way diner in an old neighborhood. It's my own routine. I work in the days and go to school at night and make time for therapy, eating, sleeping, and homework in between. It's an odd sort of normal—maybe something like that _normal_ that everyone is always talking about. The one they openly reject and secretly savor.

"You rang?" My voice is low, monotone, imitating Lurch from that old Munsters TV show. Funny to those of us who are too poor for cable. If it weren't for public access, I'd have no culture. Besides, Chip happens to look a lot like that creeper. But I don't tell him that because he's the only son of owners, Voytek and Henrietta.

"Table two's waiting and Jeanine's on her break," he orders from over the rim of his glasses.

I salute him and take two greasy menus under one arm, fill two glasses with water, and head on over.

"Hello, my name is Sheri. Can I get you something to drink?" I set the glasses down, then the menus in the center and go for my writing pad. Focused. Poised, with my pen-tip set to paper, anticipating. The two guys grab the ice water, down them in a flash, and then ask for refills with what sounds like strong accents. Every other person in L.A. has an accent, though. You get used to them.

When I get back with the water pitcher to grant the request, their noses are buried behind the lunch menus.

"How much for an order of chips?" One with curly hair says.

"They're French fries, here." The second says.

"Half-order or whole?" I ask, and then realize I haven't looked at their faces. I've been concentrating on not banging the tips of my skates on the chair legs.

Eye contact makes me go weak in the knees. The man who asked about fries looks exactly like the boy from the park.

The boy who looks exactly like _Jake_.

My mouth goes dry when I see those hazel eyes, set under a strong brow and full lips, slightly puckered as he focuses on my wide eyes and gaping jaw.

The name flies out, taking my breath with it. "Jake?"

Hazel eyes stare widely back at me. "What's that?" His full lips ask with an English accent.

My skates roll back from the table. The oblong restaurant zooms by. Chip and the cooks watch me plow through the kitchen. A few voices crack out questions, but I can't stop. The air breezes by as I make my way out the back door of the kitchen, leaving their questions unanswered. I have a few of my own that I need to sort, first.

The air outside is a warm slap to the face. The dumpsters in the alley are near capacity. I breathe in the rancid air through my half apron, counting backwards from twenty, trying to calm down. Chip follows me out, aiming to give me a talking to, but pauses when he sees me hunching over, trying not to lose my complimentary breakfast on the pavement.

He sets on palm against the door frame. "Are you pregnant?"

Spitting sour acid onto the broken asphalt, I croak, "I'm having your baby, Chip. Isn't it magnificent?"

He offers a half-smile at my sarcasm. "Miracle of life. Jeanine, breaks over."

Jeanine, the waitress I was covering for is standing across the alleyway with a cigarette in her hand. I didn't even see her there.

She nods to Chip, "Be right in." To me she frowns, asking, "You sick or something?"

Twice. I've seen him twice, in two different places. And Chip was the one who told me to take the table, so he saw them, too.

But did he see what I saw?

I nod my head. "Watch my tables? Just a few minutes?"

"Yeah. No problem." Jeanine stamps out her cigarette, coughing her way past me.

Jake was not English. But that boy has his same brilliant copper hair. His eyes and strong jaw.

The kitchen door swings open again as Chip bursts back into the alley. "What the hell? Are you actually sick?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Then get your ass back to your station. The lunch rush is picking up."

Propping myself against the side of the building, I beg, "Five minutes?"

I hear the creak of the kitchen door as Chip steps back inside, yelling, "This counts as your break."

It takes another few moments for my breathing to return to normal. I keep my eyes shut tight, willing myself to calm down. I've got maybe another two minutes before Chip starts to get angry. And before then, I've got to make a choice.

_It isn't him. It isn't him_. He just looks like him.

I've heard about people who aren't related looking alike. It's possible. But there's only one way to be sure. I have to suck it up and roll back inside. Back to work. Work is good.

Once I'm back on the dining floor, I'm disappointed. First, because Chip was exaggerating. There are four tables in Jeanine's station and two in mine. Second, because I don't have the guts to look at the two guys, quietly waiting. So I stop at the pie case, wiping at streaks that aren't there. When Jeanine walks by with an order ticket, I take her by the elbow and inquire on the customers at table two.

"Two young Brits. Yeah. Very cute, too." Her eyes widen. "You want to ask one of them out." She accuses, trying to hide a smile.

"No." I answer, a little too forcefully. _They look too young_ , I think, but don't say. "I just want to make sure they're still there."

She points to the unobstructed view. "Clearly. If either one says 'yes' to a date, you better be ready to foot the bill, because those two are broke."

I roll closer and look around the long room, taking in every occupied table but the one I'm most interested in. "I'm not asking anybody out. And how can you possibly know something like that? They've been here all of five minutes." My stomach is still constricting.

Jeanine shakes her head. "Did you see them? The curly-headed one has a stamp on his hand. A red shield."

I nod knowingly and feel a twinge of pain searing across my chest. When I first came to LA, I was broke. I stayed over at the Salvation Army shelter for the first few months. I was grateful for the bed, but some days it was tough to get a meal. They fed the children and their parents first, often running out of the main course before they got to the single adults.

My gut clenches again. "What did they order?"

"Two waters and a half-order of fries."

As Jeanine says it, Joe, the line cook, calls up the order. I thank Jeanine and roll over to grab the hot plate from the window. I'm out of excuses. I've got to suck it up and get the job done.

On my way to the table, I stop back at the pie case and cut two slices, load them with whipped cream, and then pour two glasses of milk. With my full tray in hand, I take in a deep breath, bite my lip, and push forward.

Deanna once told me, 'the only road through is called, _do_.' You do what you gotta do.

I catch sight of the two young men, and am trying desperately not to think about how much the lanky, copper-haired one reminds me of Jake. But it's impossible to look at one and not think about the other. The resemblance is too striking.

Slowly rolling over, I can only watch. The boy does not move like Jake. He lacks the natural grace. Then, closing my eyes, I listen to the conversation. The boy does not sound like Jake. So the similarity is only in the hair. And the eyes. The jaw line. And the smile. The shape of his face. That's all.

My pulse thrums in my ears and warms my face. I set a palm to my over-heated cheek. _What the hell? It isn't him._ I tell myself, and pull to stop tableside.

The two are talking in low voices. I place the pie plates and milk in front of them.

"Madam, we didn't order this." The one with curly hair says.

It's a half-scoff, half-laugh that comes out before I ask, "Did you just call me 'Madam'? And I know you didn't. It's my way of apologizing for running off a few minutes ago."

"Technically, I think you rolled." The one that isn't Jake says and folds his hands over the tabletop. His fingers are long and slender. The edges of each nail bed are lined with dirt. On the back of his right hand, is the stamp; the shield that says he is in need.

My mouth goes dry and whatever blood was heating my face has fled. I feel pale and cold. It's too much.

"Are you well?" The one with curls asks.

I shake my head and point to the stamp. "That's a rough place."

"Rough's a mild description, I'd say." Curly unwraps a straw and puts it in his milk as the boy who isn't Jake pours way too much ketchup all over the French fries. "We're grateful for your generosity."

I clear my throat, trying to keep my eyes on the slightly older looking boy with the curls. "What's your name?"

He places a hand over his chest, "I'm called Marcus." Then, extends the same hand to his friend. "This here's me mate, Evan."

I can't bring myself to look at _Evan_ for long, as he dips his head in greeting, his mouth full of food. "What brings you two to Los Angeles?"

"I'm going to be an actor." Not Jake—Evan—says at the same time that Marcus says, "He's going to be an actor."

My heart aches and I rub at my chest. Another commonality: an artistic mind. But I tell myself it's not the same. Jake was one of a kind. But I guess it's not so bad . . . having a real someone walking around who actually looks like him.

"Have you landed any jobs yet?" I make a point to keep my eyes on Evans' shoulder, which doesn't look as broad or as sculpted as Jakes was.

Marcus sighs. "We've only been 'ere . . . Not a month, yet an 'ave no place to start."

And because I spent nearly six months living with dancers-slash-models-slash-actresses and listened to them bicker about this part or that casting call, I am filled with useless information about this sort of thing. "Well. Up at the corner is a news stand. There you'll find a circular called _Backstage._ It's free and comes out every Thursday. The ads aren't for anything beyond toothpaste commercials or billboards, but it's a place to start." Mustering my courage, I look Evan in the eye. "Do you have head shots?"

His mouth is full of blackberry pie. He swallows and politely wipes at each corner with a napkin before speaking. "Not yet."

I can tell by the troubled look on his face that this is an obstacle. "I might know someone who can help. One of my former roommates majors in photography." She still owes me seventy dollars for long distance calls she wracked on my personal phone line. "Can you sound American?"

Evan sets his empty glass of milk down and almost smiles. "Actually, it's my best accent." He says this without inflection and I have to concede. It sounds pretty good.

Examining him further, I try to ignore the aching similarities to Jake and really see him. His energy.

Turning back to Marcus, I aim to avoid the mega-watt smile stretching Evans' face. "He's got an interesting look and presence, which should help him find an agent. It's nearly impossible to find work without one. He'll also need to start exercising and eating healthier than fruit pie and French fries. In this business, your looks are your livelihood."

Something inside me swells and I don't know why, but I have an uncontrollable desire to help these two.

Marcus nods his head as Evan clears his throat. "I am right here. You might try talking to me rather than about me. Do I really look so bad?"

Turning his direction, I notice another table has filled up in my station. A party of five. Three men, two women; dressed in business attire.

"Don't leave. I'll be right back."

I might be going crazy. But it doesn't feel like it. Helping a person in need is the right thing to do, (isn't it?) setting aside the fact that I have steadily avoided getting involved in anyone else's affairs. But finding someone that is so much like Jake is impossibly weird. Remarkable, even. And doing as much as I can to help him feels strangely, exactly right—like helping Jake himself in a round-about way.

Grabbing a stack of menus, I make my way over to the new table and introduce myself, then rattle off the Specials. It's very easy to serve people who are on their lunch break. Since they're working in a timeframe, they almost always know what they want when they walk in the door. It's no different for this crowd: no one wants a menu, or appetizer. I take out my notepad take everyone's order, and then pass off the ticket to the kitchen so Joe can get to work on it. After that, I fill and deliver their drinks, make a quick stop to check on table five—they want some more napkins and the check, which I promptly deliver—before finally aiming back to table two.

To Marcus and Evan.

From across the oblong dining floor, I see they've cleared their plates. They seem to be waiting for the check, too. But I don't want them to go, yet. Making a quick detour, I stop at the soups station and fill two bowls with the soup of the day—its vegetable beef. No one orders it—and fill a ramekin with packets of crackers.

When I return to the table, Marcus' eyes go wide. "What are you doin'?"

I set a bowl of steaming soup in front of Evan first, and then Marcus, explaining as I go. "Look. I've been where you are. I had no one to help me, either. I know what that feels like."

Evan breaks away from sprinkling the crackers into his soup. "What makes you think we don't? Have help or family, or something?"

This time I am anxious to meet his eyes. "You wouldn't be staying in a shelter if you did. And it's no big deal. Everybody needs help sometimes."

Marcus hesitates, staring down at a spoon. "Thank you, once again for the charity, Sheri."

While the two young men dig in, a sense of satisfaction builds inside. With a deep breath of courage, I square my shoulders. "You know . . . I might be able to help you find a place to stay. You need help finding your way around, too. Los Angeles is . . . fickle. It's tough to navigate when you don't know anyone."

Evans' hazel eyes widen. He sets his spoon down and wipes his mouth. "You would do that? For strangers?"

I shrug, because it feels so awkward to stand here and have something to offer. But it feels amazingly right, too. Like my homage to Jake. I could make him proud. "Absolutely."

Marcus brushes a long lock of curls away from his forehead. "We haven't got any money."

"I figured that. You can use my address for booking jobs. Or if you need a place to crash . . ."

Evan seems to gasp. Blinking up at me, he almost whispers, "How do you know we won't rob you?"

I'm holding up both hands, palms out. "I think you're smart enough to know that I'd find you if you did. Besides, all my stuff is shit."

Marcus chuckles. "We could be psychopaths."

I'm looking Marcus straight in his eyes now. "No, you couldn't. You're just two people who need guidance. Besides, you'll find a way to pay me back. I'll make sure of it."

I lean in, addressing the doubt in their faces. "Come by my place around six. I'll make you dinner and we can talk about it. My apartment is just above this place."

Pointing to the side entrance of the restaurant I continue explaining. "Outside that door is a flight of stairs. My front door's at the top. I'm off at two."

I can do this.

I can help and not hurt.

# \+ + +

####

Marketing studies show that book reviews are important and powerful tools that help determine whether or not a person will select a book.

Help an author out by commenting, writing, or sharing your opinions!
Between Octobers, Book 1, Savor The Days Series:

Happy endings have often eluded Grace Zuniga. Now, as she finds herself facing deadly trouble, she's hoping and praying that pattern can change.

When Grace wakes up in a dark, confined space, having no memory of how she got there, the fear is nearly crippling. She can't surrender to it. Her children need her. She's all they have left after losing their father. Though Grace is not sure she can survive, she's determined to try. But to do that, she has to figure out who took her and how she ended up trapped and alone in the wilderness, at the mercy of a person who will do anything to keep her from escaping.

Stumbling through her bleak circumstances, Graces' mind wanders over the last life-changing year, from one October to the next, reliving the most precious and heart-rending moments that led up to her kidnapping.

The previous October, when Grace stepped into an elevator, and into the life of sexy, enigmatic actor Rhys Matthews, a new chapter of her life began. Now Grace must ask herself, "How will it end?"

Books by A. R. Rivera:

Savor the Days Series

Between Octobers

September Rain

November Mourning (2017)

January Falls (2018)

The Threestone Trilogy:

Inertia

Force

Reaction (2017)

Rivera~ September Rain~ 154

