In the afternoon of that day, the doorbell rang again, and this time it was Michael. He was dressed in jeans and a plain light shirt, and carried a bicycle wheel in his left hand. "Hi," he said and sounded awkward. Then the look on his face turned to surprise. "You cut your hair?"

"Yeah..." Marilyn murmured.

The graze on his left hand had been re-dressed, and his right hand, wrist and what could be seen of his forearm were covered by a firm bandage, strikingly white against the dark skin of his fingers.

"How are you?" Marilyn asked as she ushered him through the house towards the kitchen.

He smiled. "I'm fine."

"Have you been to the hospital?"

For a moment he glanced at her, hesitating. He had big eyes, dark and clear. Then he exhaled and nodded. "Yes, I've been to the hospital the day before yesterday." His tone was almost apologetic.

"Were you feeling sick? I worried about you that day, you know? So when I saw the bandage..." She waved her hand in the direction of his right side.

Following the gesture, he looked at his arm. "Yes," he said in a low voice. "I had a bad headache in the morning. And then I couldn't go through with my routine. I got so dizzy that I fell and vomited. That's when I was taken to hospital..."

"Oh, my Gosh!" Marilyn stopped walking and covered her mouth with her hand in a girlish move that she couldn't suppress.

"They x-rayed me like a piece of luggage at the airport," he added with a half-smile. "I have a concussion, two cracked ribs, a sprained wrist and bruises all over my right side that could win a contest. I spent all yesterday in bed."

"Oh," Marilyn gave him a worried look. "How are you today? - Would you like something to drink? Lemonade?"

He smiled and nodded, and she took two glasses from a cupboard and a bottle from the fridge.

"I'm okay. But there are many things that I'm forbidden to do at the moment. No running, no sports of any kind, no physical work, nothing like that for the next two weeks or so. I'm not even allowed to read. Pretty much like your mother said."

"Well, how about repairing a bike, then?" Marilyn asked doubtfully, as she pushed the door open that led from the kitchen straight into the outbuilding, where the bicycle still stood upside-down the way Bill had left it two day before, and let him and his wheel pass through.

"That was not on the list!" When Marilyn's expression didn't change he added in a more serious voice, "Well, I'll take it easy. But I can't just sit around all day. I'm not used to that."

"Was your father very angry, then?"

Michael inspected his upturned bicycle. "Yes. He would have slapped me around the face, I guess, if the doctor hadn't explicitly forbidden any further shocks to my head." Then he crouched low. The tools Bill had used to take the damaged wheel off were still lying on the ground. "Is it okay, if I use these?"

Marilyn nodded, and the young man settled down, selected a screw wrench from the box, and started to loosen the nuts on the new wheel.

"Should I turn on the radio, or is that not good for your head?"

"If it's not too loud..."

Marilyn walked over to the old, dusty tube radio her father kept in the garage. "I actually don't think this thing does loud!"

Michael looked over his shoulder at where it stood on top of one of the metal chests of drawers and grinned. "I actually don't think so either!"

She turned the switch and looked for a station. It cracked and hissed, but the song playing was recognizable. Then she perched on an upturned orange box opposite Michael, filled the glasses and watched him.

For a while he worked in silence, occasionally sipping at the sparkling drink clearly in no hurry, then he suddenly looked up. "I'm sorry, I didn't even ask! Is it okay for me to be here today? I mean, did you have any plans for today that I'm keeping you from?"

Marilyn shook her head. "No, I'll just be at home tonight."

After a few more moments of silence, she picked the conversation up again. "How old are you?"

"I'll turn 18 in August. You?"

"I'll be 17 by the end of next month. Which school do you go to? I've never seen you at mine."

He looked at her through the spikes of the wheel that was meanwhile sitting in its hub. "Not any. I'm homeschooled."

"I see..."

He let the wrench sink and looked around the garage. "I'd like to go to school, though. Having friends, seeing them every day... It must be great hanging around with friends and classmates after school, playing basketball maybe... I did go to elementary school. But that's long ago, now. And at that time you are still too little to do a lot of things with your friends alone. Now it would be great! I miss that a lot..."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's great," Marilyn mumbled so low that the young man, who had gone back to adjusting the break on the front wheel, didn't hear it. "Why don't you go to school?"

"It's just better for me that way," came the short and somewhat evasive answer.

Marilyn blinked and then shrugged to herself. "Oh, by the way, what's your name?"

"Michael."

"No, I mean, your full name. What's your last name?"

He didn't answer and just kept working.

Ugh! Ugly-Edmond is talking to me! I need to report sick! Get me an ambulance, I'm dying!

"It's okay," she breathed looking at her shoes. "Never mind."

The radio went on with some playful song, the clunking and screeching of the tools and the screws piercing through it. Tears were starting to burn at the back of her eyes. She didn't want to cry. She wanted to get through this with as much grace as was possible for a toad. She closed her eyes to still the threatening tears. So he didn't want her to know his name. He didn't want her to come after him in some way. What did it matter? And what had she been thinking?

The clinking of the tools had stopped, there was only the radio now. Maybe he was done with the bike. The sooner the better.

"Are you okay?" he asked sounding confused, worried even.

Marilyn just nodded. She didn't dare to speak. Her jaw was ridged.

"Can you look at me?"

Couldn't he just let it go? Apparently not. Marilyn exhaled, lifted her head and forced her eyes open. They were watery but she didn't cry. She was not going to cry over this. It wasn't even his behavior in particular that made her feel like crying. That was just a minor blow. But there had been a few too many lately.

The young man sat very still looking at her through the wheel. "Jackson," he said finally and a little helpless.

"What...?"

"My name. You asked for my name."

"Oh, you don't have to tell me. It's okay."

He smiled and shook his head. "I already did. Jackson. My name is Jackson. Michael Jackson."

"Oh..."

He looked at Marilyn seemingly waiting for a reaction - that didn't come. "Okay," he said with a single nod and went back to whatever he was doing on his bicycle.

"Jackson... Michael Jackson... Jackson..." Marilyn rolled the name around in her mouth. It sounded familiar. "Oh, wasn't there a band called - I don't remember - The Jackson Boys or something. And wasn't the little one called Michael Jackson?"

"The Jackson Five," Michael corrected not looking up.

And then everything fell into place.

"You are not making fun of me?"

"No."

"Michael Jackson, the child star?"

He gave her a weak smile, cut in segments by the spokes of the wheel in front of his face, then looked away. "Yeah."

"Oh, now I'm really terribly sorry about the accident!"

Surprised, he raised his gaze again.

"Well, lots of people love you. And because of me you can't do your job."

And there it was again, that crooked smile. "But that means I get to repair my bike..."

At that moment, the doorbell started ringing.

Michael raised his eyebrows. "Are you expecting someone?"

"No."

"Well, don't you want to go and see who it is and what they want?"

Marilyn had some faint idea who it might be, and she didn't for one second feel like finding out for sure. But the bell kept ringing, and so she finally emptied her glass and got up, walked to the front of the garage, opened one of the green painted wings and looked out. But she couldn't see anyone.

"Hello?" she called.

There was no answer. The doorbell kept ringing.

Now a little worried after all, she went outside in order to look around the front of the house and see who was at the door, pulling the garage door ajar behind her.

As she had feared, it was Brian, Peter and Thomas. And they had spotted her, too.

"Ugly-Edmond!" Thomas had the loudest voice of them all.

"Piss off!" she hissed, but retreated towards the garage in fear they might have another set of water balloons or something even nastier in store for her.

"Uh-uh, ugly-Edmond, don't run away! We just want to have a look at your ugly haircut!" Brian called.

She didn't want to run from them, and so they were able to catch up with her just before she reached the garage. Peter positioned himself between her and the doors. "Don't leave, ugly-Edmond!"

"Get out of my way!" Marilyn said a bit louder, but still rather hushed, pushing him. The last thing she wanted was for Michael to hear and see how they treated her, and hear them call her ugly-Edmond.

But Peter pushed her back. He didn't push her really hard, but just hard enough so she could feel his potential strength. And suddenly she was scared of them. Suddenly she was afraid they might really hurt her. Even though it was bright daylight in a lively neighborhood, there was something threatening about their stance, and it truly frightened her.

"Peter, please, come on..." she tried, almost pleading.

Instead of backing up, Peter reached for her head and made the remains of her hair fly up. "Man, ugly-Edmond, like a bird's nest!"

"Peter, stop, please!"

Now Thomas lunged out, going for her hair. "Finally you have the hairstyle that fits the scarecrow that you are!"

Brian followed suit. "Yeah, fit for a scarecrow! They're going to name that haircut after you: A classic Edmond!"

They kept going for her hair each in turn. Marilyn covered her head. They weren't physically hurting her, but they were entering her personal space, and it frightened her that she couldn't stop them.

"An Edmond! But - you know - no one is going to get an Edmond of free will."

"It could be made mandatory in penal colonies!"

She could have shouted for help, or simply screamed out loud to draw the attention of the neighbors to the scene, maybe even to bring out Michael Jackson, who was in the garage only a few feet away, but she didn't dare to. She was ashamed to be so helpless and to be so low.

"Yeah, good idea! And in prisons, too!"

"But only for really bad crimes, guys. Not for mere thieves and people like that. They don't deserve to get an Edmond. Only for murderers and those really low sorts!"

Then there was another voice. "Is there a problem?"

Everyone stopped and turned to have a look, even Marilyn, although she knew who it was.

Michael stood in front of the garage, a screw wrench in his right hand, questioningly looking from one to the other. His bandaged hands and arm, and the fact that there was some dirt on his shirt from dealing with the bicycle made him look venturous. He didn't look like a child star at all. He looked tough.

Brian was the first to recover. "Who are you?"

Michael focused on him and shrugged. "You came here. You should start by telling me who you are." He didn't get an answer, but he didn't seem to particularly care for one either. "So, is there a problem?"

"No, man, nothing that concerns you."

"If you have a problem with Marilyn, come to me."

"Why? Is she your girlfriend? Man, look at you. You can do better than that!" But Brian's voice had lost some of its cheeky tone.

"Well, you heard me."

There was a moment of silence as everyone adjusted to the situation. Marilyn quietly moved a tiny bit closer to Michael.

"Do you want to hit somebody with that hex wrench?" Brian asked finally, eyeing the tool.

"That ain't a hex wrench, stupid!" Marilyn hissed. "That's a screw wrench!"

"Marilyn!" Michael warned in a low voice.

"Well, it's true, though!" she spit hushing up

"Whatever it is! Do you want to hit somebody with it?"

Michael looked at the wrench in his hand. "No. All I want is for you to leave."

"Then why did you bring it?"

He shrugged. "I was using it when you turned up."

But Marilyn doubted that there was a screw on any bicycle big enough for it.

"So, what if we're not leaving?" And with that Brian made a sudden move in Michael's direction.

There was the clicking sound of a car door opening. They all heard it. It pierced through the tension in the air. Michael made a tiny, halting movement with his left hand. The rest of them turned.

On the opposite side of the street, half a house to the left of them, stood a pick-up. The driver's door was open and inside sat the boxer-faced man with the light hat, whom Marilyn knew as Bill, one foot on the street ready to get out staring intently over at them.

"Oh, man, did you bring your daddy?" Peter asked.

"Come on, just leave." Michael sighed and shook his head exasperatedly. "Go have a smoke, have a coffee - I don't know - but please leave."

The tension in the air dissolved. They mumbled a little something more, but slowly started to set off. Marilyn didn't wait for them to go. She turned and without another look at anyone quickly passed Michael and disappeared into the garage.

~~~~~

Hey, guys! :)

Let me start by saying sorry.

I'm sorry this took forever and a day to update!

I'm a bit stressed out at the moment. My parents are moving house in November, and thus it's all hands on deck right now, and it'll be for the rest of the year.

I'm sorry for the title of this chapter, 'A New Wheel'. (It has meanwhile been changed.)

It's the working title, and - Gosh! - I couldn't think of anything better at the moment, so I just left it as it is. Not very creative, I know, but it's almost 5 am, so... :P

About the photo: When my friend Sue read the 2. Chapter back in February (Can't believe it's that long ago!), she attached this photo to the bottom of the text and added "And if you squint your eyes, then the front of the car looks more like a bike that - I don't know - one might have fallen off!!! ;) But maybe I just need glasses!! 8-) "

But when I saw the picture, I thought it would be perfect for this scene outside the garage. You know, the expression he has on his face and all. So here it is! :D Thanks to Sue!

Alright. That's it for now. I hope you like this chapter! :)

Someone said earlier today, this chapter had better not be short, and I said it wasn't. Well, I checked. It's 2.425 words long, and thus the third longest chapter in this story so far. :D

Please think about votes and comments! Both would make me very happy. <3

Thank you for reading and have a nice day!

Much Love, Birdie <33