Sam

Like grains of sand in an hourglass, the second half of October trickles away at a steady and unyielding pace. Time, it turns out, does not pause for even the most exhausted and agony-inflicted of its children. It keeps trucking along at its normal swift progression, and will leave you passed out and bleeding in the dust if you can't keep up. Time is merciless.

Rose has been left behind; stranded on a dark and freezing street corner called Homecoming 2016.

"How was everyone's day?" Mom asks at dinner, as per usual. It is November 4th, and the autumn winds and rains have finally stripped the rest of our trees of their leaves. I stare at them out the window across from me as we sit down for our family meal, and I think about how the bare branches look like claws reaching up to grab the moon. And I notice that the moon is full.

Dad mutters something of a grunt in response to Mom's question and digs vehemently into his mashed potatoes, his eyes never leaving the laptop next to his plate.

"Eli, can't you put that thing away for once?" Mom says in a tense voice. Tensions are always high around the holidays, because our father's security job becomes the most demanding during these months.

"Sorry honey, I have to respond to these emails," Dad responds in a monotone, almost like they've had this exchange a million times before. Because they have. For my parents, it's just another Friday.

For Rose and me, it has been three weeks exactly since That Night.

"What about you, kids?" Mom turns to us after huffing exasperatedly at our dad. "How was school?"

Commence our routine. Rose wrings her fingers underneath the table, bites her lip, and casts a side-glance at me.

I answer, "School was fine."

"Good to hear. George, how about--?"

"I gave a presentation today," I interrupt.

"Oh?" says Mom. "What about?"

"It was for history," I continue with my lie, keeping the attention on me. "It was about, uh....racism."

"Racism?" my dad chooses that moment to pipe up. "What are you doing talking politics in a history class?"

"Historical racism, Dad," I mutter irritably, while at the same time trying to keep my tone respectful. With four days to go until the presidential election, Dad can hardly talk about anything but politics when he isn't working. "You know, the civil rights movement and stuff. It's what we're learning."

"Just along as they remember to keep their damn opinions out of it," Dad grumbles. "I'm not paying tax dollars to have those teachers brainwashing my kids with their left wing politics. Damn Hillary supporters with their Black Lives Matter bullsh--"

"Now Eli," Mom cuts in warningly. "Let's not get started. Sam didn't say that's what her presentation was about."

"Well I wouldn't be surprised," Dad rambles on anyway. "What with the way this new social climate is going. I swear, this whole world is going to hell. All of these moronic social justice bloggers with their--"

I tune them out at this point, my goal accomplished. Dad is off on a tangent, and Mom will spend the remainder of dinner trying to calm him down.

Beneath the table, Rose squeezes my hand. I squeeze back firmly, attempting to bring warmth to her cold fingers. She is always so cold these days.

As Mom and Dad's bickering fades into background noise, I use my thumb to draw a question mark on the back of Rose's hand; our silent symbol for Are you okay?

She responds by drawing a circle on the back of my hand, which is basically another form of shrugging for her. It translates to, I'm as good as I'm gonna get. Which honestly isn't very good, but at least she trusts me enough to tell me. Despite everything that had to happen, I am so glad that my sister loves and trusts me once more.

The end of That Night— that sick and twisted scene that is forever branded into my memory— was a turning point in our relationship. No, not just in our relationship, but in our lives, in this entire fourteen-year-long journey that we've shared up to this point. Things are different now; I see the world differently. And I know that Rose does, too.

Even though she hasn't uttered a single, solitary word in the three weeks since it happened.

************

I remember how she didn't speak that night, and at the time I thought nothing of it. She lay in a fetal position on the damp grass and cried, and I cried with her, and I remember how we stayed like that for a long time. Over an hour at least, and long past when everyone at the dance started filing out to catch their rides home.

We stayed well hidden around the corner, of course, in the very alcove the monsters had chosen to do the horrible thing they did. It was eerie for me, with the blinding moon casting mocking shadows of the school building down on us. I felt sick, and wanted to get as far the fuck away as I possibly could. But I couldn't imagine moving Rose, or even moving myself at this point. So we just stayed and cried.

I was the only one who spoke. "I'm sorry," I kept breathing in between sobs. "Fuck, I'm sorry." I would also loudly start sentences with phrases like, "I should've...." or "I could've....", but would always trail off in my own distress. Whether it's because I didn't know what I should've done, or because there's nothing I could've done, I still haven't decided.

Rose cried much more quietly, and didn't speak at all.

And the whole time Dan stayed with us. He didn't talk or move, or even look at us much. He simply sat in the grass a few feet away and watched the night, like a guardian whose duty it was to do so. One of the few times when I glanced his way, I caught him fiddling nervously with his cell phone. But then he turned to look at us and our eyes met, and he instantly pocketed the device.

I don't know how long we would have stayed there if it wasn't for Dan, but several minutes after the music inside the school had shut down and the parking lot had emptied, he finally stood up and placed a warm hand on my shoulder.

"Come on," he said gently. "We should really head home." He offered me his other hand to help me up.

Normal Sam would have probably slapped it away and stood up himself, but I grasped it gratefully and let him do most of the work in pulling me to my feet.

Rose stayed curled up, still shaking and crying softly, and I remember wishing that I could rip my own heart out of my chest to escape the pain I felt. Looking down at my sister lying on the damp, dark grass, I felt an overwhelming desire to continue pummeling the boy who hurt her. Maybe even murder him. Clenching my fists, I turned around....only to find that he was gone.

"Where is he?" I demanded aloud, surprised at how my voice lacked the anger I felt, more consumed by desperation. I whirled to face Dan. "Where did he go?!"

Dan's response was stern and immediate, as he was still the calmest of the three of us. "I don't know, but that's not our most important concern right now."

He didn't have to motion to Rose to make his point. I realized right away that he was right.

It took us another five minutes to coax Rose into standing, and when she did, she responded wordlessly. Wiping away the tears still streaming down her raw cheeks, she grabbed onto my arm like she used to when we were kids. Back when she was so terrified of going to school, that she had to hold on to me all the way to the bus stop.

We walked home like that, with Rose never letting go of my arm and Dan following us all the way there.

************

"Hang on a sec," Mom stops me and Rose on our way up the stairs, even though Dad already said we could be excused. A phone call for work had interrupted his political rant, also succeeding at putting an end to our forced family dinner. "Could you two come into the living room real quick?"

"Mom, we have homework," I protest, even knowing that it's useless.

"It'll just be a few minutes, I just want to talk to you guys." Despite her careful words, her tone makes it clear that we do not have a choice in the matter.

Barely withholding an annoyed sigh, I backtrack down the stairs with Rose trailing closely behind. In the living room, we plop down onto the couch as Mom sits in the chair right across. We can still hear Dad barking at someone over the phone in the kitchen.

"Alright," Mom begins. "You guys wanna tell me what's been going on?"

"What do you mean?" I ask in my best oblivious tone. Rose, of course, says nothing.

"Don't play dumb, little missy," Mom says, somehow speaking sternly while still keeping the concern in her voice. "I'm not as oblivious as you think. I know when something is wrong with my kids, even though I may not know what it is."

"What makes you think something's wrong?"

Mom huffs irritably, pushing some stray grays out of her face to join the rest of her tucked-back brown hair that matches ours. "I just know, okay? Don't doubt my motherly instincts."

Bitch, when you don't even know the gender of your own children, I think I'm safe to doubt you all I want.

"And anyway, I want to hear from your brother for once," she adds, causing Rose to seize up beside me. "George, don't think I haven't noticed that you've gone silent again." 

My nerves grow cold, and I wrack my brains for one of the backup plans I had reserved for this situation.

"He's fine, he just has a sore throat," I explain, a little too quickly.

"That lie doesn't work anymore and you know it," Mom warns me before leaning forward and speaking directly to Rose. "George.... you know how I feel about this silent treatment thing. I thought you were past this."

Both of us cringe at the middle school memories she was referring to, back when Rose's bullying and dysphoria was so intense that she would literally shut down for extended periods of time. I talked for her a lot back then. Mom remembers; she had always chalked it up to social anxiety.

"He's just tired," I try again.

"Samantha, please stop speaking for your brother," Mom says to me, a lot more firm this time. Her final warning. "George....what's wrong?"

Rose shrugs.

"Is everything going okay at school?"

Another shrug.

"I can't even remember the last time I heard you speak. Did something happen? Are you alright?"

Rose bites her lip as she gives a small shake of her head.

"I'm not as oblivious as you think," Mom repeats.

Except that you are, I think, gritting my teeth angrily. You don't notice shit. You weren't even there the night when everything went to hell....

************

We reached our house that night to find the windows dark and the driveway empty.

"Are your parents not home?" Dan asked curiously.

Ignoring the question, I opened the front door and pulled Rose through, motioning for Dan to follow.

The house was completely dark and silent. Leaving Rose and Dan by the stairs, I moved through and flicked on all the lights. In the kitchen, I found a note taped to the fridge:

Sammie & George:

Your father and I decided to go out tonight. We'll be out late, so we trust you both to come home and get yourselves to bed on time. Love you guys!

~ Mom

After tearing up the note and shoving it in the trashcan, I returned to the entryway to find Rose sitting on the stairs with a blank look on her face and Dan awkwardly standing by, as if unsure whether to try comforting her.

"They're gone for the night," I announced.

Rose didn't even lift her head from her knees.

Dan, meanwhile, looked appalled. "Are you serious?"

"Yep. Out of all the nights they chose to make one of their date nights, it had to be this one."

"Christ...." Dan trailed off then, staring at the vapid, broken girl at the bottom of the stairs. I noticed once again that his fingers wandered toward his pocket, pulling his cell phone about halfway out....and then replacing it once more.

We made eye contact and I abruptly turn away, directing my attention to my sister. "Rose," I said gently. "Do you wanna....go get cleaned up?" I cringed as the words left my mouth, tasting vomit. I hated conveying that I thought she could just wash away the crime that was done to her, and that would make everything better. Because I didn't think that. I, like Dan, wished she would agree to let us call the police and report the bastards so they could be dealt the sentence they deserved. But I knew my sister and knew that this was not something she would compromise on.

Sure enough, she stood right up at my suggestion and began to make her way up the stairs with the speed and conviction of someone walking to their death. I watched after her and made sure to listen until I heard the water turn on.

"Hey Sam-"

"What?!"

Dan flinched. So did I, because I hadn't meant to snap at him. He had been nothing but helpful tonight, and I couldn't even express how grateful I was that he was there with me. "Sorry," I muttered. "What is it?"

"Your hands."

I looked down and noticed my own bruised and bloodied knuckles for the first time since throwing all of those punches. It was only then that I felt the pain. "Ah, fuck," I muttered, sucking in a sharp breath.

"Do you need--"

"I swear to god Daniel if you take care of me one more time tonight I'm going to fucking murder you," I snapped angrily, my cluttered mind still plagued with memories of mere hours ago, when he held my bleeding arms in the bathroom. Fuck, my arms. They still hurt, too.

"Go home," I snarled at Dan. Of course I didn't mean it though. I actually hoped he would stay for as long as possible, and I think he knew that.

Which was probably why five minutes later, despite my many protests, Dan and I were sitting on the floor of the kitchen while he tightly held my hands in between a bag of frozen peas. He made sure to check them every few minutes, gently feeling my numb knuckles and asking where they hurt before returning the pressure to them.

"Does anything feel broken?" He asked at one point.

"No, I'm fine." I grumbled, flexing my fingers as he held them. "They just hurt like a bitch."

"I'll bet," muttered Dan. "You were wailing on them pretty hard. I thought you would kill that one dude."

"I wish I had," I said in a voice so serious, it made Dan shut up completely.

But only for a couple minutes. "You know what would be better than killing him?" Dan asked in a leading tone. "If we called the fucking police."

I didn't respond, but my palms grew surprisingly warm inside of the ice pack. I really wished he would stop pushing that point.

"Don't you agree? Don't you think that we should?"

Still I said nothing. I'm sure he had expected me to snap at him again, but I didn't. Mostly because I knew he was right, but also because I knew that there was no way we could involve the police. Not with Rose so adamantly against it, and definitely not without telling her. She had been through too much already.

We stayed quiet for awhile, just sitting there on the kitchen floor without looking at each other, until we realized that the running water of the shower no longer sounded above us. The house was completely silent, except for the sounds of our own breathing.

"We should pry go check on Rose," I pointed out, wrestling my sore hands from his cold grasp. "It's too damn quiet up there."

"Sam, are you even fucking listening to me?"

************

"Are you even listening to me, George?" Mom snaps angrily, ripping me out of the past. Of course she isn't talking to me, but my heart hammers in my chest as though she is.

"He's not going to talk, Mom," I sigh. "He's going through one of his things again, just leave him alone.

"You know I don't like this," Mom says to Rose, completely ignoring me. "This is childish, this thing that you're doing right now. If something is wrong, just tell us!"

"What's going on out here?" asks Dad as he emerges from the dining room, off the phone at last. "Samantha, what have you done this time?"

I grit my teeth, feeling myself about to shout something that would definitely land me in hot water, but Mom speaks up before I can say anything.

"It's not Sam this time, honey. It's your son. He's giving us the silent treatment again."

Dad rolls his eyes. "Seriously George? How many times have we been over this? If something is bothering you, spit it out."

Next to me, Rose bites her lip hard and clenches her hands into fists. She looks like she's about to cry. I want to punch somebody.

"For God's sake, be a man for once!"

"Eli," Mom interjects softly. "We don't need--"

But it's too late. Rose leaps up from the couch and runs up the stairs, tears streaming down her face.

I stand up and glare at both of my parents furiously, and speak without caring about keeping my tone level anymore. "Great job, you guys," I growl at them sarcastically. "A-plus parenting, really." Then I run up the stairs after Rose.

************

"I'm not saying we file a report against her will," Dan said quietly as he followed me up the stairs, even as I continued to ignore him. "But I do think we should try to convince her. We should--"

"Dan, will you please shut up?" I begged him, my hands shaking at my sides. I didn't like the thought of Rose being alone, or the silence coming from our bedroom. "We'll talk in a minute, just wait right here."

Our bedroom was dark and the door was cracked open slightly. Still, I knocked gently. "Rose?"

No answer. I pushed the door open the rest of the way, shedding a small amount of light from the hallway into the dark bedroom. It shined directly onto Rose's bed, where I saw the slim shape of her curled up under all of her blankets, facing the wall.

"Rose?" I said again. "Rose, are you–?" I caught myself before I asked what probably would have been the stupidest question I could ask at the moment. Of course she wasn't alright. Who knew if she ever fucking would be?

But the gentle rise and fall of her back signaled breathing, which meant that she was alive. And if that was all I could make absolutely sure of right then, so be it. I ought to be grateful anyway....

At this thought, a white-hot lightning bolt of anger struck inside of my chest. I couldn't believe I was standing there, having to feel fucking grateful that my sister was even alive after everything that happened. That the sons of bitches hadn't killed her.

"Fuck this night," I sobbed in a whisper, gripping the door frame so hard the my battered knuckles cried out in protest. I squeezed my eyes shut. Maybe that would turn back time. "Fuck this night. Fuck this life. Fuck...."

I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder, but it was just Dan. "I know," he nodded in agreement. "I know."

No you don't, I wanted to say, but then I realized....yes he did. 

Dan had been there for everything, not just tonight, but for awhile now. He knew all of my secrets, and Rose's too. And it was in that moment that I truly acknowledged something that I think had been true for awhile: Dan was an important part of our lives now. There was no turning back now. There was no way he was leaving.

In the long run, anyway. But tonight, he had to leave. Placing a hand over his that still sat firmly on my shoulder, I muttered, "You should probably go."

"Are you sure? Sam, I'll stay as long as you want me--"

"Our parents will be home any time now," I interjected, knowing it was true. I had to be in bed when they got back; there was no way in hell I could face them after everything and force a smile, pretending that tonight had been just peachy. "Can't have them catching a strange boy in their house. And anyway, your parents are probably wondering where you are by now, right?"

To this, Dan said nothing. He just let go of my shoulder in resignation. "You're right. I'll get out of here."

"Thanks. And hey, I'll still see you at--" I was cut off abruptly when he pulled me into the tightest hug I've ever experienced. Tighter even than the one in the bathroom earlier. I hesitated for only a moment before hugging him back, allowing a few painful tears to escape my screwed-shut eyes. "See you at school on Monday," I finished quietly, as if it was just another Friday. Even knowing that nothing would ever be the same again.

"I love you, Sam," he said for the second time that night, and again I was left wondering what he meant by it. "And I'm here for you. Always."

My eyes were still shut when he let go of me, and I barely noticed as the boy who used to torment me-- the boy who became my best friend, the boy who has now saved my life in more ways than one-- slipped out of my arms and floated down the stairs and out the front door like a cloud of smoke.

------------

Upstairs, Rose is curled up tightly in her bed, facing the wall. Much like she was That Night. And every night after that. Much like she has been more than not lately.

"Hey," I say, knocking lightly to alert her of my presence. Still she jolts upright, clearly frightened. I flinch at her reaction. "Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean....anyway," I take a breath, fully prepared to give her the speech I know she needs. "Just ignore Mom and Dad, okay? They're fucking idiots, they don't know half of what's going on. You don't have to talk if you don't want to. Your voice is your own, and it's your choice whether or not you want to use it. Okay?" Your voice is your own, just like your body is your own. You have control.

Sniffing and wiping away tears, Rose nods without meeting my eyes. I smile at her anyway, hoping that she feels the encouragement even if she doesn't see it. "Good. You've got this, Rosie. I'm on your team no matter what, never forget that. Dan too. We won't let anyone make you talk."

At this, much to my relief, Rose manages the slightest hint of a smile. Truly, ever since That Night, her perception of Daniel Albright has flipped a complete one hundred eighty degrees. Besides me, he is the only person in the world that Rose trusts enough to stand closer than five feet to anymore. He is also the only person besides me who is allowed to speak for her.

Shaking off the tremendous sadness weighing down my shoulders before she notices, I smile right back at her. "Alright. I have some books I need to return to the library before it closes, so I'm gonna head out for a bit. Will you be okay?"

Rose nods, looking me in the eye and keeping her slight smile on so that I know she isn't lying. This doesn't stop me from worrying anyway, but I don't let on. "Good. I won't be more than half an hour, and when I get back we can do some homework and maybe watch a movie after. Sound good?"

Another nod.

"Awesome." I'm sure to wait until she lays back down on her bed and turns her attention to her phone before I dig the library books out of my backpack: Three books on sexual assault, PTSD, and selective mutism respectively. No reason to let her see these.

"I'll be right back," I say off-handedly to Mom and Dad on my way out the door. I can't tell if they even hear me, they're so deep into one of their arguments that may have started out about me and Rose, but that has now completely devolved into something about them and their relationship.

"If you could just put down the work once in awhile--"

"I don't know how the hell you expect me to provide for this family in that case!"

I slam the door behind me. It's going to be a long weekend.

------------

Rose

The weekend was not long enough.

I used to think Mondays were the worst, but now I can't think of a day that isn't just as hellish as the rest of them, outside of the weekend. But really, the only thing that makes Saturdays and Sundays more bearable than the rest is that I don't have to go to school, which means I don't have to leave my bed. Sam always tries to make me get up, of course, but there are some things that even he can't convince me to do. The way I see it, the longer I stay in bed, the less I have to deal with reality.

Today is Monday though, which means back to normal schedule. The fourth Monday since that night, two days past the three week mark since that night. Almost a month since that night, if you really think about it, not that I do. Not that I'm measuring time or anything, no, that's Sam's habit. I don't care enough about the passage of time to think in numbered days, and I'm definitely not counting how many days it has been since a stupid thing that didn't even really happen, because it was all a dream. Which is why I actually have no idea that today is day twenty-three.

Twenty-three days of silence.

"Rose?"

I look up slowly. We're in the school building (when did we get here?) and students are already milling about to get to their first classes. Sam is trying to tell me that it's time to part ways again.

"You know the drill," I hear him say, his voice muffled as if coming from inside of a bubble. "Text me our code if you need anything. I'll see you in biology, okay?"

I think I nod. Maybe not, sometimes I forget. Either way Sam knows that I heard him, because he takes off to his first class before he's late again. Right, I should probably go somewhere, too.

Twenty-three days.

"George, wait up!"

Aaaand, here we go again. Right on schedule.

I attempt to pick up my pace down the busy hallway, but Cody manages to catch up to me, like he always does. Why does he always try to catch me in the mornings?

"Come on, please talk to me," he begs, once he's right at my heels. "It's been weeks, at least answer my texts!"

Exactly, it has been weeks. Twenty-three days, to be exact, and somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty phone calls and fifty or sixty texts. When will he give up already?

"Please, I'm begging you. I was a shitty person, and I can't even say how sorry I am. But I don't want to lose you as a friend. Just talk to me!"

Stop following me. Whatever, I'm almost to class anyway. Maybe this will finally be the last day he tries to apologize.

"I've told you before, I'm not giving up on you until I get some sort of answer! For fuck's sake George...." Even out of breath from following my quick pace, he lowers his voice. "Tell me what you would rather be called, so I can quit using the wrong name. Tell me what I can do to convince you that I'm not a horrible person. Or tell me to fuck off and never speak to you again, I don't care! Please, just tell me something!"

Fuck off and never speak to me again. Maybe if I think it hard enough, he'll hear it.

But I guess it's too much to hope for, because as I reach the doorway to the art room, Cody just sighs and makes his daily promise before turning away: "Fine, I'll try again tomorrow."

Why do I have to speak? Why can't you just make an assumption, just take the fucking hint? In what universe does my silence mean keep going....

Ow, my head. The pain is back, as foggy and unwelcome as ever. My vision does the focus-unfocus thing again. Time to tune out the world once more.

Twenty-three days....

For twenty-three days, I have lived in something of a fog. Trying to think or focus on any one thing has become headache-inducing, or what one might experience when staring very closely at a bright, pixelated image for too long. So I don't think.

Since that night, most of what I hear is shrouded in white noise that I can never care enough to tune into. The blaring of my alarm in the morning, the bells in between classes, the thundering sound of footsteps in the hall, the voices— both those all around me and the ones in my head— all blur together throughout the day, and attempting to pick up on one thing is painful. So I've stopped listening.

Since that night, I see what I want to see, notice what isn't too painful to observe, and remember only what I choose to recall. Everything else pretty much dissolves into the fog. And I don't speak.

Silently, I gather my art supplies for the morning. Quietly, I take a seat at my empty table and set up my canvas. Without noise, I lay my hands in my lap and stare at the thing as class moves on around me.

"George, hon....have you been feeling alright lately?"

The soft voice of Miss Vaughn is one of very few sounds that can reach me through the fog these days, but it's only when she places a gentle hand on my shoulder and leans in close that I look up from my blank canvas.

I shrug.

Usually that's all I need to do to have Miss Vaughn press her painted lips together and walk away, but this time she prods in a low voice, "Are you sure? I know you're not the most verbose of kids, but it feels like forever since I last heard your voice. I'm starting to get worried."

I know she probably wouldn't be saying any of this if I wasn't alone at my table, which is why it's lucky that Kelsey and Bri are gone today for some club that they're both in. Maybe Miss Vaughn feels like I'm more likely to open up to her without them around to eavesdrop. Too bad she's wrong.

Giving her a small smile, I lift my head and touch a hand to my throat, as if to signal that it is too sore for me to speak. This small gesture has helped me get away with three weeks of not talking in class. With Sam backing me up by forging doctor's notes, this is how I've avoided teachers' questions, required presentations, and actively participating in group work. Of course, this will only work for so long before everyone gets suspicious, but I'm trying not to think about that.

"I understand if you're sick," says Miss Vaughn without missing a beat (I almost get the sense that she doesn't really believe me). "But that's not all that is concerning me."

She leans in closer, and a strong whiff of her vanilla scented-perfume makes my tense shoulders relax for the first time in weeks. "In the past, you've never had trouble getting started on a project," she says in almost a whisper, nodding towards the untouched canvas in front of me. "You're a wonderful student, with artistic talent like I've never seen before. You've excelled at all of your assignments, and the work you've completed in your free time never ceases to amaze me. So you can see why your lack of work recently has made me wonder what is going on."

I listen to her without meeting her eyes, clenching and unclenching my hands into fists under my desk. Her voice is so warm and her tone so kind and inviting, and a large part of me wants to break down and tell her everything. I have never felt so inclined to trust any adult before I met Miss Vaughn.

I open my mouth....then shut it almost immediately. I realize that it doesn't matter how much I trust her, I couldn't translate my painful story from thoughts and memories into words if I wanted to. I am no longer capable.

"George, you can tell me absolutely anything. You don't have to, of course. But I want you to know that I'm here for you if you need someone to talk to. My classroom door is always open, and you can come in any time. Okay?"

I nod, hoping she hears the thank you that I am unable to form with my voice. My useless, damaged, good-for-nothing voice. If it even exists anymore, that is.

------------

Sam

Election Day is tomorrow and it is all anyone can talk about, which makes it that much easier to tune out the world today. In history class, I am only vaguely aware of the blurry projection image at the front of the room displaying the latest presidential debate as I sit slumped in my chair, texting Dan.

ME: Bored af in history. How long until everyone shuts the fuck up about the stupid election?

DANIEL: Probably not until a month or so after it happens. Maybe not even then, depending on the results.

ME: UGGGGHH Shoot me. I don't even want to be here today.

DANIEL: Same. Wanna ditch with me? Fifty cent corndogs all day at Sonic. ;D

I smile slightly at the dimmed screen of my phone, an action that feels almost unfamiliar nowadays. God, what a tempting offer. And one I would've taken him up on without a thought three weeks ago. But now, with Rose the way she is, I know it's not an option. I need to be here for her in every single moment possible.

ME: Dan....you know I can't do that.

DANIEL: Right. Just kidding.

He says that, but I can almost hear his sigh behind the text. I know that he wishes that I would quit "putting my life on hold for Rose", as he said those exact words to me in gym class on Friday, after I told him I couldn't hang out after school because I didn't want to leave my sister alone for too long that day. It was a Friday, after all. Three weeks exactly since That Night.

Dan rolled his eyes when I explained this and told me that if I wasn't going to force Rose to get help, I needed to quit treating her like a delicate flower. We had a huge fight that had to be broken up by both of the gym teachers, who threatened us with suspension if we couldn't act civil towards each other for one class period. We made up on our way to the nurse's office.

Shaking away the memories, I try to actually focus on the projector screen. We're supposed to be taking notes over this debate, and I haven't written a single thing down due to the simple fact that I don't give a single shit about politics.

Admittedly, I sometimes feel guilty about this. Like I should care a little more about who our next president is going to be, since the likelihood of gay and trans rights being affected is apparently pretty high. But the thing is, it's kind of hard to devote the energy it takes to care about civil rights on a national level when your own life is constantly in shambles. Maslow's hierarchy of needs and all that shit.

So yeah, as far as this particular election goes, there isn't much I could tell you besides the candidate's names, and that's only because they're impossible to escape if you spend even five seconds on the internet. Their stupid names and their ridiculous faces, that saggy old broad with humongous teeth and a shit-eating grin, and that burnt-orange potato man whose obnoxious voice makes me want to shoot myself in both ears. I honestly hate them both at this point, and can't wait until I no longer see them everywhere I turn.

My attention is pulled away once more when my phone buzzes again in my hand.

DANIEL: I hope I didn't piss you off. Again, sorry for the shit I said on Friday. If you need to be here for Rose, I get it.

ME: Yeah, sorry, but I really do. It's not like she has anyone else right now.

The truth of my own statement saddens me, mostly because of how much I am to blame for it. Rose Parker, whose existence I used to appreciate so much for providing my sister with a best friend that wasn't me, has kept noticeably distant since homecoming night. And who can blame her? As far as she knows, nothing happened that night after I blurted out her feelings for the person she loved and she immediately booked it from the premises. She hasn't spoken to Rosie once since then, and probably assumes that Rosie hasn't spoke to her because she feels awkward for not returning her feelings.

And my guilt for being the cause of this misunderstanding, for being the one to tell her secret in the first place, is still eating me alive. I would approach her and apologize if she didn't keep immediately turning the other way whenever she saw me in the halls.

At that moment, my phone buzzes again.

DANIEL: I know exactly what you're thinking. Quit blaming yourself.

ME: How can I not when so much is my fault?

DANIEL: Sam, we've talked about this. Whether you feel like shit is your fault or not, sitting around feeling sorry for yourself accomplishes nothing. Quit being a little pussy and focus on what you can do to make it better.

ME: What do you think I'm trying to do, asshole? And I'm not feeling sorry for myself!

DANIEL: Oh yeah? I see you at gym in a couple hours, do I need to make you show me your arms again?

I flinch, almost slamming my phone down when I read his text. No, I don't need to show him my fucking arms. I don't need yet another thing to feel guilty about.

ME: No.

DANIEL: Why? You got something to hide?

ME: No.

DANIEL: I guess we'll see.

I shove my phone back in my pocket angrily, yanking down the ends of my long sleeves until they almost cover my fingertips. I don't need this right now. I don't--

"Alright everyone, the bell is about to ring. Please pass your papers forward!"

Everyone groans as Mrs. Bork flicks on the light, and those who used the period as a nap time wipe the drool from their mouths and try to look awake. Almost robotically, I pass down my blank sheet of paper. Another hit to my already-failing history grade.

------------

Rose

In English, I sit in my usual seat and ignore Cody's attempts to catch my attention. I'll give this to him, the kid is persistent.

Unfortunately, he isn't the only one.

cough "Cocksucker," cough. The laughter that follows their daily insult sounds muffled to my ears, which helps. A little bit.

"Can't you give him a fucking break for once?" Cody jumps to my defense.

"Relax, the little faggot knows what he is. And he doesn't care that we call him out on it. Do you little Georgie?"

I flinch. I don't know this guy's name, but he was definitely one of the voices from that night. I would recognize that jeering tone anywhere.

"I'm warning you," snaps Cody, rising to his feet. "Leave him alone."

The other kid stands too, as if accepting the challenge. He adjusts his backwards ball cap as he does. "I told you, he's fine with it! It's not like he's saying anything--"

"And what, you think his silence means he's okay with it?!"

Cody's last remark echoes inside my skull like an explosion inches from my face, and I suddenly feel sick. I can't take this. I have to--

"Alright everyone, settle down!" shouts Mrs. Carter, entering the classroom just as the bell rings. "We've talked about rowdiness before class. Cody, Jackson, and George, if you three boys could please take your seats.

Still glaring at each other, Cody and the other boy both sit down. I do as well, my face extremely warm. When did I even stand up?

I spend the rest of the class trying to calm the nauseous feeling in my stomach, pretending I don't notice Edgar raising his eyebrows at me while putting his tongue in his cheek, or Jackson winking suggestively at me whenever he catches my eye.

------------

Sam

"Alright, let's see them."

I cringe, already regretting having followed Dan out of the gym when he motioned for me to do so. The girls and boys were doing separate activities today, so we knew that we had to sneak out if we wanted to communicate at all during class. But I was hoping that he had forgotten about wanting to see my arms.

"No," I argue, hugging myself defensively in my baggy, long-sleeved gym shirt.

"Then I have no choice but to make assumptions."

"Go ahead."

"Would I be right then?"

I don't say anything, biting my lip guiltily as I recall having fucked up again yesterday morning wth a blade I had dug out of an old pencil sharpener.

Dan sighs, pushing back his thick ebony hair in frustration. "Dude, I thought we agreed--"

"I want to stop. I really do, it's just....it's just hard, okay? It's so much harder than you think. Fuck," I curse as I push the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to stop the tears before they leave my eyes. "And anyway, I only did it once. Just one, here look--" I yank up both my sleeves just to show him, and amidst the discolored scars in their different stages of fading, one thin line of scarlet stands out. I don't have to tell him about the ones on my legs.

I don't miss the way Dan's stone-cold expression almost immediately gives way to one of sympathy, but I can tell that he tries to hide it. He holds out his hand. "Give it to me."

Muttering a string of curses, I pull my sleeves back down as I dig the blade from my pocket and slap it into his outstretched hand. "I wasn't going to use it again anyway."

"Is that why you brought it to school, dumbass?"

Once again, I'm at a loss for words. Dan turns the blade over a couple of times in his hands before tossing it into a nearby trashcan. I feel a pang of discomfort in my chest as I watch him do so. Where am I going to get my next one from?

"Sam, look at me."

I do, and Dan's normally-composed mask appears to be struggling to hide the pain in his face. He takes both of my hands in his, looks me straight in the eyes, and whispers, "What can I do to make you stop this?"

My heart jumps into a pace three times its normal speed. No, no, fucking stop that. I tell it silently, as it seems I have to do quite a bit these days. Every moment I spend with Dan lately has to be accompanied by an internal mantra of Don't feel emotions, don't feel emotions, don't feel....

Breaking the tension with a derisive snort, I rip my hands from his. "Fuck, I don't know Albright. Was it that easy when you stopped? What made you stop?"

"Easy," Dan says. "I didn't want to be fucked up anymore."

I fall into silence once more, his answer echoing inside my mind. I lean against the lockers on the wall, my arms held tautly at my sides. At one point he tries to take my hand again, but I don't let him. Don't feel emotions, don't feel emotions, don't....

"I don't want to be fucked up anymore, either," I respond finally. "But it's not that easy for me, for some reason. It....it physically hurts not to do it, Dan. I go two days without doing it, and I feel like death. It's the only thing that makes me feel better. I don't even know why--"

"Because you're addicted," Dan explains in the tone of someone declaring the problem with my internet connection. So simple and definitive, as if his answer solves everything. "You're physically and mentally addicted to cutting yourself. You need help."

"Oh, fuck OFF, Dan!" I shout, slamming my fist into the lockers loud enough to make him jump. "First Rose, and now me? What's your goal here, to have us both sent to the psych ward so you don't have to deal with our drama anymore? Was that your plan all along?"

"No, Sam! Jesus, who said anything about a psych ward?"

"Well that's what happens to people like me, isn't it? People like us." I shove a finger at his chest, reminding him that just because he's recovered doesn't mean he wasn't as fucked up as me at one point. "Because I'm a fucking psychopath for wanting to make myself bleed. Right?"

Dan shakes his head. "No Sam. You're suffering, and you need to talk to someone."

"That's why I have you, isn't it?"

"Someone who can actually help you."

"You do help me, asshole! You're my best friend, for god's sake."

Now it's Dan's turn to fall silent. He clearly wasn't expecting me to say that anymore than I had meant to say it. Shaking off his surprise, he pulls his cell phone out of the pocket of his gym shorts to check the time. "We have....just over forty minutes left of class," he looks back at me, and I'm glad to see that his sad eyes have recaptured their old, mischievous glint. "Ditch with me?"

This time I don't decline the offer, but instead follow him out the front doors and down the short two blocks to Sonic, where we enjoy a heavy serving of fifty-cent corndogs and talk about non-depressing shit for once.

------------

Rose

Day twenty-four. Day twenty-five. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight.

Like falling snowflakes, the days continue to pass by in a steady haze of similarity. It is hard for me to pinpoint where one day ends and the next begins, which is why it's good that I don't try. I just keep on existing, numbly and silently.

At school, Sam stays loyally by my side in every class we have together, and in between the classes we don't. And I let him, even knowing that he's sacrificing time he could be spending with his best friend or boyfriend or whatever the hell Daniel Albright is to him these days. It's just hard for me to care, and too easy for me to appreciate having my brother all to myself again. It's like the clock has completely turned back to before our relationship went to shit, when it was just the two of us against the world.

Except for the fact that I feel so empty now, like I'm always missing something. And not just my voice, or my hope, or any joy I once had. I feel like I'm missing a person. A specific someone with a large frame, piercing blue eyes, and wild red locks that I sometimes spot bouncing over the heads of our classmates in the halls....

"George? You making progress over here?"

I look to where Miss Vaughn sits at her desk and manage a tiny, fake smile, even though my canvas is still completely blank. I've been coming in to the room during lunch hours now in the hope of completing my painting-- a table top scene of a fruit basket-- before Thanksgiving Break. But so far, I have spent all of this extra time no different than I spend class time: silently staring at nothingness.

"Okay. Can I offer you something to eat?" She winks, holding up the Chinese food in front of her. "I might have extra."

I politely shake my head no.

"Are you sure? Honey, your project is important, but not enough for you to be skipping lunch. Make sure that you're eating, okay?"

I nod and return to my canvas. What was I thinking about? Oh yes....Rose Parker.

I can't even tell you how many times I've read and reread the last three texts I sent her that night. The ones where I told her that I don't hate her for liking me, and begged her not to shut me out. I must have spent hours by now staring at the tiny read receipt at the bottom of those texts, showing that she had indeed seen my messages, but never responded. And a part of me wonders what the hell I did to deserve her abandoning me like this.

But then a larger part of me wonders if, were she to suddenly come up and start speaking to me, I would even be able to speak back. That same part of me doesn't want to find out, and is actually glad that Rose has started avoiding me. I don't want her to know that I've become a freak incapable of speech. I don't want her to guess what happened to me.

So yeah, I guess it's good that I've lost her. The girl I used call my best friend in the whole world. It's good that she'll probably never talk to me again, because then she'll never know what the monsters did to me after she left. It's good that Sam and Dan are the only ones who will ever know.

It's all good.

"You still good over there, George?"

Yeah Miss Vaughn. I'm good.

------------

Sam

"So what do your parents think about our new president?" I ask Dan curiously, about a week after the election, as we walk back from Sonic with bags of mozzarella sticks and nearly empty drink cups.

Since Rose has started going to the art room during lunch, the two of us have been going out for lunch almost everyday. Underclassmen aren't technically allowed open lunch, of course, but as Dan says: "It's only breaking the rules if we're caught." And we haven't been caught yet.

Dan snorts in response to my question. "Dude, I don't have a clue."

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Really? Your parents never talk politics over family dinners?" Lucky.

"What family dinners? My parents aren't around enough to know what grade I am in school, let alone tell me their freaking political opinions."

"Dan, are you ever going to tell me what the hell it is your parents do?" I blurt out, my curiosity getting the better of me. I haven't asked him much about his family since that first and only time I visited his immaculate house, when I had gotten the sense that it was a sensitive subject for him. Instead, I've taken note of every bit of information he's let slip about his home life and filed it away into a special Dan file in my mind palace. But at this point, it's just getting to be too much.

Dan presses his lips into a thin line. "Stuff," he responds in a monotone. "Don't worry about it."

"I just don't get what the big secret is, is all," I complain, kicking aside a rock as we climb the hill back to school. "What, are they drug dealers or something?"

"No!"

"Do they run a prostitution ring? A fight club? Are they in the mafia?" I'm just being ridiculous at this point, and smirk to show that I'm joking.

But Dan doesn't seem to think it's funny. "Jesus Christ, no! Just....just drop it, okay?" He doesn't look at me, but I can see that his eyes are pleading. "For the last time, I don't like talking about my family."

"Okay, okay. My bad," I mutter apologetically, but I can't help but feel slightly offended. After everything we've been through together, and with everything I've told him about my life, he really doesn't trust me with simple information about his family? "I guess I just thought we were past the point of keeping secrets from each other."

We walk in silence for a minute or so before Dan finally falls victim to my guilt trip and sighs heavily. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't want you to think I'm keeping things from you because I don't trust you. It's honestly not that big of a deal, I just don't like discussing it. Maybe I'll tell you one day, just....not today. Alright?"

I nod reluctantly. "Fine. But eventually you owe me an explanation."

"Uh huh," says Dan as we reach the front doors. We throw the remainder of our fast food into the trash outside so as not to be caught with it, and do the same with our drink cups. "And I believe you owe me a blade today."

Fuck, I thought he had forgotten. At the end of last week, Dan had made me promise to bring him one of my many self-harm tools from home every day until they were gone. I hate him for it, but also I can't blame him. There's clearly no way I'm ever going to stop as long as I still have tools to do it with.

Grumbling, I reach into my back pocket and pull out one of my thinner, sharper razor blades. Just one from a ten pack I had bought from a gas station in September.

Dan accepts the blade and, without a word, winds his arm back and throws the thing into the street with all his might. Then he pats me on the shoulder, ignoring how I wince when he does so, and leads the way back into the building.

--------

Days continue to pass us by, and nothing really gets better. Nothing gets worse either. In fact, the entirety of November kind of floats by in a misty haze of uneventfulness.

I continue to speak for Rose in our classes, even as teachers' suspicions rise over time. On one occasion in particular, our asshole of a biology teacher called on Rose to answer a question, and when I opened my mouth to answer for her as usual, he cut me off immediately.

"Nope, not today Samantha," he said, holding up one of his meaty hands. "I actually want to hear from George for once." This of course triggered giggles from the class, and Rose's cheeks turned a bright red.

"He has a sore throat--"

"Nice try, but that isn't going to work forever. George, if you want participation points for my class, you need to learn how to use your voice. Your twin sister isn't going to be by your side for your entire life to speak for you."

Like you fucking know, asshole, I thought, clenching my fists under my desk. I had never wanted so badly to punch a teacher in the face.

"Do I need to repeat the question, George?" he asked, seeming like he was enjoying the whole situation. "It was a very simple question, and we'd all appreciate it if you could answer so that we can move on."

Then there was silence. The whole room seemed to be staring at Rose, and I could feel the heat coming off her face as her blush deepened. In the back, some kid started humming the Jeopardy theme, which made the quiet giggling in the room grow to audible laughter. I watched helplessly as tears made their way to the corners of Rose's eyes.

And that's when I stood up. "Listen to me, all of you!" I announced in a tone that made the whole room shut up. "My brother will not talk unless he wants to, and no one can make him! And none of you assholes will try to, unless you want to deal with me. And as for you," I jabbed a finger in the teacher's direction. He looked truly taken aback. "What you are doing right now is so fucking unethical. You make me sick. I swear to god, if you ever humiliate him in front of the class like that again, you'll be hearing from my family's lawyer."

I don't know what made me say that, or how the hell I thought I could ever legitimize that threat, but it surprisingly seemed to work. The bell rang before there could be any immediate consequences to my words, and the teacher has not called on Rose-- or on me, for that matter-- once since then.

Maybe word of my outburst spread, or maybe others are just smarter than our bio teacher, but there haven't been any other instances of adults in school trying to make Rose talk since that one. They all mostly just ignore her, or look at me when they have a question for her, and I answer loyally. It's a system that works, and that will continue to work as long as it needs to.

In addition to Rose's silence, something that has definitely worsened and persisted with time has to be my bitterness. I have always considered myself to be a fairly angry person, to an extent. But ever since that horrid October night, my burning hatred for every human being on this disgusting planet, with the exception of very few people, has increased to a frightening level. Smiling has become so rare for me that doing it feels foreign and unnatural. Dan notices, too. Like he notices everything.

"Are you smiling or grimacing?" he asks me during one of our lunchtime ditches that have become so frequent.

"What do you mean?" I ask, even though I know exactly what he means.

"That face you're making. I can't tell what you're trying to do, but you look like an alien. And it's not normal that I can't tell what you're feeling. You're usually pathetically obvious about it."

"Fuck you," I say, shoving my hands in my pockets and letting my face relax into its natural grimace. "There, is that obvious enough for you?"

Dan throws back his head and cackles. "Yeah. That's better."

A cold gust of wind blows through, and Dan pulls up the collar of his leather jacket to block his ears from the chill. It's a frigid Thursday afternoon-- just below thirty, not counting wind chill-- and both of us are bundled head to toe as we wait under Sonic's tin roof for the car hop to bring us our food. Dan's jacket and scarf, like the rest of his wardrobe, are jet black, and make his pale hands and face appear even whiter than usual.

I am slightly less bundled than he is, wearing nothing but a thin, navy blue hoodie over one of my baggy long-sleeved shirts, and a black beanie to keep my head warm. With my hair all held up and tucked inside of it, I almost looked like a boy in the mirror this morning. It was nice.

I shiver at the gust of wind, pulling my jacket tighter around me.

"Do you not own a coat, dumbass?" Dan asks me for the third time this week. He stares angrily at me as I stand there bouncing on the balls of my feet and shivering, as if I'm purposely being cold just to annoy him.

"I'm fine," I respond through chattering teeth, like I always do. Because the truth is, I do own a winter coat: a bright pink and polka-dotted monstrosity that my grandmother gifted me two years ago and is currently lining the wall behind my bed, collecting dust. Honestly it is so ridiculous even Rose won't wear it, not that our father would ever be caught dead letting his son leave the house in that thing. And I, of course, would rather be a human popsicle than wear it.

"You're not fine," Dan argues. "Your lips are practically blue."

I pull my beanie down so that it almost covers my eyes. Jesus, it's fucking freezing out here. "I'll live. I'm not even that cold."

"Bullshit. These are record-cold temperatures. And it's only going to get worse--"

"Okay Mister Weatherman," I cut him off, trying my best to sound snarky through my shaky voice. "Thanks for the update. But I promise, I'm--"

But Dan is already removing his leather jacket, revealing a thin hoodie of his own underneath. "Here, wear this."

"No." I step away before he can drape the thing over my shoulders.

"Dude, just for the lunch hour. Put it on--"

"Get away from me!" I sidestep him again, causing him to groan in frustration.

"Quit being a dick, just wear the damn thing!"

"No!" This time I run to the complete opposite side of the courtyard, near the deserted playground. It's much colder out from under the roof, and my fast breaths come out in white puffs of smoke. The sight causes my head to be flooded with pleasant memories of winters from my childhood. Rose and I used to hold out for days when it was cold enough to see our breath, just so we could go outside and pretend we were dragons.

"You little shit!" Dan yells, running after me. I try to book it again, but I'm too slow. He tackles me with the open jacket, and both of us go tumbling down onto the concrete.

"Ow! Get off!"

"Put on the jacket!"

"NO!

"Just put it on!"

"I won't!"

And yet, despite my many protests, Dan has me pinned against his chest in a bear hug, holding the jacket around me with my arms still tucked against my body, like a straightjacket around a mental patient.

"Let me go!" I yell, struggling.

"Not until....you agree to wear....the fucking jacket," Dan pants, holding me so tight it hurts. I quit struggling, trying hard not to focus on his cold face pressed against the left side of mine, and how his hot breaths tickle my ear. Or the fact that I'm practically sitting in his lap, and the comforting warmth of his body heat.

He stops moving when I do, and suddenly we're both sitting on the freezing concrete as still as ice sculptures, very cold and very aware of each other's bodies. Almost unconsciously, I turn my head slightly until I meet his dark eyes, chestnut brown like old wood. How have I never noticed how brown his eyes are? Almost russet, but not quite. I want to write a poem about this color. Such beautiful irises, even thinned by dilated pupils. Not to mention his lips, a watermelon pink, heading ever so slowly towards my own....

The sound of someone clearing their throat makes both of us jump. Our car hop has arrived-- a mousy red headed girl who looks uncomfortable to have caught us on the ground like that. "Erm, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"Hell no! I mean--" Dan stammers, straightening his clothes awkwardly as he steps away from me. I step away too, feeling a burning hot blush creep up my cheeks. What the hell was that? "We were never--I mean....we were just--"

"Here," she just hands him the bags of food to save him the awkwardness of trying to complete the sentence. "That'll be eleven fifty-three."

Dan forks over the cash, as he does every time. I have tried so many times to pay for my own but he always insists, and as it appears he is rolling in it, I've stopped feeling bad.

"Keep the change," he says, handing the girl a twenty.

"Oh my god, thank you so much!" she squeaks, pocketing the nine dollar tip ecstatically. Probably the best one she's ever gotten. "And hey....I appreciate both of you. Your bravery, I mean. I could....I could never be that brave." She adds this last part with a blush, as if unsure of whether she should have said it.

Dan and I both stare at her with confused expressions, which I'm guessing she takes as her cue to leave. "Anyway, thanks again!" she calls, turning around with a wave. "And you boys have fun on your date!"

"Nonono, hold on, we're not--!" Dan tries to protest immediately, but the girl is already gone.

"Shit, can you believe that?" He turns to me for validation, but I can see that his face is as red as mine feels. "That was....like she actually thought....jeez. Hey, are you okay?"

Suddenly, despite my whole body feeling hot from embarrassment (at least I'm not cold anymore), my eyes are rimmed with tears.

"Sam..." Dan steps toward me, looking worried. "Shit. Look, I'm sorry. I don't know what happened. I didn't mean to, like.....uh. Shit." Clearly he thought it was something that he did.

I shake my head to clarify. "No Dan. Didn't you hear her?"

"Well yeah, she thought we were--"

"Before that," I wipe my eyes, and I feel a laugh-- an actual fucking laugh-- escape my mouth through a foggy breath. "She said 'you boys'. She called me a boy."

For the first time in weeks, the smile on my lips feels real. And I know that Dan can tell, because he gives me a huge smile right back.

--------

Daniel Albright, the goth-looking mean boy who used to bully me, has become my sunshine through these dark weeks.

He stands close by even when I'm at my worst, takes my punches and insults and hurls them right back, then hugs me when I burst into tears and apologize ten seconds later. He continues to give me shit about cutting, but doesn't ever tell me to "get help" again. He knows now that he is my help.

In math class, he sits by Rose and me with a defensive posture that he does not lose for the entire fifty minutes, always ready to jump at anyone who fucks with us. Luckily, no one does. Not since that first week after homecoming, when Mr. Smith called on Rose to answer a question.

"He's not talking for awhile," I said at the time, as I had gotten used to saying. "It's a throat condition."

"Do you have a doctor's note?"

I handed him the one that I had forged over lunch. It was clearly fake, but either Mr. Smith is a fucking moron, or he didn't think it was worth calling attention to. "Well, why don't you come up and write it on the board then?" he suggested instead, handing the marker to Rose, who did not reach to take it from him. "Surely you can't be too sick to stand up, or you wouldn't be at school."

The class laughed. In that moment, I didn't realize that my hands were balled into fists until Dan unclenched one of them under the desk. He held it supportively. "The answer is forty-six," he said.

"I'm sorry, is your name George?"

"George isn't answering any questions today," Dan stated firmly. "So just leave him alone, please."

Surprisingly, the teacher listened. Unsurprisingly, the students did no such thing. As Smith stepped away to continue his lecture, one girl from two rows up whispered something to her friend, and they both giggled. I kept a close eye on them as they spent a few minutes bent over something, and suddenly a crumpled ball of paper came flying our direction.

Dan caught it with one hand, and unfurled it in a fluid motion. Rose and I read the loopy writing over his shoulder:

What's the matter, faggot? Dick caught your tongue?

Next to me, I felt Rose stiffen. She began to shake. I gripped her arm tightly and tried to meet her eyes, but they didn't seem to be seeing the room in front of us. "Rose. Rose. Rose," I whispered urgently. Words that I had read somewhere online began to sound through my mind like gunshots. Trigger, episode, trauma, PTSD....

I wondered if I should stand and yell for help, if that would even do any good. But before I could react, Dan stood up.

"Excuse me Daniel, what are you doing?"

Dan ignored the teacher and walked straight up to the girls, grabbing every pencil from desks he passed on his way. As soon as he reached them, he grabbed their pencils as well and added them to the bundle he now clutched in his fist.

"Little history lesson for you bitches. A hundred years ago, this," he slammed his fist clutching the bundle of pencils onto one of their desks, causing the girl to shriek. "Was called a faggot. A bundle of sticks. But let's say, for our purposes today, that this bundle represents your spines."

"Mister Albright, I'm warning you--"

"One second Mr. Smith. Now, we have your spines. And this," he clutched all ten or so pencils in both of his hands and, in one swift motion and a loud grunt, broke all of them in half. "Is what they'll look like if you ever fuck with the Wyatt twins again." His tone was so cold, even I felt fear at the time. "Understood?"

Slowly, the girls nodded. Several others in the room did as well. Dan was sent to the office that day, but to his credit, Rose and I have not been fucked with once during math class in the weeks since then.

After that incident was when I checked out those books from the library. The ones on assault and PTSD, in the hopes that I could better understand what was going on with Rose. Dan and I stayed at the library for hours one day flipping through them, even taking notes as we did. We sat on one of the comfy couches in the reading room, and ended up staying until closing time because I fell asleep on him, and as he told me later, he didn't want to wake me until he absolutely had to.

I didn't tell him that I wished we could have stayed like that forever.

Fast forward back to now, the week before Thanksgiving break, and it has become apparent that school bullies, my growing feelings for Dan, and even Rosie's traumatized condition do not complete my list of things to be worried about....

--------

"Shit, you're failing almost every class."

I jump at the sound of Cody's voice, crumpling up the progress report Mrs. Bork handed me earlier defensively. It's that time of the semester, when first hour teachers hand out little update sheets to all the students regarding their grades. Sheets with noticeable Parent/Guardian Signature spots at the bottom.

"Jesus! What the fuck are you doing looking over my shoulder?" I snap, shoving the now crumpled sheet deep into my backpack. Despite how much I keep telling myself that I no longer care what Cody thinks of me, I can feel my face growing hot with embarrassment that he had seen my grades.

Cody shrugs. "I wasn't trying to look. Why'd you have it out?"

I don't respond. The only reason I had my progress report out was because I was talking to Dan about it over lunch. I knew he was the only person who could make me feel better about it.

And of course, I wasn't disappointed.

"Progress reports don't mean shit," he told me casually, his mouth full of cheeseburger. "Letter grades are a school's way of measuring how much you can cram into your head and regurgitate for a test. They don't represent how smart you are. And besides, you've got a lot of shit going on in your life right now."

"My parents don't know that," I replied solemnly. "And they're going to kill me."

At this, he shrugged guiltily. "Well, there's nothing I can do about that. Unless you want me to forge a signature for you."

I laughed at that. "No thanks. They're going to find out anyway. It might as well be from me. And sooner rather than later."

And it will be, too. I have to bring the damn thing back the first day after Thanksgiving Break.

"I don't have to explain anything to you," I growl at Cody now, shifting my seat away from him.

Cody rolls his eyes. "Whatever. If you're not ready to talk to me, that's fine. Like I've said a million times, I was a complete asshole and deserve every ounce of hatred you have."

"Oh please, like I'd waste all of my hatred on you," I snap back cruelly. "You're hardly worth a minute out of my day."

"You're right."

"I know I'm right!" This isn't going to work if he keeps agreeing with me though. Why can't he just be pathetically defensive instead of being all humble about everything? God, I hate him.

But unfortunately I can't keep bitching at him, because in this moment the bell rings and Mr. Morton starts to pass out journals.

"Sam," Morton says to me in a low voice as he passes my desk. "The deadline for that contest is in just a few days. Do you have anything for me yet?"

Shit, I almost forgot about that thing. But more importantly, the long-ass poem I was planning to use for that contest is incomplete. And furthermore, is no longer relevant. I blush just thinking about it. "Um....let me get back to you on that," I mumble, taking my journal from him.

He nods and continues on. As soon as he turns around, I flip to the page where I began that stupid poem. That ridiculous, immature, sappy piece of shit that began, Heartbreak is. The one that made Morton tell me about the contest in the first place. Apparently he thought it was good.

As I read over the thing, however, I can feel my face grow even hotter. Just the fact that I was so hung up on Cody fucking Foster that I wrote a four page long poem about how heartbroken I was that he loved my sister instead.....god, what a cringe fest. This has to die.

I grip the pages tightly and tear them from the binding of my journal in a swift motion, the loud rip causing everyone to look. I ignore the stares as I rip the pages in half once, then again, and again until my desk is covered in notebook paper confetti. I grab the trash can by Mr. Morton's desk and sweep it all in there, directly where it belongs.

"Uhh, what was that about?" Cody inquires in a low voice when I take my seat again.

"None of your business," I growl. "Just like my grades aren't your business. Just butt out of my life, would you?"

"Sorry," he whispers.

"And while I'm at it, here." At long last, I dig his gray hoodie out of my backpack and throw it on his desk. "That's yours. Get it away from me."

"Damn, I've been looking for this," he says, holding it happily. "I didn't realize you had it."

"Yeah, well...." I trail off, suddenly remembering why I waited so long to give it back to him. How do I explain why I had it for so long. "....I forgot I did. You left it with me one day, and.....sorry. Just take it."

"Thanks."

"Fuck you."

"Right."

And that's about the most interaction I've had with Cody since homecoming.

--------

In the days leading up to the Friday before Thanksgiving Break, I carefully construct a new poem to turn in to Mr. Morton for the contest. It's much shorter, but so much more meaningful than the last. I titled it The Art of Perseverance. I let Rose read it before I turned it in, and she cried. Not that it takes a lot to make her do that these days.

But Dan, on the other hand. In no universe could I have anticipated his reaction.

Friday morning, I bring my poem to school on a single sheet of paper, written in my most elegant penmanship without a single mistake (after many, many drafts). I meet Dan near the doors as usual, and the first thing I do is hand him my poem to read. I watch his beautiful dark eyes as he reads it over multiple times. He hands it back to me without a word.

"Did you like it?" I ask nervously. I'm suddenly very aware of how much his opinion matters to me. "Was it good? Was it to--" But I'm cut off as Dan grabs me and spins me into a hug, right there in the entryway of the school. In front of everyone.

When he lets me go, I spot Cody in the distance. staring at us in shock. But I'm only vaguely aware of him, far too encapsulated by Dan's beaming expression.

"It's perfect," Dan says. "It's beautiful. Just like--" He catches himself in that instance, his cheeks turning as red as they were that day at Sonic after he forced me to wear his jacket. When we almost....

"Just like.....?" I prod him, smiling a teasing smile.

"Um. Forget it," Dan mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Then, even quieter, he adds. "You know what I was gonna say, right?"

I smirk. "I think I do, actually."

"Um....good." He leaves fast after that, but my smirk doesn't leave my face all morning. Dan likes my poem. He thinks it's beautiful.

He thinks I'm beautiful.

------------

Rose

Time goes on and nothing gets better. Not for me, anyway.

Sam does not let his guard down when he's around me, always sure to remain as rough and protective as ever, but it's hard to miss how Dan makes him happier. And don't get me wrong, I'm glad. I live for the moments when I see those two together and they don't know I'm watching, because I can see how both of their faces light up when they look at each other, and how they both soften as people without even realizing it.

Not like how they are when they're with me. Always so angry and bitter, and ready to pounce at any moment. I hate feeling like my pathetic fragility is the only thing getting in the way of their relaxed happiness. If only I could find my voice to tell them that.

Meanwhile, Cody makes good on his promise and doesn't quit trying to catch my attention in the mornings before school. He doesn't quit texting me either, eventually giving up on the idea that he'll be able to voice his explanations face-to-face, and just starts sending me ungodly long messages like this:

CODY: I was an idiot and I regret everything. I don't even know what the hell came over me. Honestly, you mean so, so much to me and I really did like you. I really DO. I don't know why I had to go fuck it up. I was just really confused about everything, like the fact that I somehow liked you both, and what that meant about my sexuality. But I'm not saying that like it's an excuse, because it's not! I hate myself for kissing Sam, that was the worst thing I've ever done and I'm a shit person for doing it. God, I don't even know how to apologize anymore.

CODY: And if you're wondering how I feel about you being trans, I DON'T CARE. I swear I don't! Yeah I was shocked and confused at first, but that was a hundred percent my problem. If I felt this strongly about you and you were actually a girl, I didn't know if I was actually gay, or bi, or whatever. I was just so fucking confused. But the thing is, I don't care anymore! I don't care about how society would define my identity, all I know is that I like you as a PERSON, and I would do anything for you to give me a second chance.

CODY: But I understand if you won't. I wouldn't blame you if you never forgave me. But even if you hate my guts and never want to see me again, even if you never talk to me or respond to any of my texts, I just want you to know that I'm sorry and will regret this forever. I feel like I lost a chance at an awesome relationship, but more importantly, I feel like I lost a great friend. And the worst part is that it was completely my fault and there is nothing I can do about it.

CODY: I'm sorry.

Me too, Cody. Sorry that I ever trusted you.

Every time my phone buzzes and it's his name that pops up on my lock screen, I consider just blocking his number. I know that I hate Cody because he hurt me, and that I never want to see or hear from him again, but for some reason my fingers freeze up every time I try to delete him from my contacts. It's a finality that I'm not ready for, no matter how much I hate him.

"Hey," Sam whispers to me in the back of Speech class. "You doing alright?"

I give him my usual shrug, but in actuality, I'm doing slightly worse than normal. Despite the fact that tomorrow is that last day of school before Thanksgiving Break, I'm not feeling any of the excitement that has become palpable in the hallways this week. A break from school will be nice, but it also means more time spent with Mom and Dad, who have become increasingly more irritated by the fact that I'm refusing to speak.

Also, the clock is ticking on the time I have left to get my progress report signed. My report this semester is littered with B's and C's, which is nothing compared to Sam's, but still far less than. what our parents have come to expect from Georgie the Genius. I'm not looking forward to the conversation this will lead to. The one-sided conversation, rather. Because little over a month since That Night and I still haven't found my voice.

The scratching of a pencil distracts me from being distracted, and I look down to see Sam scratching out a note on my notebook: Tell me what you're thinking about.

He hands me the pencil and I press my lips together as I think about how to respond. Slowly, I write back two words: Progress report. It isn't a lie.

Sam nods understandingly, scratching back a response. Don't worry too much. I'll help you deal with mom and dad. And remember, letter grades have no reflection on intelligence.

I roll my eyes. That last part sounds like something he picked up from Dan. But the thing is, letter grades do reflect on what you've learned, as I've always known them to. And I'm afraid that this semester's grades are probably a fairly accurate reflection of what I've learned in each of my classes: Just enough to get by.

Of course, Advanced Art is my only A. If only they gave grades in the Art of Perseverance.

The bell rings, and Sam and I pack up our stuff as quickly as possible, but we don't manage to escape before a stern voice calls us to her desk.

"Sam and George Wyatt, if I could see you two for a moment."

It isn't a question. Sighing, Sam and I look at each other in dismay before responding to Ms. O'Brien's call.

"I promise, I won't keep you for long. I just want to have a quick discussion--"

"I've been turning all my stuff in!" Sam exclaims, sounding scared. "And so has Ro--ah, George." Sam coughs to cover up his mistake before continuing. "It may not be the best, but we've been turning it in. So if you're about to tell us that you're calling our parents--"

"Oh relax," says Ms. O'Brien, rolling her eyes a bit. "I'm not going to call your parents. Not when you both already have disappointing progress reports to show them, I'm sure."

Well, she isn't wrong. But regardless, I can feel Sam beside me gearing up to get defensive, so I put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"What I really wanted," Ms. O'Brien continues, and I'm surprised by the softness of her tone. "Was to check in with you two emotionally." She removes her glasses, turning away from her desk to lean towards us, another action that is completely out of character for her. All of the other times I have spoken to her or seen her speak with someone, she continued grading papers as if to purposefully communicate disinterest. Now, she looks at us both head on and her normally stern expression is touched by kindness. "What's been going on?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asks, trying to sound confused, but I can tell that O'Brien sees right through him.

"Sam, I've been a teacher for fourteen years, and a mother for even longer," she states matter-of-factly, raising her eyebrows at both of us. "And I have a good eye for when my students are suffering. If there is something you need to talk about--"

"You know," Sam interrupts, almost making me gasp. "For someone who made a big show of not caring about students' drama at the beginning of the year, you sure seems to be butting into ours a lot."

"I also," Ms. O'Brien continues as if Sam hadn't interrupted. "Understand the difference between pointless drama and legitimate life problems. You two have something real going on, and if you don't want to tell me, that's fine. But I think you should know that our school counselor's office is always open to you, and is a great place to go if you need to talk to someone who will keep your name and information confidential."

She pauses to let this sink in. Sam continues to look annoyed and ready to leave, but I actually take the time to turn over this new information in my head. Because every time I've let myself consider talking to someone before this, I've always pictured scary police officers with apathetic expressions, and greenish-tinted offices with detectives firing questions at me. Too much TV, I guess. But I've never considered talking to the school counselor before.

Before I can stop them, images and sensations flash through my mind with a force that almost knocks me over, but a loud voice in my head overpowers them all:

Wait a minute Rosie. Talk to a counselor about what? What's there to talk about? Nothing happened to you, remember? It was all a sick dream, a nightmare. Don't think these things.

Oh yeah, that's right. I shake aways the images before they bring tears to my eyes, but not before Ms. O'Brien catches sight of my staggered look.

"If you'd like, I could make you an appointment for as soon as tomorrow." Am I imagining it, or is she speaking more to just me than to me and Sam at this point?

"No thanks," Sam answers in his curt, dismissive tone as usual. "We're fine, Ms. O'Brien. We are absolutely fine."

Ms. O'Brien sits back, clearly unsatisfied, but with the realization that she has done all that she can do. "Alright then. That is all. You may go."

Sam grabs my hand and practically pulls me out the door, and I feel several things in a short timespan. First annoyance, then regret, then sadness followed by more regret. Then finally, it all drains away and I am left feeling as cold and empty as ever.

------------

Sam

It's Tuesday, and the last day before Thanksgiving Break. If you ask me, the two days of school we have this week are completely useless, but of course, who's asking me? Not the board of education, that's for sure. Still, I feel like most schools in America at least make the last day before Thanksgiving Break a half day. Not our stupid fucking school.

"I wish today was a half day," I complain to Dan during gym as we do our morning stretches. Today is a free day, thank the lord, which means we can actually spend the whole hour together without having to sneak out. "I literally cannot wait for break."

"Aren't you gonna miss me?" Dan asks in a fake-whiny voice, nudging my shoulder with his fist.

He's totally just saying that to get a rise out of me, but I still blush. "I mean....we have each other's numbers now. We can text all the time, right?"

"Well yeah," Dan resigns. "But I mean....if you want to meet up sometimes over break, I wouldn't be opposed to it."

"Yeah! That'd be--uh, I mean," I clear my throat. Dammit Sam, be cool. "I mean yeah. That'd be pretty lit, I guess," I mutter, shrugging. There ya go.

"Sweet," says Dan.

The coaches blow their whistles to signal our freedom, and Dan and I immediately rush for the rack of basketballs in the corner.

"Hey, just like old times, huh Sam?" Dan laughs, grabbing a ball and tossing it my direction.

I catch it nimbly by the tips of my fingers. "Hell yeah. I bet I can shoot more baskets than you."

"Oh yeah? How much?"

"Dude, it's a figure of speech," I chuckle, shooting the ball and making it through the hoop perfectly. "I don't actually want to bet you. Not all of us are made of money, you know."

Dan blushes furiously and catches the ball after one bounce on the hardwood floor. "I know that!" He makes his basket as well and I catch the ball immediately.

"Do you?"

"Yes!"

"Where do you get all of your money anyway?" Even as I ask it, I'm positive that this will be one of those personal life questions that he dodges awkwardly.

But to my astonishment, he shoots back as quick as his next basket. "My parents give it to me."

I have to pretend not to be taken aback by the fact that he actually answered me for once in order to maintain my snarky demeanor. "Wow, what a shocker," I say with heavy sarcasm. I wonder how much more I can get out of him. "Do you actually do chores, or do Mommy and Daddy just give you money for the hell of it?"

"Well it's not like I ever fucking ask for any," Dan grumbles. "They just feel like they have to do something to compensate for the fact that they're never around." He shoots the ball, and I leap forward to ensure that it falls directly from the basket and into my hands.

"Yeah? And why aren't they around?"

"I thought I told you to not ask me about my family!"

I flinch at his tone. Ouch. I guess I took it too far. "Jeez, I'm sorry Dan, but this is really bugging me. When are you going to trust me enough to be honest with me already?"

Dan hesitates before sighing deeply. "For the last time, it's not that I don't trust you. I just hate talking about it."

"And why is that?"

"Because I'm embarrassed, okay?!"

"Dan, there is no reason to be embarrassed. Not in front of me, anyway." I'm legitimately hurt that he even thinks I would judge him after all we've been through. "What about all of the shit you know about me, huh? Do you judge me for any of that?"

"No--"

"Then trust me." I tuck the ball under one arms just so I can grab his hand. His eyes widen, and I think it's because this is the first time I've made the first move to hold his hand, instead of the other way around. I even intertwine our fingers and use our clasped hands to pull our bodies closer together. I look him straight in the eyes; his dark, captivating eyes."Trust me."

He seems to be holding his breath, trapped in my gaze. My heart is beating so fast, I'm afraid he'll be able to hear it if one of us doesn't say something soon.

Luckily, he does. "Okay," he says, pulling us both to the sidelines of the gym. "Fine."

I set the ball down and we both take a seat on the floor. He faces me entirely, and I can see how nervous he is. I notice that we are still holding hands, and I don't mind it at all. "Here it goes," he begins, taking a deep breath. "Do you remember during one of our first real conversations, when I told you that I moved here from South Carolina?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Well....that was kind of a lie. A half truth, really. The whole truth is....I was born in South Carolina, but I'm from California."

"Um....okay?" I don't see why he would lie about that.

"I lied to justify the way I treated you in the beginning," he answers my unasked question, blushing. "Because everyone thinks that California is super liberal, you know? But the kids at my school....not so much."

"Why? Not a ton of gay people where you lived?"

"Oh there were tons," Dan laughs. "But that didn't stop most boys at my middle school from giving me shit. Most kids who had the kind of parents I have got shit for it, to be fair."

"Hang on, where exactly did you live?" I'm still completely lost, but I can tell that he's going somewhere with this from the way his nervousness increases.

He pushes his fringe out of his face roughly and breathes deeply before answering my question. "West Hollywood. My parents are actors."

"Oh....Ohh." I try to withhold my surprise for his sake, but in my head I'm busy connecting the dots. This definitely explains the money and the house, and the fact that I never see his family. But wait.... "Do they even live here then?"

"When they're not working," Dan explains, not meeting my eyes. "Which is basically a few days out of the month. When they're not here, I live with our nanny Gabriella. But she doesn't interact with me much." He pulls his knees up to his chest, suddenly becoming very interested in his shoelaces.

"What about your siblings?"

"I have two brothers and a sister, but they're all older than me," Dan explains robotically. "They stayed in Cali when my parents relocated here, because they all have their own lives at this point. Sara's at UCLA studying fashion design, Noah is a screenwriter, and David....well, he's basically bumming around with his old college roommates making shitty YouTube videos, but if you ask he'll tell you he's a filmmaker." He falls silent to let me absorb all of this.

But I have one more question. "So if they're all doing shit over there, and your parents are barely ever here either....why relocate? And why to Alabama of all places?"

At this, Dan laughs bitterly. "You wanna know the truth, Sam?"

"Well, preferably. But--"

"It was because I couldn't handle it." He picks up our basketball and tosses it to the side of the gym in anger. "Everyone else was fine, and they still are! It was me who was miserable, who was afraid to go to school because I was being chased and called a faggot everyday. And when I finally grew the balls to tell my parents how much I hated it, what the hell were they supposed to do? Actually sit down and talk to me, try to help me or make me feel better or some shit? No, of course not! They took the lazy route; they already owned property here and figured it was far enough away that things would be better for me. So a week before high school started, they bought me and Gabriella plane tickets, shoved a couple thousand dollars into my suitcase to show how bad they felt, and sent me on my way."

Dan's voice is packed with resentment and bitterness, but also a touch of sadness. It's clear that he doesn't want that part to show however, so I don't try to comfort him or tell him I'm sorry. I just say, "Dude....that sucks. Your parents sound like total assholes."

"Yeah," Dan snorts. "But they're flying back in for Thanksgiving, so that's gonna be a blast. They'll pry give me more cash, maybe a pat on the shoulder or two. It'll be a glorious two days of pretending we're a normal family before they fly right back to work...." He turns to me without warning, with a curious expression. "You know Sam, I'm really surprised. You took that better than I ever thought anyone would."

"Well, duh! You're my best friend! What, you think I'm going to judge you for who your parents are?"

Dan shakes his head. "That's not what I meant. I'm more surprised that you didn't ask the question I was most afraid of. The one that everyone else would ask."

"Well I'm not everyone else." But I know exactly what question he's referring to, because I consciously didn't ask it. I have enough tact to know that it was probably the one he wanted to avoid.

He says it anyway. "So you don't want to know my parents' names, or if you've seen them in anything? You're not wracking your brains trying to see if my last name sounds familiar?"

I shake my head. "Nope. Don't give a shit. I don't care what movie or TV show your parents are in, you're not getting any special treatment from me. You're still just Dan."

He smiles wide, as if that's the best thing he's ever heard, but there's still the slightest hint of fear behind his eyes. "So....you swear you're not going to Google it later?"

"Cross my heart."

He lets out a huge breath. "Holy shit, thank you."

"Honestly Dan, with the shit I've told you, I'm really surprised you thought that was a big deal," I say casually.

"It's embarrassing," he mutters. "Honestly, I never planned on telling anyone here. The whole plan was to start over with a clean slate."

"Yeah, and I never planned on telling anyone that I'm trans. Yet, here we are."

"You know," Dan suddenly laughs. "I actually forget that you're trans a lot of the time."

My eyebrows shoot up. "Really?" I'm legitimately surprised. Maybe because I can never stop thinking about it, so I assume it's the same for everyone else.

"Really. To me, you're just Sam."

My heart fills with a warmth that extends to every nerve ending in my body, and suddenly every cell I possess is screaming at me to jump on Dan and kiss him hard. There's no doubting it anymore: I want him bad.

And from the way he grips my hand, and is staring into my eyes with pupils wide enough to fall into, I think he wants me too.

"Awww, isn't this cute!" squeals a familiar nasally voice, completely wrecking the moment. Dan rips his hand out of mine reflexively.

"What the hell do you want?" I glare up at Callie Dunham, wanting so bad to murder her.

"Jeez, untwist your panties Sammie," she says, rolling her eyes. "I just saw you guys all cuddled up over here and wanted to congratulate you. And to think, we were all sure you played for the same team, like your brother. I owe Valerie money because of this."

"Hang on, we are not together!" Dan yells. I have to be honest, my heart breaks a bit when he says this. Doesn't he know I would be fine if we were?

"Oh?" Callie's voice is high-pitched and doubtful. "Then what's with the hand holding over here?"

"None of your business, bitch. Go away!"

"Ahh, then it's just what I figured," Callie laughs. "This is one of those fake straight relationships that gays use to hide their gayness, isn't it? Guess I don't owe Valerie money after all. Gotta be honest, this makes a lot more sense." She steps closer to brush away Dan's hair. "You are way too cute for this hoe."

Dan slaps her hand away. "Get the fuck away from us. I am not afraid to hit a girl."

"Wow, super classy," sneers Callie, her previous flirtatiousness completed gone. "Maybe you two do belong together. You guys can get married and have ghetto-ass babies together."

"Oh, go fall in a ditch Callie," I growl at her. "Or do I need to push you in one?"

"You know Samantha, I'd start watching my mouth if I were you," she says warningly, with narrowed eyes. She suddenly looks scarily smug. "Unless you want me to tell everyone what your precious brother did."

Her words make me feel like I've just swallowed a bucket of ice water. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh, don't act like you don't know. You guys tell each other everything." Her laugh is cruel and scary. I have a very bad feeling about this. 

"Sam, don't listen to her," Dan comforts me, still staring down Callie. "She's got nothing on either of you guys."

"Oh really?"

"Unless you're referring to George being gay, which the whole school already knows." Dan points this out confidently, and I actually start to relax.

But then Callie leans in close. "Sure. But does the whole school know that innocent little Georgie sucked the dick of Edgar Thompson's older brother?"

I freeze up. So does Dan.

"Yep, that's right. And we have pictures, which I'm sure neither of you want to be spread around the school. So like I said," she backs away, still watching us with a threatening smile. "Better start watching your mouth, or else the whole school will know where your brother put his."

And she leaves Dan and I both shocked and speechless, staring after her helplessly.

"That can't be true," Dan mutters, looking at me. "It can't be. Is that true?"

"They did take pictures," I recall, closing my eyes against the surfacing images from that night. "I remember."

"Well shit, that's perfect!"

I look at him in alarm. "What do you mean?"

"It's photographic evidence of what they did, Sam. It's incriminating! If we just let her leak them, they'll all get busted for sure. Not sure why she doesn't realize that."

"Dan...." I shake my head at him. He still doesn't get it. "She does. But she also knows that there's no way I would ever let her leak those pictures. All of them know that."

"Why--"

"Because it would destroy Rose," I state firmly. "And she doesn't need that. She...she's dealt with enough already."

Dan falls silent, and wisely so, but his unasked question hangs in the air between us. Is saving Rose from one more humiliation really worth letting those monstrous bastards get away with what they did?

And to that, unfortunately, my answer would be yes. Saving Rose is worth absolutely anything.

------------

Rose

Gym without Rose Parker is literal hell.

For weeks now I have had to silently endure ten times as many taunts as usual, which began the second everyone noticed that Rose was no longer by my side acting as my guardian. I keep completely to myself during the hour, sitting out of activities alone and walking alone during the weekly mile. But still, they follow me and torment me relentlessly, the girls cackling loudly and asking where my girlfriend was at and the boys hissing their normal crude remarks, most notably "cocksucker".

I do my absolute best to drown them out.

Don't get me wrong, there have been several instances over our many weeks now of not speaking when Rose has seen this happen and looked about ready to jump in. She'll stand off to the side and watch obviously as the kids bully me, clenching her fists at her sides like Sam does, and I can feel her trying desperately to meet my eyes. Like all she needs is one glance of permission and she'll step in and tell them off like she always did before.

But I never make eye contact. I rarely so much as look in her direction. If she thinks that her secret being revealed homecoming night made things awkward between us to speak to me any longer, that's fine. She doesn't need me dragging her down anyway, and the bullies don't target her half as much as they do when she's hanging around me.

So no, I don't care that we're no longer friends. And I'll never again ask her to stand up for me.

"Oh Georgiiiiiie." A familiar taunting voice calls from behind.

Shit. I almost forgot that today was a free day in gym. That can only mean one thing....

"Think fast!"

A dodgeball nails me on the back of the head, sending me sprawling to the gym floor. Ow.

"You call that thinking fast, faggot?" jeers the thrower of the ball, amidst the laughter of his friends.

I don't get up right away, opting to lay facedown on the gym floor and forget about reality for as long as possible. Also, I feel the need to hide from a strong sense of deja vu that just hit me almost as hard as that dodgeball....

"Think fast, faggot!" a kid had yelled before sending a dodgeball flying my direction.

With my luck of course, the thing hit me square in the face and before I even realized it, there was blood everywhere. I remember how every student in the gym surrounded me, and there were pitiful gasps mixed in with the muffled laughter, and I wished so hard that I could've been anywhere else in that moment....

"Someone needs to walk him to the nurse--" Coach Wheeler barked loudly, making my bruised face flush with humiliation. Surely no kid in this entire school, let alone in this gym, would be as reckless with their social status as to volunteer--

"I'll take him."

Yet, there she was. The girl I would soon know to be Rose Parker. The girl with the flaming red hair, a careless fashion sense, and great taste in music. The girl who taught me how to smile and speak with confidence, and whom I would go on to call my best friend for almost two months.

I climb up from the floor, shaking away the memories as I rub the back of my head. At least there's no blood this time.

But my troubles aren't over yet, it appears. The boy who threw the ball and at least ten of his friends are circling around me.

"Hey Freckle-Face!" one boy calls to Rose, who sits on the bleachers with her face in her phone. I cringe. They still try to get her involved every now and then, like they think it's hilarious that she's no longer standing up for me and want to see how far they can get. "Don't you want to come protect your boy toy?"

She doesn't even look up. I can't help but wonder what song she's blasting to block out the world today.

"Don't bother," Fiona Hoffman says in a loud voice as she walks by. "It's obvious that Rose doesn't care about him anymore. My guess is that she was tired of being led on by a gay boy who can never love her back. And if you ask me, it's about time."

Fiona's voice is actually loud enough that Rose takes out one earbud and looks over curiously. Not realizing this, Fiona continues. "It really wasn't fair what you were doing, Georgie. Keeping her on a hook like that. Rose is a sad, pathetic loser, but even losers don't deserve to be strung along. You should've shut her down from the very beginning so she knew not to get her hopes up that you would ever love her." Fiona's voice is high-pitched and cruel, and she smiles like a Cheshire Cat replica with far too much makeup.

Maybe it's because I know Rose Parker is listening, but for the first time in weeks, I feel a strong urge to speak up. I want to tell Fiona that she's wrong, that Rose is not a loser. And that I wasn't stringing her along; I love her very much, even if it isn't in the same way that she loves me. I would do anything for her, be anything for her. I could even try being her girlfriend, if that's what it would take for the two of us to be close again. Her love for me isn't sexual, so why does mine have to be? We could be anything we desire.

I want to say all of this to Fiona, but I also want to say it to Rose herself, so that she knows how much she means to me. I can feel the words brewing in the back of my throat, hot and powerful like a cry ready to be shouted into the wind. I open my mouth.....

And nothing happens.

Fiona looks disappointed; she was clearly hoping that she could be the one to make me talk. "Dammit. Worth a shot."

"Nice try," Edgar snickers, emerging from the crowd with his hand outstretched. Fiona slaps a couple of dollar bills into it angrily. "I told you, I told all of you. If his precious sister can't even make him talk, no one can. But hey," he shrugs. "If anyone else wants to have a go, be my guest. I'm making good money off of this bet."

"Hang on," a confused kid pipes up. "What's the bet?"

"Edgar bets anyone who wants to try five dollars that they can't make George talk before Thanksgiving."

"Oh shit, I wanna try! HEY WYATT!" I flinch, the shout having come from just a couple feet from my ear. "I fucked your mom last night."

"That won't work, you idiot!"

"Fine, your sister then. I fucked her so good and hard, and she liked it! Haha, the stupid cunt."

The stupid kid wants me to shout at him. If anything, the notion makes me want to laugh in his face. Like that short kid with his rat-like face could even score a date with Sam, much less anything more. He'd be more likely to get his ass kicked for even speaking to my brother.

"Nothing about his sister works, it's all been tried before. He really cares about that Rose chick!"

"Not anymore," Fiona reminds them all. "They're not even friends."

"We'll see about that. Hey Rose! Rose Parker!" They all start calling to her by the bleachers, laughing and throwing balls as they do. She blocks a couple before standing up and attempting to move away.

"Aw come on, don't be like that! We just need your help." They start to follow her as she makes her way behind the bleachers, and I follow as well. I can't let them hurt her.

"Hey," Warren Hawk grabs her hand, and she quickly yanks it away.

"Get away from me!" she growls. "All of you, leave me alone! Don't make me get the coaches."

"Aww, you gonna snitch on us for messing with your boy toy?" Edgar says mockingly.

"No, but for messing with me I will!"

"So you admit that you don't care about him," Fiona laughs.

"Hoffman, Thompson, I'm warning both of you. Go AWAY!"

By now, a bunch of us are all crowded beneath the bleachers and out of sight of the other forty-something kids in the gym. I'm starting to get a suffocating feeling from being down here, but it's too late to back out; a couple of the larger guys are blocking the only exit.

Shit, I don't like this. I don't like this at all.

"Yo, why you gotta be so rude, girl?" Warren asks, sticking out his lower lip tauntingly. In one motion, he grabs me by the shirt and pulls me toward him so that I'm tucked under his meaty arm. He ruffles my hair. "Look at little Georgie here. He's cool with us now. Why can't you be?"

I'm not, I want to say. Or just yank myself out of his grasp, but it's too tight and my body is frozen. The strong smell of sweaty boy cloaked in Axe and some unnamed cologne is taking me back somewhere I don't want to be. That night.

Suddenly, I'm trembling. So much so that I almost miss Rose mentioning me for the first time since before homecoming.

"I'm sure he's not 'cool' with you guys, whatever that means. Actually, it looks like you're crushing him. Could you let him go please?"

"What do you mean? Of course he's cool with us," Warren retaliates, gripping me even tighter in his crushing one-armed hug. "Why, we hung out all of Homecoming Night, didn't we Georgie?"

My stomach feels queasy as my trembling turns into full-on shaking. No we didn't. It didn't happen. Nothing happened.

"You're lying," says Rose, sounding scared. At first I think it's because she believes them, but when I eye her through my blurry vision, I can see that she's staring right at me. "Let go of him. Please."

"Who all was there again? Let's see it was me, Edgar, Zack, Jackson, Kyle, Ford.....oh, and your older brother made it to the party, didn't he Edgar?"

"Yep, he sure did. I think he had the best time of all of us. Isn't that right, Georgie?"

Don't think, don't breathe, don't speak, don't breathe, don't feel, don't think, don't.....breathe. Can't breathe. CAN'T BREATHE.

"You're fucking choking him!" Rose screams, running up to pry Warren's arm away. "Let him GO!"

I collapse to the floor, free at last from the sweaty boy's tight grasp, but I'm still shaking. The memories....The fucking memories.

"What did you do to him?!"

"I didn't do shit!" Warren backs away defensively. "I wasn't even holding him that hard."

"Bullshit, look at him!"

On the floor, I'm still shaking uncontrollably while trying to remember how to breathe. Up above, the boys are leaving the alcove beneath the bleachers faster than I can count, probably in case I die or something. No one wants to be here when that happens.

Only Rose stays. She falls to her knees on the ground beside me, and from the look on her face, I think she finally understands that whatever is happening to me has nothing to do with having been choked.

"Rosie....Rosie, it's okay. I'm here." She touches my shoulder gently, and the softness of her voice as she whispers my real name calms my shaking almost immediately. If only the memories would stop as quickly.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

No. The voices are booming inside my head like explosions. I clap my hands over my ears, but of course that doesn't help. They're trapped inside my head, just like the images that accompany them.

"You like sucking cock, faggot?"

"I think he wants it."

"Look at him go! He loves it! Don't you Georgie? Yeahhhh, you love it!"

"Harder, faggot. Show me how much you like it."

"Look at his face! Dude, get your phone out. We need pictures of this!"

"Harder faggot. Show me how much you--"

"Harder faggot. Suck it harder."

"Harder--"

"Faggot--"

"Rosie. Rosie, Rosie. Hey." She's saying my name again, but it sounds muffled, and it takes me a second to realize that it's because I'm sobbing almost too loudly to hear.

"Talk to me, Rosie," she whispers, rubbing my hair in a soothing motion. "What happened?"

But I can't talk. I can't say it. They wrecked my throat, and that's why I don't have a voice anymore....

Suddenly, I gag. The nauseous feeling is rising. I need to go.

"Wait!" Rose calls, but I'm already rushing out from under the bleachers and to the exit. I barely hear her shout a quick explanation to the gym teachers before I push myself out the doors. I almost don't make it, but luckily my head ends up right over the big trash can in the hallway before the contents of my stomach come spilling out. My whole body convulses, and acid burns my throat. I'm going to die.

But Rose is right there, pushing my growing hair out of my face and rubbing my back as I vomit until there's nothing left inside of me. No life, no soul, and definitely not hope, if there was any left before.

"You good?" Rose asks once I'm no longer throwing up, and just breathing heavily over the trash can.

I don't nod or shake my head, but do stand up straight to take a long drink from the water fountain on the other side. While I'm at it, I pull out my phone to press send on the text that is already typed up and ready to send to Sam whenever I need it: Code Red.

I lean back against the wall of lockers and wipe the sweat from my forehead.

"Are you ready to talk to me?" Rose prompts gently.

I almost laugh. Oh, if only she knew. If only she had any idea....

"Rose!"

Wow, that was fast.

Both Rose Parker and I whirl around at the sound of our name to see Dan rushing around the corner, phone held out in front of him. "Are you okay?" He asks me.

I just stare at him, waiting for an answer to my unasked question. Meanwhile, Rose glares. "What the hell do you want?"

"Um, sorry," he says to me guiltily, completely ignoring Rose Parker. "But Sam's taking a test and couldn't get away, so he forwarded your text to me. He says he'll be here as soon as he can, though. Until then....is there anything I can do?"

Honestly, I'm not even sure if there's anything Sam can do at this point. All I wanted in this moment was for someone else to be here to explain shit to Rose.

"Hang on...." Rose narrows her eyes at the two of us. "What am I missing here?"

"Interesting question, Miss Parker," Dan responds in a snarky tone. "But I have a better one. Why is it that, after ignoring Rose for a month, you're suddenly interested in what's going on with her?"

"Don't you stand there and judge me, you prick!" Rose defends herself quickly. Too quickly, in fact, as if she was just waiting for this accusation. "I was....I was in a very awkward position, okay? What the hell would you have done? And besides, it's not as if Rosie was talking to me--"

"Yeah, little news flash for you there," Dan shoots back unsympathetically. "She isn't talking to anyone. She hasn't spoken a word since homecoming."

"Wait...what?"

Luckily, their bickering is cut short when Sam comes barreling down the hallway. "Sorry Rose, I had to finish up a stupid test. Are you okay?" He doesn't wait for a response before pulling me into a much-needed hug. I return it gratefully and continue my sobbing on his shoulder. The memories, the fucking memories....when will they go away?

"Sam..." Rose Parker begins softly, sounding nervous. "Daniel told me Rosie isn't talking anymore. Not since homecoming. Is it because....?" she trails off, leaving her question to be assumed as her blush deepens.

Sam opens his mouth to answer, but Dan jumps in. "What, you really think she's gone mute because of finding out you're in love with her? Jesus Christ, no! Not everything on this planet is about you--"

"Dan, please," Sam cuts him off softly, but firmly. Dan shuts up right away. "No Parker, that's not it. Something else happened that night."

"What happened?"

Sam hesitates, looking at me as if asking permission, but I shake my head. I don't want to say it, but I don't want anyone else to say it either. Saying it makes it real.

"Rosie, she really does seem to care," Sam tries to persuade me. "And maybe if we tell her....I don't know. Maybe she can help you in ways that we can't."

But I keep shaking my head, backing away into the lockers. No. Nonono. No one can help me, it's too late. I'm broken forever, and it's time for us all to move on and never talk about it.

"I need to know," Rose begs me. "I want to help."

"Jeez Parker, why don't you just take a guess," Dan snaps. "It's not hard. For chrissake, look at her! She's traumatized as fuck. What could have happened after you left? After Cody, Sam, and I left. When Rosie was all alone in the dark, with none of us there to help her because we were all off being selfish fucking assholes, and that gang of bullies came and--" Dan physically has to bite his lip to stop himself, and looks at Sam like he knows he's fucked up. But Sam is too busy looking at me, and I'm looking at Rose Parker. Rose, whose face has slowly taken on a ghostly pale shade as she connects the dots in her mind. I can almost hear something click as it dawns on her.

Her hands fly to her mouth. "No," she says in a low voice, trying to shake away the thought. "No. It's not....they didn't....right?"

We all three just stare at her, Sam and Dan with identical pitying expressions, and then me....my expression probably as blank as usual.

"No...." Rose repeats, but this time in a completely different tone. No longer in denial, more like on the edge of rage.

Suddenly the bell rings, and the hallway floods with people.

"Come on guys, we've got to go to Math," says Dan, nudging Sam and me in the direction of our next class.

My eyes stay trained on Rose and her horrified expression, even as the throng of students thickens and she becomes difficult to see. She seems to be completely frozen, her eyes wide and her nails digging into her palms. But right before I lose sight of her, I swear that I see her lips move ever so slightly, and that I pick up some words:

"They hurt her. I'll kill them. I'll kill them all."

------------

Sam

By the end of the day, I'm feeling very unsettled about....just about everything. Most notably, the information we left with Rose Parker right before leaving her.

Dan felt terrible for putting his foot in his mouth yet again, and apologized to my sister about three thousand times throughout math class.

"I shouldn't have told her to guess," he kept saying. "I'm sorry I said all of that. Are you sure you're okay? You're not super pissed at me?"

Rosie nodded and shook her head at all of the appropriate times to convey that no, she's not pissed at Dan. But the blank and pale expression we found her wearing in the hallway never leaves her face, and I can only guess what happened during gym that triggered this traumatized state.

But of course, all of that couldn't be the end of pre-Thanksgiving Break drama. Nope, that would be too simple.

After the bell rings to signal the end of the last class of the day, students rush into the halls with an excited air about them. It seems that everyone besides Rose and me is anxious for a five-day break.

Actually, I take it back. Because now I know of one more person who has nothing pleasant at home to look forward to.

"Are you going to be okay over break?" I ask Dan once we meet up with him by the front doors. I take his hand supportively, and Rose is nice enough to stand a few feet back to give us some privacy. I'm starting to think that she low-key ships us.

Dan shrugs in response. "I'll live. I always do. Do you promise to text me?"

"Everyday," I assure him with a smile. "And if I can get away from my parents for long enough, we'll hang out. Okay?"

"Yeah! I mean, that's cool. I mean....." Dan makes a frustrated noise. "That's it. Hang on a minute." He stops suddenly right before we leave through the front doors, causing both of us to jolt. Gripping my hand tighter, he pulls me off to the side. "I have to tell you something."

Is it just me, or do I catch sight of the slightest smile playing on Rose's lips in my peripheral vision? "What?"

"Hang on," he says again. He seems to be gearing up for something. He takes one long, slow breath, followed by another. Then, he reaches for my other hand so that he's holding both between us. "Okay. Sam....I'm going to say something. And this is stupid as hell, beause I've already said it like, twice. But I think it's time I actually say it say it. You know? Like...with meaning and all of that shit."

"Um....okay." My heart is pounding so fast I think it might leap out of my chest and run away. Especially if he's going where I think he's going. "I mean, good. Because....I have something to say, too."

His eyes widen in surprise, and his smile joins them. "Really? I mean....are you saying the same thing I'm about to say?"

"I don't know," I laugh quietly. "What are you saying?"

Dan looks more nervous then I've ever seen him before. Rather than pushing his fringe back as he normally does, he uses his fingers to brush it in front of his left eye, casting his glance at the ground so he doesn't have to look at me. He looks so anxious, so vulnerable....so god damn cute. "I....I'm saying that--"

But unfortunately, at this precise moment, a short curly haired nerd comes barreling between us. Dan jumps, and so do I when I see who it is. "Whoa! Jesus Foster, watch where you're going!"

"Sorry," says Cody, not sounding sorry at all. In fact, he barely looks at us. Clearly, neither of us is the person he cared about catching up to. "George....I just wanted to catch you before you left."

"Her name isn't George, you fucking inconsiderate asshole" I snap at him, feeling so unbelievably pissed off. First because he dares trying to talk to me or my sister after everything he put us through, and second because he completely ruined the moment between me and Dan. "And anyway, it doesn't look to me like she wants to talk to you."

"Then tell me that yourself," he pleads with Rose, who is trying desperately not to meet his gaze. "Please, just verbally tell me to fuck off, that's all I want. If you really, truly hate me, just say those two little words right now. Just say them."

Dan and I both watch Rose's face with intrigue. She looks to be having some kind of internal struggle. She opens her mouth, causing everyone present to hold their breath....and then closes it. Nothing.

Cody exhales. "I thought so. In that case, I want you to have this." He hands her a crisp, folded up sheet of paper. She stares at it, not accepting it right away. "Read it. Call me, text me, or continue not saying anything at all. Just read it. I hope you forgive me."

When Rose takes the paper at last, Cody turns to me and Dan. "Daniel....I don't care for you much, and I doubt that I ever will."

"The feeling is mutual, fucker," Dan growls.

"But Sam," Cody looks directly to me now, his expression solemn. "I love you a lot. As a friend. And I hope that one day, we can be friends again. For the last time, I'm sorry for everything I put you and your sister through. I made you guys the victims of my own confusion, and I don't know if I'll ever truly forgive myself for that. I'll quit trying to talk to you from now on, but if you're ever  ready to forgive me....let me know. Oh, and also," he adds as an afterthought. "I, uh....I read your poem. The one you submitted for the poetry contest. I saw it on Mr. Morton's desk and I read it. I thought it was....freaking amazing. But nothing short of what I've learned to expect from you."

He gives me one last nod before turning away. I don't know what to think about these final words from Cody Foster, except that I'm glad he's gone now so me and Dan can pick up where we left off.

Only this time, a different voice stops us.

"Cody, wait!"

I think Dan and I gasp simultaneously. We're still standing inches apart and holding hands, with so many unsaid words lingering in the air between us, but suddenly nothing is more important than those two just uttered in the cracked voice of my sister.

Cody halts as well, turning in response to his name.

Now under three pairs of eyes, Rose stands there with the open letter in front of her, tears streaming down her face, with a hand over her throat as if shocked by the noise she just produced. Her eyes remain on the paper though, reading over its message again.

Slowly, Cody approaches. "Yes?"

Without warning, Rose throws her arms around him. "Thank you," she sobs. Her voice is still dry and cracky from lack of use, but it doesn't take away from the warmth of her words. "Thank you."

Cody embraces her back. "Of course."

And that's the entirety of their exchange.

"Wait, hold on!" Dan pipes up as soon as Cody leaves. "What the hell was in that letter, magic dust? What did he say to make you talk?"

Rose just shakes her head, refolding the paper and sticking it in her pocket. She laughs through her tears. Then coughs, then laughs again. "Nothing. It's okay. I'm--" she breaks into a coughing fit that cuts off the last word, but one that she recovers from quickly. "I'll be okay," she finishes at last.

I'm still too shocked to say much of anything. "Rosie--"

"Let's go home," she whispers, leading the way out the door. Wordlessly, I follow.

Dan, meanwhile, is outraged. "Really? Fucking really? After over a month, and after everything that son of a bitch did to you guys, all he had to do was hand you a piece of paper and you're golden? What the hell? What did it even say? What--"

"Dan," I put an hand on his upper arm that makes him shut up, an action that has been working pretty well recently. "Let's worry about that later. For now, we enjoy the breakthrough. Okay?"

Dan heaves a frustrated sigh. "Okay."

As usual, he walks with us all the way up the hill from the school and until the street splits off into multiple directions, and he has to go left. We pause for a moment here. "Text me, okay?" he makes me promise.

"Yes, yes, I already said I would," I respond, rolling my eyes. "God, you're so needy."

"But you love me anyway." Dan flashes his flirtatious grin that makes my heart flutter, but after just a moment it falters. "....Right?"

I breathe a huge sigh. "Yes, you fucking dork."

His smiles fully again, but this time it's his old, teasing grin. "Yes what?"

"You're really going to make me say it, aren't you?"

"I've said it," Dan reminds me smugly. "Twice."

I look over my shoulder to see that Rose is waiting for me several feet away, but luckily she doesn't appear to be too impatient. In fact, she has Cody's letter out and is reading it again.

So I turn back to Dan and rattle off my well-prepared speech. "Dan, I like you a lot. I think I have for a long time. And by that I mean I really like you. But love....love is a really strong word for me, and I don't think I'm ready to say it yet. If it helps, I can see myself maybe saying it to you one day, but just....not today." At this point, I have my eyes shut to avoid seeing his reaction, just in case his smile falls. "Is that okay?"

Suddenly, I feel a very cold set of lips press firmly against my own and my heart jumps into my throat. He pulls away almost before I realize he's kissing me, and before I even get the chance to kiss him back. When I open my eyes I see that his are full of combined fear and excitement. "Yes," he responds. "Was that okay?"

I respond with a kiss of my own, pushing my lips harder against his, and leaving them for a second or two longer. "Yes," I say after pulling away.

"What is this, a competition?"

I bite my lip slightly and shrug, throwing in a wink for good measure. "If you want it to be."

Dan's flirtatious grin returns, and I'm just wondering how far this is going to escalate when I remember that Rose is waiting for me, and that I should probably still be monitoring her at this point.

Apparently, Dan has the same thought. "To be continued," he says, backing away from me to continue down his street. "Alright?"

I don't want him to leave, but the idea of a to be continued excites me. "Okay," I agree, probably grinning like a moron.

I watch him leave for as long as I dare before turning down my own street. God, I am so whipped.

It suddenly occurs to me that this is the best I have felt in a long while. Cody has redeemed himself, Rose is talking again (for some reason), and I fucking kissed Daniel Albright. Sure, all of that doesn't necessarily mean things are perfect, but it has to be a sign that things are getting better. Surely our lives are done being a complete misery fest.

Right?

------------

ROSE PARKER

I walk home in the same daze I've been in since P.E. ended: a strange mix of shocked, horrified, and enraged.

They hurt her.

"Rose? Honey, is that you?" Mom calls from the kitchen.

"Yeah Mom." My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. It surely doesn't feel like my own. How can I be capable of normal, unshaken speech right now, with the turmoil inside my head?

"There's a postcard from your father on the table. Something about how he's sorry he can't make it for Thanksgiving. I think he and that wife of his are in the Bahamas for the holidays." She makes no effort to hide the bitterness from her voice. Not that she has to, seeing as how I share every ounce of it.

What? Dad can't make it down here for an important family holiday? Wow, what a shocker. Not that we even want him here, of course, so it's all good. I'm just not even sure why he bothers telling us he can't be here anymore. Thanksgivings are always just Mom and me, and we like it that way.

"How was your day at school?"

"Um, I don't feel much like talking about it," I tell her honestly, my shocked daze not having lifted for a second. "I just....don't feel very good."

"Well, why don't you go lay down then. We can talk later. Would you like some water or anything?"

"I'm good Mom, thanks."

I climb the stairs to my bedroom, overwhelmed as always with appreciation for my mother. I'm fully aware that most moms would probably demand to know what was wrong with me, and wouldn't quit bugging me until I talked. Not my mom though, she always knows when I need to be left alone.

In my room, I'm greeted by comfort and familiarity. My countless band posters smile down at me like old friends: Twenty-one Pilots, Panic! At The Disco, Fall Out Boy, The Neighbourhood, My Chemical Romance (R.I.P), and so many more. My walls are honestly more poster than wall, and I am proud of it. Home and safe at last.

But I don't feel safe. Not after what I learned today.

They hurt her.

When Daniel Albright challenged me to guess what had happened to Rosie on homecoming night, I was already wracking through possibilities in my brain. The truth crossed my mind once or twice, sure, but I had always dismissed it as too outlandish, and far too terrifying to be real.

But now, knowing that it actually happened, and to the person that I love most in this world, terrifying doesn't cut it. Every second I spend thinking about it, just imagining those monsters from our gym class touching her against her will, I feel as if knives are slicing through my heart. I should have been there. I should have been there....

They hurt her.

They hurt her. They hurt my Rosie, and there is nothing I can do to make it better. I can't turn back time and undo whatever they did to her. I can't take back these past weeks that I've spent ignoring her out of shame and embarrassment, when I could have been helping her. There is nothing I can do.

Except help bring justice.

It occurred to me for the first time outside of the gym today, the second I found out what actually happened, and the idea has not left my mind since.

Clearly, Rosie has not reported the monsters, or they would not be walking around freely today. Whatever her reasons, it is not my place to judge her. She has no obligation to do anything that she feels would make things worse for herself. But as long as they are walking around freely, suffering no consequences for the unspeakable thing they did, experiencing no karma....and as long as I'm just sitting by uselessly while Rosie suffers....I might as well help out in ways I see fit, right? Maybe ways such as....acting on karma's behalf.

Opening one of my over-cluttered desk drawers, I pull out a barely used, Doctor-Who themed notepad. Barely used because it's set up in a To-Do List format, which is something generally used by organized people, i.e. not me. But for something like this? Oh, I'll be organized. I'll be organized as fuck.

I press on my temples, trying to think back to gym just a few hours ago. All of those names that Warren Hawk had listed out, having no idea that he was actually verbalizing what would become my hit list.

After about five minutes of hard recollection, I think I have it:

1. Warren Hawk

2. Edgar Thompson

3. Zack Turner

4. Jackson ???

5. Kyle ???

6. Ford ???

7. ??? Thompson

I'm unsure of a few of their last names, and I have no idea who Edgar's older brother is, or even what grade he's in. But that's all stuff I can figure out with simple research, I'm sure.

It occurs to me at this point that maybe I'm taking this too far. That maybe, just maybe, I should chill out and let karma happen naturally....

But how do you know it will? That little voice reminds me. And how can you make sure they get what they truly deserve unless you do it yourself? They hurt her, remember? They hurt Rosie. And for that, they all have to pay.

Right. That's right.

Shaking slightly, I roll my desk chair over to the corner of my room where my ten-year-old light blue guitar sits on its stand, collecting dust. I always meant to learn how to play that thing. Dad always said he was going to teach me....

I shake my frizzy curls out of my face. No, now's not the time for sentiment. Feeling any of that soft shit might lead to other soft emotions, like fear. And fear is not something I can afford to feel right now.

Carefully, I reach around the stiff strings of the guitar and stick my hand through the hole in the middle. God, it's been so long since I hid it. I wonder if it's even still here....

Yes! There it is, taped the the inner most wall, right where I left it. Being careful to avoid the sharp blade, I remove the dagger from the inside wall of my guitar and pull it through the hole. It's a beautiful thing with a shiny black handle and a blade as silver and shiny as new. Just one of the many things I stole from my dad before he left us.

Moving robotically, I place the dagger on top of the list of names on my desk. Don't panic, Rose. Don't panic. You've got this.

They hurt her. They hurt Rosie.

And for that, they will all pay.