DAN

At night, I dream of him.

They're mostly random dreams, scattered and nonsensical. Sometimes they're bits and pieces of memories, like the time I first saw him sitting in math class and my heart skipped a beat, and the following moment when it became clear that we would be enemies. The moment I realized he was trans, our first fight during gym class, and the day not two months later when I held my shirt to his bleeding face on the curb outside of the coffee shop and realized that I loved the stupid motherfucker.

I dream of his face, his hands, his lips. Our lips together. There's never a distinct plot to these dreams, just fragments of images that fit together but don't, like staring through a broken camera lens. All I know is that they make me feel warm, and when I'm in the midst of these dreams, I never want to wake up....

BANG BANG BANG.

I jump in bed at the noise, and am furious to see my brother David poking his scraggly bearded face through my doorway, grinning sideways at me. "Goooood morning little bro. Sleep well?"

"You didn't have to bang on my door," I grumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "I was getting up."

"Yeah right. It's a quarter to noon, Daniel."

It is? I look at my phone, only believing him when I see the time set white against my pitch black screensaver. Shit. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh is right. Better come downstairs and start helping with the dishes, or Mom's gonna be pissed."

"Yeah, yeah." I mutter, even though the last thing I want to do is get out of bed and deal with my pathetic excuse for a family. But I have to. Today is Thanksgiving.

Only when David finally leaves do I stand up and stretch my arms. As I do, I can feel a sharp pain over my chest and ribcage, and I know it's not because I slept wrong.

The sun shines brightly through my bedroom window, blinding me when I look that direction. I draw the blinds shut. Damn, it feels weird to barely be getting out of bed at this point in the day. I never sleep past eight, even on weekends. What kept me up so freaking late?

.....Oh right. I remember with a grin. I fell asleep texting Sam.

Throwing on my normal attire and quickly running a wet comb through my bedhead, I use one hand to scroll through all of our texts from last night. Damn, we talked for hours. I couldn't even say about what specifically, just random shit. Shit about school and our families and future plans. Everything except for the serious stuff, which was honestly a nice change.

Oh, and memes. We sent lots of memes.

I laugh to myself as I look back at them. It takes several minutes, but the scrolling finally ends as I reach where we left off at around 3 am:

SAM: The good news is that my mom's family couldn't fly in this year, so I only have to deal with one side of my bigoted family. Still not excited, but I think I'll make it through.

Quickly as I head downstairs, I send him a short text.

ME: Good morning, cutie ;). Sorry I fell asleep on you last night.

And just before I can rethink calling him cutie (are we at that point yet?) or the stupid fucking emoji, I press send. Crap! Oh well.

I reach the foyer just in time to almost be bulldozed by my father coming through the front door, holding four six packs of beer that look foreign and expensive. "Jesus! Watch where you're going, David," He barks as he pushes past me, not even looking at my face to see if he has the right kid.

"Do you need help with anything?" I call after him, rolling my eyes.

"Ask your mother!"

Well jeez, fine.

As I head to the kitchen I feel my phone buzz in my pocket, and I'm quick to pull it out.

SAM: Pfft, cutie? Too mushy. Don't be turning into cream of wheat on me, Danny boy. And I actually fell asleep at around the same time, so you're good.

I feel myself laugh and blush at the same time. I love how easy it is for the two of us to fall back into our natural rhythm.

ME: Well shit Your Highness, I'm sorry. What pet name would you prefer, dickweed?

SAM: Actually, that works just fine XD

ME: What, dickweed?

SAM: No! Your Highness.

ME: Wow. I'm flattered, but there's no need to call me that. I'm nothing close to royalty.

SAM: God, you are such a little shit.

ME: And hey, there we have a nickname for me!

SAM: I think I'll stick with Danny boy. ;)

I'm busy smirking down at my phone when I'm knocked into once again, this time by my sister in six inch, black heels and a short red dress giving her cleavage that defies the laws of physics.

"Ow! Watch where you're going, freak!" Sara screeches at me, grabbing hold of the doorframe to regain her balance.

"I was literally just standing here," I point out in my normal smart ass tone, rubbing a hand over my already-stinging ribs. "You're the one who bumped into me. What's everyone rushing around for, anyway? And why do you look like a contestant for Miss California Slut?"

She takes a minute to respond because she has to pull a little mirror out of her handbag to check her dark red lipstick. "God, you think you're so funny, don't you?"

"I think I'm hilarious."

"Well you're not. You're a disrespectful little shit."

That comment just makes me think of Sam, and I grin. "Yeah I am."

"But to answer your question," She flips her dark curls over her shoulder. "Some magazine photographer is coming over to take pictures of our family having Thanksgiving Dinner, and they'll be here in about half an hour."

"Wait, what?" I grab her arm before she can stalk away from me. "Since when? Why the hell didn't I know? What magazine?"

"Shit, I don't know." Sara rolls her eyes, ripping her arm from my grasp. "Noah set it up through some guy from work, because Dad needed more publicity or something. All I know is I've gotta look hot. And I suggest you go change into something a little more festive. No one's gonna let you in the picture looking like some little goth boy we picked up off the street." With that, she clomped away in her ridiculous heels to help Mom set the table.

God dammit! I hate it when they do this. I swear we can't go one year without some holiday or another being bombarded by reporters or photographers, all because Mom's or Dad's agent thinks that we need a more wholesome family image. Especially after a porno that Mom apparently did in the eighties surfaced.

I swallow vomit at the thought of it, secretly glad that I have my Dad's last name, as stupid as it is. Kids my age are less likely to recognize the name of a guy who starred in a short-lived sitcom in the nineties.

Mom, on the other hand.....she's way more famous.

"Daniel!" Mom's shrill voice calls from the kitchen, making me jump. "You're finally awake, is that right?"

"Yes Mom." I reply in my sassiest voice.

"Good. Then come help me with these dishes please!"

Groaning loudly in discontent, I trudge around the corner and into the too-big kitchen. I see Mom dressed almost as slutty as Sara, in a slightly longer black dress with no back, and nothing covering her shoulders. It fits her well, unfortunately, and with pounds of makeup she looks to be going on 25 instead of 45. My mother is what the kids at my middle school called a MILF. In other words, just seeing her all dressed like this me want to pour bleach in my eyes.

"Here." Mom shoves a stack of fancy china plates into my hands. Her tone is curt and on edge, like it always gets before a photo shoot. "Go set the table. And for god's sake, could you change into something a little more presentable?"

"I don't want to be in the picture," I grumble with my eyes on the floor, refusing to look at my mother with far too much makeup for someone her age.

"Oh don't be ridiculous," Mom snaps as she turns to examine her reflection in the stainless steel fridge door. She wipes a finger around her mouth, making sure her lipstick is completely within the lines. "We're going to be this month's featured celebrity family in Holiday magazine. Of course you want to be in the picture."

"For real, bro," says David, suddenly leaning against the doorway. "Who wouldn't want to be in a magazine?"

Ugh, if the whole family starts ganging up on me again, I'm gonna lose it. "Uh, me," I respond, turning to face him. "No one around here knows who my parents are, and I want to keep it that way. I left California so I didn't have to put up with this bullshit."

"I've never understood you, Danny. How could you not want to be famous? This is free publicity, a chance for all of us to be recognized!" His eyes gleam as he stares into the distance, as if imagining a brilliant future for himself that stems right from this stupid photo shoot. "I can finally catch my big break."

"Oh sure Dave," I snort derisively. "Absolutely. Just slip the photographer your YouTube username and you'll be golden. All of the agents in Hollywood will be lining up to make a movie out of your latest video: How to Get Your Dick Caught in a Ceiling Fan."

"Dan, don't be sarcastic with him." This command comes not from my mom, but from Noah, who comes in from the dining room wearing a crisp suit and tie, his black hair slicked dramatically to one side. Fuck, I can smell his hair gel from ten feet away. I want to throw up.

"Mind your business jerkwad, no one was talking to you!"

"You're the one being a jerkwad, jerkwad," David spits back unintelligently.

I can feel my face heating up. I'm about to throw this stack of plates at his stupid head. "Wow, that's a good one. But if I wanted my own come back, I would've sucked it out of your girlfriend's--"

"Daniel!" Mom cuts me off in a stern shriek. "That is enough! If you don't want to be in the picture, that's fine. Put those dishes on the table and go to your room! I don't need this kind of negativity around me when the photographer gets here." She takes a slow, deep breath and puts her hands up to her heavily styled hair, fixing a couple of bobby pins.

Sighing gratefully, I race to the dining room and practically throw the plates down before running back up the stairs. I don't stop until I get to my room, as if afraid that she'll change her mind and decide that making me be in the picture would be more of a punishment.

Alone at last, I shut my door and sit down on my unmade bed to take a breather. God, just being around them is exhausting. I'm already counting the hours until they fly out again tomorrow morning. I miss the quiet feeling of emptiness and solitude in this house that, while lonely, is way preferable to the annoying high energy of my family.

Across the room, I catch sight of my reflection in my full length mirror. My pissed off expression goes perfectly with my all-black attire and my current mood. The skin under my shirt is itching so bad, and I scratch at it with a groan. God, I hate the holidays....

Buzz.

Eagerly, I yank my phone from my pocket and view the text I know is from Sam.

SAM: Family is the literal worst.

ME: You're telling me.

SAM: Grandparents bought me a dress and want me to wear it for dinner. I want to fucking die.

ME: Not to one-up you or anything, but my parents turned Thanksgiving Dinner into a fucking photoshoot, and banished me to my room because I refused to participate.

SAM: ....Shit. That's harsh.

ME: Yeah.

SAM: But on the bright side, at least they're not forcing you to be in it.

ME: I guess so. But I just wish my family could be normal, you know? I wish my life could be normal.

SAM: Um, not to one-up you or anything, but....literally born with the wrong body here. I would trade you any day.

I smirk to myself. I suppose that's fair. If anyone knows anything about fucked up lives, it's definitely Sam.

SAM: Ugh, FML. Now they're asking if I have a boyfriend yet. I'm gonna puke

DAN: Lol. What'd you tell them?

Almost the second I press send, my face floods with warmth. WHY did I ask that? What's he going to think I'm trying to do here? Does he think I'm his boyfriend? Am I his boyfriend???

SAM: Um....I told them no? Duh.

DAN: Right, of course. Sorry.

Sighing, I throw my phone on my bed and stand up. I can't take the itchiness anymore. Grabbing the neck of my black shirt, I yank it up over my head and stand shirtless in front of the mirror, eyeing my work from last night.

From the bottom of my ribcage to the edges of my pecs, countless angry red scratches coat my body like leeches. They're fairly surface level, but they itch like hell. I grab my tube of ointment from its place on top of my dresser and begin to gently apply it, trying not to think about why the hell I did this last night. Why the hell I've been doing this periodically for the past several years. Because honestly, I'm not even sure.

The only thing I am sure of is that I am nowhere near "recovered", and that every instance in which I have told Sam that has been an instance of lying through my teeth. I don't want him to know that I'm still cutting because I don't want him to do it.

Hypocrite, a voice in my mind says when I catch my own eye in the mirror. Filthy, disgusting hypocrite. What would Sam say if he saw this?

I don't know what he would say. And I hope to God that I never find out.

A faint buzz interrupts my thoughts, and I walk back over to my bed to check my phone.

SAM: While we're on the subject though...are we boyfriends?

I laugh in relief at his question, even though the motion makes my cuts hurt even more. I'm so glad I wasn't the only one wondering that.

ME: I don't know. Are we?

SAM: Is that what you want?

At this, I pause. What do I want?

Staring at my ugly, shirtless reflection, I realize the truth. I know that there are two halves of me. There is the half that wants to remain bitter and alone so that I can keep hurting myself without hurting anyone else, and that wants Sam to end up with someone who is actually a good person and can take care of him. That's my humble, selfless side.

But then there's the much more dominant, selfish half of me. The half that wants Sam more than anything, and doesn't want anyone else to have him. The part of me that knows deep down that the two of us together would probably be a horrible idea, but that doesn't give a single fuck.

And that is the part of me that wins as I text him back a simple Yes.

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

Sam

"For god's sake, would you kids put down your phones for five seconds and talk to each other?" Grandpa barks loudly. "It's Thanksgiving, for crying out loud."

I snap my head up, still grinning from ear to ear at Dan's reply. "Sorry," I mutter, returning my phone to it's place on my lap and folding my hands on the table.

"George, you too!"

It takes Rose a bit longer to comply, but her facial expression gives nothing away about what she's up to on her phone. She takes her time typing something out before looking up and sliding her phone into her pocket robotically.

"That's more like it," Grandpa says, nodding appreciatively.

"Why don't you kids go play outside?" Aunt Rachel suggests, coming into the dining room holding a large bowl of mixed vegetables. Our Aunt Rachel is Dad's sister, a tall woman with long brown hair streaked with gray, and a nasally southern voice that makes me want to tear my ears off from listening to her talk. I don't know how Dad got away from his family's stereotypical backwoods accent when he moved to the city, but I'm just glad we didn't inherit it.

"Play outside?" Rose repeats in a voice full of disbelief.

"Yes. It's a wonderful day for November, after all."

"Still. What are we, five?"

"George, that's enough!" barks Dad, appearing in the dining room with his hands full of food as well. The bastard's been cranky all day because Mom made him put away his laptop and help with dinner. "Both of you, go outside until we're done setting the table."

"But--" I try to protest.

"It's not a suggestion!" Dad cuts me off. "Your cousins are already out there, go spend some time with them. You only see them once a year for christ's sake!"

And I wouldn't have it any other way, I think to myself. But there's no arguing with Dad when he's in this mood. Rose and I both groan as we rise from our seats and stomp out the back door.

It is indeed a nice day for this time of year; the sun is shining and there isn't a cloud in the sky, giving a strangely warm feeling to this fifty degree day. We find our cousins sitting in various positions on the porch, looking bored as hell. Travis, Madison, and Dakota-- seventeen, fifteen, and ten respectively-- are all staring up at the sky with vacant expressions, as if awaiting the sweet release of death.

"What's wrong with you guys?" I inquire curiously.

"Mom took our phones," Dakota answers grumpily. "We're so boooored!"

"Did you guys escape with yours?" asks Madison.

As she asks, I feel my phone buzz in my back pocket. I don't reach for it though. "Yeah, but I have a feeling your mom will ream us out if she sees them out. She want us to interact with each other, or some shit."

Madison laughs at my sarcasm, reminding me why she's the only one of my cousins that I actually like.

Travis, meanwhile, rolls his eyes. "Well she can forget it. I told my mom on the long-ass drive up here that there ain't no way imma act friendly with you two if you're still doing that faggy shit."

"Shut the fuck up, Travis." I snap at him immediately, my blood boiling as I notice Rose blushing beside me. I swear to god, this happens every year. I don't know why our parents keep trying to make us play nice when they know perfectly well that any interaction between me and Travis is going to end in a shouting match, usually resulting in me being the one to get in trouble at the end.

"Hey, you know where I stand," he says, putting his hands up defensively. "If you guys wanna dress up in each other's clothes, go be in a fuckin drag show or something. Just get it the hell away from me."

I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. One time. He caught us one time, and that was nearly seven years ago. It was a regular holiday get-together for both of our families, but Rose and I were dysphoric as fuck that day and had to escape from dinner to change clothes for a little bit. Travis was sent to go check on us, and walked in on "George" wearing a dress while I had my long hair up in a baseball cap. He immediately told our parents, who didn't take it too harshly seeing as how we were kids at the time. But freaking Travis has never let us hear the end of it, especially since I fiercely defend myself and Rose every time he brings it up.

It was after that day that Rose and I learned to be more careful.

"For goodness' sake, give it a rest, Travis," Madison comes to our defense in her soft voice. "Must you bring this up every single year?"

"Clearly you don't understand, Maddie," Travis responds, narrowing his eyes at me. I glare right the fuck back. "They're fucking fags. Both of them."

"Language," whispers Madison, covering Dakota's ears.

The ornery little boy shoves her hands away angrily. "I'm not a baby, sis. I know what fags are."

I sigh. Yep, this is going to turn out exactly like last year's Thanksgiving. "Both of you, fuck off. We're not gay, but even if we were, who we love is not your business."

"Gays and lesbians are going to hell," Dakota states almost robotically. The lisp in his voice makes his blind recitation of the statement even sadder.

"You're damn right," says Travis.

I open my mouth to growl something back, but Rose nudges me lightly with her shoulder. I close my mouth again, realizing what she is trying to convey. I have the power in this situation. If for once, I maintained control of my temper, I could avoid being grounded from Thanksgiving until Christmas.

Ignoring both Travis and Dakota, I stealthily take a peek at the screen of my phone. There is still Dan's response to my last message, that glorious Yes that lights up my lock screen and lets loose a swarm of butterflies in my stomach, and then the message he just sent.

DAN: Is everything going okay over there?

Quickly, while Dakota and Travis are busy bickering with Madison, I type back a response. As Rose notices what I'm doing, she discretely steps in front of me to hide my actions.

ME: Actually no. How did you know to check on me?

DAN: I had a feeling. What's going on?

ME: My cousin is a homophobic douche and he keeps trying to provoke me. I'm about to snap. I don't know what to do.

DAN: What's wrong with snapping? Punch him in the fucking nose.

ME: Can't do that. My parents will pry take away my phone for the rest of break. Hell, they might do that anyway once I show them my progress report, now that I think of it.

DAN: Then you've got nothing to lose. Let him have it.

I look up. Travis is still ranting to Madison about fags and trannies, with Dakota commenting in his small voice here and there, while she tries to settle them both down. Meanwhile, Rose is watching me curiously, as if trying to deduce what me and Dan are talking about.

"Honestly, I don't see why we ain't burning faggots in the streets anymore," Travis proclaims extra loudly, casting a pointed glance in my direction. He knows he's getting to me. He wants me to come at him. And boy do I want to.

But I can't.

ME: But Dan....if I lose my phone, I won't be able to talk to you for all of break. I don't know how I'll make it through if I can't talk to you.

I cringe even after I send the text, but Dan is quick with his response.

DAN: What are you now, some kind of pansy? You'll make it through. And anyway, even if you get grounded I WILL find a way to come see you. I clearly fail at standing up to my own family, so why don't you do me a favor and stand up to yours? Punch that asshole in the face for me, and send me a picture before you lose your phone.

Grinning from ear to ear, I close out of my messages and slip my phone out of sight, just as Travis is getting on my last fucking nerve.

"And their parents don't do anything about it. Like, if I had a son who acted as faggy as George does, I'd beat his ass so hard--"

Quick as lighting, I throw myself forward fist-first. Rose barely has time to shout "Sam, NO!" before my punch lands squarely on Travis's nose, the force of it throwing him backwards into the porch railing.

Dakota screams as a waterfall of blood begins to poor down my brutish cousin's face.

Travis, too, begins to wail. "MOM! MAMA!"

Even Madison is against me now. "Sam, how could you?!"

I know I only have seconds before our parents come rushing out here, and I use them wisely. Retrieving my phone one last time, I'm sure to lean in close. "Hey Travis."

He looks up, blood staining the entire bottom half of his face and pooling grotesquely in his wrinkled shirt collar.

"Say cheese."

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

Dan

Still locked in my bedroom with my family downstairs, still shirtless and currently contemplating whether I should add more cuts to the collection on my torso, I can't express the happiness I feel when my phone screen lights up, and it's a picture with no context. A picture of a bleeding and crying dude whom I can only assume is Sam's asshole cousin. My heart swells with pride and I smile, not even bothering to respond to the message. It's likely the last one I'll get from Sam for awhile.

That's my boy.

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

Rose

"I can't believe you! Honestly, can we enjoy one normal, peaceful Thanksgiving as a family without it being ruined by drama? And it's always you, Samantha! It's always you who ruins it with your monstrous behavior!"

Safe upstairs in my room, I shut the door and put in my headphones to help drown out the yelling. Mom and Dad have been reaming Sam out for a good thirty minutes, and the noise isn't doing a damn thing for my anxiety.

Oh well, at least I'm finally alone. Aunt Rachel and her kids left hours ago, along with our grandparents.

After Sam hit Travis, chaos ensued. Rachel was frantically trying to attend to Travis's singular wound, treating him as if he was dying, while Grandpa yelled at Dad about not raising his daughter to behave like a lady.

Meanwhile, Mom spent several minutes grilling me to get my side of the story, and I told her everything. Unfortunately, none of it was enough to make anyone but me sympathize with Sam. Even Maddie took the time to describe in detail how terrifying it was when Sam flew at Travis like he did.

Ultimately, the commotion lasted so long that the turkey burned, the vegetables got cold, and Dad's family decided that they would rather stop for Chinese food on their way back home then spend another hour in the same house as Dad's "family of hooligans".

Needless to say, neither of our parents were pleased. They demanded Sam's phone immediately and sentenced to him a month of hard labor and solitude. But even after they outlined his punishment, they didn't stop yelling. At this point, it seems like they never will. I'm lucky I managed to escape to my room before devolving into a panic attack.

I put Twenty-one pilots on shuffle and turn the volume all the way up. The soothing lyrics of Truce fill my ears, a nice substitute for Dad's harsh yelling.

Now

The night

Is coming to an end....

Taking a long, deep breath, I reach under my pillow and pull out Cody's letter, which has resided there since the day he gave it to me, not counting all of the times I have retrieved it just to read it again. I hold the paper delicately in my hands. It's extremely wrinkled and torn in some places from being handled so much, but his elegant penmanship still stands out clear as day.

Dear _________,

Like I have said to you countless times, I do not deserve to be forgiven. So because of that, I am going to quit asking you to forgive me. But luckily, that is not what this letter is about.

I just want to tell you that I have finally realized my biggest mistake in all of this, and that was assuming that your weeks of silence and visible suffering was because of anything that I did. While I am sure that I hurt you, I was a narcissistic asshole to think that my actions would affect you this harshly and for this long. I don't know what else happened to you on homecoming night, but I know that it hurt you more than anything I did or could have done. And that makes me sadder than anything, that I can't fix what happened to you. That I can apologize until I run out of breath for the part I played in your misery, but I can't change anything else that caused you pain.

I miss you a lot. I miss hearing your voice and seeing your smile. I miss it when you were happy, because seeing your face light up was what I was starting to live for. Those days when we left school together, and I had the privilege of seeing you speak and act freely, and your personality was like the sun shining from within you. I want you to be happy again, even if I'm not apart of that picture. I will leave you alone after this, I just wanted you to know that all I ever cared about was seeing you happy. You have such a beautiful smile, and I would like so much to see it again someday.

Find your inner sunlight again. And if you ever do decide to accept my apology, or even to tell me your name, you know how to reach me.

-- Cody

I can't quite say what it was about this letter that made me find my voice the day he gave it to me. Because God knows I'm still hurting, nothing he said changed that. Maybe it was the fact that he acknowledged something had happened without demanding to know what it was. Or maybe it was the "find your inner sunlight again" line, something so poetic, so characteristic of him, that I couldn't stop the words from warming my heart.

I remember how the warmth I felt in my chest as I read the letter had spread to my lips without warning, and almost before I knew it the words burst forth: "Cody, wait!"

My voice. It was finally free. All thanks to Cody and his letter.

Later that same day, while Sam was still riding off the high of his kiss with Dan, I texted Cody for the first time in a month. I said: My name is Rose.

He responded: Okay. Thank you for telling me. Are we friends again?

It took me several minutes to think of what to say in return, and I could almost feel him dying from suspense on the other end. Eventually, I texted back: Maybe. Idk. I need some time.

He read it and responded immediately: I understand.

And that was the last we texted.

Now, however, I feel an overwhelming urge to text him again. But before I can the door bursts open and in marches Sam, his face streaked with tears. "I fucking HATE them!" He shrieks as he slams our door shut behind him, making me flinch.

Tossing my phone to the side, I rip our my earphones and stand up to give my brother a hug. "What's the damage?" I ask him quietly.

"Oh, the usual. I lost all privileges until Christmas, but that's not even what I'm pissed about! I just hate when they go on all those tangents about me not being a lady, that I need to act more like a fucking girl. God, they're so blind!" Sam grabs a pillow from his bed and throws it forcefully across the room, knocking his desk lamp to the floor.

"I know," I sigh sympathetically. "I know."

He sinks to the floor, putting his face in his hands. "Sometimes I wish we could just come out, you know?" he mumbles. "I know we'd have to deal with their reactions, but at least we wouldn't be living a lie anymore. I can quit pretending that it doesn't hurt like hell when they call me a girl. I can quit pretending...."

I say nothing, but my stomach grows cold at his suggestion. I've always hated it when he brings up the subject of coming out, even if it is purely hypothetical, because I know how badly he wants it. Just like he knows how much the idea scares the shit out of me, and because of that, neither of us can do it. None of this has ever been said outright between us, but it doesn't need to be.

Sam's willingness to stay in the closet with me purely because I'm scared puts me in a constant state of guilt, but no amount of guilt can make me feel any less afraid. So I listen to him cry in silence.

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

Sam

Long after Rose drifts off to sleep that night, I lay wide awake in my bed listening to the sound of her soft breathing. I can't sleep. Not while my parents' horrid words are still bouncing around inside my skull. All of that bullshit about how I "ruined Thanksgiving" and how I need to "learn how to be a lady". I still feel angry just thinking about it.

Despite what I said to Rose earlier about wishing I could come out, the thought of admitting to my parents the real reason why I can never "act like a lady" makes me queasy. If this is how they treat me when thinking that I'm simply a tomboy, I can only imagine how they would react if I told them I'm transgender.

But still, sometimes even the worst possible outcome seems preferable to keeping my true self locked away for one more day.

This is what is going through my head around the time that I hear several loud taps on the outside of my window.

"Huh?" I say aloud, sitting up in surprise. At first, I wonder if I was hearing things. Until it happens again. Taptaptap, tap tap.

Climbing out of bed, I squint into the darkness in the general direction of the window. Sure enough, the next time the sound happens I catch clear sight of its source: several tiny pebbles striking the glass from a distance.

Grinning ear to ear, I jump out of bed and practically run across the room to yank the window open. Dan's pale white face stands out clear like moonlight in the dark of night. He's also smiling, and his hand is full of small rocks. "Whatup, Sammy boy?" he says to me in a low voice that still rings loud and clear in the darkness.

"Danny boy," I say back with a smirk. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I said I'd find a way to contact you, didn't I? This is me fulfilling my promise."

"Well sure, but my first night being grounded?" I ask with a laugh. "A bit suspicious, isn't it?"

"What, I miss texting you," Dan shoots back defensively. Even from my second floor window, I can see the blush that taints his cheeks at how needy the statement sounded. He aggressively attempts to maintain his aggressive posture, though.He's tossing one of the small rocks up and down in his right hand, as if preparing to throw it at me. "And since your dumbass had to get your phone taken away--"

"Hey hey, wait a minute!" It's almost hard to maintain my whisper voice, I'm so filled with disbelief. "You're the one who told me to hit my cousin, you dumb shit!"

"Well I didn't think you'd actually do it! I just couldn't stand the thought of anyone but me giving you such a hard time. It was pissing me off. I just wished I could've hit him myself."

The warm feeling inside my chest grows. Sighing, I lean forward against the window sill. It is right then that the breeze outside picks up, blowing my long hair in front of my face. Shit, I totally forgot it was down! Feeling the heat of embarrassment from having let Dan see me with my hair down, I use the band around my wrist to put the mess up in its usual bun.

"Oh relax Sam, you look fine," Dan sighs, seeing my discomfort even from a distance. "You always look fine."

"Sorry, I just--"

"I know, I know." Smirking, Dan throws one of his rocks so that it hits the side of my house right next to my window, making me jump.

"Dick," I grumble.

"That's me!"

"So what, did you come here just to annoy me?"

"Low-key," Dan chuckles, tossing the rest of his rocks to the ground. "But also, um...." he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly appearing vulnerable. "I've had kind of a shit day."

"Oh. Uh....damn, I'm sorry." I'm not sure what else to say, or how I can even help comfort him from so many feet away.

Dan shrugs. "Don't be. It's fine. I just....I just wanted to see you."

I smile. "Well, uh....here I am?"

"Yeah," Dan laughs. "There you are. And I better go before I get you into even bigger trouble. But....what are you doing tomorrow?"

"Um, being grounded, I assume. Meaning that I can't go anywhere."

"Ah, right. Then I guess I'll come back at night. That cool?"

"Yeah!" My voice squeaks. Fuck. "Ahem, I mean uh....yes. That'd work."

"Lit. See you tomorrow then?"

"Yeah, see ya."

But Dan doesn't leave right away. He just stares at me with something like a look of longing, and I think I know why. It's the same reason why I stare back with the same look: He wishes he could kiss me goodbye.

Eventually, without another word, Dan turns and departs into the night like a ninja.

Sighing, I shut the window and turn around, and almost let out a shout of surprise when I see Rose sitting up straight in bed, staring at me with a not-so-amused expression on her face. I hadn't even noticed that she had flicked the lamp on.

"Jesus, Rose! How long have you--?"

"Really?" She cuts me off, arms crossed. "Rocks at the window? What is this, some cheesy eighties movie?"

My question dies on my lips. I'm dumbfounded by Rose's reaction.

Sighing and shaking her head, she shuts the lamp back off. "Go to bed, Sam. And for the love of God, could you guys have your pow-wow a little quieter next time, please? Some people are actually trying to sleep."

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

ROSE PARKER

Zack Turner. Not the first on my list, or the most important, but the one who I'm the least nervous about confronting. Whether he admits it or not, the little worm has been terrified of me since the sixth grade.

Taking careful steps over the crunchy leaves piled half-hazardly around the yard, I make my way to his bedroom window in the chilly darkness. I'm lucky that he lives in a one-floor house; I have no idea what I'm going to do about those kids whose rooms are upstairs. Probably just come after them somewhere else.

Focus, Rosalie, commands the voice in my head. I scowl; it knows that I hate being called Rosalie.

Okay, I'm outside of his window now. Deep breaths. Deep, calming breaths.

Fortunately it's not too cold tonight, but I am still dressed head-to-toe in black, including a ski mask. I'm aware that I one hundred percent look like a burglar, but I just have too many noticeable features to risk being identified. My physical size is the least of my worries.

If I peer in closely, I can see Zack's sleeping form curled up under his blankets. Look at that fucker, sleeping so peacefully. No regard whatsoever for the person whose life he has helped ruin.

Scowling, I gently extract the knife from my coat pocket and bring it to the screen outside of his window. With one long, smooth slash, I tear the screen open to reveal the glass. I then lay down three hard taps with the blade: TAP TAP TAP.

The second I see Zack jolt in his bed, I jump out of sight from the window. I'm leaning back against the outside of his house now, trying not to hyperventilate.

The window rattles loudly as Zack opens it quickly and firmly, peering his ugly head out. "Who the fuck is there?" He calls out. Pauses for a second.

Standing just feet to his left, I say nothing.

"Show yourself or....or I'll get my dad. And he has a gun!"

He pauses again and waits, and I bite my lip. It's now or never.

"Jackson, if this is one of your stupid pranks again--"

I reach around and grab Zack Turner by the shirt, using all of my strength to pull his skinny body out the window and throw him on the cold ground outside. He barely has time to cry out before I have my knife to his neck. "Make a noise and I swear to god I'll rip your throat out," I growl in a voice that isn't entirely my own. "Understand?"

With his wide eyes locked onto the blade I have pressed into his skin, Zack nods gently.

"Good." In the same motion that I pull the knife away, I throw my gloved fist into his nose.

Zack howls in pain, but he presses his own hands over his mouth to avoid being loud. Smart kid.

"You did a bad thing," I tell him as he rolls on the ground in pain. "You did a very bad thing."

"Wha' I do?!" He cries, his voice muffled by his own hands that are quickly becoming soaked in the blood from his nose. The whole scene reminds me of the day I first met Rosie Wyatt, when her nose had gushed blood after someone had nailed her in the face with a dodgeball. It may not have been Zack Turner who had done it, but I still can't help but feel like justice has finally been served.

"You know what you did, you sick son of a bitch." My voice is way deeper than normal, and for once I find myself feeling grateful for my large figure. With my breasts hidden beneath my overside coat and a mean right hook to boot, Zack likely thinks that I'm a man

"No I don', I really don'!!" Zack sobs. I can't even tell if he's trying to cover his mouth anymore or just using his hands to sooth his throbbing nose. Either way it's muffling his voice, so I don't give a fuck.

"Come on, even a moron like you can't have forgotten already. Homecoming wasn't even two months ago."

I can almost hear the click in his brain as he makes the connection, and he freezes. I can see the terror in his eyes when he realizes what I'm talking about, and good god is it satisfying.

"That's right, asshole. You know." I grab hold of both of his hands with one of my own, pick up my knife from the ground and hold it high above his face.

"WAIT!" he shouts, trying desperately to wrestle from my grasp. "Wait it wasn't me! It wasn't me! Andy Thompson is who you want, please let me go! He's the one who did it, not me!"

"And what did you do to stop it?!" To my horror, my real voice starts to reveal itself as I feel tears welling up underneath my mask. But luckily, Zack doesn't notice. He's too busy trying to save his own ass.

"I should've stopped it, I'm sorry! But I didn't do anything, I just stood there--"

"You just stood there?!" The scary voice is back again, and Zack is practically bawling he's so afraid.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I regret everything! That's the worst thing I've ever taken part in, and I regret it everyday. I feel evil--"

"You ARE!"

"Okay, okay! I am! But I'm still not the one you want. Warren Hawk is the one who had the idea. Edgar got his brother involved, Kyle McGarret took the pictures, and Andy's the one who did it! The rest of us are innocent, we just stood there!"

"And you think that makes you innocent?" But even as I ask the rhetorical question, I drop the knife once more. My anger doesn't fade in the slightest, but the sight of the trembling kid in my grasp does make me come to my senses. What the hell am I doing?

I don't release my grip on him, but he sighs in relief when he sees me drop the knife.

"Oh, don't think you're off the hook yet, buddy," I growl, pulling out the other tool I had brought with me: A thin, dark permanent marker. My backup plan.

"What the hell is that?" Zack asks, panicking again. Like he knows that it isn't just any old permanent marker. No, this is meant especially for skin. I swiped it from a temporary tattoo kit. It's meant to last for weeks.

"Trust me," I respond, my normal voice coming out once more. I cough to hide it. "If you knew what I was going to do before, you'd thank me for this."

Then, pinning his hands to his chest and holding them down with my knees, I place one hand over his mouth and use the other to bring the marker down to his forehead.

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

Rose

After Thanksgiving itself, the rest of break seems to fly by. The only other hitch comes about when Sam and I finally decide that it's time to show our parents our progress reports. They're disappointed when they see mine, but it's nothing compared to how they react when they lay eyes on Sam's four D's and two C's (his only A being his writing class). Dad is furious, but comes to the anticlimactic conclusion that there is literally no way to punish Sam more than he is already being punished. So when you put it that way....Sam pretty much gets off Scott-free.

I, on the other hand, get an irritating earful about my lapse in performance.

"What's going on with you, George? First the no talking thing, and now this. Four B's, and from our normally straight-A student. What on earth has gotten into you?"

I, of course, say nothing. If there is anything positive that came from my month of silence besides my sort-of reconciliation with Cody, it's that I finally realized the control I have over my own voice, including when and how I use it. Where I used to stay silent out of fear or anxiety, or simply not knowing what to say, I have now started keeping my lips shut purely because I feel like it.

And damn, there's nothing quite like the feeling of realizing you have that control, that you don't owe anyone in this world your words. Not one goddamn person.

Luckily, after the big reveal of our grades, there is nothing left for me and Sam to worry about for the rest of break. It's actually a nice feeling; we're finally able to just chill for a few days.

Sam has started looking forward to nights, when he can expect Dan to pop by his window at around 1 a.m. without fail. Today is Sunday, the last day of break, and Dan hasn't missed a single visit.

There's a part of me that is jealous, of course, but not too big of a part. The overwhelming majority of me is happy for Sam, because if anyone deserves somebody who loves them unconditionally, it's him. And despite the vicious emo kid's countless faults, I have grown to trust Dan and see him as the very person that my brother deserves. They have my blessing.

Meanwhile, I've spent the remainder of my Thanksgiving Break searching out every fragment of alone time that I can get, which has become difficult ever since Mom has started breathing down my neck, trying to get me to run errands with her and shit. She's been acting like this even after I started talking again, which leads me to believe that my month of silence really did worry her.

As much as I appreciate my mother's efforts, nothing brings me more joy nowadays than being alone. I would gladly spend all day either in bed or at my desk, with headphones in my ears and a paintbrush to a canvas.

That's another thing: I've been painting a LOT over break. I also sketch occasionally, but mostly I've been painting. It's like the dam of sadness and trauma that has been blocking up my creative juices for the past month has finally shattered, and now I can't stop producing art. Every shitty feeling and memory that has tormented me and kept me numb for so long is finally being released through my art, and I fucking love it.

If it wasn't Cody's letter (which I still read once a day) that helped me find myself again, it might have been Sam's poem. His entry for that writing contest, a copy of which now hangs on the bulletin board above my desk. Another thing I read once a day, maybe even more than that.

The Art of Perseverance

She holds it between cold fingers:
The fragile tool, all that remains,
Her hope, her strength, her will to live.
Brittle bristles paint her pain.

Strokes of strength hold up her world,
A brush of green to keep her here,
Hues of blues that help her breathe,
And pink that makes her persevere.

On a page of black and white
She paints a world of hazy grays
But a splash of yellow makes her blink
And brightens up her colder days.

Through darkness and now death,
Lips frozen and eyes in a trance,
My sister grips her brush of hope
And paints her perseverance.

--Samuel A. Wyatt

I like to look at it every now and then as I work, read it, and smile. I know that he wrote it for me, like he does everything for me. God, how the hell were we ever fighting?

I spend the last day of break much like I spent all the others: alone in my room, painting to persevere. Only on this day, my solitude is rudely interrupted when Dad bursts in without warning at half past two in the afternoon. "You," he says, pointing to me. "Let's go."

"Huh? Go where?" I ask curiously. I glance at Sam, who was reading a book on his bed before Dad came in, and is now staring back at me looking just as puzzled.

"To the barber. It's about that time again--"

"Hold on!" I stand up from my desk and back away, feeling myself starting to panic. "Where did this come from? You didn't even warn me this time!"

"George, it's just a haircut." Dad says, speaking to me like I'm a child. "Why the hell should I have to warn you? And anyway, this is long overdue. Just look at that mess, it's starting to fall in front of your eyes again."

Well that's the freaking point! "Dad, no, please. I don't need a haircut!" It has almost gotten to the point where I like myself again. I can't do this again. Not after everything I've been through in the past month.

"You don't have a choice, George. Let's go."

From his bed, I can feel Sam watching the confrontation intently, wondering if he should speak up. I silently beg him not to; the poor kid doesn't need anymore trouble.

Helplessly and feeling as defeated by life as ever, I rise to my feet and prepare to follow my dad to my monthly humiliation. But then I stop.

"George, what are you waiting for? Let's go!" Dad is growing increasingly more irritated with me, and he doesn't bother trying to hide it. Maybe this is what makes me halt in my tracks, what makes me stay standing by my desk, with no intention of moving another muscle. Maybe it's his barking tone of voice, combined with his unsympathetic, militaristic glare as he waits for me to obey him like I always do, that makes my blood start to boil and a fiery defiance start to rise up inside of me.

Or maybe this is something that has been building up for a very long time.

I straighten up, look at him head on, and say, "No."

Dad blinks. Behind me I can almost hear Sam's mouth drop open in shock, but I don't look at him. I continue staring at my dad, showing him that I'm unafraid. And this is so unlike me that Dad almost forgets to be furious, he's so busy being surprised.

But the delay isn't a long one. "Whoa, what was that, young man?"

"I said no. I told you, Dad, like I've told you a million freaking times. I don't want a haircut."

Dad inhales deeply, and I have to consciously keep myself from flinching at his angry expression. In all of his time in the army my dad has never seen a battle, but being under his murderous glare, you'd think the man had fought two years in Vietnam.

"George Elijah Wyatt, I am your father. You do as I say, or so help me--"

"Or what?" I scoff, channeling Sam to throw forward the correct amount of attitude. "You'll spank me?"

"Don't tempt me."

"For crying out loud, I'm fourteen, Dad! That has to be illegal at this age."

"For God's sake, where the hell did this attitude come from, George?" Dad demands, now sounding more confused than angry. "It's just haircut--"

"Exactly!" I shout. "It's just a haircut! So why is this such a big deal?"

"Because you look like a damned girl, son!"

I'm so busy being furious, I don't hear the sound of Mom coming up the stairs until she's right outside my door. "What is all this yelling about in here? Sam--"

"Uh uh, not me this time," Sam says immediately, pointing at where me and Dad are having an obvious confrontation by the door.

"So what?" I spit back in response to my dad's last statement. "Is long hair really that big of a deal to you?"

"It's messy, it's unprofessional, and it gives a terrible image. In the military, a soldier with hair like yours can be fired."

"Well I'm not in the freaking military, Dad!" I shout.

"Oh my goodness, is this about the haircut?" Mom sighs, clearly exasperated. "Because honestly, Eli, it's not that big of a deal."

Dad turns to her with wide eyes. "Are you serious? How are you not backing me up on this?"

"Because both of you are getting far more upset than you need to be. For the love of God, it is just hair. And it's not even that long right now, would it really kill you to let him grow it out for a bit?"

Dad grits his teeth. I back away, feeling as if this is about to become an argument that no longer includes me.

"It's not just about the hair, Jenny, and you know it! It's about him," he lowers his voice, as if that will keep me from overhearing even though I'm still feet away. "You know I wouldn't give a damn how long he grew it out if our son wasn't already so, so....so," he sputters angrily, searching for the right word as Mom glares at him.

"Go ahead, Elijah. Say it."

"You know exactly what I'm saying. It's what I've always said."

"Oh, HERE WE GO!"

I jump and practically run to the other side of the room. I hate it when they start raising their voices. Sam motions me over to sit by the wall beside his bed. He knows how our parents' yelling gives me anxiety.

"So our son is a little feminine, so WHAT?"

"More than a little," Dad mutters viciously.

Mom stands her ground. "Yeah, and? So what?! I've stood behind you on this for far too long, and I've never understood why. WHAT is the big freaking deal if our son prefers drawing to playing football, if he likes to go shopping instead of lifting weights all day? That is his personality."

Even as I'm gripping my brother's hand to keep from having a panic attack, my spirits lift at the sound of my mother's words. She's standing up for me.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Jen. We've talked about this, and we both agreed that we wouldn't let him turn into a....into a--"

"None of this makes him gay, Eli. Our son is not gay. If anything, it's our daughter!"

I feels Sam's grip tighten in mine, and my heart deflates with disappointment. They're both wrong. Both of our parents are so, incredibly wrong.

"I don't know the first thing about what Samantha's deal is, but George's behavior is much too familiar for comfort. This is exactly what my brother was like when he was young, and you fucking know what happened to him!"

Sam and I look at each other with equal expressions of shock, and I just know that we're thinking the same thing. Dad has a brother? And he's gay? We have a gay uncle?

"I'm telling you, it's best if we put a stop to this feminine bullshit while he's young!"

"Put a stop to what?!" Mom continues with her defense. "His personality? He's sensitive!"

"He's a fucking fairy!"

Mom gasps. I flinch. That word. Surprisingly, I'm not as adjusted to it as I am to the word faggot.

"Don't you dare say that about our son! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"YO!" Sam yells suddenly, appearing to have had enough. "You guys wanna have your fight somewhere that isn't our room?"

"You stay out of this!" Dad shouts, jabbing a finger in Sam's direction. "I've had enough of your attitude, you rude, disrespectful--"

"I'm the rude one? You guys are the ones standing there and talking about us like we're not even here!"

"THAT IS ENOUGH!" Mom yells, shutting everyone up. She then turns to me. "Georgie, honey, you don't need a haircut today--"

"Yes he fucking does!" Dad cuts her off. "George, come with me--"

"Absolutely not! Sweetie, you can grow your hair out. In fact, you can have it as long as you want. Braid it and put flowers in it for all I care."

Her words would thrill me if I knew she wasn't just saying this to piss Dad off. Instead, they make me draw into myself even more.

"You will do no such thing! You are getting a haircut tonight if I have to buzz your head myself! Follow me to the car, or you're grounded!"

"George, if you listen to your father, you're grounded!"

I'm frozen in my corner, so scared and unsure of what to do that I start to shake. The noise, the anger, the indecisiveness....I can't take it anymore.

Aware of my agitation, Sam leaps up and takes everyone by surprise when he physically shoves our parents out of our room. "BOTH OF YOU, GET THE FUCK OUT!" he shouts, slamming the door shut and locking it behind them.

I cringe in fear, half expecting there to be bangs on the door and screaming threats from either or both of our parents. But the only sound that follows is the sound of them resuming their argument as they stomp down the stairs and out of earshot.

"Thanks," I tell Sam, still out of breath from trying to calm down. I hop onto my own bed and lay there on my stomach, feeling exhausted just from listening to them squabble senselessly.

"Don't mention it," Sam growls. "God, I can't believe them."

"I know," I grumble into my pillow.

Sam climbs back into his bed and we both sit in silence for awhile, processing what just happened. At least, I assume he is too. I definitely am.

After a few minutes, Sam breaks the silence. "So how much do you wanna bet their marriage won't last another two years?"

I sit up. "What? What do you mean?"

"Rosie, you can't tell me you don't see it. They've been fighting nonstop lately, and it's all over shit that's been building up practically since we were little. I'm willing to bet you twenty bucks that they get divorced before our junior year."

"Really Sam? This is what's been going through your head since you pushed them out?"

Sam blinks at me, confused. "What, is there something else I should be thinking about?"

"How about the shit they were saying? I don't know about you, but that's got me plenty preoccupied."

Sam simply shrugs. "What, are you freaking out because they think we're gay. Would you rather them know the truth?"

"No! I mean....god, I don't know."

I collapse back onto my bed, hands over my face. "I guess....I guess I just don't like that they've been fighting about us, you know? I already hate that they fight, but I hate it more when it's about us. What if we're the reason that their relationship is falling apart?"

Sam just snorts, not entertaining the thought for a second. "Rose, that's fucking stupid. Sure, maybe it doesn't help that both their kids are freaks, but come on. Mom and Dad are horrible for each other. She's friendly and polite, he's a grumpy introvert. She's family-oriented and he's a total workaholic. Honestly, how they even got together in the first place still baffles me."

Well, he's not wrong. And on some level, I suppose I agree that their relationship would be doomed even without us. But it doesn't stop me from feeling guilty for being different, and giving them one more thing to stress about. It doesn't stop me from hating myself for being who I am.

The muffled sound of a door slamming yanks me from my thoughts. "Was that--?"

"Yep," Sam sighs, peering out the window. I join him, and see our Dad just as he is climbing into his silver Honda Accord. He's practically halfway out of the driveway before he even shuts the car door, and his tires screech as he peels out into the street and speeds away.

"Something tells me he's not coming back tonight," Sam mutters, his tone a mix of pity and amusement. "I'm telling you, Rosie. Two more years at best. Though at the rate they're going--"

A soft knock on our door cuts him off, and both Sam and I jump away from the window as if caught committing a crime.

"Hey kids," Mom sighs as she pokes her head in. Her face is tearstained. "I just wanted to apologize for all of that. Are you guys okay?"

Sam nods, probably not trusting himself to speak. I just shrug, but that's my usual response.

"Okay. Well...I'm not going to talk to you guys about this, because there really isn't much to say. Just know that, whatever happens, we both love you very much. Okay?"

This time, we both nod.

"Okay. Get some sleep, school starts back up tomorrow." And with that, she shuts the door.

Sam looks at me with raised eyebrows, as if to say, you see?

I nod. "Yeah, maybe two more years," I agree. "Or maybe even one."

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

Sam

Hours after the fight, and long after the sky has been overtaken by darkness, I'm still sitting in a chair by the same window through which I watched my dad speed away from us. I stare into the night, waiting. Waiting for my visitor.

Across the room, Rosie groans. "Couldn't he do us a favor and visit you earlier this time? It's a freaking school night."

"No one's asking you to stay awake."

"How am I supposed to sleep when you have the curtains wide open?"

I'm about to shoot back a sarcastic retort, but that's when I see him. Breaking into a grin that hurts my face, I throw the window open before he has a chance to throw any pebbles. "Danny boy!" I exclaim, almost forgetting to keep my voice down. Rose shushes me to remind me.

"Sammy boy," he greets me from the ground. "How's your day been?"

"Ugh, draining. My parents are fighting over stupid shit. You?"

"Pretty boring, actually," Dan says, sticking his hands in his jean pockets awkwardly. "With my family gone and Gabriella still on vacation, it's just been me for the past couple days."

"Oooo, thrown any wild parties?" I joke.

He chuckles. "Oh yeah, of course. Because you know how in I am with the cool kids these days."

I can't help but flinch slightly, even while I'm smiling. It's needless to say that Dan's short-lived reputation with the popular crowd ended rather abruptly the moment he started hanging out with me. Not that he seems to care even slightly, but I still feel like I've completely screwed him out of his chance to ever have any other friends.

"How have you been spending your time alone?" I ask curiously.

He shrugs. "I have hobbies that keep me busy. Fucking reading, painting, all that shit."

I laugh, leaning further out the window to smile at him. "Those are some cute hobbies you've got. And here I thought you were manly--"

"Shut the fuck up!" he snaps, but his voice cracks on the first word, making me laugh harder. "I'm serious!" His attempt to sound furious is completely ruined by the fact that he's smirking. "Don't make me come up there."

"I'd like to see you try," I dare him.

To my surprise, Dan grabs hold of the lowest branch on the tree by my window. "Challenge accepted."

"What? Dan, wait--"

But he's already climbing his way up, effortlessly grabbing onto tree branches like he's been training for this.

"God, don't tell me he's coming up here," Rose mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose. "That kid's going to get both of our asses into trouble."

"Dan, no, hold on. Dan. Daniel!"

But he ignores my hissed warnings, continuing to climb up through the tree until he is completely level with me, leaning precariously on one of the thinnest branches, not even slightly out of breath. He flashes me his cutest grin. "Challenge accomplished."

"It wasn't a challenge, you dumb fuck! Get down before you break your neck."

"Or get us in trouble," Rose adds from her bed.

"Oh please, I'm not gonna fall." Dan rolls his eyes at me, completely ignoring Rose. "I've been climbing trees for years. It's not like I haven't learned by now to be--" he cuts off suddenly swaying dramatically in his place in the tree. "Whoa! Oh no! Dammit, I'm slipping!"

"Dan!"

"I'm gonna fall, Sam! I'm gonna fall down and break all my bones and die!"

By now I know that he's messing with me, but I still can't help but feel nervous by his dangerous swaying. He isn't even holding on to anything! "Daniel, quit it! It's not funny."

Dan leans back on the tree trunk, laughing. "Relax, dude. I was just--" But it's then that the branch under him makes an audible crack, and his joking expression turns into one of terror. "Uh oh."

Knowing that he isn't fooling this time, I waste no time reaching out the window and grabbing both of his arms. I use all of my strength to haul him through the window, and manage it just as the branch he was sitting on breaks off and tumbles to the ground.

Meanwhile, Dan's weight brings both of us to the floor of my bedroom, with him landing on top of me hard.

"Ow! Dude, get off. You're crushing my ribs." I push him off of me forcefully.

"Hey, you're the one who pulled me in," he argues, brushing tree residue from his t-shirt.

"You're welcome, by the way. And you were the dumbass who decided to climb the tree. You could've seriously hurt yourself."

"I would've been fine! And I'm fucking sorry, okay? Sorry I just couldn't wait until tomorrow to kiss your stupid face again!"

He still sounds angry, but his words diminish my anger entirely. Almost oblivious to the fact that Rose is still watching from her bed, I grab Dan's face and pull it to my own. He kisses me back eagerly.

"Ew, gross!" my sister exclaims to remind us of her presence. "Can't you guys do that somewhere else?"

I pull away reluctantly.

Dan sighs. "Dammit, come on Rosie. I've been dying to do this for days. Can't you just respect that?"

"Gee, let me think. No! It's one in the morning, and I don't need to see you suck face with my brother."

"Close your eyes then," I grumble, making Dan chuckle. He kisses me again, and I respond with desperate lips.

"You guys are lucky that Dad's not here and Mom's a heavy sleeper, or else both of you would be getting lynched right about now." With that, Rose shoves her head underneath her pillow and attempts to ignore us.

Dan breaks the kiss this time to pull me into a tight hug. "God, I've missed you Sam."

"You've seen me practically every day, you doofus," I respond in an annoyed voice, glad that he can't see me blushing over his shoulder.

He just grips me tighter, putting a hand in my tied up hair. "It's not the same."

My heart flutters like a hummingbird's wings at his words. We both sink to the floor, still hugging, and I let myself become weightless in his arms. I want to stay like this forever.

Unfortunately, we can't. A small part of me is still worried that Mom is going to wake up and catch us, and the ending date of my punishment will move from Christmas to Easter. Ruffling his raven locks, I reluctantly pull back from my boyfriend. (My boyfriend!) "I'm really glad you came, but we both need sleep, Dan. I think you should go back home."

His look of disappointment is hard to miss, and I immediately feel bad. "Hey, it's not like we won't see each other in a few hours," I remind him, lifting his chin with my hand. "We can wait that long, can't we?"

"Yeah, I guess...." his voice is sad, even tad bit whiny, and it strikes me that this is probably the softest we've ever spoken to each other.

And so I put a stop to it. "Hey, quit being such a needy pussy," I command, suddenly shoving him away from me. "It's pathetic."

For the smallest second, Dan honestly looks hurt by my words and the cold feeling of regret shoots through my body. But in an instant, he seems to shake it off. "Hey, fuck you," he growls, shoving me back. "Asshole."

"Little bitch," I shoot back. "Get the hell out of my room before I push you out."

"No need to tell me twice!" He whirls around and heads for the window, but then stops in front of it. He stares at the tree, then looks down to the ground. Turning back to me, he asks softly, "Hey, uh...is it cool if I just use the front door to get out?"

"Yeah, it should be fine," I respond in an equally soft voice. "See you tomorrow, kay?"

"Okay."

And with that, we revert right back to where we were. "And try not to trip down the stairs on your way out, you clumsy fucktard."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Same to you!"

He grabs me and kisses me one last time before slipping out the door without another word.

"God, you guys are so fucked up," Rose mutters from under her pillow.

I ignore her. I don't care enough to respond. I'm too busy smiling, still entranced by the sensation he left on my lips.

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

DAN

As I leave Sam's house, my lips still burning from our last kiss, I feel the weight of crushing depression rest back on my shoulders once more. It hurts, god it's so painful. And Sam is the only one that can lift it, which is why I wish more than anything that I could have stayed with him longer.

But how could I tell him that? How could I let him know that the only times I have smiled for this entire break have been because of him? How could I possibly admit to him that the jokes he made about me being a needy little bitch have some truth to them, that I'm probably the neediest little bitch in existence?

How can I tell him that I'm depressed as fuck, and that I still cut myself to cope with it? That I've never stopped cutting myself, and am the biggest damned liar for convincing him that I'm recovered?

The answer is, of course, that I can't. There's no way I can tell him, especially not now. Not when he's suffering too, and needs me to be strong for him. There is no way in hell I can tell him that I'm not nearly as strong as I pretend to be.

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

Rose

From the moment I open my eyes on the first day of school after Thanksgiving Break, I can sense that something isn't right. I'm not sure how to explain it, except that I just have a feeling. Has that ever happened to you? Where you get that weird, eerie sense-- a premonition, almost-- that everything is about to go horribly, incredibly wrong?

Yeah, I suppose that's the best way I can describe it.

"Hey Sam, does something feel....off about today?" I ask my brother as we near the school building that morning.

"You mean because it's finally getting cold?" Sam responds, pulling his new leather jacket-- which I can only guess is Dan's-- tighter around his body.

He's not wrong; temperatures dropped drastically last night and the morning air is frigid. It feels like winter. "Sure, but that's not what I mean."

"What do you mean then?"

"Okay, don't laugh at me. But does something feel sort of....ominous?"

Sam laughs anyway. "Ominous? Is there something I need to know about you, Rosie? Are you seeing visions or something?"

"No! I mean....it's the atmosphere, you know? Like, something is different. I just can't place it."

"Sis, I gotta tell you, you sound super crazy right now," Sam says as he pulls open the front doors of the building, letting me in first. "Everything seems fine to me."

Funny enough, it is at that moment that it strikes both of us how strangely quiet the commons area is. People are still talking, sure, but....it's nothing like how it normally is. This morning is missing something.

"Where are all the loud people?" Sam voices my thoughts exactly, referring to the suspicious lack of rowdy football players, gossipy cheerleaders, and obnoxious student council members that normally fill the commons area by this time in the morning. Plenty of students still occupy the area, but they all stand huddled together in their groups, whispering intently.

I listen closely, trying to catch bits and pieces of conversation.

"--really fucked up is going on--"

"Did you see the lockers?"

"Did you see his forehead?"

"Thompson? Andy Thompson?

"What did it say again?"

Before I can process much more, the bell rings. Students scatter off to class, as usual, but there's still a strange hush in the atmosphere. Almost a sense of fear.

What the hell is going on?

Sam and I hug before parting for the morning, but it's clear that the strange occurrences of the are still weighing heavily on our minds.

The unsettled feeling worsens throughout the morning, with many kids making their way through the halls while whispering in hushed tones to their friends. I can't even fully enjoy art class, and not only because Miss Vaughn isn't here and our grumpy old substitute teacher forces us to work in silence for the whole class. I keep feeling like life has been okay-ish for far too long, and that it's only a matter of time before everything goes to hell again.

On my way to second period, things start to become a bit more apparent. I pass two seemingly random lockers in the hallway that look to have been beaten with a baseball bat. On one, someone has spray painted in huge, black letters the word ENABLER. On the second appears the word ACCOMPLICE. Both lockers are surrounded by crowds of students when I pass them, all speaking in whispers, presumably theorizing about what the hell the words could possibly be referring to.

I shudder, electing not to think about it. Perhaps it's not a big deal, just another bully trying to mess with people. Can't possibly have anything to do with me.

Of course, I don't get to enjoy this ignorance for very long.

"Rosie!" Sam almost yells, practically ambushing me outside of biology class before the bell rings. "Rosie, you have to go home."

"Wait, what?"

"You have to leave, Rosie! I'll cover for you, I'll say that you got sick. Just get out."

"Sam, what the hell are you--"

But just then, another figure emerges in the classroom doorway, towering above Sam menacingly. It's Edgar Thompson, which is almost to be expected at this point. But what I definitely did not expect was to see a faded word on his forehead, surrounded by red and raw skin, as if it had been forcibly scrubbed at for days in a vain attempt to remove it. The word read: ACCOMPLICE.

"You," Edgar growls in a vindictive voice. He points a finger at me. "You did this. You fucking snitch. I swear to fucking god--"

"Don't you touch my brother, Thompson," says Sam, stepping in front of me instinctively. "I will end you."

I can't move. I can't even break eye contact with Edgar. The evil look in his eye reminds me so much of someone else, someone with very similar eyes as him, that I can almost feel my voice evaporate right out of my throat. He's going to hurt me again. He's going to hurt me. Oh god, he's going to--

"Was it you then, you sick bitch?" Edgar turns on Sam, pushing him to the floor. "Were you responsible for this?

Sam lifts himself up without missing a beat. "I didn't do shit! But whoever wrote that on you deserves an award. It's a wonderful addition to your ugly face."

"I'm not talking about me, you psycho!" Edgar squeaks, tears brimming on his eyelids. I am stunned by his sudden shift from fearsome to scared child. "I'm talking about my brother!"

"What?!"

By now, the yelling has attracted a crowd. Sam and Edgar are inches apart, glaring at each other with such a combined force, I fear that one of them could vaporize at any moment. And then there's me, still standing paralyzed against the wall of lockers, feeling smaller and smaller as the crowd of students around us grows.

Luckily, they aren't occupied by us for very long. Not when a frantic voice comes on over the loudspeaker with a command that hushes the crowd, that makes everyone look up, and that chills me to the bone.

"Rosalie Parker, please report to the main office! Rosalie Parker, to the main office please!"

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

ROSE PARKER

It was so easy. Almost too easy. I should've known my luck wouldn't last.

I got to them one by one over Thanksgiving Break, sneaking out in the dead of night so my mom wouldn't catch me. And oh god, how it was satisfying to mark them all with the label they deserved. Zack was the enabler, and I ended up deciding that he would represent all of the sick fuckers who just stood there and watched as Andy did what he did to Rosie.

Next, I went after Kyle. The monster who took the pictures. Damn that kid could struggle; I almost had to straight up knock him out just to pin him down and write on his stupid forehead. I remember wishing that there was enough room to write Child Porn Distributer on his head, seeing as how that is exactly what I could get him charged with for taking those pictures. But the marker was thick, and I had already decided on a one-word theme. I went with Pervert.

Next I went for Warren Hawk. He earned a big fat SICKO all across his face since, according to Zack, the attack was his gross idea. Now him I did have to knock out. I did it by sneaking into his house early Thanksgiving morning and slipping roofies into the many open bottles of wine in his kitchen fridge. Where did I find the roofies, you may ask? The bedside table of Kyle McGarret.

And last but not least, the Thompsons. I got them last night, having Facebook stalked them and learned that they would be at a college party the night before school resumed. In order to get in to the party unnoticed, however, I couldn't wear my disguise. That was mistake number one.

I found the brothers in two separate locations, both drinking beer with small groups of friends. Slipping the roofies in their drinks was easy; honestly, it was almost frightening how easy it was. Young people reading this, please let this be a lesson to you and never let your drink leave your hand at a party. I don't care if you're a guy or girl or whatever, there will always be evil creeps out there willing and able to do this type of shit. (Um, me being an exception to the "evil creep" demographic. I am simply on a mission for karma). Stay safe everyone.

When Edgar looked about ready to keel over, his friends thought he had just had too much to drink and left him alone in the yard. That's when I made my move, bringing my trusty marker to his large forehead and scrawling out ACCOMPLICE. I felt even more satisfied when I remembered that we had school tomorrow.

And last but not least, Andrew Thompson. The sick fucking monster himself. For him, choosing a word was difficult. "Monster" seemed too tame, as did the word "evil". I made my choice when I saw firsthand how Andy groped the breasts of the drunk girls around him, even going as far as to kiss one girl's neck. I remember feeling like I was going to vomit. Andy was a rapist, plain and simple. So that was the word he was going to get.

My second mistake of the night (the first being not disguising myself) was allowing Andy to see me before he lost consciousness. He was sitting alone on the back porch, with his head in his hands, probably assuming that he was simply too drunk. He had no idea what was in store for him.

As I approached the pile of human garbage from behind, I could feel myself getting angrier and angrier. I could almost physically feel my blood start to boil from staring at this creature. Look at him, sitting there and drinking at a party without a care in the world. What must that be like, to be able to go through life confident and unafraid, with out a shred of guilt for the people you hurt? I wonder what it's like to be able to exist so unapologetically, to not have to be wary every time you step outside after dark? What's it like to live without fear that the same monster who hurt you would do it again because he's still fucking out there? Can you tell me what that's like, Rick? Can you--

And then, for the smallest of seconds, I am ambushed by flashbacks of what happened to me when I was six. But just as quickly, I am able to push them away. I'm good at repressing things; it's one of my few talents.

But the point is, for just one moment, I couldn't control myself. I was right behind Andy when I opened my mouth and an unfamiliar voice pushed itself out. "I am going to hurt you so fucking bad."

Andy stood up and turned around in the same motion, but before he could even blink I punched him square in the jaw. He stumbled and fell back through the porch railing. Lucky the music inside was too damn loud for anyone to hear the crash.

In that instance, I was on top of him. He was still awake, but barely. His head had hit a rock when he fell and he was bleeding slightly, and I decided that I liked the sight of his blood too much to use a marker.

As Andy started to lose consciousness, I pulled my father's blade from my coat pocket. I pulled back the hair from the boy's forehead, feeling a swelling sense of pride when I thought about the word that was about to go there. It would be like a blazing red flag, the scar that would never fade. From this point forward, the whole world would know what Andrew Thompson was.

The balloon of mixed pride and excitement in my chest swelled and swelled until it finally exploded with a warm pop, and then I felt nothing at all as I did the carving.

----

Back to the present day. My name has been called over the loudspeaker and I am to report to the office. Even with zero context, I know that I am done for. Andy has reported me to the principal and I am surely going to be expelled.

But you know what? I don't give a fuck. Because this is a perfect opportunity to let Mr. Suss know what the senior boy accusing me of being an attacker did to an innocent freshman. And I will be more than happy to tell him.

The music playing through my headphones is suddenly interrupted by a soft ping, and I pull out my phone. A name that I have not seen on my home screen in over a month stares me in the face.

ROSIE WYATT: Girl, what did you do???

Nowhere in my elaborate plan had I even considered telling Rosie what I did to the boys that hurt her. And even now, I think it's much safer to let her figure it out on her own. With a sigh, I click my phone screen dark again and shove the thing back in my pocket, turning TOP up on full blast as I make my way to the office.

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

Sam

Not once during the entire day does the blood-drained look on Rosie's face fade even slightly. I'm almost afraid to leave her after bio, especially when I ask, "You'll be okay, right Rosie?" and she walks away without responding.

In gym class, Dan corners me before I can even get to the locker room. "Dude, what did Rose Parker do?"

I shrug. "No idea, but from the way my sister looked when they said her name, I almost feel like she knows something."

"Yikes. Not that I really care what happens to that bitch, but I didn't like the sound of Suss's voice when he summoned her. Sounded like she had committed a murder or something."

He said that jokingly, but I shiver at the notion. Something about the wild redhead has always seemed a bit off to me, and even though I don't want to, a part of me ponders about the likelihood that she is in trouble for just that.

"Samantha Wyatt, you gonna get dressed sometime today?" Coach Wheeler barks from across the gym, causing me to snap to attention. Annoying giggles emit from a group of girls exiting the locker room. One of them mutters something about how I'm probably embarrassed about my hairy legs.

Wow, how original.

Later as we're doing our warmups, I try to ignore how itchy my arms feel. I haven't cut since the day Dan and I started dating, and I'd like to keep it that way. But it gets harder as the days go on.

As usual, Dan doesn't fail to notice. "You doing okay, Sammy boy?" Dan asks, having run up to me immediately after warmups. The coaches are working on setting up the volleyball net in the middle of the gym, so we get a few minutes to talk.

"I'm fine, Danny boy," I respond, giving him a playful nudge. "Just....itchy. You know?"

Dan smiles sadly. "Yeah. I know. Did you put ointment on them this morning?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes mom."

"Don't give me that shit, Sam. I just want to make sure you're taking care of yourself."

"Well I'm doing fine." Actually, I've been pleasantly surprised by how fine I've been doing. Almost suspicious of it. I haven't even been tempted to relapse since I quit cold turkey the first day of Thanksgiving Break. I still have blades hidden under my mattress, though, not that Dan needs to know that. They're purely for emergencies.

"I'm glad," says Dan, squeezing my hand. We ignore the titters around us, far too consumed by each other to give a single shit about the gossip that has emerged from our obvious budding relationship.

"Alright everyone!" Announces Coach Hill suddenly. "As you can see, we're playing volleyball today. Boys against girls for the first round, so please gather on your respective sides...."

Dan and I hug tightly before separating. To others the gesture might look cute and romantic, but they don't hear me whisper in his ear, "I'm going to crush your bitch ass so hard at this game, you'll be begging for mercy at the end of it."

Appropriately, he responds in a breathy murmur, "We'll see about that, ya queer."

Our teams end up tying, but the two of us are so ruthless that the coaches have to intervene twice to keep us from sending each other to the nurse's office.

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

Rose

It's our first English class since Cody gave me the letter, and true to his promise he does not approach me. He doesn't even look at me, but I don't find myself caring one way or the other. I have far too much on my mind.

Since they called her name on the loudspeaker, I have been unable to stop thinking about Rose. I spend the period that we're supposed to be using to start our final essay for the semester chewing on my pencil, checking my phone every five minutes to see if she has responded to my text. I can't quit wondering what the hell she did to end up in so much trouble, even though I'm pretty sure I know at least part of the story. I saw the lockers this morning, as well as the faded words on foreheads of the boys who hurt me.

Two of them happen to be in my class-- Edgar and Jackson-- and cast multiple burning glares my direction throughout the period. I try to ignore them, but the evil vindictiveness in their eyes is making me squirm. For all they know, it is my fault that their attacker did what they did, and I'm sure they believe that I'm the one who should pay for it.

"George, Cody, Drew, Elizabeth. I don't see you guys working," Mrs. Carter calls out me and others she must have caught staring off into space.

Taking a deep breath in, I try to focus on the blank page in front of me, hoping that if I just squint hard enough, words about themes and symbols in To Kill a Mockingbird will appear on it.

But I can't stop feeling those glares from two rows up, and the feeling of nausea that they trigger in me. All of this time spent relearning how to speak and how to live without constant fear after what was done to me, and suddenly my throat feels like a desert and I'm more scared than ever before.

A knock on the classroom door causes me to look up, and an upperclassman with a lanyard and a pink slip of paper pokes her head in. Mrs. Carter gets up from her desk to retrieve the note, and the entire class watches, each student probably hoping that the note is for them and they get to escape the rest of class for whatever reason.

"Edgar and Jackson," Mrs. Carter mutters, crushing the hopes of the other students but likely igniting fear in the hearts of the two boys she just called. "You are wanted in the office."

I can almost see the color drain from both of their faces as they rise, making the washed-out words on their heads appear even bolder. A couple of kids laugh, but our teacher silences them with a look, almost as if she knows something about how serious this summons is.

Both Edgar and Jackson manage to shoot me one last burning glare before following the student aid out the door, but I keep my gaze firmly on my still-blank sheet of paper. They're not going to hurt me. They can't hurt me. They'll get in trouble. They already are in trouble.

But how? What did Rose Parker tell the principal? How many others has she turned in? Has my name been brought up? Will I be the next one summoned to tell my side of the story?

My palms suddenly slick with sweat, I drop my pencil on the floor and it rolls underneath Cody's desk just a few feet away. Almost robotically, he reaches to pick it up and hands it back to me without a word, but I don't accept it. My hands are shaking and I can't make them stop, not even to reach over and grab my fucking pencil.

Cody's expressionless face changes to one of concern. "Hey," he whispers. "Are you okay?"

No, I'm not. I'm not okay. Rose Parker is in trouble for getting revenge on the boys who hurt me, and now they're all in the office probably talking about me, and I can only imagine what is going to happen next, and I feel like I'm about to throw up all over the classroom floor, and I can't stop fucking shaking.

"Do you need help?" Cody asks quietly.

No. I need to get the fuck out of here.

Finally finding the energy to stand, I mutter something about using the bathroom as I pass Mrs. Carter's desk and am out the door before she can respond.

In the hallway, my knees buckle under me and suddenly I'm on the floor gasping for air. Shaky hands find my phone. Forgetting our code entirely, I just text Sam the word HELP in all caps before I remember that he's in gym, and probably doesn't have his phone.

I need to get to him, I think. He's the only one that can help me. He's the only one that knows....

But I can't stand up. I can't even crawl. I can only lay there on the cold linoleum floor, crying and using all of my energy to focus on breathing and not throwing up.

"Rose."

I look up. Cody is standing over me, looking extremely worried but otherwise calm. I'm confused by his use of my name, and think that I'm dreaming until I remember that I had texted him over break and told him my name.

He kneels down on the floor beside me. "Rose," he says again in a low voice. "What do you need right now?"

I need Sam. I need Dan, or maybe even Rose Parker. I need anyone but you right now.

I inhale sharply and try to use the next forced breath to get words out. "W-what....what are you....are you--" I gasp. Where's your next breath, Rosie? Find it. Find words. Gasp "Why did you follow me?" gasp. Just the simple forced question makes my throat sting. I wipe my eyes and keep trying to breathe.

"Mrs. Carter asked me to follow you and make sure you were okay. You looked really sick."

My next two breaths come in gasps, and I have to hold them in before releasing them as slowly as possible so I won't pass out. It's a trick that Sam taught me that has proven useful during panic attacks. Gasp-gasp. Hold. 1....2...3. Release.....GASP.

"Shhh, breathe," says Cody, as if that's not what I'm already trying to do. He touches my shoulder, but I flinch back violently.

One thing I've learned from having so many panic attacks is that people who don't know how to help like to tell you to breathe, as if you've simply forgotten how, and them saying the word breathe will solve the entire situation. What these people don't seem to realize is that the issue isn't so much forgetting to breathe as it is not being able to control how you do it. Breathing is a very natural task of the autonomic nervous system that should happen without you having to consciously focus on it. But in panic attack mode, your body's breathing mechanism is like an overheated modem that has gone completely haywire, and nobody can fix it but you.

"Breathe," Cody says again.

"Shut up," I respond angrily, gripping my chest as I focus on just that. I don't need his help. I can do this. This is far from my first panic attack. Gasp-gasp. Hold. 1...2...3.

"I'm sorry," he mutters. "I'm just trying to help you."

Release. There we go. "I'm....fine," I say in a raspy voice, wiping away the last of my tears. "I'm okay. I'm fine. I'll be....I'll be fine."

"What happened back there?"

I honestly could not explain it if I tried. "Just....just thinking too much. That's all."

"You scared me."

I don't know how to respond to that, so I say nothing. I just lean back against the lockers, my knees to my chest.

Cody sits down next to me. "How was your break?" he asks casually.

"I thought you weren't going to try talking to me anymore."

"I was told to check on you. Do you want to go back in class now that you're doing alright?"

I grimace. Nope, not even slightly. "Break was fine, I guess. A little dramatic, but family always is."

"I hear ya. And same."

"You know, I don't think you've ever told me much about your family," I remark as this occurs to me. "Do you have any siblings?"

Cody shifts uncomfortably, and I get the impression that there might be a reason he doesn't discuss his family. "Um.....sort of."

Huh? "What does that mean? Like, half-siblings or something?"

Without warning, he stands up. "We should probably let Mrs. Carter know that you're alive." He extends a hand to help me up, but looks wary about it. I accept it to show him that it's a gesture I'm okay with. His skin is colder than I remember. "Are you going to be okay?"

I roll my eyes. "I'll be fine. It was just a panic attack. Happens all the time."

"Good to know. For the future, is there anything other people can do to help?"

His questions startles me; I don't think I've ever been asked something quite like that. Curious, but sensitive at the same time, like he actually wants to learn the right thing to do. With a jolt, I'm reminded of why I ever developed feelings for Cody in the first place.

"Um, I guess don't tell me to breathe. That irritates me."

"Yeah, I could tell," he smirks. "Anything else?"

"Uh....not really. Sam holds my hand to keep me grounded and remind me that he's there for me, but that's a Sam thing. I don't like most people touching me."

"So no touching. Got it."

"Yeah. Basically, I've just learned that the best thing I can do is wait it out. Panic attacks go away on their own, I just always feel like I'm gonna die in the moment."

"So what I'm hearing is don't touch you, don't talk to you, and go find Sam when you're panicking."

"Um, yeah. Basically." Not that I plan on panicking in front of you ever again.

"Okay. Got it." He holds open the classroom door for me.

"Thanks," I mutter awkwardly, shuffling my way back in. My cheeks grow hot as I feel everyone staring at me, but I ignore them. I return to my seat without a word and continue staring at the page in front of me.

My phone buzzes. It's Sam, of course.

SAM: Rosie I'm so sorry, I didn't have my phone! Are you okay???

ME: Yeah. Just a panic attack. Sorry for scaring you.

Hiding my phone before Mrs. Carter sees it, I glance at Cody. Unsurprisingly, he has already returned to working on his paper, not even looking at me. As if our brief interaction had never happened.

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

ROSE PARKER

I get to sit right outside of Suss's office as he interrogates the boys one by one. The downside of this is that the second each one of them walks into the office, they know that I'm the one who attacked them. But that is far outweighed by the upside, which is that I get to look them all in the eye and grin smugly at them as they walk to their doom. When it was Edgar's turn, I even nodded at him and said, "Nice forehead," and, I could tell that it took all of his willpower not to hit me in the face right then and there.

I had my own interrogation earlier. I won't lie and say I wasn't just a little bit scared when I first sat down in front of the principal's desk, especially with two police officers standing on either side of him. One was scrawling something onto a notepad, while the other just stared me down like I was the scum of the earth.

"Do I even need to tell you why you are here, Miss Parker?" was the first thing Mr. Suss said to me, and his tone seemed so serious and final, I was sure I was getting expelled.

I had to take a moment before responding so I could make sure my voice wasn't shaky. I wanted to remain calm and collected through this. "No," I responded. "I know what I did. But I can probably tell you a few things you don't know." I looked at the cops when I said this, and now both were staring at me curiously.

Completely ignoring the last part of my statement, Suss alternated harsh glances between me and a piece of paper on his desk in front of him. "Vandalism. Stalking. Terrorizing and attacking multiple students--"

"I just said I knew why I was here," I interrupted him, but he continued.

"All of that, Miss Parker, would earn you a weeklong suspension at the very least, expulsion at worst. But then there's the report I received this morning. A report from the mother of senior Andrew Thompson. Do you know where I am going with this, young lady?"

I stayed quiet. This was probably the moment where I felt the most scared. Possibly more scared than I've ever felt in my entire life.

"Mrs. Thompson called to inform me why her eldest son was not at school today. Apparently he came home late last night with very odd markings on his face. Marks that were bleeding heavily, and that seemed to spell out an awfully accusatory word."

He paused for a moment, examining my face as he let that sink in. I still said nothing. He continued. "She said that her son claims to have been attacked by a young girl from his school. He described a very tall girl with curly red hair and torn clothing. I'm sorry to say this Rosalie, but not a whole lot of students at our school fit that description. Almost none other than you."

I clenched my fists in my lap, trying to summon the courage and confidence that I had felt this morning. With the officers staring me down, eagerly awaiting a confession, it's difficult. But somehow, I manage.

"So now that you understand why I must ask, what were you doing on the night of--"

"I did it."

Mr. Suss's eyebrows shot up. "You....you did it?" I'm sure his surprise stemmed more from my quick confession than the fact that I had done it, a.s he seemed to have known that already

"Yup. I did it. I did it all. Lockers and everything. All me."

"I'm sorry, I'm going to need you to clarify your statement," says one officer, speaking for the first time. The other clicks on a video camera that I had not noticed was there before. "Did you attack Andrew Thompson with a knife on the night of November 29th?"

I stared straight into the camera when I answered. "Yes I did. I attacked Andrew Thompson. I used a knife to carve the word 'rapist' into his face, which is exactly what he is, and I'm not sorry about it."

Suss clasps his has hands together and leans forward in his chair. Speaking very slowly, he says, "Rosalie....I'm concerned that you don't realize how serious this is. Andrew has gone to the hospital for skin trauma. What you did will leave a permeant scar on his forehead. Furthermore, his mother wants to press charges."

"I'm sorry, did you not hear what I said?" I asked, looking pointedly at the police officers. "The kid is a fucking rapist. He molested my friend on homecoming night, and he did it on school property. Everyone I marked up played a part in hurting her, but Andy was the one who actually did it. They all got what they deserved and I'm not fucking sorry for giving it to them."

Suss is completely speechless, but the officer not standing by the camera steps forward. "Rosalie, that is a very serious accusation. Are you sure this is true?"

I couldn't believe this. "Am I sure? Am I sure? Why don't you ask my friend who was attacked behind the school building?!"

"And who would that be?"

At that point, I had to cut myself off. The name Rose Wyatt died in my throat, and not only because that isn't her real name, and the issue of her being trans is not my secret to share.

"I....I can't tell you."

"And why not?"

"Because she didn't report it for a reason. She's traumatized, and I don't think she wants to be forced to talk about it."

The officer, (whose name tag I now noticed read Officer Bentley) kneeled down so that he was eye level with me. "Listen Rosalie--"

"Just Rose is fine, thanks."

"Alright, Rose it is then. I need you to know that this new piece of information, while very serious, does not diminish the severity of your crime. However, if you end up having to go to court-- which is likely if Mrs. Thompson does press charges-- this is information that you can use in your defense. But in order for it to be of any value, I need you to tell me everything you know about this crime against your friend."

I hesitated. "....Including their name?"

"Eventually that will be helpful. But just start with what you feel like sharing for now. Is that agreeable with you?"

It took a few seconds, but I nodded. "I wasn't there when it happened," I admitted. "But I can tell you the people that were."

----

And that is how I ended up here, sitting in a chair outside the office (having been prevented from leaving) and watching the perverted boys I attacked over break being summoned into the office one by one. I know that eventually it will be my turn again, but for now I will enjoy just sitting here and listening to great music as I watch these criminals proceed to their doom.

I must admit that there is one part of this that I am not so excited for, however. Because I told Officer Bentley that I would give him the names of everyone who was there that night, except for my friend who was attacked. Everyone who could tell him more about what happened then I could. And unfortunately, that list included one person who might just kill me for doing this.

Mr. Suss startles me when he emerges from his office, but it's just to give another note to the student aid sitting behind the front desk. I remove one of my earbuds to listen.

"Sorry for making you run around so much this morning Trisha, but I still need one more student." He finishes scrawling something on the pink slip in his hand before giving it over to her. "I need you to send for Samantha Wyatt, please."

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

Sam

"You gonna make it, Rosie?" Dan asks my sister during lunch. I'm glad he's also noticed that she hasn't eaten a bite of her food, and the fact that he calls her Rosie sometimes makes me smile.

"Yeah," she responds. "I'm just.....yeah."

Dan and I share a glance. She doesn't have to say anything for us to know that she's still worried about Rose Parker.

"I'm sure she's going to be fine," I say, trying my best to sound reassuring. "She can't be in too much trouble."

"What if that's not what I'm worried about?" says Rose suddenly, sinking lower into her chair. "What if I think she should be in trouble. What if she's not in enough trouble?"

"What? Rosie, do you know something we don't?"

She doesn't answer right away, her eyes on her tasteless lunch. Then she mutters, "I'll explain later."

At this point the bell rings and lunch is over. Rose heads off to gym without another word, perhaps hoping that Rose Parker will be there. Meanwhile, Dan insists on walking me to Creative Writing.

"Really? We're going to be that couple?" I tease him when he takes my hand and leads me through the hall. I can't stop myself from blushing, still adjusting to the idea that we're a couple at all.

Dan gives me his famous smirk. "Of course. You know that my life mission is to be as irritating as possible. A part of that is making everyone jealous that I'm in an awesome relationship while they're all sad and alone."

I snort. "Right, real awesome relationship. You're dating a closeted trans freak with anger issues and deeply embedded self hatred."

Dan shrugs. "So? You're dating a loser, emo son of depraved Hollywood actors who bullies people to hide his own insecurities. I think we're pretty much even.

I smile, wrapping my arm around his waist and squeezing him in for a side hug. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"Ow!" he says, wincing when I squeeze him.

I pull back. "What's wrong?"

"I fell down yesterday," he explains. "I think I have a bruise."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's cool."

He takes me all the way up to the classroom door, but it's there that we're stopped by a student aid. "Hey, are you Samantha Wyatt?"

"Um, yeah," I respond with a grimace at my full name. I cannot wait until I can get that shit legally changed. "Why?"

"Sorry to corner you before class, but you're wanted in the office," she says, showing me the pink slip in her hand. Indeed, the paper says my name and looks to have been signed by the principal. "I already showed this to your teacher, so you should be good to go."

"Wait a sec, why exactly am I wanted?" I ask. Dan lingers, obviously curious as well.

The girl shrugs. "Sorry, but I wasn't told. It seems urgent though."

"Aw crap."

Dan looks at me. "Any ideas?"

"No, but old Dr. Suss and I didn't get along too well at the beginning of the year. Something about me always threatening violence and cursing loudly in class," I tell him while wracking my brains trying to remember if I had done any of that recently.

"Oh....well, do you want me to come with you?"

"No, don't be stupid. You have to go to class."

Dan shrugs. "It's just art."

"Well go do art stuff. I'll text you if anything bad happens." I reach up to hug him goodbye.

"Alright," he says before kissing my cheek. "Be good."

"Aww, you guys are so cute," says the student aid who waited for me so we could walk to the office together.

I smile wide, my face still tingling from where his lips kissed it. "I know."

Unfortunately my smile does not last long when we reach the office, and the first person I see is Rose Parker sitting in a chair outside of Suss's office.

"Hey Sam," she greets me with a nod.

"Dude, what the hell are you still doing here? Weren't you called down, like, four hours ago?"

"Yep. But I'm forbidden from leaving until they interrogate everyone."

"What? Who's they? And interrogate who?"

She motions to the empty seat next to her. "Sit down, I'll tell you everything."

But I don't even get to sit down before the door to Suss's office opens and out walks none other than Warren Hawk, the faded word SICKO emblazoned across his forehead.

We make eye contact, and I can hardly believe it when I notice that his face and eyes look to be red from crying. He glares at me. "Say whatever you want in there, Wyatt. I'll just fucking deny it."

"What?"

But he leaves quickly without saying anything else. I turn to Rose for an explanation, but she just looks solemn. My stomach grows cold, and I suddenly have a very bad feeling about why I've been called here.

Suss pokes his head around the door. "Ah, Samantha. Come on in."

"It's Sam," I growl. "Literally, how many times do I have to tell you that?"

Suss just sighs. "Just come in, Sam. We have some questions we want to ask you."

I follow him through the door, the question Who's 'we'? dying on my lips when I see two police officers standing behind Suss's desk.

One of them-- a young looking guy with dark hair and a surprisingly kind face-- holds out his hand to me. "Hello Samantha. My name is Officer Bentley. You're not in trouble, but if it's alright I would like to ask you a few questions regarding some alleged events that occurred on the night of your school's fall homecoming."

What little blood there might have still been in my face quickly drained away, and with a sudden and almost audible click in my brain, everything started to make sense. The lockers this morning, the words on our bullies' heads, Rose Parker being in trouble..... Oh dear god.

"Samantha? Is that alright with you?" Officer Bentley asked again.

I shook myself out of my stupor, trying to regain a poker face. "Sure. But I go by Sam, if you don't mind."

"Alright, Sam it is then."

I look at Mr. Suss. "You see? Did that look so hard?"

The principal sighed. "Sam, please. This is a very serious matter, so if you could tone down the sass in front of these nice officers, I'm sure everyone would greatly appreciate it."

I flash him my most fake grin. "Absolutely sir. Whatever you say."

Officer Bentley smiles, taking a seat in Suss's normal spot. I sit down in the chair across, as usual. "Alright, thank you Sam. We appreciate your cooperation. Now, since this is an official interrogation I am going to read you your Miranda rights. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you--"

"Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law," I jump in. "Yeah yeah yeah, I've seen cop shows. You can skip that part."

"Sam, we just talked about this!" Suss snaps from his corner of the room. "The sass, remember?"

"I know, I'll tone it down. Just had to get in a last hurrah, you know?"

"Young lady, we're going to need you to take this seriously!" barks the other officer, who stands beside a blinking video camera across the room.

I roll my eyes. "Fine. Go ahead, let's get this interrogation thing over with. Unless this thing is going to cut into my math class, in which case, please speak as slowly as possible."

Bentley chuckles, which I really appreciate. At least someone in this room has a sense of humor.

"Alright then. Can you tell me where you were on the night of your school's homecoming?"

"Absolutely," I respond, showing them that I can actually be cooperative. "I was right here at school, of course. Enjoying the festivities and all of that."

"Did you have a date, if you don't mind me asking?"

I smile. "I did, actually. My current boyfriend and I went together."

"And were you with him the entire night?"

I have to think for a moment. I was, wasn't I? With the exception of a small chunk of time that I spent in the guys' bathroom with Cody, I think so. I blush at the memory of that time when I kissed my sister's boyfriend. For the second time, no less. God, that was so fucked up.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

"Okay. Did you two have a good time?" It was such a casual question, and Officer Bentley's tone is so kind and conversational. I appreciate that. But I also know now that his goal is to find out about the sexual assault. The question is, how helpful do I want to be?

"Yeah. I mean, that dance was fun," No it wasn't. I spent the whole night feeling out of place. "Really good music," The DJ sucked. "I had a lot of friends there." What friends? "Overall, it was a really good night." No, it was one of the worst and most dramatic nights of my life.

Officer Bentley nods in approval, jotting down a few notes. "Great, I'm glad you had fun."

I keep my fake smile plastered on, but inside my stomach lurches. A part of me doesn't even know why the hell I'm lying, except that I don't have Rosie's approval to talk about her assault. Officer Bentley seems like the kind of officer who has everyone's best interests at heart, and is just trying to do his job. And I'm sure if he had enough evidence, he would gladly lock away the sick fuckers who hurt my sister.

So why the hell am I lying again?

"Now, while you were there that night, did you see any--"

"Wait, hold on," I interrupt him. "I'm sorry."

He gives me a confused look. "You're sorry for what?"

"I totally lied. I'm sorry, I do that sometimes when I'm nervous. The truth is....this past homecoming was one of the worst nights of my life."

With those words, the air itself in the room seems to change. The mean-looking officer behind the camera looks more engaged. Mr. Suss looks appalled and afraid. Officer Bentley clicks his pen, leaning forward as he says, "Really? How so?"

I swallow. My heart is beating to the speed of an Olympic racer in my chest, and my palms are warm and sweaty. I can't do this, I can't do this. I shouldn't.

But I have to.

"Because," I sigh. "That was the night that....that--" I cut myself off to take a breath. I can't do this.

"Sam," says Officer Bentley in a calming voice. "You can tell me anything right now."

"I can't say it," I gasp, trying to keep myself from the brink of tears. "I can't. She doesn't want anyone to know. She'll hate me forever."

"Who will, Sam?"

"I can't say. Someone I know....someone I love and care about very much. I just can't give her identity."

"That's okay," Officer Bentley assures me. "Can you just tell me what happened?"

"I was....me and my boyfriend were walking outside in the last hour or so of the dance. I think we were getting ready to head home." I try to detach myself emotionally as I tell the story. I know that if I let myself relive it, I'm going to collapse into tears. I have to tell the story as if it wasn't real, just another fucked up thing that I wrote.

"There wasn't anyone else outside. When we approached the side of the building, we started to hear noises--"

"What kind of noises?" Bentley asks, all kindness gone from his voice as he focuses on jotting down what I'm saying. The man is all business now, as if he has emotionally detached himself as well. Maybe that's the only way he can stay sane in his line of work.

I almost curse. He wants details. "Um....like, grunting noises. And there were a lot of people laughing, but it sounded like they were trying to be quiet. It was very suspicious, you know?"

Bentley nods. "And then what happened?"

"Well, we kept walking. And as we got closer, we thought we could hear somebody struggling." I have to pause here, tasting vomit in my mouth as I'm transported back to that night, seeing what me and Dan saw when we came around the corner, not wanting to believe it was my sister, then realizing that it was. It is a sight that I'll never forget.

"And did you see what it was?" Officer Bentley asks, his voice soft again. It's like he can tell how much this is affecting me.

I nod.

"Sam, I need you to describe to me what you saw."

Oh boy. I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly. It's no wonder Rosie doesn't want to come forward with her story. If retelling it affects me this much, I can only imagine how it would affect her.

"I saw....a large group of boys. They were all boys. One of them was taking pictures. A lot were laughing. In the center, one boy had....had someone down on their knees in front of him. He was forcing...." I have to stop. I'm about to cry. Shit, I'm already crying.

Officer Bentley is nice. "Take your time," he tells me.

I do, and it takes me quite a few minutes before I can trust that I can keep talking without crying. Fuck, I don't want to cry. But more than anything, I don't want to talk about this anymore.

"You don't have to describe the scene anymore if you don't want to, Sam," says the officer kindly. "But can you tell me who was forcing themselves upon this person?"

"Andy Thompson," I say without hesitation. "And his brother was there, too, as were a lot of people. Just standing there, either laughing or not doing anything. It made me so sick to see."

He nods sympathetically. "I can understand why. And did you know the person who was being assaulted?"

"Yes."

"And who was that person to you?"

"My--" I stop, glancing at Mr. Suss who looks like he is thinking very hard about something. The guy has to know that I have next to no friends in this school besides my twin, and I can only imagine how he is currently putting two and two together. "Someone very important to me."

"I notice that you're avoiding using pronouns, Sam," says Officer Bentley. "Can you tell me if this person was a boy or a girl?"

I freeze. How the everliving fuck am I supposed to answer that?

"Mr. Suss, can I ask that you leave the room?" I say to my principal.

He raises his eyebrows, but looks at the officer for direction. Bentley nods. "Go ahead sir."

Sighing, Suss leaves the room, though he doesn't look too happy about it. The moment the door shuts, I start to speak. "Officer Bentley, I am going to say something that I need you to promise will remain completely confidential."

The man draws his eyebrows together. "Unfortunately I can't promise you that. If what you're about to tell me becomes relevant to a court case--"

"It won't," I assure him. "Because I am going to tell you who was assaulted, but I can promise you that she will not testify. And from what I know, if the victim doesn't testify, there is no case. With that in mind, you can not tell a soul what I am about to say."

Officer Bentley sighs. "It depends on what you say, but I will do my best."

"Good enough. Can we turn that off?" I ask, pointing to the camera.

"Can't do that," growls the grumpy officer.

"But I can promise you that these tapes are not released outside of the courtroom," Bentley assures me.

I sigh. "Okay then. Here it goes. The person who was assaulted was my sister."

Officer Bentley nods. "Okay."

"But no one knows she's my sister."

He cocks his head to one side. "Oh? And why is that?"

"Because people think she's my brother."

It takes a moment for his expression to change from one of confusion to one of understanding, but it still dawns on him quicker than I expected. "Ahhh. I see."

"She has not come out yet to more than a select few people, and doesn't plan on it. But that's beside the point. She is in the system as George Wyatt, and people know her as my twin brother. And she is the one that these boys orally raped on the night of homecoming. I want you to know that I beat the shit out of them, Officer Bentley, as I'm sure you would've if it was your sister. But I wasn't the one who wrote the words on their heads."

Bentley nods. "Yes, I know that wasn't you."

"But I approve of the person who did it. Marker on their faces that is going to fade eventually is so much less than these boys deserve."

"Honestly Sam, I agree with you. But the person who is in trouble for that is also is trouble for something much worse--"

"Its Rose Parker, isn't it?"

"I cannot disclose that information."

"Right, okay. But anyway, that is my side of the story. These boys are evil and cruel, and have been that way to my sister and me our entire lives. I don't know how that helps your investigation, if it does at all, but I can promise you this: my sister will not come forward. She wants to move on and forget about what happened, and never be forced to relive it again. So please, for the love of god, don't call her in for questioning. Just keep her out of this. Please."

To my surprise, Officer Bentley nods. "That is actually something I can promise you. The victim themselves must come forward in order for there to even be a case, it's just how our justice system works."

I lean back in my chair, sighing in relief. "Okay. Good."

"However," says Officer Bentley, looking sad all of a sudden. I can also promise that, if your sister doesn't come forward, the person who did this to her will never be prosecuted. As a matter of fact, our current investigation involves prosecuting someone who hurt the person who hurt your sister."

Ah, of course. Rose Parker. It all makes sense now.

"Furthermore," Officer Bentley continues. "If your sister comes forward, she can prevent this from ever happening to anyone else at the hands of this person."

"So what, you're saying that if she doesn't come forward with intimate details about her assault, then it's her fault if Andy does it again?" I snap, defensive of Rosie. "That's fucking stupid. She doesn't have to say anything if she doesn't want to!"

"Then I'm afraid Mr. Thompson won't be prosecuted for what I'm sure he really did do," Officer Bentley sighs. "We have no case here other than the case we originally came to investigate."

"The one about Rose Parker, right?"

"The one about the violent attack of Andrew Thompson."

"Well, I don't know anything about that, so I guess we're done here," I conclude, rising from my seat. I make a show of checking the time on my phone. "Crap, this didn't even run into my math class! Oh well."

"Sam," says Officer Bentley in a soft voice. "I can't make you do anything, and that is not my mission here. But I would strongly encourage you to urge your sister to come forward."

"Yeah, not gonna happen," I tell him. "Sorry, but she's been through enough already."

"I'm sure she has." Bentley rises and, to my surprise, reaches over to turn the camera off. "Our session is over, but I don't mind this being off record. I have one more thing for you Sam."

"What's that?"

"Some advice." He puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Listen, I want you to know that it's going to be okay."

I look at him with confusion. "What is?"

"Everything. I have twin nephews, Sam. They live south of here. Both of them happen to be gay."

I blink, speechless. This was not what I was expecting.

"Being gay in the south is hard, and I can only imagine how much harder transgender kids have it. But there are resources out there for you. More than you think, if you look hard enough. I want you and your sister both to know that it's going to be okay."

"I...uh," I seem to have forgotten how to put two words together. Is it just me, or does he seem to know that I'm trans too? "Thanks. Thank you so much."

"Don't mention it, kid." Officer Bentley smiles. "Now run along to class. You don't want to miss math."

I'm still in a daze when I leave the office, but not so much that I can't hear my new officer friend say, "Alright, Miss Parker. Come on back in."

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

DAN

I could hardly work in art class, I was so anxious for Sam. He didn't text me once over the course of the period, but I have no idea whether that's good or bad.

When I see him in math, I have to consciously keep my self from running up to him. Play it cool, you fucking loser. "Hey Sam. How'd it go?"

"Um....fine." It's only then that I notice how pale he looks. He looks like he's seen a ghost.

"You sure about that, Sammy boy?"

"Um. Actually.....Hang on, I'll tell you later."

I'm about to demand that he tell me now, but I notice he stopped because his sister walked in. Sam ran up to her and hugged her tight.

"Whoa! Sam, what happened? What's wrong?" Rose asked, looking worried.

"Nothing, sis," Sam responds, ruffling her shaggy hair. "Just wanted to hug you."

I'm sure that it's more than that, and I know Rose is sure of it too. But we'll both find our own times to corner him. I give Rose a friendly nod, and she nods back. We're cool.

"Hey, if class starts before I get back, tell Smith I'm in the bathroom, 'kay?" I ask Sam as I head toward the door. I haven't had a bathroom break at school in awhile, but today I'm really feeling one.

Sam nods, of course having no idea about my actual intentions. It's much better this way.

-

In the largest stall in the bathroom, the one with a mirror inside, I take my shirt off and stare at my naked torso. The cuts are like a second skin, there's so many of them. I've been adding at least ten to my collection every single day. The habit always gets worse for me around the holiday season.

I dig my blade out of my back pocket and bring it to one of the few unmarred spaces over my ribs. Slice. Slice. Slice. I do it with closed eyes, and without thinking. It's so easy now. I don't even have to be depressed, or tie the act back to my depression somehow. I can cut on a perfectly normal day, or even on my best days. I can do it while thinking about what I'm going to have for dinner that night.

The only time it gets painful is when I think of Sam, of how I feel when I see cuts on him. It hurts when I think of how badly I want Sam to stop, because someone so beautiful doesn't deserve to hurt so much. But if he knew I was still doing it....god, that would probably be the end of us. And I wouldn't blame him if he left me over this. I'm a hypocritical piece of shit.

When I reach number thirteen, I drop the blade and collapse back against the stall door. I enjoy the cold feeling of the drops of blood beading up through my wounds and onto my skin. I like to pinch the cuts sometimes before the blood coagulates, so that the beaded drops spill over and drip down my torso like rain on a window. I don't know what it is about this that makes me so satisfied, in a similar way that some kids like to rub glue onto their hands until it dries and then peel it off. It's the process of it; I love how it looks, I love how it feels.

The loud bell signaling the start of sixth period jolts me back to reality. Shit, I need to get back to class.

I clean myself up, blotting the blood with paper towels before throwing my shirt back on. (Yet another reason why I wear black, by the way. Just in case the blood leaks through).

On my way back to math, I pass the large window in the hall. The outside world is grayer than I've ever seen it, with tiny white specks glistening on their way down to meet the dying grass. It's more sleet than it is snow-- the latter being very rare so far down south-- but even sleet is something I never saw in California. I find myself wanting to stand by this window for hours, just watching it fall. It's such a strange sight.

I decide that I like it, though. I find myself hoping that we get more of this sleet as the season changes. Christmas is coming, and I'm going to need something to look forward to if I'm going to feel motivated to keep living.

Now I have two things to live for: Sam and sleet.