Song: Never Again- Bahamas
____________________________________________________________________________

Sam

Hot night, loud noises, crippling anxiety. Red, white, and blue lights; and a cold, clammy hand in mine. What does this remind me of?

*****

It's Fourth of July, 2009. Rose and I are just shy of seven years old.

Back in the day when our parents had friends, before our dad got promoted at work and became a total asshole to everyone, we used to go to these holiday parties hosted by one of Dad's buddies from work. They were always very extravagant- these people were fairly wealthy and would go ALL OUT on food and decorations- so of course, tons of people would come to these parties. Military people of all ranks would bring their spouses, and would force their kids to interact while they all ate barbecue and drank beer together.

So understandably, Rosie and I dreaded these gatherings.

On this particular year, I remember how I was already upset when we showed up to Mortons' house- or the Martins, or the Masons, whatever their last name was- because I had been spanked for fighting Dad when he tried to put me in this stupid red-white-and-blue dress, complete with ribbons in my hair to match.

"You're getting too old for this kind of behavior, Samantha!" I remember he had yelled at me.

Rosie, meanwhile, was dressed in simple jeans and a collared shirt. She didn't look too happy either, but that was also just the general state of her mood most of the time. I don't think it had as much to do with her clothes as it did with the name everyone called her.

She never did like the name George, even at this age.

At the party, our parents dumped us off in the little area that had already been designated for everyone to put their kids, as usual. This time, it was a long picnic table next to a small cooler that held a mix of sodas and Capri-Suns.

About five or six girls and a couple of boys already sat at the table by the time we got there.

"Ew," said one of the girls who recognized us from school, the moment we sat down. She then moved away to the far end of the table.

"What is it?" Another girl at the table asked.

"You don't want to sit by them. You'll get Twins' Disease!"

The rest of the children shrieked dramatically, also laughing as they moved away from us.

Ah yes, Twins' Disease. AKA, this year's made-up reason for everyone to avoid the Wyatt twins. In first grade it was that we both had 'the freak touch'. The following year, it would 'loser-itis'. Pretty soon, when we all got too old for games, it would be for no predetermined reason at all.

But then again, did they ever really need a reason?

"Why do they do this?" Rose asked me later in the evening, when we got in line to get food and a bunch of this kids screamed and ran away.

"Probably because they're dumb," I told her, confidently. It was the best I could come up with at the time, but at least it got a smile out of her.

Later that night, when it was almost time to watch the fireworks. I noticed Rose getting progressively more nervous. She kept fidgeting with the blanket we were lying on, and would shake her hands and legs restlessly. When she started to cry, and Mom and Dad were too wrapped up in their conversations to notice, I finally asked her what was wrong.

"They keep staring at us."

"Who?" I asked her.

"Them." She didn't point or make any gesture towards who she was talking about, so I had to look around until I could figure it out myself.

I figured she must have been talking about one of the families a few yards in front of us on the grass. The kids were just toddlers, but they were the only ones who kept turning around to look at us. It didn't seem malicious, but it was definitely obvious.

"So what? They're just babies, Georgie," I said. (This was still a few months before I started calling her Rose permanently). "Just ignore them."

"I can't." I noticed now that she was panting as she cried, like she was struggling to breathe. "I can't. I can't," she kept saying.

Before I knew it, she was taking off across the grass.

"Georgie, where are you going?" Dad called after her, loudly. "You're going to miss the fireworks!"

"I'll go get him," I offered, running after my twin.

I found her hiding in one of the bathrooms inside the house. I heard her crying, and didn't hesitate to let myself in through the unlocked door. She was sitting in the bathtub, holding her knees to her chest. "You okay Georgie?" I asked.

She shook her head, sniffling. "Could....could you call me Rose right now?" She asked me in a small voice. "Like we do in our games?"

I smiled at her. "Sure thing, Rose," I said.

She smiled. "I like that name a lot," she said.

"I do too," I told her.

I ended up sitting with her in the bathtub while I waited for her to calm down. At the time, I remember not knowing why she would always start crying randomly in social situations- the words 'anxiety disorder' not yet being apart of my vocabulary. All I knew was that I had to be there for her; she had nobody else.

When she was ready, I asked her if she wanted to go watch the fireworks with me. She said yes, but only if she could hold onto my hair ribbons for me. I gave them to her gladly, not even bothering to ask why she wanted them.

We returned to our little blanket in the grass, hand in hand, and continued to hold hands as we watched the colorful lights go off above us. Me being right there seemed to comfort her, and she didn't look at the other people anymore.

One of the most significant things about that night happened much later, when we had already returned home and were tucked into bed.

"Sammy?" Rose said out loud in the middle of the night. "Are you awake?"

I sat up right away. "Yeah? What's up Georgie?"

"Um...." she paused for a minute before finally asking. "How come you're the girl and I'm the boy?"

The question was random and seemingly without context, but I didn't treat it as such. In fact, I had often wondered the same thing myself, but was never brave enough to voice it out loud.

"I don't know," I said, honestly. "Because God made us that way, I guess." Even back then the words felt silly coming out of my mouth, but it was what I was always taught to say.

"Do you think God ever makes mistakes?" She asked.

I remember raising my eyebrows. That was a bold thought at the time, even for me. "Probably not," I remember saying. "He's God."

"....Yeah," she said after a minute. "I guess you're right."

We would continue to play the same game we always did- the game we knew well enough to play in secret, where we traded clothes and I called Georgie Rose-  but without thinking very much of what it meant. And the topic of our actual genders would not come up for another two years.

*****

I end up in the same police cruiser as Rose, only after they managed to tear a very distraught Dan away from me. (They ended up having to put him in handcuffs because he was fighting them so much).

"What's a good phone number for your parents?" The officer in the front passenger seat asks both of us. "We're going to have to call them before we question you."

Grimacing, I rattle off our Mom's cell phone number. She might freak out, but at least she won't get angry and blame us for what happened, like I'm sure Dad will.

As we're driven to the police station, sirens thankfully turned off above us, I take a moment to look at Rose - really look at her- and find that she is also looking at me.

I take in the sight of her smeared makeup and tearstained face, the knees of her jeans practically soaked through with Lucas's blood. And I'm not sure what she sees when she looks back at me, but I'm sure that my eyes are haunted and that there's a bruise around my mouth from Andy's hand pressing down.

Wordlessly, she offers up her hand. I take hold of it, gratefully. We face forward then, sitting in complete silence and without looking at each other again for the rest of the car ride.

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

Dan

The handcuffs dig painfully into the skin of my lower back, but I'm too exhausted to complain about it. I've worn myself out from verbally assaulting the officers who made me separate from Sam. I had even tried to wrestle myself out of their grip at one point, but stopped fighting them when they threatened to tase me.

To the left of me in the cruiser, also handcuffed, sits John Walker. A part of me wonders why he's handcuffed, since it looked to me like he was cooperating with the officers much more calmly than I was. But then I think about the fact the one of the first things some of these officers saw when they got to the scene was a black kid holding a gun, and I don't have to wonder about it anymore. John's lucky he's still alive, all things considered.

It's a painful realization, seeing as this is the same kid who beat the shit out of me and all....but I'm actually pretty damned lucky that he was here tonight. We all are.

The two of us don't speak, or really even make eye contact for the whole car ride. He stares out the window mostly, and I can't help but wonder occasionally what he is thinking about.

As for me, all I can think about is how much I have been through, and how many ways my life has changed since the day I told my parents I wanted to move to their house in Alabama.

*****

School had always been rough for me, as it often is for kids with actors for parents. I had tons of friends in elementary school, but as soon as I was old enough to gain a little perspective on my situation (so about ten) it became obvious that none of them really cared about me. They liked me for my status, my cool house, and my parents' money, but nothing more.

I tested this theory towards the end of fifth grade. I started saying no when people asked for money, or to come over to my house and meet my parents. With this simple change, you wouldn't believe how fast virtually all of the people I considered my friends drifted away from me. By the time summer came around, I had no one.

At home, my only friend was our nanny Gabriella. An immigrant from Mexico (legal, my parents made sure of it), she had only been with our family for a few years, and was pretty much only hired to babysit me. I was a bit of an unruly child, as some might put it.

Anyway, she was much closer to Noah's age than she was my own (he even had a little crush on her for while, I remember) but she was the closest to me out of everyone. I confided in her about everything, and on the last day of fifth grade I remember coming home in tears, and she was the only one who was there for me.

"I don't have any friends at school," I cried to her. "All they ever liked me for was my fucking parents."

"Language, Daniel," she said to me softly, running her fingers through my thick hair as I cried into her lap. "And let's take a breath and think about what to do from here, sí?"

I nodded, and she was patient with me as I took the time to stop my crying.

"That's much better," she said. "Now that we can think clearly, let's ask ourselves this: How much of this past year have you spent worrying about what others think of you?"

I took a minute to really think on her question. "Um....all of it, I guess?"

"Well, that doesn't sound very fun at all, does it?" Gab pointed out. "If you spend your whole life living for others, Daniel, you will never figure out who you really are. You say now that you have no friends? I say that this might be a good opportunity for you."

"How is being a loser an opportunity?" I asked in a snarky tone.

"Watch that tone," Gabby warned me. "And listen to me. If you go into this next school year with the mindset that you are going to be who you are, and live by nobody's expectations but your own, then I think you will find that any friends you make from now on will be real. Not those fake friends you have been dealing with until now."

Taking a few moments to think over her words, I decided that they made a lot of sense. "Okay," I told her eventually. "Okay, I'll try that."

Fast forward through the summer and to the first day of sixth grade. By then, my overgrown black hair had transformed into an undercut with long fringe over my left eye. I had my ears and eyebrow pierced, wore ripped black jeans, a black V-neck shirt, and black vans. And for the first time in my life, I walked into school feeling completely like myself.

Not that there weren't any natural consequences for this. Now, in addition to being made fun of for having actors for parents, I was ridiculed for being emo, goth, and above all else, a fag. Though California is fairly accepting of gay people, middle schoolers will be middle schoolers, and "fag" was the most insulting thing a boy could call another boy at this age.

Consequently, I spent much of sixth grade resenting Gabby for her stupid advice. Instead of making "real" friends as a result of being myself I spent a whole year having NO friends. Not only that, but some of the meanest, nastiest words thrown at me for seemingly no reason.

"But are you happy with yourself?" Gabby would ask me earnestly, whenever I complained about this. "Are you happy with who you are? In the end, Dan, that is all that matters."

Like always, Gabby was right. So although I toyed with the idea of ditching the black clothes and piercings after such a terrible school year, I showed up to the first day of seventh grade sporting the same style. And honestly, I was still pretty happy about it. Everyone else be damned.

And it was the same day that I decided I didn't give a fuck if I never made any friends again that I finally made one.

"Whoa dude. Can I, like, have your aesthetic?" A random kid said to me during lunch that day. He was blond with soft blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across his nose. "I could never pull off those piercings."

"I'm sure you could if you tried," I remember responding. "But don't try unless you really want to."

Then he asked if he could sit down, and I said yes. The kid's name was Robert Bryers (but I always called him Robbie), and would go on to be my best friend for all of seventh grade and most of eighth. You know, until I decided to fuck it all up. Like I tend to do.

~~~

I had just turned fourteen, and for my birthday Robbie got me a necklace with black string, and an opaque, blue stone for the pendant.

"It's turquoise,"  he explained when he gave it to me. "Your birthstone. You mentioned awhile back that you've been looking for a cool necklace, and I saw this somewhere and thought of you."

When I took it from him our hands touched lightly, and I felt my heart do the extra-strong thumping thing it had been doing a lot lately....but only around Robbie.

My throat was dry when I thanked him for the gift.

That night, I ended up crying at Gab once again. "I think I like him," I told her. "What do I do?"

"What do you normally do when you like people?" Gab asked me, simply.

I was forced to think about my past "girlfriends", which were basically just different girls I held hands with between classes in elementary school. But our "relationship" would only become official when....

"I tell them how I feel, I guess," I answered Gabby. "But this is different! Robbie's a boy!"

"So?" asked Gab.

"I've never liked a boy before! Am I gay??"

"I don't think it matters," said Gab. "You like who you like, end of story. And if it would make you feel better to tell him how you feel, you should do it."

Just like before, Gabby's advice seemed to make sense....at the time.

But by the time I grew the balls to do it, the tension inside of me had built up to the point where I ended up letting it out in the worst way possible.

It was early April 2016, and Robbie and I were just coming out of the movie theater after seeing Batman vs. Superman. It was nighttime by now, and we were waiting for his mom to come pick us up.

I remember how he was talking so animatedly about one of the scenes that was his favorite, and I don't know what the hell compelled me to do it except I just thought he looked so freaking cute under the streetlights.

I leaned forward and I kissed him.

Robbie made a muffled, surprised noise against my mouth before pushing me back. "Dan....what are you doing?"

"Uh....I, uh...." my voice was a broken track record, where "Uh" and "I" were the only words I could say for a solid few seconds. My face grew hot.

"You know I'm not gay, right?" said Robbie, looking at me strangely. "I don't like you like that. You know that, right?"

"Uh....I, uh...."

At around that moment his Mom pulled up, and we both got in the car silently. We didn't speak on the entire ride home. Or that weekend. Or the following Monday at school.

Or ever again, fun fact.

I think I knew even when I got home that Robbie would never talk to me again, because the first place I went was the kitchen. Everyone was asleep by then, and I had no chance of being caught.

Rolling up the sleeve of my leather jacket that I had started wearing for this reason only (it was never cold enough to actually need a jacket where I lived), I pulled the biggest knife out of my drawer and cut myself worse that I ever had before.

I couldn't tell you exactly when the cutting had started, only that it had started lightly, with just a few scratches here and there. The urge to hurt myself may have first been tied to my gay thoughts for Robbie. All I know is that it got a whole lot worse when I lost him.

I wouldn't end up telling Gabby that her advice had failed me for the second time until almost a week later.

"Oh Dan," she said to me, her voice full of sympathy. "I am so sorry."

"I don't want to live here anymore," I cried to her. "I hate my life at school, even Robbie hates me now, and at home you're the only one who even talks to me! I feel like if I stay here....I'm going to fucking kill myself."

I wasn't sure how serious she would take the warning even as I said it, I was so clearly overcome with my first teenaged heartbreak, but I did notice that she didn't chastise me about my language for once. She just held me silently as I cried, staying with me in my room until I fell asleep.

A few days later, Mom came to me and said that Gabby had talked with her, and hadn't said much except that she thought I could use a break from here. "She offered to go with you as your guardian if we decided to send you away," Mom said. "Which, from the way she sounded, it seems like might be the best option. Are you okay with going away for-"

"Yes!" I practically begged. "For the love of god, yes!"

"Fair enough," said Mom. Then she told me what my options were as far as properties they owned in other states, which were all places that parts of either her or Dad's families used to live: Syracuse, New York; Newberry, South Carolina; and Mountain Brook, Alabama.

It took me about ten seconds to decide. New York sounded like it would have miserable winters, and I was not about that life. I had been to South Carolina before to visit grandparents and was not impressed.  And as for Mountain Brook....well, at least the name sounded peaceful. Didn't know jack shit about Alabama, except that it wasn't here, which meant it was good enough for me.

I was made to finish out the rest of the school year, then Gab and I were sent out here on the first day of summer.

~~~

One of the first things I did when we got settled in here was go for a nice long walk. I told Gab that I wanted to get to know the town better, but I had already done some Google Maps research and new exactly what I was looking for.

It was still a couple hours before I found Lake Juniper- a large body of water tucked away in a small throng of trees not far off the highway. I threw in the turquoise necklace that Robbie gave me, and followed it with the razor blades I had been using to cut. Then, as I watched them all sink out of sight, I made three promises to myself.

One, that I would never ask Gabriella for advice again. She was my guardian, and maybe occasionally my confidant, but would never be my friend. I would try my best to keep her entirely out of my personal business.

Two, that I would never cut myself again. I couldn't risk being caught by anyone here, especially Gab. Plus, I was going to try to be normal for once.

And three, that I would never let myself be an outcast again. Once my freshman year of high school started, I swore I would gravitate towards the cool kids. I would say what they said and do what they did, and would stay far, far away from the other losers of the school, lest I once again be branded as one.

Of course, I would end up breaking all three of those rules within my first six months.

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

Rose

When we arrive at the police station, I take a minute to check the time. Holy shit, how the hell is it only 10:30 PM?? It feels like it should be two in the morning. I'm exhausted enough for it to be.

"We're going to have to hold on to your phones, and any other possessions that you're carrying at this time," one of the officers says to me and Sam in a stern voice.

None too thrilled about it, Sam and I both hand over our phones. The officers then make us both walk through metal detectors before sending us to a row of chairs against a blank, beige wall to wait for....whatever it is we're waiting for.

To my surprise, Cody is sitting there already. He is missing his glasses, and his clothes and face are all covered in blood.

"Oh my god, Cody!" I cry out. Forgetting where I am, I run up to where he sits and wrap him in a tight hug.

"Ow," he mutters. "Too tight."

"Oh, sorry!" I let go quickly. "Cody, what the hell happened to you? None of us could find you, and then Sam- well crap, you totally missed all of that too!"

"Rose, would you keep it down please?" Sam mutters softly, taking a seat next to me. He takes off his flannel, and I see then that both of his upper arms are bruised along with the lower half of his face. "I have a headache."

Forgetting Cody for a minute, I turn to Sam. "Dude....what all happened to you before we got there? Did....did he....?" I can't ask it directly, my own painful memories that I'm just getting around to processing starting to stab me in the brain as I think of it.

Sam flinches hard, but shakes his head. "No....almost. But no."

I swallow my feeling of terror at the idea that Sam could have experienced anything close to what I went through. Still....I've never had a gun held to my head and been almost taken as a hostage. Sam has got to be shaken right now, maybe in ways that I couldn't even imagine.

But he doesn't look traumatized or panicked at all. Just tired.

"So wait, what the hell happened to you guys?" Cody asks, growing obviously worried the longer he looks at us. "God, Rose, whose blood is-"

"You go first," I demand, not wanting to think about Lucas. Not wanting to even consider the possibility that he could be..... "What happened to you when you went on your walk?"

But Cody suddenly looks very sad, and instead of answering me he looks away. Sinking down a bit in his chair, he says, "I, uh....it's kind of a long story."

I can't help but snort at that. "I'm sure it's got nothing on ours."

"You go first then," he insists. "What the hell happened to you guys?"

As thoroughly as I can manage, I recount our story to Cody from the moment we all realized that Sam was missing, right up to the whole showdown at the park. I tell him how John showed up seemingly out of nowhere and managed to disarm Edgar, how Dan practically jumped Andy to save Sam, and how Lucas was shot in the process.

"That's whose blood this is, by the way," I tell Cody, who is staring at me open-mouthed at this point. I can't blame him. I'd probably be panicking on the floor right now if I wasn't still in shock by the whole thing. Even talking about the incident and reliving it in my head as I do so, it feels like I'm talking about something that happened in a story, or a movie, or to people I don't know instead of to me and the ones I love.

"Wow," says Cody. For some reason, he keeps glancing in John's direction. I can imagine that he's as astounded by his heroism as I am, and also doesn't know what to make of it. "Wow....holy fuck."

"So what happened to you?" I change the subject quickly, before I can spend too much time processing.

"I just got into a fight," Cody responds easily. "The police found me and brought me here. I just assumed somebody saw the fight and called the cops. I had no idea-"

"A fight?" I interrupt. "With who?"

Cody grimaces. "Don't worry about it. I was being an idiot, and I provoked somebody. It's not a big deal."

Since he doesn't seem too concerned about it, I decide to let it go. Breathing out a tired sigh that is as much from emotional exhaustion as it is physical, I turn my attention back to my brother on my other side.

I can't tell if Sam is actually trying to sleep or not; he is laying in a fetal position across the chairs with his eyes closed, but otherwise nothing about his body looks restful. His shoulders are tensed up, his hands curled into tight fists near his face, and his breaths are shaky and uneven.

The longer I stare at my brother, the heavier my heart grows. I long to reach over and shake him from his stupor, to pull him into a tight hug and tell him that I'm sorry, and to promise him that I'll be here for him just like he is always there for me. I want to tell him that it's okay to feel scared and broken, and that he doesn't have to pretend to be strong for me.

But I don't do any of these things because, unfortunately, I know better. Sam has never been very good at letting me be the strong one.

*****

It was barely a month into our fourth grade year when Sam got suspended from school for the first time. The date was September 21st, 2011, which I remember because it was the same day I made Sam swear to never call me George again.

I remember how I woke up scared that morning, and Sam woke up angry. This was swiftly becoming the routine for us, but of course we had no idea yet that my anxiety and Sam's rage would still be running themes in our lives five years later.

"Sam, George!" Mom yelled up to us as we both dragged our feet getting ready. "Hurry up, I don't want you to miss the bus again!"

Sam and I gave each other a look, and it was one of those looks that said so much without us having to speak a word. In one glance we mutually entertained the idea of "missing the bus" yet again, just so we wouldn't have to deal with the people on it. But we also knew that Mom had already been late to work twice this month due to having to drive us, which made us feel pretty guilty.

"It's your turn to have the window seat," I reminded Sam, as we reluctantly grabbed our backpacks and got ready to leave. It was no secret to anyone that whoever sat nearest to the aisle received the worst of the torment, just due to the convenience of proximity, so we had agreed to take turns.

Sam shook his head. "Nah, it's okay."

"Sam, this is the third time in a row," I argued with a sigh. I knew he was trying to protect me by 'taking one for the team', but all it ever did was make me feel guilty. "What about our deal?"

Sam just shrugged. "They're a lot meaner to you than they are to me, Georgie. Just let me have the aisle seat from now on. I can handle it."

What, and I can't? I wanted to say, but of course I didn't. I didn't say anything. I just followed my brother downstairs.

By the time we made it onto the bus in the mornings, it was usually fairly packed already. This morning was no different, and the second Sam and I stepped on at least six different people stuck out their feet to trip us. Luckily, we already knew at this point to walk with our eyes cast downward.

It was still hard to avoid them all, however, and we were just a few feet from our normal seats towards the back when Sam was sent sprawling to the floor. The bus exploded with laughter.

"Hey, quiet down back there," The bus driver grunted into his microphone, noncommittally.

Of course, nobody quieted down. The jeers and laughs continued until Sam and I finally found our seats, my brother slamming himself down into his after letting me climb into the window seat.

"Why the long face, Samantha?" Asked Callie Dunham from across the aisle, already laughing at whatever mean joke she hadn't made yet. "Did you lose a bet that made you have to wear those disgusting shoes?"

She was referring to Sam's combat boots, which our mom had reluctantly purchased him from the unisex shoes section at Payless last summer. He had refused to let us walk out of the store with anything else, no matter how many times Mom told him he was being a brat.

"Don't call me that," Sam growled by way of response to her rhetorical question, and I had to refrain from pinching him. I understood that he didn't like people using his full first name, but didn't he realize that the more he called people out on it, the more they would use it against him?

"Oh, my bad," said Callie sarcastically. "I forgot you only go by Sam. Boy name to go with your boy clothes. Why don't you just shave your head while you're at it, huh? And change your first name to Samuel?"

Everyone in hearing range laughed cruelly, and both of Sam's hands clenched into fists on top of his legs. Meanwhile, all I could think about was the last time we played our secret dress-up game -- which we have been playing more and more often these days-- when Sam asked me to try calling him Samuel this time, instead of just Sam. I went along without question, though I did take note of the way his eyes seemed to light up every time I used that name.

And now here Callie Dunham was, making it into a joke.

"Hey Samuel," said Callie, emphasizing the name. "Hey Samuel, come on, I'm talking to you!"

"She's talking to you, Samuel," chimed in a boy from across the aisle who we didn't even know.

A bunch of kids laughed, then started joining in. "Hey Samuel! Hey Samuel!" They kept shouting, cackling as if this was the funniest joke in the world.

Meanwhile, Sam was shaking, but for once it didn't seem to be out of anger. His face was bright red, and he looked like he was about to cry.

This confused me. Out of all the things these bullies had ever said and done to him, this is what got to him?

The bullies knew it too, and were thrilled by his reaction. They proceeded to call him Samuel for the rest of the bus ride, turning it into a chant that almost the whole bus ended up joining in on: "Hey Samuel! Hey Samuel! Hey Samuel!"

I wished I knew how to help him, but as always my mouth seemed to be glued shut. All I could do was hold his hand supportively on the seat between us- hidden from sight under our backpacks- and let him squeeze the circulation out of mine as he took deep breaths and tried not to cry.

~~~

So Sam's day was already off to a crappy start, and it only seemed to get worse from there.

I remember that we had a substitute teacher that day, which is basically a free pass for normally-horrible children to behave worse than usual and get away with it. The sub was an older woman who seemed to be partially deaf, to top it all off. It was like God himself had personally designed this day to be hell for Sam and me.

The two boys who sat directly behind us- Jake Coleman and Gary Kline- spent most of the morning seeing how many bits of paper and torn up eraser they could slip down the back of my shirt. I, of course, ignored them completely.

Consequently, this game of theirs continued on for about an hour before Sam caught on. "Hey!" he snapped, slapping away Gary's hand when he saw it going towards the back of my neck. "Cut it out!"

"Calm down, Samuel," Gary said with a smirk. "We were just playing."

Sam faltered at the name, and I winced. These two weren't even on the bus this morning. Had the news of Sam's weakness really traveled around in just a couple hours?

While Sam was still looking at Gary with a confused expression, Jake pulled Sam's hair, which was hanging loose around his shoulders.

"Ow!" Sam yelped, slapping his hand to his head.

"Sorry," Jake snorted. '"Just had to see if it was a wig."

"I'm sure it is," commented Gary. "Someone told me that Sammy here wants to shave her head. Let me try-" he reached over to pull Sam's hair as well, but Sam grabbed his wrist.

"Quit horsing around over there," our sub squeaked from her desk, having finally looked up from whatever book she was reading.

Gary yanked his hand out Sam's grip. "Yeah, Samuel."

Half the class laughed at this, and Sam turned back in his seat, red all the way to his ears. He ended up putting his head down for the rest of class.

~~~

"So does the name bother you now?" I ended up asking Sam at lunch. We had a whole table to ourselves, like always, but I noticed that Sam still had his shoulders tensed up like he had all morning since the bus ride. Almost like he was readying for an assault that could come from any direction.

"No," he told me, his expression brooding as he stared down at his untouched lunch tray. "I'm fine with you saying it. When we play our game, I mean," he clarified quickly. "Just...not these people. Not when they say it like it's a joke. Like an insult."

I nodded like I understood, even though I still didn't really.  I tried to imagine if everyone around me suddenly started calling me Rose, but I could only feel thrilled at the thought. Even if they did do it as an insult, it would be the least-offending insult in the history of ever. I might even consider the day that everyone around me starts calling me Rose the best day of my life.

But Sam didn't need to know that. As far as Sam knew, Rose was nothing more than a person I pretended to be when neither of our parents happened to be home, and we felt safe enough to trade clothes and switch our pronouns for a little bit. It was all just a game. Nothing more.

My thoughts were interrupted when the lunch attendants dismissed us all for recess, and Sam and I reluctantly dumped our trays and headed outside. I don't think either of us ate more than. a few bites of food that day.

~~~

It was at recess where it all went down. Sam and I were sitting far away from the playground, under a tree at the very edge of the property where we liked to hide out and avoid everyone, when Callie and her two friends, Valarie and Alyssa, approached us.

"What do you want?" Sam growled when the three girls stopped in front of us.

"We just had a quick question for you," said Callie, feigning innocence. Though judging from her Cheshire-Cat grin, I doubted it would be anything that wouldn't lead to mockery towards us.

Sam clearly had the same doubts. "We don't want to talk to you," he said, standing up and motioning for me to do the same. "Come on, George."

I followed suit, and we were just starting to walk away when Alyssa blurted. "We were just wondering if you want to turn into a boy."

Sam halted so fast that I almost bumped into him. He stood frozen for almost five whole seconds before turning around. "....What?"

"I saw this documentary on TV last night," Alyssa continued, looking almost as amused as Callie. "About the boy who wants to be a girl. He dresses in girl clothes and calls himself Jasmine, or something. His parents let him, too. It was hilarious."

"So we were wondering if you're, like, the girl version of that," Valarie laughed.

"I said you weren't," said Callie. "Because I think you're just ugly. But Alyssa wanted to ask."

"So are you?" repeated Alyssa.

I looked at Sam with wide eyes, wondering how he was going to handle this one. I could feel my own face growing hot at the question, even though it wasn't even directed towards me. All I could think about was our game that we've played as long as I could remember, and that we've always treated as a shameful secret that could be shared with no one, even though we ourselves never truly understood why. I thought about all of Sam's tantrums over clothes, and mine over haircuts. I recalled that one time when I asked Sam if he thought God ever made mistakes.

Judging by Sam's silence and stricken expression as he exchanged furtive glances with me, I could only assume that he was having some of the same thoughts.

"Are you not even gonna deny it?" Alyssa asked, almost excitedly.

"What about you?" Valarie rounded on me. "You would know, right? Does your sister want to be a boy?"

"Oh don't bother talking to him," Callie tells her. "He's a retard. He doesn't say anything."

And I can only assume that the multitude of crappy events from throughout the morning had been stretching Sam like a rubber band that had already reached it's maximum length of expansion, because it was that one comment that finally caused him to snap.

Sam leapt at Callie with a cry of rage, tackling her to the ground and began to attack her face with both hands. Her friends screamed. I think I might have smiled.

By the time the recess monitors made it over to us, whistles blowing, Sam had one hand clawing at Callie's face while the other yanked her hair mercilessly. It took three adults to pull him off of her, and we were all escorted to the office.

~~~

Mom ended up taking us both home early that day, which was good because that meant I didn't have to ride the bus home alone, but it also sucked because I had to listen to Mom's lecture in the car, which she directed at both of us even though I technically didn't do anything.

".....never been more embarrassed!" She was saying as she drove us home, white-knuckling the steering wheel. "Having to leave work early to pick up my daughter for getting into a fight. A fight! And suspended for a week, a WEEK Samantha! Do you have any idea what that's going to look like on your record? And it's not like I can trust you enough to leave you home by yourself, so that's even MORE time off from work for me. Honestly, I might as well quit my job at this point, what with all the trouble you two are causing...."

This went on for the whole ride home, and Sam just sat there quietly, absentmindedly picking what I could only assume to be Callie's dried blood from underneath his fingernails. He would occasionally meet my eyes, but then quickly look away. It was clear that we both had similar things on our minds.

We were sent to our room immediately upon arriving home ("Just wait until your father gets home!" Mom yelled after us), and it was only once we were alone that Sam and I looked at each other full-on for what seemed like the first time all day.

Another one of our silent conversations was had, exchanged entirely through looks and facial expressions. Before long, we both moved simultaneously towards the one computer in our room.

I couldn't help but smile as Sam turned on the monitor. It was times like these that almost made me believe in telepathic connections between twins.

It didn't take long at all to find the documentary. It was called I am Jazz: A Family in Transition, and it was about the boy- the girl- that Alyssa had mentioned to us. We watched the whole thing in complete silence, never once ungluing our eyes from the screen.

By the end of it, when we finally did look at each other again, we were both crying. It was unclear whether it was tears of happiness, of joy and relief to find that we were not alone after all, or of sadness that just because our situation now made sense did not mean that it would ever change.

"I don't want it to be a game anymore, Georgie," Sam was the first to choke out.

I could only nod in response. I was speechless as always, but this time for a reason. That girl....Jazz....that was ME. I was her. Transgender. Everything made so much sense now.

That night when Dad came home and yelled at us both (even though I LITERALLY didn't do anything) he probably thought we had been crying because we knew we were in trouble. But little did he know that the glances Sam and I kept exchanging held not fear, but calm understanding and reassurance.

'It's okay,' those stormy hazel eyes would always say to mine. 'It's okay. We have each other. Always.'

But no more real words were spoken between us until that night.

"Hey Sam," I said from my bed, at around half-past eleven. "You awake?"

"Duh," he laughed. "What is it?"

"Can....can I still call you Sam?"

He sighed. "Yeah. I....I actually like that name."

"Not Samuel though?" I wanted to clarify.

Though I couldn't see through the dark, I could almost hear him rolling his eyes. "Maybe not all the time. But don't think I let those jerks ruin the name for me."

"So just Sam is fine?" I asked.

"Yeah, Georgie. It's fine."

I flinched, feeling hurt even though there was no way of him knowing what I wanted. Not until I said it, anyway. Man, I had to get better at saying stuff.

Taking a deep breath in preparation, I asked him, "Can you....not call me that actually?"

I heard some rustling as Sam shifted around in his bed so that he was facing me. "You mean it?" He asked, but not like someone who was surprised by the question. Almost like someone who had just heard the question he had been waiting for, and wanted to make sure he had heard right.

I smiled. "Yeah, I do. Like you said, it shouldn't have to be a game anymore. At least, not when we're alone."

"So....just Rose from now on?"

"When we're alone," I clarified. "And never call me the other name."

"Okay," Sam responded casually.

"Sam, I need you to promise me," I said, firmly. I didn't know what he was feeling in this moment, but for me this felt important. Almost like a turning point in my life. Rose would no longer be just a character I played once in a blue moon, when I daringly stole Sam's dresses and mom's makeup. Rose was me now, and I was her.  And I would never be anything else, ever, EVER again.

"Promise me you'll never call me George," I beg Sam, spitting the disgusting name from my lips for what I hoped would be the very last time.

Sam took a few seconds before responding, which I'm sure was just to communicate to me that he understood that gravity of what I was asking. "I promise," he said.

And he would not break this promise for five whole years.

*****

Sam appears to have fallen asleep across the chairs to my left by the time Dan and John are finally escorted past the security check, both of them in handcuffs. To my right, I notice Cody stiffen and sink down a bit in his seat.

"Sam," Dan chokes out as soon as he sees us, like his eyes can only absorb the one person right now. And honestly, I can't blame him.

The officer escorting them unlocks Dan from his cuffs as soon as they reach the seated area, but does nothing to John's. "You were holding a weapon when we arrived," he explains in response to John's incredulous stare. "We are to keep you restrained until further notice."

"Uh, am I holding a weapon right now??" John demands, rhetorically. "I went through the fucking metal detector for Christ's sake!"

"Sorry," says the officer, not sounding sorry at all. He sits John down roughly in a seat on the other side of the one Dan has claimed, then moves just slightly away to stand guard in front of all of us.

"Sam," says Dan again, nudging my brother lightly. It looks like a very light touch, but Sam still yelps as he sits up abruptly.

"Sorry, sorry!" Dan holds up his hands apologetically. "Didn't mean to scare you. I just-"

He's cut off as Sam throws his arms around him and immediately begins sobbing into his neck. Dan grips him back tight. I'm unsure of who whispers what, but I hear one of them say "I thought I lost you, baby," and the other respond, "I'm right here."

It's such a pure and intimate moment between them that I feel I should look away, out of respect.

I turn instead to Cody on my other side, who looks as if he wishes he could sink right through his chair and into the floor. "Hey, are you okay?" I ask him.

Staring straight ahead instead of looking at me, he just shakes his head. "I don't....I can't-"

"Can't talk about it," I finish with a sigh. "Right. Do you need anything though?"

Cody chuckles at the question, but it's a humorless noise. There's a brief little flit of his eyes- so brief that I might have missed it if I happened to blink at the same time- towards the left of us. I turn to follow where his eyes had darted seemingly without his permission. Past Sam and Dan who are still locked in their tight embrace, my gaze lands on John Walker with his hands locked up behind his back. He stares daggers at the officer standing guard of us.

I gasp as something clicks inside of my head. "Oh my god. Cody, did he do this to--?"

"Shhh!" Cody interrupts me in a panic, shielding his face with his hands as if he's trying to hide. "It's nothing. No big deal. Just don't worry about it, okay?!"

I try not to, and not just for Cody's benefit. It's still hard to believe that the same kid who ridiculed both me and Sam, who called me a fag and threw milk at me, and who beat the everliving shit out of Dan just a couple months ago is the same kid who saved our lives tonight. But as unbelievable as it may be, it's an undeniable truth that I am still very much working on wrapping my head around. Does John Walker, after all of the shitty things he has done to us, deserve to be forgiven?

I look back and forth between the bully in question, and my friend with the bloody and bruised up face.

Maybe not, I decide.

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

Cody

Don't look at him. Don't look at him. Don't fucking look at him.

But of course, I have to. Just a glance. My vision is blurry without my glasses, and, and all I am able to make out is a tall, blurry outline of a person slouching over in his seat with his hands cuffed behind his back. I can't see his face, which I'm not too sad about, but it also gives me anxiety because I can't tell if he's glancing in my direction, too.

He probably isn't. Why would he be? He fucking kissed me, then ran away. I would't be surprised if the homophobe has already scrubbed his brain of the whole incident.

The gay homophobe, I remind myself, unable to withhold the little smirk that takes over my lips. My lips that- unbelievably- are still tingling from their vicious tangle with John's back at the schoolyard.

Holy shit, John Walker kissed me. I made out with John-fucking-Walker.

I bring my fingers to my lips almost subconsciously, wincing as they pass over a spot on my bottom lip that had split open against my teeth, courtesy of John's fist. Less than five minutes before his lips were kissing over that very same spot.

Why the fuck did he kiss me??

Great, and now I'm panicking. I need a distraction.

"Rose," I say quietly.

She looks up from her lap, where her eyes seem to have been stuck for several minutes. "Hm?"

"What are you thinking about?"

She raises her eyebrows at me. "What do you think? This whole night has been....it's been fucking crazy. I don't even know what to think, or how to feel."

"How are you feeling?" I almost demand to know. I'm focused on Rose's face now, instead of the wall in front of me or the boy not ten feet away. My right leg is practically vibrating from nerves, but hopefully Rose doesn't notice and ask about it.

Unfortunately, I'm not so lucky. "Why are you asking me that?" she says, her gaze now trained on my restless leg.

I shrug. "I'm just concerned about you, is all. Like you said, it's been-"

"You know what I've realized about you, Cody," Rose cuts me off. "You are a really good liar."

I blink. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm just saying, you like to do this thing where you immerse yourself in other people's problems," she continues, and if I could see her face a little better, I just know she'd be glaring at me. "Seemingly to keep yourself distracted from your own, and to keep everyone else from asking."

I say nothing, mainly because there is nothing to say. I just look away, a deep flush rising up my neck.

"Like with your sister, for example," she continues boldly, and I stiffen. "How the hell did it take me months to find out that she even existed? All that time you were going through so much, and I never even knew. None of us did, except for Sam. Well you know what? I am done falling for your whole 'nothing's wrong with me' act. So spit it out, Cody. What is going on?"

In my head, I see images of the thick packet I received from my therapist the last time we reviewed my treatment plan. The words Major Depressive Disorder- Severe blur in and out of focus. Scratchy memories of family therapy- back when my parents bothered with that shit- replay inside my mind. Memories of myself, staring at my shoes while my dad screamed at me in Dr. Travis' office. Both of my parents crying.

What is wrong with you?

Just TALK to us!

Why won't you just talk to us, Cody?!

And do you want to know the really sad part? This all started long before Sunny turned blue.

*****

Growing up, I had always been a fairly introverted child. Not one for making friends even back in elementary school, I was that quiet kid who always stayed inside during recess to read. I sat alone during lunch, and would hang back and sit in the library on nearly every school field trip along with the kids whose grades were two poor to go; never because I fell into this category, but because I much preferred the company of books over that of other children my age.

Teachers would notice, of course, and would spend every parent-teacher conference going on and on to my parents about how "bright" and "advanced" and "mature" I was, but how they worried that I was not getting enough peer interaction.

My parents- both being intellectuals themselves- paid no mind to my teachers' concerns. They would always praise me for my grades and test scores, and on how well-behaved I was in school. They encouraged me to keep reading and focusing on homework, and practically applauded me when I started writing in fifth grade. They never thought twice about my aversion to socialization, convinced that I would eventually make friends when my peers "caught up" to my level of maturity.

Which was probably why it took them forever to realize something was wrong with me.

I feel like I must mention here that I was never bullied, per se. At least, I never had bullies. Sure I would get the occasional "Move it, fag!" when I was walking too slow in front of the wrong person in the hallway, but there was never anyone at school who liked to target me specifically. I think I was just too low-key of a person for that. As innocuous as I was invisible, I sat in the back of every class, never raised my hand, and spoke to no one unless I was spoken to first. I would go some school days without ever speaking a single word.

I never dealt with half the shit the Wyatt twins had to deal with. I achieved stellar grades at school, I was never beaten up or harassed, and I had parents who loved and supported me throughout my childhood.

And yet, by the time I entered the sixth grade, I wanted to die.

I think I've always had a tendency for morbid thought patterns. Walking to school as a kid, I can clearly remember thinking about all of the different ways I could possibly meet my end. Everything from stumbling into the road and getting hit by a truck to getting randomly shanked by a passing criminal came to mind.

But it's much harder to recall a specific moment when my thoughts graduated from 'What if I was hit by a truck right now?' to 'I wish I would get hit by a truck right now.' It was such a seamless shift that it was hardly noticeable, much like the transition between colors in a sunset.

Sunset. Sunny. My little sister was the only sliver of light in my miserable, dark pit of a life. Though nearly five years younger than me, she was probably my best friend in the whole world.

Like me, Sunny had always been mature for her age. She loved to learn and read, and had a spectacular vocabulary to show for it. Not only that, but she had extraordinary emotional intelligence.

Sometimes it felt like she was the only one who would notice how sad I was, even if she never called it out directly. It would show through little things, like how she always brought me food to my room when I would skip dinner, which I did often throughout middle school. I would tell my parents that I was swamped with homework, when in reality I just didn't have the energy to leave my room and interact with them.

My sister also seemed to have a talent for knowing when I needed to be alone, versus when I needed somebody. During holiday breaks from school, when I would hardly leave my room for days at a time, Sunny would knock on my door in the evenings and ask me to read to her, or watch a movie, or play her a song on my guitar.

On really bad nights I would lie and tell her I wasn't feeling good, which I felt guilty as hell for doing, but she never pressed the issue like most little sisters might. Instead she would say "Okay," and leave me alone, but would always return at least once the same night to slip a note or two under my door. A lot of times it was just 'Hi' with a smiley face, or cute little pictures that she would draw for me, but they would make me smile without fail. Sometimes my first smile in days.

I kept every single one of her little notes, too. I still have them.

~~~

I remember that eighth grade was particularly wretched, even before I killed my sister

Throughout the fall of 2015, my first semester of eighth grade, I would wake up every morning disappointed that I hadn't died in my sleep. Getting out of bed was damn near impossible; I felt like I had fifty-pound sandbags sitting on my chest. Even once I was up and walking around I felt sluggish, like those sandbags had just been transferred from my chest to my feet.

At school, my performance was starting to fall below the high expectations everyone had for me. It wasn't that I was losing my intelligence- I still did fairly well on my assignments- but my ability to focus was very touch and go. My motivation was low and my memory was shot, causing me to genuinely forget to do my homework more than a few times. In addition to this, little things like standing from chairs and holding a pencil upright were starting to become strenuous tasks, and it was hard enough to make it from one class to the next without wasting my limited energy trying to pay attention in those classes as well.

Consequently, I earned my very first B this semester. My first two, actually.

"Cody, what on earth happened here?" My father demanded to know that December, holding my report card in his hands. He didn't seem disappointed as much as confused, but the disappointment was definitely there. "English and Math? Those are normally your best classes!"

"We had a couple of really tough units this year," I lied easily. "I thought I'd be able to pull through with A's, but I think those finals are what did me in."

"Well why didn't you ask us for help studying?" Mom asked. "Or go to tutoring? B's aren't terrible, don't get me wrong. It's just....well, you're so much better than this, Cody."

I shrugged. "Sorry. I'll do better next semester. I promise."

Unless I die before then, I couldn't help but add in my head, as I did a lot these days.

"Cody, I can tutor you!" Sunny offered happily from across the living room, where she lounged on the couch with the seventh Harry Potter book on her lap. "I'm really good at math."

"I know you are, Sunshine," I replied with a smirk, though the motion felt incredibly foreign on my lips. "But I don't think your fourth grade class has introduced quadratic formulas yet."

"Hmm. Touché," she said with a giggle. She had just learned that word a few weeks back, and had since been saying it in response to everything. It was the most adorable thing.

I smiled at her nice and wide, hoping that it reached my eyes a little. It sure as hell didn't reach my soul.

I looked away from my sister as thoughts of suicide crossed my mind for the fifth time that day.

Here is possibly the most agonizing and unfair thing about depression: It's almost never that a person doesn't have anything to live for. Because so, so often they do.

Often times you'll hear family members of someone who killed themselves say things like "I don't understand!" or "What did I do wrong?". Others on the outside looking in might say, "How could he be so selfish? Didn't he care about how this would affect his family??"

But that's the problem, you ignorant son of a bitch. It's not that a depressed person doesn't care, it's that he CAN'T. The illness literally sucked the life and joy and care right out of him, leaving nothing behind but a deep void of nothing.

And that was what was inside of me: Void. Empty space. Numbness. I could see my amazing little sister smiling up at me and I could smile back, but I felt no joy. I could listen to my parents lecture me about grades, but I couldn't bring myself to give a shit. All I wanted in this moment was to go to my room and sleep.

So I did.

~~~

The same day I killed my sister, she was the first person to ask me if I was okay.

It was January 21st, 2016. The day was a wet and dreary one.

We had barely been home from school for an hour, and both of our parents were still at work. I was sitting at my desk- my second favorite place to be, next to my bed- staring at my poetry journal as I tried to find the right words to describe the color of the sky outside my window, when Sunny knocked softly on my open door.

"Whatup, little sis?" I greeted her casually.

"Can I come in?" She asked. I noted that her tone was serious.

"Of course," I told her, turning my attention away from the still-blank page in my journal. I motioned for her to sit on my bed, but she stayed standing.

"Cody," she began carefully. "Are you hiding something?"

I blinked at her, pretending to be surprised by the question. "No," I say. "What makes you think that?"

Sunny looked off to the side, frowning. "I don't know," she said. "You've just seemed different lately."

"Different how?" I asked, still feigning innocent curiosity.

"Like....quieter," she elaborated. "And sadder. You don't like to spend time with me anymore-"

"Hey, that's not true," I argued, hoping my tone sounded reassuring rather than defensive.

"Not unless I ask you to," she corrected herself hastily. "You used to want to play with me and have fun, but now you just sleep all the time." She bites her lip, and for a terrifying moment I think she's going to start crying. But she takes a deep breath and continues. "I asked Mom and Dad, and they said it's probably just puberty making you tired."

I forced a chuckle out at that. "Yeah, probably," I said.

She didn't appear reassured though. "I'm just worried that you're sick, or something. I'm reading this book right now where the character has Luk-eema, and-"

"You mean Leukemia?" I ask.

"Yeah, I think. It's like a sickness where you get really tired, or something, and it made me think of you because you sleep so much. I just think you should maybe go to the doctor, just to make sure you're okay."

Sighing, I got off my chair and kneeled down so I was eye level with her. I smoothed back her hair, which hung wild and curly in front of her face. "Sunny, I'm fine," I assured her, wearing my best fake smile. "I've been really busy with school, and that makes me tired sometimes. But I'm not sick, okay? I promise."

Finally, thankfully, she looked like she believed me. "Okay....then stop ignoring me!" She hit my arm playfully.

"I'm not," I argued, poking her in the side where I knew she was ticklish.

"Hey!" She cried out while laughing. Then she responded by poking me hard in the ribs before darting away. "Haha, I got the last poke, loser!" She teased me from my doorway, her smile as bright as the sun.

I rolled my eyes and sighed, feeling a little too tired for this game, but figured I could indulge my sister for just a bit. If only to prove to her that nothing was wrong with me, and that I could still goof around with her like we did when she was younger.

"Is that so?" I teased back, rising up from the floor and starting towards her slowly.

Sunny shrieked and ran away laughing, and I broke into a sprint after her. I caught up to her in her bedroom and managed to poke her, but she poked me back right away.

"Hey, no tag-backs!" I said.

"We're not playing tag, genius!" Sunny giggled, poking me again.

I tickled both of her sides in response, and she ran back down the hallway, cackling loudly.

I couldn't deny that I was starting to get into our little game, feeling what must have been the remnants of joy and fun from deep inside the void in my soul. I truly did enjoy Sunny's laugh; it was contagious, and I almost felt like the sound coming from my own mouth and jostling my ribs was actually real.

I chased her to the end of the hallway and towards the staircase as she let out an excited squeal, preparing to escape me by running down the stairs, and that was the last sound I ever heard her make.

It all happened so fast- too fast, I think, for her to even react in terror. One second I was chasing her towards the staircase, laughter from both of us filling the hallway, and next thing I knew she was tumbling.

And that's how it went, and that's how it would always go the billion times I would relive the scene in my head after this. Running, laughter, tumbling, then blood.

I swear, I didn't even see her slip.

Sunny was still and bleeding at the bottom of the staircase, and I was frozen in place at the top. I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. Time itself seemed to have stalled.

This period of shock lasted for maybe ten seconds, but it was ten seconds I would never get back. I've tormented myself with thoughts of these wasted seconds almost every day since then, often wondering if my slow reaction time was at fault for the doctors' inability to revive her. I think that maybe, had I not just stood there for so long like a fucking idiot, my sister might still be alive.

Dr. Travis says this is unlikely, but I can't help but wonder.

I think it was the sight of Sunny's pool of blood, quickly spreading like a halo around her head, that finally yanked me from my frozen state.

"No," I said almost inaudibly, right as I booked it down the stairs towards her pale body. "No. No. No no no nononono."

I knelt down by her, hardly noticing as the ever-expanding puddle of blood soaked through the knees of my jeans. I put my fingers to her cold neck, desperately feeling for a pulse, but my hands were shaking so bad that I couldn't tell if there was one.

Keeping one hand to her neck, I pulled out my cell phone with the other.

"Jefferson County Police, what is the address of your emergency?"

~~~

By the time my parents arrived, I was an uncontrollable fucking mess.

After the paramedics took my sister (I'll never forget my mother's earsplitting scream when she saw) a couple of policemen kept trying to talk to me to get the story, but I could form no words. Every time I opened my mouth would just be to let another painful sob rip through my chest and come out as a strangled, almost animalistic cry. I was still on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, rocking back and forth in my sister's blood, and could not be moved.

By the time I was finally able to speak any words, they were to Mom and Dad. "I'm sorry," I kept on repeating over, and over, and over. I think maybe for hours. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Of course, it would never be enough.

~~~

When the doctor gave us Sunny's diagnosis (I heard only bits and pieces: "coma...brain swelling....reticular activating system....hard to say how long") it felt to me like life's sickest joke yet. No, Sunny was not dead. Just suspended between life and death, which was enough to give my parents hope that their only daughter was not yet lost. I remember how they even laughed in relief at the word "coma", holding each other and crying while I sat there next to them with dead eyes, staring and seeing nothing.

I didn't buy into the doctor's "Only time will tell" crap for a goddamn second. In my mind, Sunny was already dead. She was dead, and I fucking killed her, and it was the final nail in the coffin I had been unknowingly building for myself over the past several years.

I decided it as we left the hospital that night, my parents urgently discussing plans to have Sunny moved to the hospital in Birmingham, where she could be cared for long term as she "recovered". I decided it even as they talked about moving to a new town, away from this house and the traumatic memories it now contained, and sounded hopeful for a better future after this.

I decided I was going to kill myself.

*****

"Cody?"

Rose doesn't sound mad anymore, and it's only then I realize that my eyes are wet.

"Sorry," I mutter, wiping them hastily away.

Rose sighs with clear exasperation. "Don't say sorry, dude. Just talk to me."

Just TALK to us, Cody!

I flinch. "It's, uh...."

"And if you say it's nothing, I swear-"

"I'm sorry I never told you about my sister," I blurt out. "I'm sorry I avoided you guys so much back in January, which was the one year anniversary of the day she pretty much died, by the way. I'm sorry I never talk about myself, and I'm sorry I got myself beat up tonight because I was so fucking desperate to feel something." My mouth and throat are dry, and  my eyes are dripping wet, but I'm talking. I'm talking, and now I don't know how to make myself stop.

"You're absolutely right," I continue. "I do absorb myself in other people's problems, mostly because I don't think mine deserve any attention."

"What?" Rose looks appalled. "Cody, how-"

But I'm still babbling on. "I don't give a shit about myself," I finally admit. "I think it's my fault that my sister's dead, and I don't think I deserve to be cared about because of it. Most days, I don't think I even deserve to be alive."

I motion for her to lean closer to me, then pull back my hair to show her what I know to be a two-inch scar behind my ear, normally hidden partially by my glasses. "You see this?"

"Yeah."

"I tried to hang myself on my birthday last year, which was a couple weeks after my sister's accident," I tell her in a low voice, ignoring her sharp inhale as I continue. "But I didn't tie the noose right, so I ended up falling and hitting my head on a shelf in the garage. My parents put me in therapy after that, and I've been going once a week ever since."

"Jesus, Cody...." Rose has her hand over her mouth, seeming completely at a loss for what to say.

I don't blame her. "Please don't tell the others," I ask of her, glancing over at Sam and Dan, both of whom are still very much distracted. "I promise, I'll tell them one day when I'm ready-"

"You don't have to," she says to me. Her eyes are full of love and compassion, and not a hint of judgement, and I'm so damn grateful for Rose Wyatt in this moment.

"I'm sorry I pressed you so hard to tell me," she says. "Especially when you already have a therapist. All I care is that you talk to somebody, Cody. It's not good for anyone to hold onto things like you do. And just tell me if you're ever in a bad place again, okay? Because you do deserve to be cared about; I care about you! We all do, but....especially me. Okay??"

I just stare at her for a bit, taken aback by the concept that someone could feel so much emotion towards me, before I realize she's waiting for my response. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, okay."

"Good. Now can I hug you?"

"Yeah."

She wraps me in her arms tightly then, and as I squeeze her back I can't help but stare over her shoulder at the scene behind her. My eyes glaze over Sam and Dan, focusing instead on where my vision begins to blur out just in front of the person who sits a few chairs away from them, and I swear to god I see movement. It's a sharp movement, obvious if a little blurry, that looks a lot like someone turning their head very suddenly away from our direction.

There's almost no doubt about it. John Walker was staring at me.

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

John

Don't look at him. Don't look at him. Don't fucking look at him.

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

Lucas

Dammit, I'm going to die, aren't I?

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

Dan

Sam is everything. I have eyes, ears, and arms for nothing and no one else. I grip him so tight for so long that I hear him let out a low hiss, which sounds as if it escaped without his permission.

I release him immediately. "You're in pain," I acknowledge.

"I was hiding it," he admits. "I didn't want you to stop holding me."

Now that we're apart, however, I am able to get a good look at his face for the first time since I found him in the unlit park. I push back his bangs, fully examining him under the fluorescent lights of the station. His eyes are puffy and red. His skin is frighteningly pale- the kid needs to eat, or drink a gallon of water, or maybe sleep for a good ten hours, or something. But most gut-wrenching of all is the dull, red mark in the shape of a handprint that covers the lower half of his face around his mouth.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I reach out and trace the mark lightly with my fingertips. He lets me, closing his stressed-out eyes for a moment, and it takes everything I have to contain my rage as I think about Andy Thompson's hand around this gorgeous mouth. I don't even know if he did anything else to Sam other than hold him hostage- I've been too afraid to ask- but just the idea of it makes me wish I could bring the fucker back to life just so I can kill him properly. Slowly. Painfully.

"Dan." Sam puts his hand over mine, which I just now realize is shaking. "Dan, I'm-"

But I'm clutching him tightly to my chest again, forgetting all about his pain. I just need to feel him against me, to know that he is safe from that fucking monster. But all I can think about as I hold him is how even though the monster is dead now, Sam might never feel safe again. He'll have nightmares, maybe for years. He'll have trauma, he'll need therapy. I think about all of that and how he doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve this. Out of all of us, why the fuck did it have to be Sam?

"I'm sorry," I keep saying to him, holding him tight, petting his hair, kissing his head. If it's up to me, I will never let him go again. "I'm so fucking sorry."

He pulls away to look at me again. "Stop saying that," he tells me firmly, holding my face just as I held his moments ago. "It's not your fault. You saved me. You-" but suddenly he winces, apparently no longer able to hide the pain that he has been in this whole time. He puts both arms over his chest, groaning.

"What hurts?" I ask urgently. More importantly, what can I do?

"My chest," he tells me. "He....he held on to me really hard. And I'm wearing my binder still, so it really hurts."

"Can you take it off?"

He shakes his head. "It hurts to even bend my arms that way. Everything just....hurts."

"Here," I move to reach underneath his shirt, but stop myself. "Uh, can I?" I'm sure to ask.

He nods eagerly, still wincing. "It's fastened on the side," he tells me.

After quickly assessing the attentions of those around us (Rose and Cody are talking, John's glaring in front of him a few chairs down, the guard is facing away), I carefully move my hands up under Sam's shirt and feel around for the edge of what he calls his binder.

Sam lets out multiple grunts and hisses as I unwind the ace bandage from his chest, sounding like a mix of pain and relief.

"Jesus, Sammy," I remark when I finally pull it all off of him. "This can't be safe.

"It's not," he admits, gently stretching his arms around his chest. "But I don't exactly have the resources to get a real binder."

"They sell those?"

He nods, his eyes closing again in exhaustion. "Online," he elaborates.

I file away that information for later, right now more focused on getting Sam back into my arms. I wrap him in a gentle embrace as he leans against my chest, curling his feet up and using me as a pillow. He sighs in contentment, but when I look at his face I still see mostly pain and stress.

Meanwhile, his earlier words keep rattling around in my head and I can't fucking shake them. He.... held on to me really hard. Held on to me really hard. Held on to me really hard.

Held on to him. The fucking bastard.

"Sammy?" I whisper to him at last, knowing the question will plague me for eternity if I don't ask it now.

"Hm?" he responds sleepily.

"Did he....d-did he, uh.....god dammit," I find that I can't even finish the question, and now my eyes are wet again. But I don't want to move my arms away from Sam to bother with wiping my tears, so I just let them fall.

Luckily, Sam knows what I'm asking. "No," he tells me, but his tone is careful. "He, uh....he tried. He was going to. He would have, if you hadn't...." He trails off then, leaving his thought unfinished, and curls himself tighter into me.

My tears continue to fall freely, and through my distorted vision I glance over at Rose. She and Cody are deep in discussion, and it looks for once like Rose may be the one consoling him.

I think about how- though she may be functioning surprisingly well now- that girl is haunted by what happened to her, and probably always will be. And that was so damn close to being Sam tonight, and would have if I we hadn't shown up right when we did.

I'm tempted to apologize again, but know that will just earn me an irked retort from Sam- so I settle instead for placing a firm kiss on the top of his head. "I love you," I tell him.

"I love you, too," he says without a beat, and the words are still music to my ears.

Suddenly, astonishingly, he lets out a low chuckle.

"What's funny?" I ask.

"Remember when you used to call me a dyke?"

At that, I find myself joining his soft laughter. "No," I snort. "God, who even was that kid?"

"Some immature douchebag, I think," says Sam. "Didn't even know the kid and he tried to flirt with me. He thought he was hot shit with his cocky smile and his eyebrow piercing. And god did he have some internalized homophobia."

"So....me?"

He laughs out loud at that, wincing in pain as he tries to contain it. "Yeah," he chuckles, lifting his head up to look at me. "It was you."

More like a fearful, twisted and pathetically phony version of me.

*****

It was my first day at Mountain Brook High, and I already had a fairly good idea of who I wanted to be. There were a few times when I heard Gabby's voice in my head saying, "Are you happy with yourself though?" but I shook it off each time. Fuck Gabby, what did she know anyway? All her advice had ever done was make my life worse.

It was time to do things MY way.

So with that in mind, I walked into high school in my dark clothes, pierced ears and eyebrow, and my most confident expression. Confidence was key, that much I knew. It's always best to smile and act like you've got it all figured out, lest other people realize how much of a train wreck you are inside your own head.

Despite my apparent cockiness, I expected it to take at least a week for me to find a good friend group to solidify my status as one of the popular kids. However, as fate had it, it ended up happening at lunch that first day.

I was walking outside with my lunch tray- looking for an inconspicuous spot by some trees where I maybe wouldn't look like too much of a loser for sitting alone- when my attention was drawn to a rowdy group of boys at the edge of the courtyard.

"Hey faggot!" One of them yelled, and I flinched reflexively before it sunk in that they obviously were not talking to me. I was not, WOULD NOT be a "faggot" at Mountain Brook. No one knew anything about me here, anyway, so I was still in the clear as far as bullying went.

Actually, the loud jeers appeared to be directed towards a lone boy sitting a few tables down, minding his own business and reading a book.

The apparent ringleader of the group- a bulky kid with reddish-blond hair cropped short and a mean expression- was throwing bits of food at the loner kid. "Whatcha reading, dork?" He shouted next. "Hey faggot, I'm talking to you!"

It took me a few minutes to understand why the boys were targeting this kid who appeared to be doing nothing wrong and bothering no one. Then I saw the cover of his book, which was called Two Boys Kissing, and featured an up-close photograph of two boys doing exactly that.

I couldn't help but wince in second-hand embarrassment. Jeez, talk about asking for it. What was this kid thinking??

To his credit, though, he seemed to be doing a great job at ignoring the bullies who continued to pelt him with food, not even batting an eye when a piece of steamed carrot hit him right in the face.

As I daringly stepped closer to the scene, I was able to get a better look at the boy being targeted. I noted a few things about his appearance- like his head of blond curls, scrawny build, and warm ivory skin tone- that reminded me so much of Robbie Bryers that my stomach lurched. In fact, other than his glasses and lack of freckles, the kid looked almost EXACTLY like Robbie. He was kind of cute.

FUCK.

With a sudden sense of urgency, I took a sharp turn in my trek and walked right up to the gang of boys throwing the food. "Can I get in on this?" I asked.

"Sure," the main one said without a beat, handing me the apple core that he had been ready to lob next. "Go for it."

I took careful aim before throwing it hard at the cute-- ah, the stupid-looking boy. It nailed him right in the face, breaking his composure at last and causing him to drop his book.

"SCORE!" The guys around me all cheered, laughing their asses off as they clapped me on the back.

Meanwhile, the other boy was glaring at us as he fixed his glasses which I had almost knocked off his face. "You guys are assholes," he said simply, picking up his book before going inside.

I faltered a bit at the comment, but no one else seemed to pay it any mind as they kept on cackling.

"Oh man, that was great," said the ringleader, motioning for me to sit down with them. "What's your name, dude?"

"Dan," I said. "You?"

"Edgar." He stretched one of his bulky hands towards me and I shook it. "I think we have another class together. You're new here, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I'm from California."

"Nice!" said Edgar. "What brought you to this shit hole?"

"My parents needed a change of scenery, and we have family out here," I lied with ease, already having thought out an entire backstory for myself. Because like hell was I going to let anyone here find out that my parents were actors, either.

The rest of Edgar's pals went on to introduce themselves; There was Kyle, Zachary, Ford, Jackson, a HUGE kid named Warren, and a couple others whose names I never cared enough to remember.

"Nice arm you got there, by the way," said Ford.

I had a brief moment of panic where I thought he might've caught sight of my faded self-harm scars, before I realized he was talking about my aim with the apple core a few minutes ago. "Oh. Thanks."

"Do you play sports?"

"Nah, not really my thing," I told them. Then, because I felt like I needed to earn more points with them to make up for not being a jock, I added, "Who was that fag with the book, anyway?"

"Pfft, who gives a shit," Edgar snorted. "Cody something, I think. He's in my English class."

"Can you believe he was reading that in public?" laughed Kyle. "What a freak."

"Hey, speaking of freaks," Edgar said to me, an amused glint in his eyes. "Have you met the Wyatt twins yet?"

"Uhh, I don't think so. Who are they?"

Edgar shared a look with his buddies, and they all laughed. "Only the biggest freaks in school," said Edgar.

"The boy one is a fag if I've ever met one," said Jackson. "And the girl...well, she's fucking psycho." His smile faltered a bit when the said it, which made me wonder if he was actually scared of the 'psycho' girl in question.

"They're brother and sister," Edgar explained. "And they're, like, SUPER codependent. It's gross."

"I have this theory that they're dating each other," said Zack. "I wouldn't be surprised, honestly."

OKAY, so stay away from the Wyatt twins. Got it.

At that moment the bell rang to signal the end of lunch, and everyone got up.

"You should sit with us from now on," Edgar said to me as we dumped our trays. It wasn't a question. "We could use an aim like yours on our side, right fellas?"

Everyone sounded out in agreement, clapping me on the back as they all headed off to their classes, and dammit if it didn't feel nice to be so quickly accepted into a legitimate friend group.

"Catch you later, Danny boy!" Edgar said as he took off.

I cringed a little at the nickname, not much preferring to be called 'Danny' by anyone other than Gabriella and my family. Sure, I went by it a lot in elementary school, but now it just felt juvenile.

Oh well. Hopefully it wouldn't catch on.

~~~

As I headed to my sixth period class later on, I couldn't help but consider how surprisingly well things were going for me in Mountain Brook so far. It was my first day of school, and I already had three out of four things on my checklist towards popularity crossed off.

Cool clothes: check.

Convincing, overconfident personality: check.

Solid group of non-loser friends: check.

Now all I needed was to find myself a girlfriend, and I'd be all set here.

Throughout the day, I had already been scanning each of my classes for potential candidates, but had yet to find anyone that I felt drawn to. Sure, there were lots of hot chicks at this school, but not a single one of them stood out to me as someone I'd like to date. And I couldn't fake my way through a relationship like I maybe could with friendships, I had realized. If I dated somebody in Mountain Brook, even if it was just for the social benefits, I needed it to be someone I actually liked.

And isn't it funny that this is exactly what I was thinking about when I walked into math class, and my gaze fell on the very person who- though I had no idea at the time- would both save and ruin me.

She sat by herself in the back row, immersed in her phone, with her feet resting up on the seat next to her. She wore a shabby pair of black combat boots over dark skinny jeans (not as dark as mine, but dark all the same), and an oversized t-shirt that made her already small frame look even smaller. Her dark hair- brown like coffee with just a touch of cream in it- was pulled back into a bun, revealing angular cheekbones. She wore no makeup, and her eyes looked dark and tired.

Her eyes which, as she looked up suddenly in my direction, were somehow both green and stormy.

I smiled as she moved her feet off of the chair to her right. Score.

I sat down. "Hey. I don't believe we met. I'm Dan. I'm new in town-"

"Dude, that spot's taken," she cut me off, cruelly.

"Yeah, by me," I shot back with a wink, still trying to play off that cocky attitude I had been practicing all day.

"No, by my brother," she said, glaring hard at me. "Now move."

I looked behind me to see an awkward looking boy with her same eyes and hair color, who was clearly the one she had actually been saving this seat for.

And that's when it hit me, through the embarrassment of being shot down by this cute girl, that these must be the Wyatt twins that Edgar had warned me about.

And with that realization, I was out of that chair quicker than I had ever moved in my life, but not before others around the twins were starting in on them. It was like a well-established rhythm, one person's comment triggering another from someone else, then another, and another, and so on. Picking on these two was a school-wide joke, it seemed, and everyone was in on it.

Damn, Edgar was right. These two really were the biggest freaks in school.

By the time I had chosen another seat for myself far, far away from the Wyatt twins, the girl looked about ready to lose it.

And lose it, she did.

"SHUT UP! WHY CAN'T YOU STUPID BITCHES JUST MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS??!"

'She's a psycho', Jackson's voice echoed inside my head.

I winced as our teacher walked in right after her outburst and demanded to know who had screamed. Everyone in the room ratted her out, of course, but not me. I just hid my face, still hot from embarrassment, and hoped to God that would be the last interaction I had with either of the Wyatt twins.

~~~

Their names were Sam and George, I learned soon enough, and they were everyone's favorite punching bags.

My new friends especially liked to torment them at every possible opportunity: Before school, after school, during class, in between classes, you name it. And even though I tried not to participate directly too much (especially when it came to Sam) I was always expected to laugh along with them. So I did. And it was easy.

Over time, however, I found myself noticing little things about the twins that everyone else seemed to overlook in their eagerness to mock them. Like the way they seemed to cling to each other, and how it didn't look to be as much out of love as it was out of need. Like they were each other's lifeline.

I also started to notice the way they stood, and how awkward their postures seemed to be as they walked. Not awkward as in insecure, which I'm sure would apply to most kids in high school, but more as in legitimately uncomfortable. Like they wanted to tear off their own skins.

One time in gym, I glanced over at the girls side as we were all doing our warm-up exercises, and noticed Sam in the back row. She had her arms crossed over her chest as she did sit-ups, her hands gripping onto her upper arms. I noticed her pained expression, even though she was doing the sit-ups with relative ease, and that was when I saw that she wasn't just gripping her upper arms, but was practically CLAWING at them with her nails.

Jeez, was anyone else going to notice this?

But of course, they didn't. Nobody noticed a thing.

Later that same class, I saw another girl yank Sam's hair out of its bun.

"Hey!" Sam shrieked, making to grab for the hairband that the girl stole. She looked positively panicked. "Give it back!"

"Say 'please'," the girl laughed, holding it high out of reach.

A really annoying part of me wanted to run over and defend her, as I couldn't help but notice how big of a deal that hairband seemed to be to Sam. She looked more terrified than angry, desperately trying to keep her long hair out of her face as she reached for her hairband.

But of course, I did nothing. And I was a little pissed at myself for even considering it. She was a loser, her and her brother both. I had sworn to myself I wouldn't let that be me while I was here.

Suddenly, moments later, I heard a scream. I looked again to see that Sam and punched the girl in the face.

"Samantha!" yelled Coach Wheeler. "Office! Now!"

Sam went without complaint, looking relieved. She had gotten her hairband back.

"Man, what a fucking psycho," said Zack Turner, who had appeared next to me suddenly. "Can you believe that bitch hasn't been expelled yet?"

"Hardly," I snorted in response. "Crazy fucking bitch."

~~~

I'm not sure when I developed my theory that the Wyatt twins were trans, but by the time I thought of it I was fully immersed in Edgar Thompson's gang. And I won't lie, it felt great to have a friend group. For the first time in my life I felt unconditionally accepted, and all I had to do in exchange was trip people occasionally and call them faggots, which felt a little bit like payback for all of the times this had happened to me in middle school.

But no matter what I tried, I could not seem to get my mind off of the goddamn Wyatt twins, and the theory I had about them. I had to find a way to confirm it, to know for sure if they were trans. I wasn't sure why I had to know, I just had to.

The opportunity to do so presented itself about a month into the school year, when George Wyatt came into math class one day with a giant bruise on his face. It was no surprise to me, as I had already seen the picture of his incident in gym class on Twitter, but clearly this was Sam's first time seeing it.

I remember how she practically leapt out of her seat. "That son of a bitch!" She yelled, referring to Edgar, I'm assuming. "I'll kill him. I swear to god-"

Suddenly, an idea overcame me. "Oh my god, shut up!" I yelled. "Guess what? If he acts like a fag, he's going to get beaten up. You should be used to that by now."

Just as I suspected, Sam tried to throw herself at me fist-first, looking furious. George had to hold her back, demanding that she sit down so as not to get herself in trouble.

I scoffed at that. "Yeah, because I'm sure a girl could beat me up," I said, placing emphasis on the word 'girl'.

I saw Sam falter at that, her eyes turning in a millisecond from enraged to pained. "If only you knew," she snarled.

And there it was. In that moment, I knew for sure that my theory was correct.

At that realization, a sense of mixed terror and despair overwhelmed me. As I turned back away from the twins in my chair, it hit me why I was so desperate to know if they were trans. Specifically Sam. Because it just fucking figured, didn't it?

For the second time in a goddamn row, I was crushing on a boy.

*****

"Did I ever tell you that I liked you from the beginning?" I'm saying aloud to Sam all of a sudden.

He sits up a bit from my chest, wincing as he does so. "I think you might have mentioned it," he says. "I mean, I know you hit on me that first day, but-"

"It was more than that, though," I sigh. "Always more than that. I felt, like....drawn to you, Sam. From the very beginning. Even when I tormented you, and let others torment you. Even when I teased the shit out of you in gym class, I always liked you. I just hated myself for it, is all."

"Well, you don't have to dwell on the past anymore," says Sam, holding me tight again. "I forgive you. And I love you."

"When did you first have feelings for me?" I ask. "I've always wondered."

Sam chuckles. "I'm not for sure, actually. You know I had that thing for Cody at first-"

"Don't remind me," I groan.

"But even during all of that," Sam continues on. "I felt attached to you. I kind of adored you, actually. And I can never thank you enough for putting up with me during all of that."

"Hey, you put up with me first," I remind him with a laugh.

At that moment, someone clears their throat and I look up to see a new police officer approaching us. We all seem to freeze our conversations at once, sitting up.

"Good evening kids, I'm Officer Martin," he greets us in a monotone, looking at each of us in turn. "I've just now been able to speak to all of your guardians....with the exception of yours." He directs this last part to John. "We've got someone still trying to get ahold of your mother."

"Good fuckin luck," says John, looking not at all surprised. "It's eleven on a Friday night; I'm sure she's sloppy drunk by now."

Officer Martin ignores the comment. "Your parents," he says, pointing at Sam and Rose. "Are on their way."

Sam and Rose both groan in unison.

"Your parents should also be here shortly," he says to Cody, before turning to me. "And as for you-"

"Daniel!" A familiar voice cries out from across the station, and I look to see two people being escorted to our area by police officers. One is Gabriella, of course, but the other- the one who called out my name- is probably the last person on Earth I would have expected to see here.

"David?" I say incredulously as the two of them approach me.

"Oh my god," says David as he reaches me, looking more panicked than I've ever seen him. His dark hair is matted, as if he has been pulling at it a lot, and his eyes look like he hasn't slept in a week.

"David, what-?"

But I don't get a chance to finish my question as, to my utter astonishment, my brother pulls me up from my chair and into a bone-crushing hug. "Christ, little bro. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?"

I push away from him, still trying to process the fact that my brother, of all people, is here in Mountain Brook. "Never mind that, what the hell are you doing here?" I demand.

David just shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Point is, we're here to take you home."

"Are either of you his legal guardian?" Officer Martin asks both David and Gab, suspiciously.

"Not technically," says Gab, and I can see that she looks as worried as David. "Though I am authorized to make decisions for him. Here," she pulls a copy of the legal paperwork out of her purse, which I can't help but notice has her proof of citizenship attached to it. Poor Gab probably has to deal with this shit all the time.

Martin looks it all over carefully, looking up every now and then from the documents to stare at Gab, still clearly suspicious, though whether it is due to her young age or her race is a mystery. Maybe both.

While he's still examining the paperwork, two more frantic adults arrive. One is a balding man with glasses and the other is a woman with blonde, curly hair.

"Cody!" the woman shrieks, running up to hug her son. "Thank god! What happened to you?"

"He was found laying in the grass just outside the high school property," Officer Martin explains in his dull, procedural voice. "And as he refuses to speak on the incident and there was no one else present, he is free to go. You, on the other hand," he says to me, handing Gab's documents back to her. "Have to stay, along with your other friends."

"The hell he does!" David argues. "My brother needs to go home. Can't you see he's been through enough?"

"Listen here, young man," The officer barks at David. "Your brother was found at the scene of a crime, and is needed for questioning-"

"Is he under arrest?" Gab demands, narrowing her eyes. "Because if not, you have no right to detain him!"

For the first time Officer Martin looks uncomfortable, and I can't help but smile. He probably didn't expect the small Mexican woman to have any legal knowledge, the racist dickhead.

A few feet away, I see Cody arguing with his parents about leaving.

"Cody, we need to get you home so we can talk about this," his dad is saying.

"My friends are here," Cody snaps back, firmly. "I'm not leaving them until I know they'll be okay."

"Listen folks," Officer Martin is saying to us. "At this point, given the nature of the incident, we can't afford to distinguish between suspects and witnesses as far as detainment-"

"So you're saying he is under arrest?!" Gab asks, and I have legitimately never seen her look so angry. "Why? What did he do? What do you suspect of him?"

"Like I said," Martin says, carefully. "Due to the nature of the incident-"

"So you're saying you don't know a goddamn thing?" Her glare hardens, and damn if looks could kill, this officer would be dead on the floor.

Even I have to wince at her language; I've never heard my Catholic nanny take the Lord's name in vain like that. She must be hella pissed.

Before Martin can open his mouth again, undoubtedly to dig himself into an even deeper hole, yet another officer comes around the corner.

"Evening, everyone," he says kindly, and it occurs to me that I recognize this guy. It's Officer Bentley.

"Michael, thank God," Officer Martin sighs in relief. "Would you please help me explain to these people-"

"The Thompson boy confessed to everything," Bentley announces, cutting him off.

We all stiffen at the name; even John, I think. My blood runs cold at the thought of even being in the same building as him. I had no idea he was already being questioned.

"These kids are all free to go," he continues, and as he says it he is not looking at Martin. Instead, he's looking directly at Sam, who looks back up at him with wide and haunted eyes.

I watch as Bentley takes a knee in front of Sam so that they are eye-level. His face holds nothing but concern and compassion. "Are you okay?" He asks Sam; the first adult to ask any of us that since we were brought here.

Sam's lower lip trembles, his eyes filling up with tears. "No," he murmurs before collapsing into the officer's arms, sobbing into the shoulder of his uniform.

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

Lucas

Bright lights, voices, and pain are all I can process. Pain in my side, in my chest, in my head. So much fucking pain.

I'm in the hospital, that much I'm aware of. The voices around me are serious and urgent. I hear someone say something about anesthesia.

I'm not even sure if they gave it to me yet as I start to pass out.

*****

It was my first day of high school, and I was so anxious I could hardly breathe right. It didn't help that I had forgotten to take my meds that morning, and so my focus was all over the place. Basically it was destined to be a bad day from the beginning, and it was no surprise that I ended up in the counselor's office before lunch.

Now listen, I wasn't a bad kid. Really, I wasn't. Never in my life have I done something outright rude or broke the rules on purpose. And yet, somehow, I always ended up in the office.

"I have to say, I'm a little nervous to see you in here on your first day, Lucas," said Mrs. Carlson, the freshman class counselor, who I actually met for the first time at my last IEP meeting.

Being in this lady's office was like stepping into sensory overload. There were lots of lamps, and colorful posters, and she was burning this candle that smelled too much like fruit. Was it strawberries? Or oranges? Or peaches? Or oranges AND peaches? Do oranges and peaches smell different? I can't tell. How do they even make those candles, anyway? I've always wondered that. Where do they get the scents from? Is it from the fruits themselves? And if they do, how-

"Lucas?" said Mrs. Carlson.

"What?"

"I asked you a question."

"You did?"

She sighed. "Yes. I asked you what happened? Why did you get sent down here?"

"Oh. I, uh....I wasn't doing the work."

"And why weren't you doing the work?"

"Uh..." I tried really hard to think back to what happened in between arriving to Mr. Taylor's class, and him telling me to go to the office. I was having trouble grabbing onto thoughts though. My mind felt like a derailed train, stuck in between a track that wanted to focus on absolutely nothing, and another that wanted to wonder where scented candles come from. Neither track had anything to do with whatever Mrs. Carlson was talking about.

"Lucas, did you take your medication this morning?" Mrs. Carlson asked me slowly.

I groaned, really hating that question. I also hated being on meds, which I had only started last year. Not that they didn't work, because they definitely did, but before I started them I never knew there was a different way for brains to work than how mine always had. And now that I knew what it was like to think semi-normally, days when I didn't take my meds felt ten times worse.

"No," I admitted. "I forgot."

Mrs. Carlson nodded. "Okay then. So that explains why we're having a hard time today, right?"

I looked down at my feet. "Right."

"Now," she continued. "The report I received form Mr. Taylor says that you were being 'inattentive and distracting'. It says that you drew on your math assignment and didn't do a single problem, and kept on tapping your pencil against your desk while he lectured. Even when he asked you to stop, warning you that you would go to the office, you kept on tapping your pencil. Is all of that true, Lucas?"

"Uh....I think I remember some of that," I said, trying again to think back. "I don't remember him asking me to stop, though."

"Were you paying attention?" Mrs. Carlson asked.

"....No. Probably not."

"Well there's your problem. Hey, look at me, please."

I looked up from my shoes to see that she was leaning forward across her desk, looking at me kindly, but also sternly. "Focus on me while I talk to you, okay?"

"Okay," I said as my eyes darted away.

"Lucas, eyes."

"Right, sorry." I pulled my eyes back to focus on her.

"Good. Now, according to your reports from eighth grade, you did a fantastic job last year. In fact, your paras recommended to me that we start you in regular classes this year, because you did so well."

"Yeah, I know," I said. I remember because I was excited about being normal for once, only to have my hopes crushed when I was told that this wouldn't be the case.

"Lucas, eyes," Mrs. Carlson reminded me.

I hadn't even noticed I had looked away. "Sorry," I said again, looking back at her.

"Now, I am more than eager to get you out of the SPED room," Mrs. Carlson assured me. "All I ask is that you pass one semester with Mr. Taylor first, and we can have you out of there by spring. But that isn't going to happen unless you stay on task. That means taking your meds every day, doing the work, and paying attention in class. Do you understand?"

I nodded. "Yes ma'am."

"Alright. You may go back to class."

"Okay. Hey Mrs. Carlson," I blurted out before standing up. "Do you know how scented candles are made?"

She sighed yet again. She seemed to do a lot of that around me. "No, honey. I don't."

~~~

The next time I ended up in Mrs. Carlson's class was two months later, which actually meant I was doing pretty well.

It was October now, and my counselor had changed her candle to one that smelled like apples and cinnamon. I liked this one a lot better than the fruity one.

"Hey, you changed your candle," I remarked when I entered her office.

"Lucas, please have a seat."

I did. "Am I in trouble?" I asked. She had called me in today rather than me being sent here, which made me curious as to what this was about.

"No, honey," she told me, softly. "Actually, according to Mr. Taylor, you have been doing fairly well academically."

"Oh, awesome!" I said happily. Truly, I didn't know how I was doing half of the time. Mr. Taylor never showed us our grades unless we asked to see them, which I think he did to try to encourage personal responsibility. But consequently, those of us with ADHD would just forget to ask him, and therefore never see our grades.

"There is one concern, though" Mrs. Carlson continued. "Mr. Taylor reports to me that you don't seem to interact with your peers much."

Oh. Well, I could've told her that. "Yeah, I know."

"Can you tell me why that is?"

I shrugged. "I don't have any friends in there," I told her simply.

"Why don't you have any friends in there, Lucas?"

I shrugged again. "I dunno. Nobody likes me, I guess."

Mrs. Carlson frowned. "Now Lucas, I'm sure that's not true."

But little did she know that I had been in the SPED program with most of these kids since elementary school, which meant that they all knew me back when I was even more annoying than I was now. Back when I was rude without meaning to be, always talking too loud and interrupting people, and saying things that just weren't relevant and that would make other people cringe.

I had gotten much better since then, I was pretty sure, but everyone who knew me back then pretty much avoided me out of habit now.

"Are you in any clubs or activities?" Mrs. Carlson asked me.

"No," I told her. "I never really thought about joining any."

"What about any after school events?" She asked. "Do you ever go to football games, or-"

"No," I cut her off. "I don't have anyone to go with, so it probably wouldn't be any fun anyway."

"Well, I think there's no harm in trying," she encouraged me. "You might make some friends that way."

Suddenly, I felt very sick of this conversation. "Can I go now?" I asked, trying to sound polite. "If I'm not in trouble, I mean."

"Lucas," Mrs. Carlson sighed. "Your parents asked me to have this conversation with you."

"They did?"

"Yes, they did. Both of them, along with your teacher, are worried that you've been isolating yourself."

"But I'm not!" I argued. Honestly, I wasn't. "I just....I don't know, I just don't have friends. It's not a big deal."

"Well, we all disagree," she said. "I think it's important to have friends, especially at your age."

For once, I was the one to sigh. "So what do you want me to do?" I ask, kind of snappily.

"I think we should set a goal for you," she responded to me, excitedly. I could see her pulling up my IEP on her computer. getting ready to add it to my 'goals' page. "We'll make it a small one, and something measurable. I want you to either join one club, or attend one after school event before the end of the month. Do you think that's something you can do?"

I took a minute to think about it. Maybe it would be worth a shot. "Sure," I tell her. "I guess."

Mrs. Carlson beamed at me. "Good, I'm proud of you. These are some of the most important years of your life, Lucas. I just don't want you to miss out."

I almost rolled me eyes at that, but managed to control myself. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

And that is how, about two weeks later, I ended up at the Fall Homecoming dance.

~~~

It seemed like probably the easiest way to achieve Mrs. Carlson's 'social' goal for me. One of the options she gave me was to go to an after school event, and dances qualified. All I had to do was go for maybe an hour or two, and probably didn't even have to talk to anyone. It was a foolproof plan.

The night of the dance, I threw on a regular t-shirt and jeans. Mom made a face when she saw me. "That's what your wearing?"

"Yeah," I shrugged. "It's a casual dance."

She rolled her eyes. "Alright then. Have fun. Let me know if you'll be staying more than a couple hours."

Don't worry, I won't be, I thought to myself as I headed out.

I won't lie, I was a little nervous showing up without a date or any friends to speak of, but luckily everyone else seemed far too occupied with themselves to notice.

Shaking off my nerves, I paid my five-dollar fee at the door and prepared myself for an hour of standing against the wall by the snack table, trying not to draw any attention to myself.

My wall-standing plan ended up working for about ten minutes.

"Hey," someone said near my right ear, making me jump. "Sorry! Didn't mean to scare you."

It took me a minute to recognize the redheaded boy talking to me. "Nathan?"

"That's me," he said, shooting me a wide smile. I noticed he had gotten his braces off since the last time I saw him.

"Holy shit dude, it's been forever." Nathan Gilbert was in SPED with me all throughout elementary school until seventh grade, which was the year he graduated from it. Even though I was proud of him, this saddened me a little because he was one of the few kids who actually talked to me. But like everyone who makes it out of SPED, he drifted off from the rest of us in favor of a better social group, and I haven't really seen him since.

"I know," said Nathan. "How are you, man?"

"Oh you know, living the dream," I replied with a smile, which everyone knows is Gen Z language for 'I want to die a little bit'.

"Gotcha." Nathan nodded in understanding. "You here by yourself?"

"Yep," I said honestly. "You?"

He pointed out into the crowd, towards a group of girls dancing together. "My girlfriend Kate. She's the one with the curly blonde hair."

"Oh man, didn't know you had a girlfriend. Good for you!" I told him, hoping I didn't sound too disappointed. Truth be told, I always had a little bit of a crush on Nathan back in middle school.

"Thanks," he said. "She's dancing with her friends though. Mind if I hang out with you for awhile?"

"Sure, no problem man!"

He leaned against the wall next to me, but we didn't say anything for awhile. I took a long sip of the punch I had gotten for myself, hoping eventually he would talk to fill the awkward silence, because I had no idea what to say.

After a few minutes, he piped up again. "You know what I used to do back when I went to big events where I didn't really know anyone?" He started conversationally.

I smiled in appreciation. Only Nathan could give a socially awkward dork like me advice without it sounding condescending. "What?"

"I'd people watch," he told me.

"What, like stare at people?"

"No," he said, rolling his eyes. "That'd be creepy. I mean I would look out into the crowd and find different people, and just try to figure out what's going on with them."

I laughed. "That still sounds creepy."

"Here, like this," He set down his cup of punch and looked around the room, seeming like he was just glancing around innocently. "See that girl over by the doors?" He said, without pointing.

"Which one?"

"The black girl in the sleeveless top. The one who looks like she's about to deck the boy in front of her."

I looked in the direction he was referring to, and found her. She was extremely short, but looked to be talking quite sternly to the very tall boy she was with, like she was telling him off about something. "Yeah, I found them."

"I think her boyfriend cheated on her," said Nathan. "Maybe with one of her friends. She looks like she's calling him a dick right now. I'll bet if she could reach his face, she'd slap him."

I laughed at that, looking back at the situation to see what I could observe. The boy was rubbing the back of his head, as if embarrassed about something. The girl didn't back down though, pushing hard against his chest as she yelled something else.

"Maybe she caught him making out with the other girl," I wondered aloud. "Or guy."

Nathan raised his eyebrows. "You think so? He doesn't look the type."

I shrugged. "I dunno, you can never tell these day."

Nathan snorted. "I guess. Isn't this fun though?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Cool. Oh, I think Kate wants me back over there. You take care Lucas, alright?"

"Yeah, you too." I waved at him with a smile as he ran back to his girlfriend, then looked around the room in search of a new situation to make a story out of.

I found that the more I sat back and just observed my surroundings, the more I was able to notice. Things I never might have caught on to before started to become obvious to me, like how many people here weren't actually having fun. I saw at least two more couples fighting, and three or four girls crying for some reason or another. Man, who knew high school dances could be so dramatic?

Another thing I noticed was how I was far from the only lone kid standing against the wall, trying not to look awkward. In different areas around the room I saw lots of boys- and even some girls- who looked like they might have come here alone. This made me feel a whole lot better, actually, and I briefly wondered if I should go up to one of them and start talking. Maybe even make a friend, as Mrs. Carlson wanted so desperately for me to do.

As my eyes continued to wander the room, they landed on a group of boys in seemingly matching outfits- all black collared shirts and black pants- standing against the rear exit of the building. They didn't look to be talking to each other much; in fact, it looked almost like they were here for some sort of business. They all seemed very immersed in their phones for the most part, but every now and then one of them would mutter something to the rest.

As I watched the boys and tried to think of a good story in my head for what they could possibly be doing here, I found that I couldn't think of one. All I could think of was how....weird the situation seemed. Weird and wrong, and maybe even a little eerie.

Shaking off my paranoid feelings, I decided to ditch people-watching for awhile and go hide in the bathroom.

~~~

Later that night, I found myself walking around the school building. I checked the time on my phone and realized that I had already been here for more than the hour I had promised myself, and wondered if it was about time to head home.

Sure, it was nice to run into Nathan and chat with him for a bit, but for the most part the night had gone exactly as I expected it to. Although I didn't make any friends, I did technically fulfill Mrs. Carlson's social quota for me, so that was a plus. Maybe now she would stop bugging me about it.

I was just about to start walking home when I heard the noises. Strange noises, the cause of which were hard to place, but which caused me to freeze in my tracks.

I stood for a minute just listening as I tried to figure out where they were coming from. The longer I stood, the more distinguishable the sounds were: grunting, scuffling, and laughing.

Shaking in fear, I followed the sounds until I reached an alcove on the side of the school building, blocked off from clear sight by concrete, clearly meant to section off things like the dumpster and the school's large steam radiator.

But there were people here. Lots of people, and with a shot of horror I recognized the backs of several black, collared shirts. Looked like I was right to be suspicious.

I still had no idea what they were doing, though it looked like something illegal. I ended up following my first instinct, which was to pull out my phone and hit the record button. I would definitely need evidence to show the police once I called them.

Though the view on my phone camera was a bit hazy in the dark, I zoomed in on the scene to catch sight of something in the middle of the circle that my eyes alone just couldn't perceive, and my stomach dropped.

There was a person. On their knees. With several sets of hands holding them in place.

My worst suspicions were confirmed when I started hearing some of the words these boys were saying- horrible, disgusting things to the person in the middle- and I wanted to vomit. My hands were shaking as they held my phone up, and my brain was screaming at me to move, to drop the fucking camera, to stop them, to CALL SOMEBODY, but it was like my body couldn't respond.

The video was barely at the one-minute mark when I heard footsteps across the grass coming right in this direction, and that finally shocked me from my frozen state. Shutting off my phone, I scampered behind the building and out of sight from the alcove- away from the scene of the crime- and was well-hidden by the time I heard somebody scream.

~~~

I remember walking home in a daze. Luckily, my parents were in their bedroom by the time I got back, so I just called out to them that I was home before shutting myself in my own room. They were never able to see the haunted look I'm sure I wore.

I also remember that I didn't sleep that night. Not for a goddamn minute.

I replayed the night in my head over, and over, and over. I kept asking myself why I just stood there, why I thought to take a fucking video instead of running over to stop what was happening, or even just calling the police.

But I didn't know, just like I hardly ever know why I do anything. It was yet another stupid decision that my retarded brain made in the moment, thinking it was a good idea, thinking it made sense just for me to realize later on how little sense it actually made. I was an idiot.

An idiot who now had a video of a sexual assault on his phone. It hit me then that in a way, I was just as guilty as those sickos.

At around three in the morning, I was finally able to throw up. I cried nonstop as I thought about how the hell I was ever going to get over this, how the hell I could ever live with myself after this.

An hour after that, it occurred to me that what I had on my phone was technically child pornography, and I deleted it. It didn't matter anyway, I was sure that the people who arrived to the scene after I did ended up calling the cops. And this way, no one ever had to know that I was in any way connected to what happened.

~~~

"So how was the homecoming dance?" Mrs. Carlson asked me the following Monday.

I said nothing.

"Lucas? Did you hear-"

"I don't feel so good," I told her.

"Oh? Are you feeling physically ill?"

"Yes," I lied. "I think I'm going to throw up."

I ended up leaving school early that day, under the guise of being sick. I was sick, just not physically.

Mrs. Carlson tried to follow up with me several times throughout the following weeks, but I always had an excuse not to talk to her.

~~~

Ten days later, I recovered the video from my 'deleted videos' file.

It occurred to me when I continued to see the boys who had committed the atrocious crime still walking free around the school, smiling and laughing with each other like they had not a care in the world, that maybe those other kids hadn't called the police after all. Maybe they would make a report later, or the kid who was assaulted would. Or maybe not.

Either way, a part of me felt like the video would end up being useful evidence later on, but I still felt sick having it on my phone.

I ended up uploading it to my computer for safe keeping before finally deleting the thing from my phone, permanently this time. The day I did this, there was a moment where I accidentally hit 'play' and was made to rewatch just a few seconds of what happened. This caused me to throw up again, which earned me another couple days off from school.

~~~

A month later, I returned to school after Thanksgiving Break to the most beautiful sight. It looked like every boy who had been involved in the sexual assault I had witnessed had various incriminating words written on their heads in permanent marker. Turns out that a girl named Rosalie Parker was responsible, and though I had no idea who she was, I loved her.

It was nice to feel like, on some level, justice had been delivered to these monsters, even if I wasn't the one to do it. Not that it in any way diminished the shame that had been plaguing me since that night, but it was still kind of nice all the same.

Now if only they could get what they actually deserved. If only I had the courage to do something with that goddamn video.

~~~

It was January, the first day of the new semester, when I finally met him. Or rather, her.

I ended up passing my fall semester by the skin of my teeth, but it was enough to make it into gen ed classes the following year, like I had been promised. This meant I qualified for Advanced Art, whereas I had been in boring old regular art class for the previous few months.

From the moment I saw the kid, I knew he looked familiar, though I couldn't place where I knew him from. All I knew was that he was cute, and even when I soon learned that 'he' was actually she, my opinion remained the same. SHE was cute. Very cute.

Her name was Rose, but I liked to call her 'kid' because of the way she blushed a little every time I did. She was soft-spoken and sweet, and laughed at the stupid jokes that I made to hide how awkward and insecure I felt around all of these normal kids. And she seemed to like me, which may have been why I blinded myself to the truth for so long which, looking back, was actually pretty obvious.

It didn't hit me until the day she came to my house for the first time who this kid actually was, and why she looked so familiar.

I remember how fun that afternoon was. I had invited Rose to my house under the pretense that I wanted to learn how to draw people as well as she did, and we ended up drawing together for hours. We talked a lot about books and TV shows, and showed each other our favorite music, and I remember feeling so disappointed when she had to leave.

That same evening, I was on my computer working on an assignment for English when I accidentally clicked on the wrong file. The one with the video.

Already feeling nauseous just from conditioning when it came to thinking about the situation, I still felt this weird compulsion to click on it. And for the first time since the night of the incident itself, I watched the whole video from start to finish. And this time, I looked carefully at the faces.

That face in the middle. That face. That face.....

And of course, I threw up. Not only that, but I ended up crying so hard over the toilet I thought I was going to puke up one of my lungs, because I knew that face. I knew that kid. And for nearly four fucking months I've been sitting on evidence that could actually put away the bastards that hurt her, and for what?! Because I was scared of being partially blamed for what happened? Of getting in trouble myself?

I hated myself. I wanted to fucking die.

But instead, I pulled myself together. I will do right by Rose, I swore to myself. She was too good, too pure to suffer like this. To be made to see the faces that hurt her every single day, and how she could even do this without collapsing from terror just proved how fucking strong she was.

I would do right by her.

And that was the night I googled the email for our local police department, and I sent the video attached to a message requesting to remain anonymous. And I felt good about myself for the first time in what felt like years.

And of course, it turned out that I was stupid for that as well. I was stupid for not thinking, for not even suspecting for a moment that I could somehow make things worse than they already were. For not knowing that I would only trigger a chain of events that would lead to Andy Thompson going off the radar, to Sam getting kidnapped, and to me getting shot.

At least it was me. That, I can live with.

*****

Sam

When our parents finally pick us up from the station, I can only imagine the hurricanes of confusion inside of them as they take in the sight of their children.

First there's Rosie, wearing smeared makeup, and her jeans coated from the knees down in dried blood.

Then there's me, with my bruised face, wrapped around a boy who my parents thought until now was "just a friend".

Cody is long gone, and John is in another room being questioned about his involvement, due to the fact he was holding a gun when the officers arrived.

"You kids," Dad begins. "Have some serious fucking explaining to do."

"If you'd like," Officer Bentley suggests in his calm voice. "I can fill you two in a bit-"

"I don't care who fills us in," Dad says, and he's seething so bad I can practically see the steam coming off of him. "But I need someone to tell me what is going on. Right. Now."

"Dan," Gabriella says softly from a few feet away. "We should probably give this family some privacy."

"Sorry Gab, but I'm not going anywhere," says Dan softly, holding me tighter in his arms.

"The hell you're not," Dad barks at him. He looks like he's about ready to lunge at him. "What did you do to my daughter?"

"Son," I corrected my father, glaring daggers at him when he opens his mouth to protest. "I'm your son."

"And I'm your daughter," Rose adds, and I think Dan and I gasp louder than anyone else.

Our dad, meanwhile, looks like his eyes are about to budge out of their sockets. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I'm a girl," says Rose, not backing down an inch. Then she turns to me and Dan. "After tonight, I think I'm officially not scared of anything anymore," she explains. Then, turning back to our stunned parents, she goes on. "I'm a trans girl, and Sam is a trans boy. Our genders are flipped, and they've always been that way. Maybe we got messed up in the womb or whatever, I don't know. All I know is, this is how we are. And you will never be able to change us."

By the end of Rosie's speech, I can feel my chest swelling with pride. Around us, Gabriella is smiling and Dan's brother David looks amused, but also impressed.

Officer Bentley is also looking at us with pride. "Well, there you have it," he says.

Dad seems to snap out of his stupor then, and whirls on the officer. "I'm sorry, are you their father? The answer is no. Absolutely not! I refuse to entertain this bullshit any longer-"

"Pardon me, sir," Bentley cuts him off fearlessly. "But I believe you might have a few more significant things to worry about. Your son," he motions to me. "Was assaulted tonight, and almost kidnapped by the same boy who also assaulted your daughter-" he points at Rose "-several months ago. And both of them saw a close friend of theirs get shot tonight as well."

"What?!" Mom speaks up for the first time, her voice terrified.

"That's right," Bentley goes on, his expression serious. "Now it is my professional opinion as a trained mental health crisis responder that these kids need their trauma attended to before all else. And if that is not going to happen, then I may have no choice but to make a report for emotional neglect. Now I will ask you this one time, and one time only: Should I feel safe sending these kids home with you?"

"Yes," Mom says immediately, ignoring Dad's furious expression next to her. "Yes, absolutely. I will take care of them. I want nothing more than for them to be safe-" Her voice breaks off at the last word, and I can see our mom starting to cry.

Dad, meanwhile, seems completely at a loss for words.

Bentley, seeming satisfied at last, relaxes his shoulders which I only just noticed were extremely tensed-up. "Very well," he says. Then he leans down once more to my level.

"I didn't know you were trained in mental health crises," I say.

"Yep," says Bentley. "Been a co responder for the police department for nearly five years now. I'm sent out to all matters that are or could be related to mental health, including things like suicide attempts....and traumatic events. That being said," he pulls out three business cards and hands one to me, Rose, and Dan each. "If you kids ever need anything, I'm just phone call away."

I'm worried I won't be able to choke out any words over the giant lump in my throat, but eventually manage. "Thank you," I say.

"Can I take them home now?" Mom practically begs.

"Of course," says Bentley. "Just take care of them. Those are two amazingly strong kids you've got, but they still need love and support."

I stand up to leave, but not before wrapping Dan in one of our tightest hugs. "I love you," I tell him. "So fucking much."

"Love you too, Sammy boy," he says. We kiss then, not giving a damn who's watching, before we part ways for the night at last.

--------

The drive is completely silent, and by the time we arrive home I'm just waiting for the bomb to drop.

Dad turns on the lights and heads into the living room, Mom right behind him, and Rose and myself right behind her. No communication is needed; we just know to sit on the couch across from our parents, preparing for the inevitable family meeting.

For once, Mom speaks first. "All I want," she begins in a soft tone. "Is for you kids to tell me everything. I want to hear the whole story from your perspective. And all I'm going to do is listen. And you," she turned to Dad, her tone dropping dramatically to a threatening one. "Are going to keep your comments to yourself."

"Listen, I'm not going to-" Dad tries to argue.

But Mom is unrelenting. "ELIJAH!" She yells. "We OWE them this! At the very LEAST we owe them this! So shut the hell up! Okay?!"

Blinking in shock, Dad eventually nods. Then they both turn back to us, waiting.

Crap, this is where I'm supposed to speak.

I open my mouth, but find that for the first time, I can't seem to spit out any words. I try a few more times, clearing my throat and wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans, but it's as if there's cotton blocking my vocal chords. All I can produce are the sounds that generally precede uncontrollable fits of sobbing, and even those sounds feel agonizing coming up my throat.

Suddenly, without my permission, hot tears are falling down my cheeks.

But then, my sister is squeezing my hand. "Hey," she whispers to me. "It's okay, Sam. I've got this one."

And with that, unbelievably even in a night full of unbelievable things, Rose beings to speak.

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

Cody

My parents try so damn hard to get me to speak.

They try their normal, soft approach first, but when that doesn't work they evolve into anger. They demand that I talk to them, saying that it's unfair that I shut them out, threatening to ground me if I don't start talking.

Soon, the anger turns to begging.

"Cody, please. For the love of god, just talk to us."

Mom is crying, Dad is crying, and I am emotionless. I can't help it. It's like I just have no words left, having spent them all on Rose earlier. And that was hard enough.

Eventually, they have no choice but to give up. They go upstairs with me and watch as I lay down in bed, still fully dressed. They tell me they'll leave the hallway light on, and urge me to come get them if I need anything. They must know at this point that I never will, but they say it anyway.

I wish I had it in me to cry, but I just can't. Thankfully, before too long, sleep claims me.

I dream of the brief, amazing period of my life when I thought that everything might be okay. When I made my first true friend at Mountain Brook- a kid named Sam- and had a crush on a boy named George. A boy who liked me back, and we dated for a bit there, and I dared to believe I might be worth falling in love with before it all got fucked up, and I found out the boy that I liked never existed to begin with. Much like my illusions of happiness.

"I love you," I admitted to Sam once upon a time. And I did. He was the first person who seemed to like me for who I was, the first person I ever came out to besides Sunny. And he was my first kiss. And he made me feel something.

And then Rose; probably my second biggest regret of all time was how much I hurt her. I can remember the pain of guilt and shame that plagued me day in and day out until she forgave me, and how much it physically fucking hurt. She made me feel something too.

But since then, my feelings have evaporated into a cold mist and dissolved into nothingness. I feel nothing but the desire to feel, and even that is but a drop of water in the vast and empty desert that is my soul.

Eventually my dreams morph into pictures of a tall boy in a white tank top and sagging jeans, with a mean scowl and brutal hands.

Hands that cradled my face as he pressed his lips to mine, kissing me almost like he was trying to drink me in, and I kissed him back. I fucking kissed him back.

Will my thorny garden of mistakes never cease to grow?

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

Dan

When we get to the house, I see David's jet black Kia Optima (newest model, or course) sitting in the driveway.

"You drove here?" I ask, even more baffled than I already was. "When?"

David sighs. "Does it matter?"

"Yes! I still don't understand why you're here, so how about you explain that first?"

"I'm going to go inside," Gabriella tells us. "You boys just come in when you're ready. Danny," she pulls me into a tight hug, and I hug her back gratefully. "I'm happy that you're safe."

She leaves us then, and David and I are left standing on the driveway, staring each other down in the dim light of the street lamps.

"Why are you here, David?" I ask him again, trying to keep the frustrated edge out of my voice. I can already tell from the guilty look on his face that I'm not going to like the answer.

"I....I've been here for about a week," he admits finally, refusing to meet my eyes. He kicks aimlessly at some of the rocks by our front porch. "I drove down here almost as soon as I dropped you off for your flight back, at the end of Spring Break. I've been staying in a hotel."

"Why?" I demand.

"Because of THIS!" He grabs me roughly by the neck of my shirt, pulling me forward and I hear the fabric tear in the process.

"Hey, what-"

"This!" He repeats, and it's only then that I notice he's pulling my shirt back to reveal the multitude of scars that begin an inch below my neckline, and that extend all the way down my ribcage. "Did you really think you could hide this shit forever?"

I am speechless for several seconds, my heart thumping wildly inside my chest as I stare down at it. The scars are all pretty faded at this point, a combination of white and pink. Some of the ones that were deeper healed badly and look puffier than the rest, and those shine obviously under the porch light.

"When did you-?" I finally manage, but I get cut off again.

"When you and Noah had your little tussle that one day over break," he explains, rolling his eyes. He still has a firm grip on my shit, but his fist is shaking. "Your shirt got pulled down a bit, and I saw them."

Well shit, that explains why he was so nice to me after that. "So what, you drove all the way down here to spy on me?"

David lets go of my shirt to give me a hard shove. "I was worried about you, dipshit! I thought you were going to kill yourself or something."

"Not like any of you would care," I can't help but mutter.

David stares at me in disbelief, pulling at his already matted hair. "Are you kidding me? Of course we would care! Jesus, Danny. I know our family is kind of shitty and distant, but you can't honestly think that we wouldn't care if you died. I mean, look at me! I've hardly fucking slept in a week, I've been so worried about you!"

I take in his appearance once more, the red eyes and discolored skin, and I can tell he isn't lying.

"Well, you shouldn't worry," I say. "I'm not going to kill myself. I promise."

"It doesn't matter," says David. He sits down on one of the steps leading up to the front porch, and I take a seat next to him.

The night is a little chilly, and I can't help but shiver as a breeze blows past. David sighs, taking off his light gray jacket and putting it over my shoulders. I don't exactly accept it, but I don't shrug it off either.

"Why do you hurt yourself, Dan?" he asks me at last.

Well there's a question I've never gotten before. "I guess I like how it takes the pain away," I tell him.

"The pain of what?"

"I dunno. Life, I guess. Depression, anxiety, self-hatred..." I let my sentence die unceremoniously, looking off into the night to avoid my brother's gaze, which I can feel piercing the side of my face.

"Why do you hate yourself?" He asks.

"Well, for awhile it was because I liked guys," I tell him honestly. "But then, it was because I just hated who I was. I never felt like I was good enough, or like I could do anything right. I still hate myself sometimes, though I'm not always sure why."

"Is it....is it this place?" David asks. "Do you need to go back home?"

"No!" I say quickly, standing up. "No, I like it here. Despite everything." I laugh then, thinking of all the shit I've been through in the past year, and how it really is amazing that I still want to be here. I guess it has more to do with the people I am now tied to than the place itself.

"Right," says David, smiling. "I saw your boyfriend. Cute kid."

"I know," I say with a smile.

"So then," David continues, furrowing his brow in confusion. "Then this was all going on before you moved out here?"

"It's the whole reason I moved out here," I say. "To get away from that place and those people. To get away from you guys."

He winces at that. "Dude....I don't even know how to say I'm sorry. I never had any idea what you were dealing with, not until I saw those cuts. You should have told somebody."

"You're probably right," I admit, looking down in shame. "I guess a part of me was just mad that nobody noticed."

"Well that's the thing about real life, little bro." He stands up from the porch as well, placing hand on my shoulder. "Unless you say something, everyone's going to assume that you're fine. And not because they don't care about you, just because it's the easiest thing to assume. If something's wrong, you've got to talk about it. Okay?"

I nod. "Yeah. I get that now."

"And I won't tell Mom and Dad about any of this," he says. "Only as long as you promise to call me if you need anything. I know we've had our differences man, but I still care that you're safe. If you're going to be out here on your own, I need to know that you're safe. Got it?"

"Got it."

He pulls me into our second hug of the night, only this time I hug him back.

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

John

It's half past midnight by the time Trey's mom- who's my emergency contact in the school system- comes by to pick me up from the station.

My story matched up completely with Edgar's, obviously, but the pigs still took their sweet-ass time questioning me. I cooperated, but sure as shit had an attitude the whole fucking time. I was tired and hungry and wanted to go home, and they would not listen to me when I told them my mom wasn't gonna pick up the phone no matter how many times they called her.

When Nisa came in to get me, she introduced herself as my mom. The police let her sign me out without even asking for ID; I could tell they were as sick of me as I was of them and just wanted me the hell out of there. Plus, the lady was black, and with maybe twelve black people in Mountain Brook the officers probs thought it was safe to assume she was my mom.

Which is funny, because my real mom is white.

"There you are," Nisa says, pulling me down into a hug. In my ear she says, "You best do some real explaining if you think you're gonna stay the night at my house-"

"Don't worry," I mutter when I pull away. "I think imma just go home."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay," she sighs, rubbing my arm. "But I'm driving you. Trey's in the car, and I'm sure he'll wanna talk."

Of course, she was right. The second I climbed into the back seat of Nisa's beat up old Cadillac, Trey rounded on me.

"Dude, what the FUCK happened to you?"

"Andy Thompson," is all I can say.

"What?! I thought he was-"

"Well, you thought wrong," I snap. "The fucker tried to skip town tonight, I found him in the park and got caught up in his bullshit-"

"What the fuck were you doing at the park? I thought you was with Alecia-"

"Long story," I cut him off, hoping he'll hear the 'fuckin drop it before I punch you' in my tone.

He must, cause he turns back around in his seat and says nothing until we roll up to my house.

"You better tell me everything on Monday, bitch," he growls at me out the window. I just roll my eyes.

"Tell Annie I said hi!" Nisa calls out just before peeling off down the street at twice the speed limit. Crazy bitch, that lady. But I love her.

The front door is unlocked and ajar when I get up to it, which means my mom did make it home at some point. And sure enough, I find her passed out on the couch with her head almost hanging off the armrest, her phone lying on the floor a few feet away and probably dead at this point.

Yep, just another Friday night. I'm just happy she at least made it home from the bars this time.

Looking at this thirty-one year old woman, you really wouldn't guess we were even related unless you knew it already. With lily-white skin, blonde hair and blue eyes to match- not to mention she's a whole foot shorter than me- we really look nothing alike.

She tells me I look exactly like my dad, though I wouldn't know myself. My memories of the man are vague, and it's not like we have any pictures of him lying around.

Sighing, I turn my mom over to her side so she won't choke on her own vomit, then cover her with the ratty blanket we keep on the arm rest. When I touch her, she stirs a bit.

"Hi honey," she says without opening her eyes. "How was the dance?"

I don't bother answering her, and sure enough she is back to snoring not five seconds later.

Once I get to my room, the first thing I do is pull out my phone and call Alecia.

She answers on the second ring. "Well, it's about-"

"Baby, I'm sorry," I say right away. "You were right, and I was wrong. I love you so much Ally, and I'm not gonna lose you over something this stupid. Please take me back."

Even through the phone I can tell she's shocked by my groveling. "Johnny, I love you too. But if we're gonna be together, you have got to quit actin' so ugly all the time."

"You used to love it when I got into fights," I defended myself. "You would say it was hot."

"Well sure, when the other one deserves it! You know I love me a big strong man. But you can't keep pickin' on freshmen like that makes you look tough, because I'll tell you right now that ain't true. I wanna be with you, John. But not if I keep havin' to defend your stupid ass for beatin' people up all the time. Ya hear me?"

I groan a little at that, but tell her, "Yeah baby. I hear ya. So we good now?"

She pauses for only a second. "Alright, yeah. I forgive you. I'll see you at school then. Love you."

"Love you too. Goodnight." I hang up the phone and throw it down on the bed.

The next thing I do is go into the bathroom. I pull down the string that turns on the one working lightbulb above me, and examine my face in the mirror.

Damn. I gotta hand it to the little shit, he got some good hits in there. The left side of my face has a bruise forming just below the eye, and there's dried blood under my nose and on my lips.

Wait a minute. He never got me in the mouth.

I rub a little at the blood that coats part of both my lower and upper lips, and realize with a cold feeling in my stomach that it isn't mine. It's not my blood.

I quickly turn on the water to its hottest setting and splash it on my face, rubbing especially hard at the blood on and around my mouth, so hard that it hurts. By the time I dry my face and look again in the mirror, the blood is gone. My lips are a little red from the hot water and rubbing them, but at least the fucking blood is gone.

I take a burning hot shower next, and I thank the Lord that there's still hot water, even though it's only because my mom was too drunk to bother taking a shower herself.

In the shower is when I finally let myself lose it.

*****

I got into my first fight when I was eleven years old.

It was a hard year, because Trey and me weren't in any classes together (I swear to god the teachers did this on purpose) and I really didn't have any other friends yet.

Home was hard, too. By November, Mom had just gone through another boyfriend (some white dickhole named Chad) who dumped her and stole her debit card, spending nearly all of the money we had before she thought to cancel it. This meant no lights, cable, or food for a month. Basically, we lived at Trey's house from Thanksgiving to Christmas in 2011.

Not that Mom learned anything from that, because come New Year's she was already dating somebody else. Yet another white dickhole, this one named Rufus.

Rufus was a short, fat guy with a reddish face and long, yellow hair that looked like he washed it with filthy dishwater. He was unemployed, missing several teeth, and smelled like grease and cigarettes.

What my mom saw in him will always be a mystery to me, because not only was he ugly, fat, and broke, but he was the meanest motherfucker I had ever met.

One day before school, while my mom was at work and it was just me and Rufus at home, the asshole cornered me. "I need to borrow twenty bucks," he spat in my face.

"That's nice," I responded, trying to push by past him so I could catch the bus to school. I was already running late.

But he blocked me with his large body. "I know ya got it," he snarls at me. "I seen yer mama give it to ya."

Yeah, that was my allowance, and it was all she could afford to give me for the whole month. "I spent it already," I lied, trying again to push past him.

But again he blocked me, and this time he kept walking at me until he backed me into the wall. "I know yer lyin', darkie," he said, leaning right up into my face."I jus' seen her give it to ya yesterday. Now hand it over before I strip search ya fer it."

His rancid breath made my eyes water, and he was so close to me I could feel the heat off his body. In a combination of fury and panic, I pushed him hard away from me. "Go fuck yourself!" I yelled, then tried to make a run for it.

But it was no use. The fucker grabbed me by my backpack and threw me to the floor. "Yer not goin' anywhere ya dumb faggot!" He yelled, pulling me closer to him by the bottom hem of my jeans.

He ended up fishing his big sweaty hands through all of my pockets, practically groping me until he found the folded up twenty dollar bill in my back pocket.

"Knew you was lyin'," he laughed as I picked myself up. He gave me a swift kick in the rear, which sent me back to the floor. "Don't lie to me again. Ugly little monkey faggot."

I picked myself up again just in time to look out the window and see my bus closing its doors and driving off.

Rufus barked another cruel laugh. "Tough luck, boy. Guess yer walkin' today. Stupid fuckin' faggot."

~~~

The walk to school was long and mostly uphill. Not only that, but the morning was freezing cold and I didn't have a jacket. So by the time I got to school that day- over an hour late- I was more than pissed.

Unfortunately, I wouldn't get to see my best friend until lunch that day, so I had no one to vent to. Just a bunch of pent up rage, stuck inside me and screaming to get out.

And it sure as shit let itself out not too much later.

It was in between my second and third class of the day when I got stuck in the hallway behind this short kid who was reading a book while he walked, and was moving too damn slow. I tried to move past him on his left, then again on his right, but the crowd was too thick. Also, the kid kept zig-zagging because he was too fuckin' focused on whatever book he was reading to walk straight, I guess.

When I couldn't take it anymore, I shoved him. "Hey retard!" I yelled. "Think you could put the damn book down and move your ass?"

The kid turned around to glare at me, but otherwise didn't move. He just went back to his reading, still walking just as slow as he was before. "Asshole," I heard him mutter under his breath.

And that was the last fuckin' straw for me.

I grabbed him by his backpack- just as Rufus had done to me earlier- and shoved him up against the lockers. The people around us shrieked. Ignoring them, I grabbed the kid's book out of his hands and threw it across the hall. "I'm sorry, did you fuckin' say something, faggot?" I screamed in his face.

Looking at me with wide, scared eyes, he shook his head no. "Sorry," he added.

"That's what I thought," I growled before shoving him the floor. "Stupid fuckin' faggot."

"John Walker!" Yelled a teacher from across the hall, who recognized me. "What is wrong with you? Go to the office!"

I went, still seething. I ended up getting detention and a phone call home (not that my mom would notice or care) but it was worth it. It didn't fix my anger completely, sure, but the rage inside me did feel a little less pressurized.

~~~

Later after school (after my detention, I mean) Trey and I were walking home. After he heard that I got in trouble, the brother purposely missed his bus and waited for two hours for me to get out of detention, just so we could walk together and I could vent to him. Yet another example of why this guy was my best friend.

I was in the middle of telling him what happened with Rufus this morning- we were less than a block away from the school at this point- when we were stopped in our tracks by a blond kid who looked like he could be an eighth grader. He was pretty tall, and had some muscle on him, too.

"Can we help you?" snapped Trey.

"Yeah, is one of you John Walker?" he demanded to know, already cracking his fists.

"I am," I said, stupidly. "Why, what do you want?"

"Heard you roughed up my little brother this morning," he said, his tone threatening. And now that I looked closer at him, I could see the resemblance between him and the kid I had shoved in the hallway earlier. "I owe you a beatdown for that."

"Hey man," said Trey, putting an arm around me. "My buddy just had a hard day, and let his temper get outta control. We don't want any trouble."

"Little too late for that, you fuckin negroes," said the kid, holding his fists up. "You asked for this."

"Whoa, whoa!" said Trey, starting to back away. He grabbed me, clearly urging me to do the same.

But I shrugged him off. I could feel my pent up rage, which had been fairly dormant since being let out a bit earlier, rising to the surface once again.

"It's alright, man," I said to Trey. "This fucker wants to go?" I took off my backpack and threw it to the ground. "Let's go."

The eighth grader lunged at me, but I dodged him with ease before nailing him hard in the chest. I may have been a scrawny little sixth grader, but little did this son of a bitch know that I had a punching bag in my garage that I was pretty fond of.

He tried to go for me again, and again I got the upper hand. I ran at the kid, using my momentum to push him into a nearby tree and slam his head back against the trunk. I used his temporary dazed state to punch the shit out of him.

"Holy shit!" Trey was yelling, but it wasn't in fear. I could tell he was impressed. "Holy shit! Go John!"

I was vaguely aware of some other stragglers who were just coming out of school for one reason or another gathering around, some of them cheering, a lot of them just watching in awe.

Meanwhile, Trey had his tiny phone out and was recording. "Yeah, kick the shit out of him, Johnny!"

And I did. I beat him so bad, actually, that the kid ended up crying and begging me to stop, and it was only then the I finally let him run away.

"Holy shit," Trey said for the fiftieth time. "Man, I didn't know you could fight like that!"

I didn't respond. All I could focus on was the amazing, cold RUSH I was experiencing throughout my body. I felt good. REALLY good. And calm, for the first time in awhile.

~~~

Mom ended up dumping Rufus about a month later, but had another guy living with us no more than a month after that. Some white dickhole named Jed, who wasn't quite as bad as Rufus (at least, he didn't kick me around as much) but he did use the word faggot pretty liberally.

I didn't know what it was about that word that bothered me so much. Something about hearing it, even if it wasn't directed at me, just made my blood boil and sent this hot feeling to my face. The only way I could fix my annoying discomfort about the word, it seemed, was to start using it myself. And I found that the more I did, the more power I felt like I had over the word. The more I used it, the less it could hurt me.

I continued to seek out fights to soothe the raging monster inside of me, though I  never suspected how popular this would eventually make me.

It was towards the end of sixth grade when I first met Alecia, who asked me out on a notecard that she slipped into my backpack while I was busy beating the shit out of someone. The note was short and straightforward: Damn you hot. Wanna be my man? ;)

I said yes, of course, and we've been dating ever since.

The fighting continued, and it got worse. The more strange men my mom brought over to the house- the more they stole from us, threatened us, abused us- the angrier I became. There was no way to stop the things that were happening at home, but I could sure as hell control how things went down in the other parts of my life.

Towards the end of eighth grade, with countless write-ups and suspensions under my belt, it became common knowledge that I was the toughest kid in school. Twitter was just becoming popular, and the hashtag JohnWalkerFight trended constantly throughout the school. I was infamous for what others called my 'merciless fists', and everyone knew that I was unbeatable.

It became a game among other guys, though, to provoke me into fights. It was shown as a sign of toughness, or some shit, that they were brave enough to challenge me.

Of course, I would win every time. To this day I've never lost a fight.

Nobody knows that my favorite thing about fighting isn't the glory or the pride, or even the rush of adrenaline anymore. It's the pain in my fists, the sore knuckles for days afterward. Not even Trey knows how much I crave the pain.

My favorite kids to beat up are the weak ones. The ones that are small and easy to crush, and who everyone else calls "faggot", even if they aren't actually one. Because in a way, though of course I've never told a soul, beating up the weak boys feels like killing a part of myself.

~~~

As far as killing myself goes, those thoughts didn't start until the summer before my freshman year.

I found my dad's old Glock 19 in a broken safe in the garage, while I was digging around looking for extra money that might have been stashed away. Of course, I didn't know at the time that it was my dad's.

"What's this?" I asked my mom later, who was smoking in the kitchen when I brought the gun to show her.

"Uh, a gun? The fuck does it look like," she said. It was Friday, and she was drunk.

"No shit," I shot back. "I mean where did it come from?"

She took a long drag from her cigarette. "It was your dad's," she said simply. "He left it here when he ditched our asses, in that stupid safe of his. I broke it open when he left, thinking there would be money in it, but all I found was that stupid gun."

"Can I have it?" I asked.

"I don't give a shit, just don't shoot it in the house," she said.

I stole two cigarettes from out of her pack on the counter before taking the gun into my room.

Once I was alone with it, I spent some time turning it over in my hands. Once I figured out how to drop the magazine, I saw that it was fully loaded. I then spent some time playing with the safety switch. On, off, then on again.

I imagined shooting myself. I imagined being dead, and not having to crave this pain anymore.

Might be nice.

Safety on, safety off.

*****

Safety on, safety off.

Of course I'm holding the gun again. Fresh out of the shower, my skin still tinged red from the boiling hot water, I sit on the edge of my bed and play with the weapon, like I do almost every night at this point.

Though I don't think my thoughts have ever been as real as they are now.

I think about that curly-haired fucker with the glasses, the one I almost exclusively call faggot, or Four-Eyes, even though I know his name is Cody. The one who has always irked the shit out of me for some reason.

I wanted to kill him tonight. But that was before I knew that he wanted to die.

"Fuck," I breathe out as my grip tightens on the gun, replaying the events of the night in my head. Specifically, what happened before everything at the park.

No. I shut it down right away. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. It didn't happen.

It didn't happen. There was no way I was overcome by a wave of sympathy for the very kid I was beating up, no way that my heart nearly stopped mid-fight when I saw that dead look in his eyes; the look that reminded me so much of the one I see in the mirror every single morning.

There was no fuckin' way that, in less than a second, I went from wanting to kill him to wanting to protect him, to save him from the pain. Like I could never save myself.

There was no way I.....no fuckin' way.

It didn't happen.

-----

I fall asleep with the gun in my hand.

________________________________________________________________________________

ONE WEEK LATER

Rose

Getting to see Lucas in the hospital took entirely too long, and if we hadn't made it out here today I think I might've lost my mind.

The night we finally told our parents everything (Mom cried almost nonstop, and Dad was speechless). My first question to them was if they could drive me to the hospital.

"What?" Mom was confused. "Why?"

"Uh, did you miss the part of the story where my boyfriend got shot?!" I snapped, not caring how Dad still flinched at the word 'boyfriend'. "I have to go see him! I don't even know if he's okay."

"Honey, I don't think that's going to be possible right now," Mom said. "It's very late, and though I'm sure you care a lot about him, none of us are his immediate family. We won't be able to get any information."

As frustrating as it was, I knew that she was right. We had no choice but to wait and try calling tomorrow.

However, that proved to be unsuccessful. The hospital just told us that they couldn't release any information without the parents' consent, and that they would reach out to Lucas's parents and have them get back to us.

When we didn't hear anything for three days, I started to freak out. It didn't help that Sam and I both had been advised to take the week off from school, so I had nothing but time on my hands to overthink and worry about Lucas.

"What if he's dead?" I kept saying to Sam during my panicky episodes. "What if we're never going to hear anything because he fucking died, and it's all my fault, and I'll never see him again?"

Sam would soothe me, of course. "Rosie, I'm sure Lucas is fine," he would say, though I had no idea how he could sound so sure of it. "Give it a few more days before you start to lose it."

We wouldn't end up getting a call until Thursday; though by we, I mean I. It was my cell phone that ended up ringing early that morning, and I didn't even think before answering it. "Hello?"

"Hi, is this Rose?" said a woman's voice.

I sat up immediately at the use of my real name. "Yes, that's me!"

"This is Maria Santos, Lucas's mom. I found your number in his phone. I understand that you've been trying to get information about visiting my son?"

"Yes!" I replied eagerly, an enormous wave of relief washing over me. I now had official confirmation that he was alive. "Is that okay?"

"Of course, I understand that you and his other friends are very important to him," she said.

"Well, he's important to us, too," I assure her. I was also relieved that she didn't sound angry, as one of my other anxieties this week was that Lucas's parents would blame us for what happened. "So can we see him today?"

"Maybe not today," she tells me. "He's still recovering from surgery, and on quite a bit of anesthesia. He should be ready for more visitors tomorrow, though. Want to come by around 2pm?"

Which brings me back to now, to this too-cold waiting room outside of the surgery recovery unit, where Sam, Dan, Cody, and I wait in a row of plastic chairs.

Which, now that I think of it, is a scene that feels entirely too familiar.

"Are you nervous or something?" Sam asks me, clearly taking note of my shaking limbs.

"No," I lie. "I'm just cold."

"Bull-shit," Dan sings. "I know your nervous face when I see it. What's up?"

I sigh in defeat. Damn my friends for knowing me so well. "I just can't stop thinking....what if he's mad at me?"

"What?" They seem to all say at once.

I bite my lip, blushing. "I know it sounds stupid. But, I mean....he got shot for god's sake! Which wouldn't have happened to him if he didn't meet us, and get caught up in all of our drama."

"Sure," Cody offers. "But you really think he'll blame you for that? Like, do you even know him?"

"Seriously," Sam agrees. "Lucas is, like....a precious little cinnamon roll. And he adores you, Rosie. I can't imagine him blaming you for anything."

Dan raises an eyebrow at Sam. "A cinnamon roll?"

"Yeah, you know," says Sam. "Like, pure and too good for this world. Like a cinnamon roll."

Dan chuckles, tightening his arm around Sam. "If you say so."

I smile at them, so relaxed in each other's arms. I swear, since what happened that night, I haven't seen a single time where these two have been together that they haven't been touching. Even if it's just linked hands, or one of them resting their head on the other's shoulder. It's as if they're afraid to let each other go now, even for a second.

Still trying to distract myself from nervous thoughts of Lucas, I turn to Cody. "How are you doing?" I ask him. This might seem like just a casual question to others, but Cody and I both know how serious I take it.

He opens his mouth right away, likely to say that he's fine, but I nudge him a little with my knee as a gentle reminder to be honest.

He lets out a breath. "I'm....I'm okay."

I search his face for a sign that he's lying, but unfortunately his expression is completely unreadable. He has mastered the art of the poker face, this boy, and now I worry that I'll never be able to break him of this habit. Though I can tell you for sure that it won't be for lack of trying.

Before I can urge Cody to elaborate, a stout nurse walks up to the four of us.

"Are you kids here for Lucas?" she asks, kindly.

I stand rapidly. "Yes! Uh, yes we are."

"Alrighty, just follow me."

Cody gives my hand a supportive squeeze as we follow the nurse down the hall until we reach a room labeled 237.

Lucas is sitting up in his bed when we arrived, supported by several pillows, and eating a cup of lime-green Jello.

"Ayyy!" he greets us with his mouth full as we walk in. "There's my party squad!"

My whole body relaxes immediately, letting out a soft giggle. God, I've missed him.

"Visiting hours don't end for awhile now, so take all the time you need," says the nurse as she turns to leave.

"Wait, Nancy!" Lucas calls after her. He holds up his now empty Jello cup. "Can I get another one of these?"

The nurse- Nancy, apparently- sighs at him. "Lucas, that's your second one already. You know patients are normally just allowed one."

"Yeah, but you love me," says Lucas, with a crooked smile and a wink. "And I'm your favorite. We both know this."

Nancy rolls her eyes, but I see her smile a bit too. "Alright, maybe later," she replies. "Have fun with your friends." She closes the door quickly, before Lucas can wrangle anything else out of her.

"So, manipulation of your nurses aside," Cody begins in a lighthearted tone. "How are you doing?"

"Oh you know, living the dream," says Lucas with that familiar smile. "Though I do believe that somebody should be holding my hand lovingly right now," he gives me this fake-accusing look, though the humor never leaves his eyes.

Giggling, I move over to his bedside to take the hand that he holds out to me. "I've really missed you," I tell him, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

"Now, that's more like it," Lucas sighs. "But anyway, how have you guys been?"

"How have we been?" says Sam incredulously. "Dude, you were shot."

But Lucas just waves the hand that isn't holding mine, dismissively. "Oh, that's all old news. There was a bullet in me, it hurt like hell, they took it out. End of story. I wanna know what happened after I got carted away in an ambulance."

Sam, Dan, and I all look at each other warily. I don't think any of us know where to start.

"Uh, what are your questions?" Dan tries.

"Well first things first," says Lucas, his face taking on a rare serious expression. "Did, uh...Whatshisface get caught?"

"He shot himself," says Dan without a beat, and he looks damned pleased as he says it. "He was seconds away from being swarmed by police, so he took the coward's way out."

"Whoa," Lucas looks shocked, to say the least. "Shit, that's....wow. Good riddance, I guess. So then what happened?"

"Edgar confessed to everything, apparently," I added. Ugh, his name still feels disgusting in my mouth. "So I'm guessing he's in custody. We haven't seen him since then, though Sam and I also haven't been at school all week."

"Me neither," adds Dan.

"Me neither," Cody follows.

"Ayyy, me neither," says Lucas, doing finger guns. He tries to sit up more, but immediately looks as if he regrets it. "Ow."

I take his hand back in mine immediately. "Does it hurt, still?" I ask.

"It's a dull pain," he tells me. "Though I'm guessing that's only because of the painkillers."

I look around at the others, and they all seem to have run out of things to say.

I take the silence as my opportunity. "Lucas...." I start, my heart already racing as the words form behind my lips. "Lucas, I'm so sorry."

Everyone in the room except for Lucas seems to collectively groan.

"Just let me say this!" I snap at them. I look at my boyfriend now, who is staring up at me and looking nothing short of baffled. "I'm sorry for dragging you into all of this shit. I'm so, so sorry. I know that all you ever wanted to do was help, but you ended up hurt worse than all of us. You almost....you could have died."

I'm tearing up now, just thinking about how close I was to losing him. "And I can't stop thinking about it. About how, out of all of us, you were the one to get shot. And I know you're probably not angry with me, but I still feel fucking awful! I'm just....I'm sorry."

The whole room is silent, and I know they're all judging me, but I have eyes only for Lucas. I'm surprised to see that his expression is no longer confused, but looks incredibly sad. Almost pained, but I can tell it has nothing to do with his wound.

"Could everyone but Rose leave the room, please?" He says suddenly.

They don't have to be told twice. Sam, Dan, and Cody all turn and walk out in a single file line. The last to leave, Cody looks back at me with concerned eyes and just mouths It's okay, before shutting the door behind him.

Once we're alone, Lucas starts to speak. "Rose, I need to tell you something," he says, and his voice is shaky.

I'm nervous already, something about the sentence sounding off, and it takes me a bit to realize that it's because he called me Rose, not "Kid". Once again, Lucas is in Serious Mode.

"What is it?" I prompt him.

He stalls, messing with some loose threads on one of his pillows. I try to reach for his hand again but, to my surprise, he pulls it away. "Do you....do you promise that you won't hate me?"

"What?"

"Never mind, I shouldn't make you promise that." He chokes out a strangled laugh, still not meeting my eyes as he goes on. "You have the right to hate me. You'll probably want to break up with me, actually. I really wouldn't blame you."

"Lucas, what are you talking about?" I'm starting to get that cold feeling in my chest and stomach; like one you might get before a really important interview, or when you're about to confront somebody intimidating. I'm more than just nervous now. I'm scared.

"I, uh....I took....uh," he gulps.

His words sound familiar. "Wait, is this what you were about to tell me before-"

"I took the video," he blurts.

I freeze, taking several seconds to process what he said. I still need to make sure I heard right, actually. "What?"

"I took the video," he repeats, his voice firmer than before, and at last he looks up at me. His huge brown eyes are wet. "I recorded what happened, back when....back when it happened to you. Homecoming night. But I didn't know what was happening when I started the video, and by the time I realized I just....I couldn't move! And then I just ran, and I didn't know what to do, or what would happen if I.....and I didn't even know it was you, not until I met you for real. And when I realized it was you, I felt so fucking guilty, and I, and I, and-"

He's spiraling now; I more than anyone would recognize the signs. Tears are falling like waterfalls out of his eyes and his limbs are vibrating and he can't breathe, and yet he's still talking.

"But I swear I didn't know," he's saying through panting breaths. "I didn't know I'd make things worse. I just wanted to help. I didn't know I would ruin everything. It's my fault, all of it! If I never sent that f-f-fucking video," he inhales, but it sounds sharp and painful. It's only then that I notice his heart monitor is going off like crazy.

"Lucas-"

"None of this would've happened. None of it. With you, and Dan, And Sam. All the s-s-stress. Everything you went through-"

"Lucas-"

"And I know that you probably hate me. That I'm, that I'm the, that I'm the fucking worst. God I'm, I'm so STUPID."

"LUCAS!"

But at that moment, the door flies open and a bunch of nurses and a doctor run in.

"Check his vitals," one of them says frantically, then looks at me. "What happened?"

"He was just talking-"

"Okay, I need you leave," she says firmly, and starts ushering me out.

I fight her. "Wait, no! It's just a panic attack. I can help him-"

"That's not your job, young man," she says. "Don't make me call security."

It's the young man that gets me.

I push the nurse roughly away from me and fight through the crowd around Lucas's bed to grab his hand. "Lucas, look at me!" I beg him.

He has his eyes closed, his eyes that are still leaking tears nonstop, and seems unable to catch his breath.

"Just breathe," the doctor is telling him.

What an idiot. I fucking hate it when people do that.

"Look at me," I say again to Lucas, softer this time. "It's okay. You're okay. I'm here."

He opens his eyes then, looking like he's trying to focus them, and everyone else in the room has no choice but to take a step back when they see that it's working.

"I'm right here," I keep telling him, rubbing my thumb in smooth circles on the back of his hand. I take hold of his other one as well, and do the same, still looking directly into his eyes. "It's okay. It wasn't your fault, and I'm not mad. I'm not going anywhere. You're okay."

Finally, he seems to hear what I'm saying, and he starts nodding. He's still gasping, but his breaths are getting slower.

"Good. You're doing good." I take his right hand and place it on top of my chest, where my heart is. "Now I want you to try to match my breaths, okay? In," I take a deep breath in, like I'm getting ready to blow up a balloon. Sam taught me this one a long time ago.

Lucas breathes in with me, and together we hold the breath for four seconds. Then, I guide him through letting it out slowly. We do this a few times, until Lucas's heart monitors are back to beeping at normal speed.

"There," I whisper softly, giving him a warm smile. "You're okay." I look around at the hospital staff. "He's okay," I tell them proudly. "I got this."

Once we're alone again, I'm quick to take Lucas's face in both of my hands and capture his eyes with mine. "Listen to me," I tell him. "You are not at fault. You had no control over what happened to me, or what happened after you sent the video. You always try to do the right thing, and I love you for that. And I don't hate you. Not even close." I can't help but laugh at the very notion that I could ever hate this beautiful boy.

Lucas says nothing, but his eyes say everything. He's crying again, but it's no longer because he's panicking. "So....we're okay?" he asks innocently.

"More than that," I tell him, and then I lean in to kiss him softly, but deeply on the lips.

I feel him laugh into my mouth, and when I pull back to ask what's up he just says, "You make me so, so fucking happy, Kid."

I just smile, hoping he can read the Ditto in my eyes, before leaning back in and saying with my lips things that my voice never could.