October 31, Thursday. 8:12 p.m.

Nostalgic scents float on the cool autumn breeze, mingling with the heady scent of spray paint. Despite the fumes, the air is pure and sweet. The crowd is enormous, and a vibe of unity surrounds them. They have all gathered here for one purpose: to watch the Good-For-Nothings perform. I'm watching from the wings, with Davy. He's the sound guy and makes sure everything is tip-top. I'm just a backup. Adam says I don't always have to perform onstage to be a member of the band, but I do have to play at least once at every show, and I have to attend the band practices whenever my schedule permits.

   As is quickly becoming customary, I'm seated on a large crate, watching the show with rapt eyes. My chest swells with pride at having such talented friends, and my body has found rhythm in the music. Davy glances at me every now and then, smiling to himself. I bet I look a little silly, sedentarily dancing. But I don't care. This is fun. Loud, but fun.

   However, minuscule things here and there start getting to me. I keep thinking about yesterday, visiting Mama's grave. Mia's silhouette reminds me of Victoria for some reason. They're not even the same shape. I don't know. One of the fans in the crowd lets out a terrifying yell that sends shivers up my spine and panic tries to overtake me. Another group of devotees is whooping and cheering, throwing who knows what into the air, and it makes me think of the Vandals.

   The Vandals.

   I am not home, thus leaving the house unguarded.

Tonight is Halloween for those who celebrate.

   Certainly, the Vandals will take advantage of that.

This could be very, very bad.

Nah, it's fine. They haven't done anything the past few nights. You're overthinking it and getting freaked out for no reason. Enjoy the show, this is a treat. Calm down. Breathe.

And I do. I breathe. I breathe the fumes and the energy that make us high. And when the time comes, I accept Adam's guitar into my hands to play one of the searing solos.

11:57 p.m.

The ground beneath our feet is dry and littered with leaves as Adam and I tiredly carry our instruments to the Metro.

    We're a bit far from home. This concert was a little last-minute, held the next town over—apparently, they'd had this one booked long before Adam met me—and the quickest way to get here was to take the Metro. Dylan, knowing how insecure I was, offered to walk with me. So we started out before everyone else and walked to the venue. But now it's very late—or early, depending how you look at it—and it wouldn't make sense to walk all the way home. I figure if I'm with Adam, I'll be safe, so I've tagged along. The rest of the band either gone home, or staying the night with friends from the gig.

   "You warm enough?" Adam bounces on his toes, shifting his feet, readjusting his grip on the handle of his pedal case. I nod, watching his breath materialize briefly in the chilly air. He smirks at me, eyes bright in the glowing neon light streaming from the inside walls of the Metro station. "Your nose is so pink."

   I shrug. "Can't help it."

   Clad in black fingerless gloves, his right hand reaches out to lightly touch the tip of my nose. Booping me has become a new thing of his. "I don't think I'd want you to be able to help it. Your face isn't swollen anymore. That's good."

"Mhmm."

   "The bruises aren't very noticeable anymore, either. Still can't believe you got that from falling over. Hey, did you have fun tonight?"

   "Yeah."

   "Toward the end there, you didn't look like you were having much fun."

   I shrug. "Guess I was a little tired."

   "Gotcha. Hey, I know how you feel about the Metro. You nervous to ride the train?"

   "Maybe just a bit."

   "No panic attacks. Got it?"

   "Hey man, I can't make any promises and you know it." I give him a gentle shove and he rocks, casually maintaining balance. A train pulls in, silent and menacing. Moving toward the silently opening door, Adam glances at me.

   "Riding this thing isn't going to trigger you, is it?"

   "Stop asking. I'll be okay." I swallow hard. "I'm a big girl, I can handle this. Right?"

   "Get that shaky note out of your voice and I'll believe you," he mutters skeptically as we board and find a place to sit. The accents of the train's interior are an ominous, neutral shade of steely blue. Not comforting but not harsh. The type of color that invites you, but still ensures you won't overstay your welcome.

   Swallowing hard and gripping my uke case to keep my hands from trembling, I tentatively touch down on one of the seats. I have not ridden a Metro train since Mama died. Yes, it really has been that long. An entire thirteen years, to be precise.

   It's funny, having been to her grave yesterday has brought some sort of closure to me. Not full closure, but something like it. Because I'm nervous, but not really. I feel a tiny bit of peace. Like it's okay.

Adam sits beside me, resigned to our fate and mentally one thousand steps ahead of our current situation. His gloved right hand flicks up and down as if strumming his guitar. I recognize the pattern as belonging to the second to last song we performed. I only know that from practicing all morning. Yes, we skipped school in favor of band practice. And no, we are not sorry. How could we be, after such an epic night out?

   "How long 'til we reach home?" I stammer, willing to fill this desolate train with conversation rather than just two sleepy bodies and a couple instrument cases.

   Flipping his hair from his eyes, he stops phantom strumming to fidget with his wristband beneath his hoodie sleeve, glancing at me with a small shrug of those bony shoulders. "Shouldn't be more than forty-five minutes."

   "Okay, good." Trying to get my breathing under control, trying to forget where we are, desperate to push any inkling of the Vandals from mind, my eyes dart briefly to observe his restless hands and I decide ask him something.

   "Why do you keep messing with that?"

   "I want to be free," he whispers.

   "Free?"

   "Yeah. Like you."

"Like me?"

What is he even talking about?!

"If I didn't have to wear this damn thing, I'd have so much more freedom."

I sense some info is about to spill.

Adam inhales deeply. He doesn't continue to speak, just sits there simmering.

"Why can't you just take it off? What's stopping you?"

"If I take it off, they come to take me away."

"And then what?"

He goes silent.

"What, Adam? Tell me!"

"They euthanize me."

My breath catches and for a moment I stop breathing altogether. Why would anyone do such a horrible thing? That's an injustice.

   "But why?"

He sucks in a breath. "Because, if your genealogy is unknown, which is actually impossible these days, they don't see you worthy of existing. If they don't have record of your parents, they can't clone you."

"But isn't that a good thing?"

"Not to them. Apparently, clones are the future. And I'm an anomaly. So when you get people like me who just don't quite fit the puzzle, they kill us off. Cruel, I know, but no one said life and death were fair."

"You lucky bastard," I mutter, feeling wretched as the terrible word slips out. Did I really just say that? I've never said that word aloud in all my seventeen years of existence.

   He hits me lightly, but when I look up there's a tiny smirk tugging at his face. He's not mad. Good.

"The prospect of euthanasia used to excite me, actually," he admits, head bowed in shame.

   I don't know what to say to this. Pulling my legs up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them, I look sidelong at him and mumble, "Well, I hope they find your parents so you don't have to die."

He says nothing, just stares at his shoes. For someone hopped up on fumes and energy drinks after a concert, he's not very energized. Perhaps I asked the wrong question at the wrong time. But I really did want to know why he kept fidgeting with his wristband so much, and I can't blame him for wanting to be free of the thing.

   If only there was a way for him to take it off without getting taken to be euthanized. Like, couldn't he just carry it in his pocket or something?

"So you can't take it off for even a few minutes?"

He sighs. "No, I can't. The minute it's removed they're notified, and also, I actually don't know how to remove it."

"There's gotta be a way to get it off without them knowing."

"In your dreams," he rolls his eyes, playfully nudging my forehead with his fingertips. My only response is to blink. Taking a deep breath, he changes the subject. "So, has your cat come back yet?"

I shake my head. "No. And I feel bad cuz I really haven't even been looking for her."

He smirks sadly. "Well, I hate to say it, but that's life with a cat. They come and go."

"She was just so little."

"And super cute," he adds, enthusiasm flooding his words. "I've been looking for her around town, haven't seen her. But if I do find her I will bring her back to you."

"Thank you. I appreciate your help."

"No problem," he shrugs. "I appreciate you."

   My face burns and I don't know what to say. Though softhearted by nature, he's been so much more affectionate recently, and I'm not sure how to take it. Sometimes he says things like this that are difficult to respond to. Actually, he does it a lot. Or maybe he's always done it and I just don't remember because lately my brain has been irregular. Which reminds me...

"Adam, that night you took me to your house..."

"Yeah?" His forehead creases worriedly, though really it's not visible under all that hair.

"Apparently I was poisoned?"

"Yes. In a sense, you were."

"How?"

He shifts uncomfortably, glancing away, clearly wishing to dodge explaining. "Tris said it was caused by drugs."

Drawing in a breath, I choke on it and stare at him through wide eyes. "Drugs? What sort of drugs?"

"There's this certain drug gaining popularity right now and it's everywhere," he shrugs. "Medically, it's called Animpayrexate, which comes from Latin words meaning 'mind' and 'impair'. Due to its blackout-inducing properties, on the streets they call it Onyx."

"And somehow I came into contact with this drug? I don't do drugs, how is that possible?"

"Look, it was in your system, that's all I know. I can't explain it to you. And seeing as it was clearly in you for quite some time—at least that's what Tris said—who knows how long it's been messing with you. You could be addicted to it and you don't even know because it screws up your brain so you don't remember."

A lump forms in my throat and tears sting my eyes as if they're drops of acid. I feel as though he's accusing me of drug abuse when I hardly so much as touch ibuprofen. Instinctually, my hands start shaking and I wring them together in futile effort to make them stop. "I don't do drugs, Adam." The words come out in a choked whisper.

"I wasn't saying you did, geez. Chill out for once, would you? You've been so tense."

"Maybe I have good reason to be tense."

He raises his eyebrows, turns and forces me to look him in the eyes. "Do you?"

   Swallowing hard, millions of reasons fill my head. But can I even tell him? Do I trust him?

   "I'm waiting for an answer," he states, snapping me out of my reverie. The train has pulled to a halt, we get up and off as quickly as possible. Up the steps we go, into the familiarity of our hometown. I feel like I've been swimming in chlorinated water with my eyes open. The air ripples, my vision blurs in the corners. I do not give Adam an answer. I drown his voice out as we near my house, shoving my uke case against him as I break into a run. There are lights—fires?—glowing around my house, things smashing, screams of "TRICK OR TREAT!" reverberating from green-clad bodies frolicking about. Smoke curls along the ground.

"No no no no no no no no no no no..." the word repeats itself over and over as I gasp for breath, forcing my exhausted body to move homeward. Adam, bearing his instrument cases—and mine—struggles to keep up, yelling for me to stop.

   I can't stop. I'm so angry. I want to show them who's boss. That they can't mess with me anymore. That I've had it.

   Adam eventually gains on me, having found a relatively safe place to stow the instruments for the time being. He grabs my shoulders and wraps his arms around me, fighting my every protest. Dragging me away from the scene of destruction, he patiently takes every punch I throw at him.

   Someone give this boy a medal, geez.

"Can't you see I need to stop them?!" I hiss, whipping around to glare at him.
He looks calmly from me to the mess and then back, then his lips part smartly as he mutters, "Can't you see I'm trying to protect you?"

Then, with gentle force, he makes me sit on the ground with our instruments. "If you get up," he warns sternly, "I will never forgive you for it."

I don't believe him, but I obey regardless. He takes a deep breath and stalks toward the house. I bury my head in my hands, shaking. Of course they chose tonight. Of course.

It's so bad.

   Worse than all the other times.

The festivities are brought to an abrupt halt, and I lift my head to make sure I can see Adam. I can't let cowardice stop me from ensuring he's okay.

One of the green-suited Vandals, tall and broad-shouldered, is talking to Adam. Adam's yelling. But he's not swearing too much, to my surprise. Seems he's started to get a reign on that habit. I know he usually only does it when he's angry, but it's still not good. He's gotten better, though. I'll give him that.

For a minute or two it seems as though a riot is going to break out, if there wasn't one already. The green Vandals begin fleeing my yard from all directions, leaving destruction in their wake. As the tall one leaves, Adam calls to him, and as he briefly turns I can see his face.

My heart jumps into my throat and I feel like I'm going to die.

The lead Vandal is Tate.

November 1, Friday. 4:58 a.m.

The fires are out. Adam's been cleaning up for the past hour or so. Apart from being taken inside, I haven't said a word, haven't moved. I'm just curled on the couch, shaking. Images of drugs and creeps and exploding bodies fill my mind. Thoughts of the Metro and Mama pulsate like stars, wounding me. It's hard to breathe, my vision is still swimming. My body has literally become a ball of vibrating mass on one end of the couch. I want my cat.

   I want Daddy to come home. As if somehow that will make everything okay.

   My mind is just looking for comfort right now. That's all.

Thoughts are disturbed by Adam plunking down beside me, grabbing my hands a bit roughly, clamping down on them. "Stop shaking. Take deep breaths. You're in control. You have to tell yourself that. Say it. Say it out loud. Make the words real."

   "I can't."

   "You can. Now look at me. Look me in the eyes. Breathe. Focus."

   Inhaling deeply, I lift my head to meet his gaze again. His eyes are kind, worried. They do not match the frustration in his voice. "Repeat after me," he says firmly. "I. Am. In. Control."

   "I," the single-letter word causes me to choke. Adam's grip tightens, balling my hands into fists beneath the vise-like tent of his fingers and palms.

   "Am,"

   He nods, urging me on, but I break.

"I can't say it, Adam. I just can't."

"Why not?"

"Because! I'm not in control! This therapy stuff or whatever you call it is just an illusion, just an imaginary figment. It's not helping, it never does!"

"I'm sorry." Releasing my hands, he tips his head curiously, eyes darkening to a vulnerable brown. "Can I ask you something?"

   "Uh, sure...?"

   "Can I hold you? Please?"

   All my words seem to have escaped, so I just nod and succumb to his arms gently pulling me into his lap, holding me tight, his chin settling on my head. "I'm so glad they didn't hurt you. They haven't hurt you, have they?"

   I grow very silent and still. I can't tell him about the bullying. I know he wants me to be honest, but I feel like him knowing about the Vandals is enough for one night. Or is it morning?

   Technically it's morning. Whatever.

   "No, they haven't," I finally mumble. It's not necessarily untrue. Tate might hurt me at school, but the Vandals have never laid a hand on me. Which is surprising, considering how badly they want me dead. Do they want to drive me to insanity so I self-destruct?

   "Good. Listen, if it ever happens again—and I mean it—you tell me right away. This needs to be brought to attention. Call the authorities."

   "They won't care," I argue, pulling out a bit to look at him. "Nobody respects me or believes me because they blame me for my dad's mistakes."

   "Well, I respect you. I believe you. I don't blame you for what your Dad chooses to do with his life. That's on him. That makes one who believes you. I'm sure there are more." He forces my head against his shoulder and leans back. "I know you're worked up, but try to get some sleep. I'm right here."

   My ear over his fast-beating heart, I wonder what on earth Daddy would think of this situation.

   Likely, he wouldn't be happy with any of it. I was out late, too late. Our house was vandalized. I'm curled on a boy's lap in my living room and he's suggesting that I sleep. Do I dare?

   Yes. I dare. I'm tired—exhausted. And I trust him. I trust him to never hurt me. He might confuse me at times, he might frustrate me, but I trust him. He's one of few people who actually care.

   Yes, I dare to sleep.

   "I can take you to your room if you want," he murmurs. I shrug, growing drowsier. The last thing I feel is him lifting me.

10:15 a.m.

Everything is very quiet. Pushing myself out of bed, scratching my gnarled head of hair, I stretch and rub my eyes. I've slept in, and it's a school day.

   I remember last night. I remember everything. I remember Adam holding me, what he said, what I said. I remember how scared I felt. I remember the concert, how fun it was. How there was a group of fans that reminded me of the Vandals.

   That group of fans very well could have been the Vandals, I now realize. Tate has caused me to have a great many enemies. I wouldn't be surprised.

   I should change into something clean. Noting that my bedroom door is closed, I dig through my dresser and pull out a pair of black skinny jeans, and a black turtleneck. Throw on a pair of mismatched socks and run a comb through my hair, and I'm good to go.

   Adam's still here. Cleaning. He looks so tired.

   "Why are you still here? Didn't you sleep at all?" I ask groggily, stumbling off the bottom stair step. He shakes his head, ignoring my first query.

   "Nah, I don't sleep much. Insomnia." Catching my horrified expression, he waves me off. "Don't worry about it, I've been like this for years."

"Does anyone else know?"

"Just you and Dylan."

   Whoa, so even the rest of the band and his foster family don't get to be privy to that? Must be worse than he claims.

   The silence is uncomfortable so I change the subject. "You didn't have to stay, you know. Even if I was a wreck, I woulda been okay."

   "No," he shakes his head. "You wouldn't have been. I told you I'm gonna be here for you. Besides, it isn't fair to make you clean all this up by yourself."

   "It's my house."

   "You're my house, so shut up."

   My cheeks get very warm and I don't know where to look. Why does he say things like that?!

   "I just feel bad that you're doing all this for me."

   "Don't feel bad. Stop apologizing for everything. This wasn't your fault, it's not your mess. Oh, and you're not going to school today."

   "Wasn't planning on it."

   "I've gotta work tonight but I plan on hanging around until then, and I'd prefer to take you with me but I understand if you don't want to come."

   "Guess I'll think about it."

   He smiles, tired eyes brightening. "Good. Just don't overthink, okay? There's breakfast in the kitchen if you're hungry." He rubs my head playfully, then continues cleaning. He needn't worry about me overthinking anything at the moment. I'm too groggy.

In the kitchen, there's a pot of fresh oatmeal on the stove. I lift the wooden spoon that's stuck inside and take a taste. Mmm. Cinnamon and maple sugar. My favorite. On the counter, sitting to the left of the pot, there's a small bowl of icing. I'm confused.

"Adam?"

He pops his head around the doorway. "What's up? Oh, the icing? That's for your oatmeal."

"For my—wait a minute, get back here."

He laughs a little, and the happy sound fills my chest with something I haven't felt in forever: joy. Or at least something remotely like it.

"You drizzle it over the oatmeal like this, and it's like a cinnamon roll." He takes the spoon from me and demonstrates, using a metal tablespoon to bestrew a fair amount of icing over the steaming oats. Grinning, he proffers the dripping spoon to me. I take it and bite into the sweet confection.

I'm never eating oatmeal any other way as long as I live.

   "Ya' like that, yeah?" he smirks knowingly. I nod and take another bite. Jerking his head in the direction of the pot, he begins to exit the kitchen. "It's all yours, have at it."

   "But what about you?"

   "I already ate." His voice grows faint as he disappears from the room. Shrugging, I dip the wooden spoon into the pot and grab a bowl from the cupboard. I could eat directly from the pot if I wanted to, but I'd rather eat like a civilized human being. There's this sense of clarity being restored and I'm really liking it. I'm starting to feel like myself again, after being so disoriented for almost an entire month.

You're not yourself. You're in shock.

1:18 p.m.

"Educate me," Adam sighs exhaustedly, sinking onto the bottom porch step. Seated to his left, I raise a quizzical eyebrow.

He gestures to the disarray. "I want to know what this is all about. How many times it's happened. Because I gather they've been here more than once."

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I scoff, not intending to sound harsh. The truth is, whatever clarity I felt this morning is slowly scattering, and I feel like I'm grasping at straws to hold myself together. My head pounds from all the excitement of last night and from lack of sufficient sleep. Only moments ago I woke from a little nap, and I still feel groggy. Maybe that's what it is. I'm not losing clarity, I'm just groggy.

   Trauma, my dear. You're in shock.

Adam looks at me seriously, expecting an answer. I swallow and take a deep breath before saying, "I don't know what this is about. All I know is that they've been here more times than I can be bothered to count."

"But I thought you had perfect memory."

At this, I shoot him a glare. It's not the time to be talking about the condition my mind is in, and I know he knows it.

"Okay, okay. When did it start? Do you remember that?"

As if I'd forget. Shuddering, pulling my brother's jacket around my shoulders, I nod. "Yep. The ninth of September. It was a Saturday, I had slept in."

   "The damage. Was it as bad as last night?"

   "No. It's gotten worse each time."

   "Have you tried to make them stop?"

   "Yes. I have. Adam, think about how stupid that question is. If I'd been able to make them stop they wouldn't have returned."

   He looks hurt, and I instantly feel bad for being terse with him. Maybe taking that nap wasn't such a good idea after all.

   "I wasn't suggesting you'd been able to stop them, I was just wondering if you'd tried. Cuz effort matters."

   My only response is to raise an eyebrow. Biting at his lip rings, he sighs, shakes his head, and tries again.

   "So this started almost two months ago. Why didn't you say anything?"

   I shrug, trying to pass it off as unimportant, but his gaze is so strong, I know I have to tell him the truth. "I just..."

   "You just what?" He stares at me expectantly. I swallow hard and shake my head, burying my face in my hands. I can't do it. I can't tell him. It's bad enough that he even found out. I can't.

  Inhaling deeply, uncovering my face, I think of a diversion. "Don't you have to work soon?"

   His eyes flash in realization, and for a fleeting moment I am almost convinced I've distracted him.

   I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up.

   "Yeah, yeah, but I need you to tell me."

   "Won't you be late?" It can't hurt to try swaying him off topic.

   "Listen, I need you to focus. I will not be late. Don't worry about me. This is about you. It matters."

   "I don't think so."

   He glares, pain darkening his large, sleepless eyes. "Amber, your life is in danger and you want to treat it like it doesn't matter?"

   I shrug, feeling off-kilter and dismembered. "It really doesn't."

   "Yeah, I totally believe you," he retorts sarcastically, fidgeting with his wristband. He furrows his brow, rubs the back of his neck. "Y'know, I figured you'd trust me enough by now to let me know what's going on. I mean, I know I probably wait too long to tell you things, but I guess I didn't expect you to be the same way. I'm sorry. I just wanna be there for you."

   I feel nauseous, at the same time burning with shame. He has a point. What kind of sick, twisted person am I, to not trust my best friend?

A very sick twisted person.

Adam levels his gaze on me, abruptly rising to his feet. "Well, if you won't speak, that's fine. I'll let you explain when you're ready. I can be patient. Just don't be afraid to reach out, alright? I'm really scared for you and I just wanna make sure you're okay. No one should have to go through this sort of stuff alone." He bends to give me a hug, and I can tell he intended it to be quick and wasn't expecting me to reciprocate, but I reach up and hold onto him. I'm just hoping he can accept this as an unspoken apology. Not sure what's got into me, and I feel horrible for being so rude to him after all he's done for me.

"I'm not using you, you know," I whisper.

He pulls out and rubs my head playfully. "I know. I didn't think you were. I have to go now. Stay warm, stay safe." With that, he takes the umbrella that's been leaning against the house and steps lightly down the front walk, briefly turning to wave before disappearing into the rain that served as a depressing backdrop for our conversation.

   It matters. His words thud through my head, echoing so loudly it hurts. Shivering, I permit myself a few dodgy glances at the sabotage surrounding me, then open the door and lock myself inside. After brewing some tea, I take the mug upstairs and hide in my bedroom for the remainder of the afternoon.

Although Adam said he cares, I can't help wondering if he's going to avoid me for a little while after this. I mean, I wasn't very kind to him—especially after all he did for me in regards to this vandalism mess.

7:35 p.m.

Several restless hours have passed, and my bed is covered in crumpled apology letters. The guilt I feel for my rudeness is immense. I want to apologize. And I know I should, but I can't bring myself to tell him why I never said anything about the Vandals. I've tried writing it all out for him, since it's easier for me to organize my thoughts on paper than it is to speak them aloud. But for some reason, when I go back to reread it, it just seems wrong and I get really insecure about it. Explaining the vandalism requires that I tell him about the bullies, and I'm not ready for that. There's nothing anyone can do about it anyway.

Unfolding every single ball of paper, I smooth them out and file them away within the recesses of my notebook. Perhaps I just won't write him a letter at all. I mean, he didn't look upset. Concerned, yes. Upset? No. And he definitely wasn't irritated with me.

Too bad I can't make myself believe it.

I miss Mackerel. I could use a cat cuddle right about now.