October 30, Wednesday. 5:27 a.m.

My eyes blink open, but they are not met by crude autumn sunlight. Sitting up and squinting at the silver gossamer curtains drawn over the window, I see that it is gray and dreary outside. Luckily, I don't hear any rain, which gives me a bit of hope that it might clear up.

Sliding out of bed, I plod downstairs and recall sitting on the couch last night with Adam. I'm not sure if he left or not.

There's a basket of chocolate-raspberry muffins and a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice on the table, with a little note beside them.

Had to get going, but I made you breakfast. I'll lock the door behind me and come to pick you up on my way to school. Hope you're feeling better. :)
- Adam

Guess he did leave. Since the incident on Friday, he's been hanging with me all day after school, and last night he stayed over. I wasn't feeling well, and Tris has asked him to keep an eye on me due to the poisoning episode.

I would've preferred to have him walk to school with me.

    Tucking the note in my pocket, I pour myself a glass and grab a muffin, bringing them upstairs with me so I can eat in my room and tackle the homework I've been putting off. There's still a bit of time to get it done before I head to school.

Suddenly, as I'm about to take a bite of muffin, my eyes glimpse the calendar pinned above my little desk. I choke, putting the food down and wringing my hands unhappily.

Today is—or would have been—my mother's forty-second birthday. I'd like to visit her grave; maybe bring her some flowers. It's been awhile since I've visited—things have been hard the past few years, and I just couldn't handle it. But today is special, and I feel like I owe it to her.

Blinking rapidly and rubbing my eyes profusely to keep from crying, I reach forward and tear the calendar from the wall, letting it fall behind my desk. Turning away, I decide to make my bed. Maybe it will take my mind off things.

Unfortunately, tucking blankets in and fluffing pillows does not help me, because everything I do reminds me of Mama—after all, she taught me to make my own bed, young as I was.

I almost feel angry as I pull open a dresser drawer and find a pair of jeans, socks, a T-shirt, and...a black hoodie that doesn't belong to me. Oh well. Scraping the clothes out of the drawer, I become resigned to them quite quickly. I'm not sure how or why the hoodie was in my drawer, but I'll put it on. It's black, and I feel like mourning today. My jeans are dark enough, and no one will see my black and turquoise striped long sleeved shirt underneath the hoodie anyway.

Tugging the hoodie over my head and noting that it faintly smells of Adam, I suddenly recall why it was in there. It's the one he borrowed to me that I keep forgetting to give back. I've worn it several times, so it's strange that I didn't immediately recognize it. That's been happening a lot to me lately, and I'm not liking it. I'm used to having sharp, spot-on memory. This sudden forgetfulness is not welcome simply because it's weird and unfamiliar. It's also uncharacteristic.

Returning to my desk, I try to force the juice down, but I feel so nauseous that I spit it right back into the cup. Backwashing is disgusting, and it makes me even queasier.

Maybe I should try to find someone—anyone. I need to talk to someone; open up; I need someone to go to when I'm feeling like this.

My bedroom seems to have become a sanctum of sadness. I quickly descend the stairs feeling hurt and alone, wondering just how long I will be able to withstand the pressure of all the things bottled inside me. I slide my feet into my sneakers and pull Ian's jacket on, grabbing my keys. I kind of want to skip school today. There's no way I could possibly focus. Regardless, I take my backpack as well. Standing in the doorway, I realize there's no point going, that I won't be able to tolerate it. The bullies will likely find a way to hurt me even worse. That's not something I need at the moment.

Still, I've pulled too many absent days and I'm not sure how long it'll be before I'm expelled for poor attendance. May as well get it over with.

Taking a deep breath, removing Ian's jacket because I don't want anyone to give me grief about it, I lock the house and set off toward school. I'll be tardy at most, but that's better than being absent I guess. In their eyes, anyhow.

7:21 a.m.

My eyes desperately scan the hallway, searching for a trustworthy face. There are few.

   Adam's eyes light up when he sees me. I'm going to have to pretend like nothing's wrong and to forget about Mama just long enough to get through the day.

Pushing through the suffocating amount of students as though treading liquid, Adam manages to reach me and amiably flings an arm over my shoulders. "Okay so this is really last minute but I needed to tell you something: we've got a gig tomorrow the next town over and I was wondering if you'd like to tag along?"

Head feeling like it's underwater, all I do is nod and let his skinny body guide mine through the overwhelming swell of humans, picking up a very flustered Dylan along the way. He relaxes a bit when he sees me, mumbling a quiet "Hey Shortie" before shoving his hands in his pockets and ducking his head again.

Staring at the sea of people, I wonder just how I'm going to survive the day with all the thoughts and heaviness swirling through me.

2:15 p.m.

Druggie. Addict. Dopehead. Doper. Stoner. Junkie. Fiend. Freak. Head. Hophead. Hype.

All day long, every synonym out there for druggie has been hurled in my direction. Top it with my already swirling emotions regarding Mama's death and the fact that it's her birthday, and you get a very zoned-out unstable mess of a girl.

   I'm confused and hurt. I don't do drugs. What reason have they to talk about me like that? I've never given them any reason to believe I'm on drugs.

   They don't need a reason. They want to make your life hell, they'll go to unnecessary lengths to do so. You know that.

I wish I didn't.

   "No pressure, but would you like to have supper at my place?" Adam asks, opening the umbrella and holding it above us as we descend the school steps. Glancing at him, I consider this. He could teach me a little more about guitar. That might get my mind off things. Then again, there's no guarantee. And although it's gone down some, I don't feel like being in public with a bruised, swollen face.

   "I think I just wanna stay home," I reply softly, keeping my head low and hands in my pockets. It's too cold out here for just a hoodie but I couldn't wear my brother's jacket to school for fear someone would notice and take offence.

Adam's eyes darken sympathetically. "I understand. Hey, is it alright if I swing by later?"

"Depends on if I'm awake or not."

He smirks. "There we are. You're being difficult. I like that."

"You bumfuzzle me," I sigh, shaking my head and trying not to smile.

"I know. That's why I say those things." He pokes my nose and Dylan, who has been silently keeping pace with us this whole time, rolls his eyes before jabbing his elbow into Adam's side. They've started doing that a lot when I'm around. I wouldn't know why.

   No one says a word as we near town. I've been thinking about Mama again. How I need to visit her.

   Dylan parts ways, heading toward his tenant and meeting my eyes briefly. Telepathic reassurance passes between us, and with that he disappears. Adam turns to me again.

   "You seem really sad today. Anything I can do?"

   "I'll be fine," I assure him, wondering why I'm not taking him up on his offer to help. I could open up to him so easily about everything. Why am I holding back?

   "Okay. I'll walk you home. If you need anything, just let me know."

   "I will. Thank you."

At my house, I thank him again and watch him walk to the hollow in the rain. When I can't see him anymore I turn inside, dropping my things and returning to my bedroom. For a few minutes I idly flip through a book that doesn't interest me, and instead of reading I end up finishing my homework in record time. After that I take out a knitting project that I've never finished, but I can't seem to work at it, so I put it away again and attempt instead to make a family of origami foxes to display on my nightstand, but I can't settle down to that, either. At intervals I've opened my phone and considered giving Adam a call. But I don't want to bother him.

6:45 p.m.

Now, sitting on the bottom step of the back deck, chin resting on my knees which I've hugged to my chest, all I feel is cold, alone, forgotten, and numb. I've felt numb for a long time—it began when Mama died, and grew as I kept losing loved ones. It continues to grow. I can still feel some things, like the sting of the bullies' words and actions, but overall I'm empty and can't feel a thing. At least, that's how it seems.

Today is Mama's birthday. I want to visit her grave. It has been years since I've gone. But nobody has time to bring me there, and I don't want to go alone. It's too far, and I want someone to be there for me in case my grief gets too overbearing. It would mean so much to me if somebody would just be there and let me pour my heart out to them. To have someone put their arms around me when I'm too weak from crying. I have so much pent up inside, and it slowly eats away at me with each passing day. Soon I will be nothing but a shell, if I'm not one already.

It's stopped raining, so I get up and absentmindedly wander to the hollow leading to Adam's place. I knock on the door, Tris answers, ushering me inside to the living room where the fireplace has been kept burning all day to ward off any chill inside the house. Lo and behold, Adam is sitting near the hearth with his guitar and journal, staring intently into the flames and mimicking the movement of the fire with music. It's very interesting. He uses the fire's crackling as his beat or main rhythm, building the music from there. He can literally take anything and find a beat in it; once, this girl in our art class had horrible hiccups, and he recorded her hiccuping because he heard music in them. He also was listening to his foster sister color with markers once, found the beat, and recorded that. Needless to say, it weirded Paige out. While odd, it showcases Adam's talent, his sharp hearing, and his keen musical sense.

Adam usually has time for me. And he's clearly not doing chores anytime soon. When he works on music like this, he enters what his pals and I call "the zone," which simply means that he's in his own world and if you interrupt him he will hate you for the rest of the day, because music notes are flighty and it takes a lot of brainwork for a mastermind like him to corral all those things and make them blend the way he does. He never wants to risk losing a beat or a certain tune, so if he's in the middle of something, it's best to let him be and not even talk to him.

However, I've busted in on him a few times and he's never angry with me like he is with anyone else who'd do that, so maybe he will be just as easy this time. I feel like I might break if I don't just tell someone what I want—nay, what I need—and he's a pretty good listener for the most part, and his heart is massive, so it's worth a shot. I just have to remind myself to prepare for disappointment and not get my hopes up that he will be gentle toward my intrusion.

Hands shyly behind my back, I inch forward on my tiptoes and mumble his name. His head snaps up and he glances at me, then holds up his index finger—typical response. He wants me to wait.

Reaching for his journal and scribbling something on one of the pages, he inclines his head slightly in my direction. "Yeah?"

"Do you have a free moment?"

"Yeah, I've got a whole box of 'em just lying around here someplace."

I'm hurt by his sass but also pleased that I have his attention. He's the sassiest when I have his full attention. So I reiterate my question. "I mean... Do you—do you have time for me?"

A warm, poignant smile graces his face as he nods a bit absently, like he's transitioning between the musical world in his head and reality. "Sure, I got time for you. Just let me finish this, okay? I think I've almost got what I'm looking for."

"Uh, alright." I stand perfectly still, watching and listening as he builds his song and improvises earlier parts of it. Finally, he flips his journal shut and swings his guitar over his shoulder on its strap. "Okay. I'm ready. The song's not done, but I've sorta hit a block with this one part, so I'll work on it later." Grabbing his pen and tucking it into his back pocket, he looks at me with wide, expectant eyes. "Um. I'm gonna go put this stuff away."

"Sure, go ahead."

Quickly, he turns and heads for the basement where his studio is. While he's gone, I decide that—knowing he'll ask what I want with him—we should go for a walk. The woods are gorgeous this time of year, and I do have a special love for the autumn season despite the fact that everything is dying and I hate death.

Adam returns, a slight smile on his face as he cocks his head to the left.

"Hey! You're still rocking my hoodie. Awesome. Anyway. So—what's the plan?"

"I thought we could go for a walk," I murmur, shutting my eyes and reminding myself to breathe.

   Hang on, Mama. I'm coming—if this works.

Adam nods, to my relief. "Cool. Let's go." He holds the back door open, as it's the quickest route to the back woods; and he knows the forest is my favorite place on earth.

As we get deeper and and deeper into the forest, trodding away from the paths, Adam stops pitching acorns at terrified squirrels and turns to ask, "So what's up?"

"I just needed someone."

He raises an eyebrow playfully, chucking one last acorn at a shrieking duo of territorial red squirrels. "For what?"

"To open up to." Looking about, I spot one of my favorite rocks, and I quickly situate myself upon it. Adam suddenly senses that this is a time to be serious, and he instantly sobers.

"Wait. You've been sad all day. What's goin' on?"

"I—" My voice breaks, and the tears I've held back all day finally show themselves. Adam's face turns red, like he's embarrassed or ashamed.

"Don't cry, Aminal. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—should I have not skipped out on you this morning?"

"No," I shake my head, rubbing my eyes. "It's not you."

"Then what is it?" He looks hurt and desperate, and I reprove myself for breaking in front of him. I may have seen him in his weakest moments, but he should never have to see me like this.

"Today's my mom's birthday," I sob. "And I wanted to visit her grave, but I have no one to even talk to me, and I just felt so—so alone—"

"I didn't know it was her birthday," he admits softly and meditatively, head bent, staring off into space as he leans against the rock. "I'm sorry. You kept this pent up all day? That's not good. Why didn't you come to me before? You know I'd drop everything if it made you feel better. We're best friends."

"I didn't know what to do."

"I'm sorry. Look, I wanna help you feel better. Is there anything I can do? Like, I dunno—what're your mom's favorite flowers?"

"Starflowers," I manage to eke out, breaking down again. To this day, the slightest mention of them reminds me of Mama's burial day, and it was more than I could bear, even at such a young age.

Adam hops up beside me on the rock and leans forward, fixing a steady gaze upon me. "Don't cry. Do you know where to find them?"

I can only sniffle and wipe the corners of my eyes, staring off into the forest and taking deep, shaky breaths, biting my knuckles.

"Didn't she grow them?"

At his words, I look up and nod solemnly. Or at least, I try to. In reality, I nod tearfully and bury my face in my hands. Adam gently pries my fingers away. Taking my cheeks in the palms of his hands, mindful of the minor swelling on the left side, he whispers, "It's okay." Then he hugs me tightly, resting his chin on top of my head.

"I'm not sure what goes on inside of you every day, Aminal, but I imagine it must be pretty rough. Never let the struggle and the scars define who you are. Let them remind you how far you've come. Let them symbolize your strength. Let them be witness to what you've been through, to show others that they can overcome anything if they're willing to fight for it. Just don't let the scars define you."

   How come you never seem to believe those words in your own moments of darkness, Adam?

"Your mom grew her flowers in the backyard, right? I know she had a garden and a lot of plants—and delicious strawberries—but that's only cuz you told me. I'm trying to remember exactly what you said she grew, but...your memory's so much sharper than mine. My head's kinda crowded, see." He pulls out and smiles apologetically, smearing a tear off my left cheek—gently, as he's mindful of the injuries I have there.

A swollen face and tear stains. I bet I'm just so damn gorgeous.

I do my desperate best to pull myself together, and after a few giant, shaky breaths I'm able to say, "She did. In the backyard. But I don't know if there will be any."

"Oh, there'll be plenty." He gets off the rock, calmly offering a hand. I take it tentatively, shaking as I step down into the crunchy leaves that smell so good.

"How—how can you be so sure of that? All the plants are dying, Adam—see?" Sliding my hand from his, I break a few leaves apart and let their pieces drift from my fingers to prove my point. He smiles, pulls off his beanie, and tugs it over my head.

"You gotta have faith, Aminal. The flowers will be there. Trust me." He gives me a gentle clap on the shoulder. "C'mon. Let's get going before Tris misses me and calls me in to entertain Paige while the girls prepare supper. They went to town, but they'll be back soon."

"If it's suppertime and your little sister needs entertainment, shouldn't we stay?"

He takes me by the shoulders and looks me directly in the eyes, and I see his large hazel ones glowing like embers. I love how his eyes change color with his moods. In some lights they are brown, others they're more orange or gold in hue, sometimes even reddish. But there's always that layer of army green inside—faint, yet noticeable. On rare occasions, his eyes have even gone almost black. That's when something devastating has happened and he's basically in shock. Or he's angry.

"This is more important," he insists gently. "I'm taking you to your mom's grave. It's been how long since you last visited?"

I try to look away, because gazing into his eyes is often unpleasant after awhile; it feels like he's scouring my soul with them. His gaze penetrates every part of one's being, so long as he's locked eyes. After that, watch out. He may just read your soul. At least, that's what I've grown to believe. It's not like he's a mind reader or anything—he's just insanely smart, and knows a great deal about psychology. He also pays more attention than anyone gives him credit for.

Gently, his left hand pushes my chin back into position, straightly centered above my collar.

"How long?"

"A few years. I don't know. A long time."

"It's time you went back."

"I know, but—" I glance toward the path we sort of took to get here, sighing heavily. Again, he turns my head away.

"Where's your mom buried, Aminal."

"I was four years old at the time and honestly all I remember about her funeral is that people were crying and I didn't know what was going on. But...I think she's buried in the cemetery...near the church."

Good one Amber, very specific.

His eyes take on a faraway look. "Oh. I know that cemetery. I like to go there sometimes and sit quietly among the gravestones."

He's weird like that, and I'm more than willing to let that come to light. But I can't stop staring at the path we took, wondering if Tris is searching for us. Wondering if maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Wondering if maybe, I won't be able to handle it.

   Adam turns me back.

"It's your mom's birthday. You wanted to visit her. And you needed someone to take you, but no one was around to do it. Well, I'm here, and I have the time, and I'm taking you. You're going to do this. And you'll feel better. Don't be fickle and stubborn. C'mon. If you can pull me out of my suicidal moods, I can pull you out of your angst."

"Okay," I relent, letting out my breath. He smiles, putting his left arm over my shoulders as we walk back to my house.

The garden is overgrown, like everything else. Ivy, my favorite plant, has taken over the house. It looks pretty, but I know it needs to be cut back. No one but me has lived here since Daddy had to go away, and with all the vandalism going on, it's a lot of work for me to take care of it. It has been so abused in recent weeks that it looks lonely and hurt. Funny how no amount of vandalism seems to affect the plant life.

Adam looks thoughtfully at the house, then at me, and says decidedly, "Apart from the overgrowth...I think you kinda look like your house. Like, you've been empty for so long and you don't know if you'll ever be filled again. I didn't mean that in an offensive way or anything."

I'm about to open my mouth and reply, but he just wanders deeper into the garden in pursuit of flowers for my mother's grave.

He returns with armloads of them, face rosy from his excursion and the chilly air, and a valiant expression on his face. Approaching me, he fills my arms with the flowers, gloating, "See? I told you there'd be plenty."

Unsure what to say, I gather the flowers in one hand as he takes my other one and leads me toward the cemetery. The walk feels like it takes forever. My feet are so tired and I'm worn out from crying even though I know there are more tears still waiting to fall.

I'm relieved when we get there. There are many tombstones, but I know exactly which one belongs to Mama. Adam, hands in pockets, looks around the gloomy place with a certain air; almost pitiful. "Look at all these people," he mutters. "All these souls. Hopefully up there." He points to the sky, although his gaze is so deep into the yonder that I almost believe he's seeing more than just the few streaks of color left over from the sunset.

At my mother's grave, I practically collapse, so overcome by emotion that I can't even stand. The flowers tumble from my arms like the tears that pour down my face, and the pained sobs that escape my choked throat are loud and mournful. What makes this so hard is that I am not seeing the grave for what it appears to be—that is, a patch of sod with a marble slab at its head. No, I am seeing it as I saw Mama in the funeral home before the burial. Her melted face, beautiful despite the wreckage, marred by the fire of a stupid county bus. And there I was with hardly a scratch on my body. I can see her now, in the ground, arms folded over her breast, a flower in her right hand—the flower I placed there when Daddy lifted me for a better look at her face.

I'm shaking so bad because it seems so real—even if it isn't.

Why did I survive with hardly a scratch? Why did you have to die? It isn't fair. I don't understand! I never did. You should stretch your cold, lifeless hands through the earth and take me with you. Choke me—it wouldn't matter. It's not like I'd feel it. It'd be easier than you not being here to watch over me. Don't you understand? Every child needs a mother. You said that once. And you said a mother's love always lasts forever. But that would mean you'd have to last forever too, wouldn't it? And you left me! Left me helpless and alone in a cruel world that doesn't care if I survive or not. They've made it pretty clear I don't belong. I wish you'd just take me now and have it over with. Reverse time. Kill me, too!

As this last thought resounds in my mind, I lift my head, frightened by my own pondering. If the bus had killed me, I would not have to miss my mother, but how would Adam survive? He relies on me quite a bit for support and sanity and friendship. I'd never want to hurt him—he's in enough pain already—but I do wish I wasn't alive some days. I feel like it'd just be easier on me if I could be with my mom again. Or if Daddy could even come back. That would make me feel better.

Or would it?

Adam has been standing far off, admiring someone's epitaph and fidgeting with his wristband, acting like he wants to write something. He seems alarmed by my loud emissions, but when he stands beside me, looking down sadly, hands in pockets, all alarm drains out of his face to be replaced by sympathy. He gets down on one knee and sets a hand at the base of my neck.

   "Aw. Kiddo."

I wonder where he got the idea for that nickname.

"I—I just miss her so much," I choke, rubbing my eyes and nose fruitlessly, shivering from the temperature drop and my wet sleeves. He nods, then pulls me against him warmly, nose pressed to my head.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could do something. Anything. I wish I could get her back for you. But I know that's not realistic. Why do people always want us to be realistic?"

I take a deep breath and say shakily, "Because life isn't fantasy, Adam. Death happens. And—and we have to face it."

"I know. But it's not fair to you."

There is silence for awhile as I try to calm myself again, but it's not working.

Suddenly, Adam interrupts my sniffling by saying, "Well—even if life isn't fair, and even if I don't understand things all the time, you don't have to go it alone. I'll be there for you. No matter what. We need each other."

I can't say anything, and it doesn't seem like he's expecting a response. He helps me to my feet, then begins to lead me home. He doesn't try to make conversation, doesn't hurry me along. He lets me cry, lets me move at my own pace—all the while patiently walking with me. As we approach the hollow, he takes a battered starflower from his back pocket, smiles in a sad, bashful manner, and pokes the stem over my left ear, securing it just under the beanie he put on my head earlier. But the scent of the flower disturbs me too greatly, and he is compelled to take it away and return it to his pocket.

"Wanna come to my place for supper?" He asks softly, reiterating his offer from earlier this afternoon. I shake my head, knowing I can't be expected to keep it together in front of so many people.

He doesn't press me. "Alright. Maybe some other time."

At my house, he leads me upstairs to my room and promises to come back bright and early tomorrow to walk me to school. I'm more than happy to agree to this, for the long walk and so much crying has worn me out, and all I really want is to be in bed.

"Want me to close your bedroom door?" His voice is still quiet and gentle as he grasps the doorknob. I shrug, curling on my side.

"I don't really care either way."

"Need anything before I leave?"

"Just a nap."

"Okay," he chuckles sympathetically. "You do that. Remember you can call me if you think of something."

"Sure. Thanks."

"No problem. I hope you feel better soon. See you tomorrow morning." With a kind smirk, he gives me a tiny wave before disappearing downstairs and outside. I lie here, still wearing his hoodie and beanie, wondering how the tables could've possibly turned. He was the angsty wreck and I had to pull him out of it. Now I'm the angsty wreck and he's trying to help me get through.

It's kind of nice having someone who cares.