September 11, Monday. 12:17 p.m.

Voices layered upon voices create the strangely loud but muffled atmosphere of the cafeteria. There are more people at our table than usual now that I've been introduced to the band, and Dylan and I are the only ones here who look genuinely uncomfortable. Adam sits between Mia and I, but he's paying more attention to her than me. On my left, practically sitting on the very edge of the bench, Dylan sees me watching them and sighs, treating me to an eye roll I never realized he was capable of. The very concept makes me giggle, and his expression loosens into a smile. They don't hear me laugh very often, and it's very apparent that when I do show anything remotely close to joy, they immediately approve and are pleased—Dylan in particular, as I've come to notice.

   As if sensing that Dylan and I are having a wordless conversation behind his back, Adam takes his left hand off the table and sets it down next to mine, ever so subtly linking his ink-stained pinky finger through mine for the briefest of moments, retracting it almost as soon as our skin touches. Did he just make a promise without me knowing it? Were we both supposed to make a promise? So many of the things he does have such deep, alternate meanings, usually having more than one interpretation. I don't know why he has to live so cryptically. Sometimes I wish he wasn't such a wild card, that his intentions were easily determined. I may not have known him all my life, but I feel as if I have, and once he told me I know more about him than almost anybody else does. I don't know if that's completely true, but at least it's proof he trusts me. He's told me things he couldn't possibly tell anyone else, and I'm not going to repeat them out of respect for his privacy.

   Still feeling the cold, almost dead-like presence of his skin, I chance a little side look at him. His left eye, which is the least covered by all his thick, shaggy hair, darts quickly to lock gazes with me. Like the pinky link, it's so brief no one passing by would notice, yet it feels like everything's happening in slow motion.

   Out of nowhere heat rises to my face and I find myself having difficulty breathing. It feels like another panic attack. But there was nothing to trigger one. This I am certain of. Unless it's claustrophobia. I'd get up and leave the cafeteria, but I don't trust the bullies to hang back and let me eat at my locker in peace.

   Maybe eating will help me take my mind off things. I've been doing all I can to forget about what happened on Saturday, but my photographic memory makes that kind of impossible and it's not like I can just ignore the fact that my bullies are lurking on the other side of the cafeteria.

Amid the external and internal noise, a foot begins tapping. Eager to accept the distraction lest my lungs choose the cessation of function, I take an inconspicuous peek under the table. Adam's right foot is tapping to an unprojected beat. Another foot—Mia's, I presume—lightly touches down on the toe bumper of his sneaker every time he hits the upbeat. Raising a puzzled eyebrow, I turn away and try instead to redirect my focus on consuming the lunch I'd rather not be eating right now. Beside me, Dylan grows restless. Across from us, Algie is multitasking: completing homework spread out across the table while eating his lunch and rehearsing a solo piece for their next show by tapping the rhythm out on the tabletop.

Through the corner of my eye, I see Mia's dark-painted fingernails against her white skin as they touch Adam's hood and readjust it on his head. Something inside me squirms uncomfortably; simultaneously I feel like I've been hit full-force in the gut with a boulder. The sandwich falls from my hands, the bite I've been chewing on lodges itself against my tonsils before I force myself to swallow hard so I can at least breathe a little.

Why does everything always have to be so intense? Why does something feel wrong? Why do I feel so sick? Why, why, why?

   I can't handle it. I can't. I tried to but it didn't work. It was in vain—all in vain. Oh, I've failed so terribly to keep it together. Why must I always cave under pressure?

   Dylan is the first to notice I'm not alright, and his response is to roughly shove Adam in the arm. There's something in his manner that says he's annoyed with Adam.

   "Dyl, what was that for?"

   He doesn't answer, just raises an eyebrow and makes a great show of looking from me to Adam and back. Mia peers past Adam to see what the fuss is about. Once again, heat rushes to my face—or has it remained so since I first noticed it?

   For a second, just a tiny second, I look at Dylan's expression. If looks could kill, this one definitely would—it just bleeds disappointment, and I am grateful to not be on the receiving end. Adam, however, is unlucky enough to be the recipient of Dylan's wrath.

   Adam doesn't seem to know how to process anything at the moment. He's been acting really weird and distant all day, not like the buddy he was for the first couple weeks we've known each other. I get that he had a couple rough days last week, but that couldn't still be at fault...could it? What's going on, and what has changed since the concert on Friday? Does passing my Initiation have anything to do with it? Will he ever explain what the Initiation even means?

   "She needs you."

   Normally in a situation like this my hearing will be muffled, echoing like I'm in a tunnel, and my vision will blur, but Dylan's words are clear as a ringing bell and I can see everything just fine.

   The storm is in my head. And it's not possessing my body this time, at least not yet. Could just be delayed. I've never had those symptoms delay before. Does that mean my panicking is getting worse or better?

   Slow down, breathe. Try to pay attention. You're in control.

   I'm not in control.

   You are.

   I'm not.

   You are!

   I'm not. It's too much. I cover my ears, squeezing my eyes shut and startling myself by emitting a very guttural scream of frustration. Someone wrestles my hands away from my head and I reopen my eyes, discovering with horror that people are staring. Everyone is staring. I want to disappear right now. Did I really just do that? Scream out in the middle of lunch period? Why do people have to stare when it doesn't help my situation at all?

   Despite my outburst and everyone staring, Adam doesn't seem to notice. Dylan lightly touches my shoulder, and I know it was he who took my hands from my ears. He looks very upset, like he's warring with himself. He opens his mouth, closes it, and swallows hard. I can feel stress pulsating from him in giant waves.

   Finally he takes a deep breath and jerks his head in the direction of the cafeteria exit. "C'mon, let's go." He licks his lips nervously, like those words were the hardest things he's ever spoken. His blue eyes are icy with desperation as he stands, stance rigid with authority. My whole body is trembling, but I manage to find my legs and make them walk, despite wanting to just cower down and pretend I'm invisible. As we pass through, I throw a glance over my shoulder at the table we've left behind. Like a child reprimanded, Adam is staring after us through wide eyes, and he nudges Mia away from him. I'm not so sure I want to keep looking, so I face forward as Dylan leads me down the cold, lifeless hallways until reaching the empty music classroom. He opens the door, ushering me inside, then gestures for me to have a seat behind any of the empty music stands littered about the room. I choose one kind of at the center, watching him while I do so. He's breathing so heavily and I notice for the first time that he's shaking too.

"You okay?" My voice squeaks out all cracked and hoarse, and he nods in response. After taking a couple hits on his inhaler, he paces a bit in an obvious attempt to calm down, using breathing techniques I've often used myself. Finally he stops shaking so much and I can't hear his lungs wheezing in desperation anymore. He turns to me and we both start to speak, but I shut myself up to hear him out.

"Okay. So...what was that back there?" He rubs the back of his neck, puzzled and maybe even slightly uncomfortable.

I shrug. "Too much noise. Too many people. Too much going on."

Dylan looks me in the eye and I feel the heat of terror flash through me for a fleeting moment as he asks, "Too much Adam?"

How does he know that's part of what's bothering me...?

"Don't look surprised," he shrugs. "It was annoying me also."

"What's his deal?" The words portray all my frustration and I'm disgusted to find that I'm close to tears.

He shrugs again, helplessly this time. "I think he's just confused, I dunno."

"Why is he confused?"

"He's hurt. Looking for something to make it feel better."

"And that something is...?"

He lets out a breath he's been holding. "Girls, apparently. Although that's never been his coping strategy, not really. He's dated maybe once in his life, but after they broke up he's waited for the right girl to come along. Mia should know better. But she's always been into him."

A dark, unpleasant feeling settled into my gut, making me nauseous. I glare at the floor and say nothing.

"Part of me wants to knock him into sense, part of me just wants to let him learn the hard way, y'know?" Dylan tips his head inquisitively, very obviously desperate to have me side with him.

He needn't be so desperate.

"Being in a band is pretty cool most of the time, cuz you're like...uh...one big family, basically...but when stuff like this happens, I get really mad. It wouldn't be so bad if those two were destined for each other. But they're not. They have chemistry, sure. And they've had that for as long as I've known them. They're very close. But this...whatever they're doing...it's not good for their relationship. This has been going on a lot longer than you think, cuz you didn't know him before school. I've dealt with it all year. He claims they're not a thing, but they sure as heck act like it." He rubs his neck again, as if he feels he's said too much.

"Personally, I think he'll be less hurt if you make him snap out of it. If you leave him to his own devices, he'll end up more hurt in the long run, won't he?" My eyes widen with innocent curiosity. Dylan looks amazed.

"That's...that's a really good way of looking at it. Wow." He inhales heavily, muttering under his breath, "You really do have to watch out for the quiet ones."

In answer to my musing, he says, "You're right. I honestly don't want him to get hurt any worse, and he's going to."

"So we put a stop to this nonsense of his."

Running his hands rapidly through his hair in an act of shy discomfort, he nods in agreement. "We should."

"Any ideas?"

"No, but I'm sure we'll think of something. We'd...we'd better go back now."

Rising, noting my thin legs have regained their stability, I follow him out of the empty classroom and back to our lockers. We've missed the remainder of lunch period but that's okay because we were both on the brink of panic attacks. Dylan was smart enough to get us out of that overwhelming cafeteria just in time.

As we walk, Dylan's face bears a concentrated, thoughtful frown. His head is bent downward, which is normal for him. He doesn't like to look at people. Although I do catch his eyes wandering when we pass a certain brown-eyed girl with beautiful chestnut hair and a pale pink and pale yellow striped shirt. I remember her name and face from the concert; her name is Cassie and she's a huge fan of The Good-For-Nothings—though, her main infatuation seems to lie in Adam rather than the music or the band as a whole. I passed her locker this morning and it's covered in fangirl stuff on the inside. On top of that evidence, Adam has complained about her approaching him in music class.

Dylan's cheeks redden as we pass but I don't say anything about it because he trusts me and I would hate to ruin our dynamic by making him uncomfortable.

At my locker, Dylan awkwardly keeps his distance. I gather what I need for the next class, glancing around cautiously in case Tate or Vicky are lurking someplace.

   Dylan shifts on his feet uneasily, and as I close my locker door I see the rest of the band approaching us. Algie carries his homework under his right arm, stray papers flying out and trailing behind him. A short, blond-haired guy in a red shirt, pale blue jeans and red sneakers follows closely, gathering up the papers.

   Mia walks quickly to keep up with Adam's self-confident swag, her maroon eyebrows knitted together in complaint as she whines beside him. I like Mia—she's a sweet girl—but I don't trust her, and I do not want her playing with Adam's heart when it's already in a terribly battered state. I don't want him to hang his heart out for any passing pair of hands to snatch up. He was willing to reach out and accept the girl everyone blames for her father's mistakes. I owe him my allegiance for that. There are so many risks involved with being in my company. He has no idea what being my friend entails, yet he doesn't question it. He handles my panic attacks with knowledge, comfort, and grace. He's just a sweetheart. A sensitive soul. And no matter how tough he may try to be, he needs someone looking out for him, watching his back, showing him he matters. I know he doubts. He's shown his insecurities at the most random moments, mostly during conversation. I'm not sure if he is hinting that he needs help, but if he is I hear the cry and I'm here, I'm waiting, I'm eager, I'm willing to do what it takes to assist him. Anything to keep him alive, safe, happy, doing what he loves. What he's best at.

   The band stands around me by the locker wall. Adam takes Dylan aside and talks to him away from everyone else. The others are pretending not to stare at me. The blond guy in the red shirt hands Algie's papers back, Algie bearing a look of surprise as he thanks him. Clearly, Algie did not realize most of his papers had disappeared despite losing most of them.

   Feeling awkward, not knowing what else to do and definitely not in the mood to miss a class, I turn on my heel and make my way down the hall. My heart is beating in my ears and I am aware that I'm not alone, there are people behind me falling into step from all sides.

   Ignoring them, I set my jaw and press on, making it into the classroom and collapsing at a group table before anything untoward can happen.

   Here I permit myself a tiny, smug smile, proud to have averted danger on my own for once.

5:12 p.m.

Mackerel leaps into my lap as I take a seat at the dining room table. Just because I technically live alone doesn't mean I just do whatever I want around the place. Keeping your manners in good working condition is something I find important, so I eat at the table like a normal person and act like I'm not alone. Mackerel is here, so technically that's true. She may not be a person, but she can be more human than some people at times, especially in this day and age.

   Supper is nothing fancy—just some pasta tossed with fresh garlic butter and chicken chunks. It's a quick, easy meal that Mama used to make. It was always my favorite, and I tend to crave it when I'm having a rough day. Today was rough, and since I didn't feel like hanging out with anybody despite their pleas to do so, I came straight home after school and knocked out my homework while prepping this meal.

   As I dig in, slipping Mackerel a couple pieces of chicken, I slowly page through a book I've been reading. Most people, especially if they're my age, don't own nor read physical paper books. Everything is digitized. I happen to love paper and the way it smells and feels. That's because Daddy raised me on good old fashioned books. He has always been of the belief that people should know what a real book feels like. He believed we should never disregard such an important invention. He said that books were valuable when first created, and that they have a right to remain so even if most of humanity would rather do away with them.

   It's hard to concentrate on reading when today's events keep rushing at me from all corners of my mind. There's no panic, which is a relief. But I'm uneasy. Worried about Adam, Mia, and Dylan too. I hope Adam gets his head clear soon—if not completely, at least enough to see that he's hurting a lot of people while ultimately hurting himself.

A sudden thought creeps in that maybe he already knows but doesn't care.

No, Adam is a considerate and gentle spirit...
...isn't he?