Brett Archer didn't see the point of this. He didn't see any rhyme or reason, any pathetic excuse why he should keep up the act for a minute longer.

The seventeen-year-old didn't understand why he let himself be convinced to come here, to sit in this cheery little office with the cheerily annoying therapist, to listen to his parents talk and talk in a way that suggests they actually care about him or each other.

Family therapy, Brett thought, must be some pathetic invention derived to waste the time of unwilling participants.

The therapist kept glancing at him, her tone remaining neutral as she started the session off. Brett could safely say he was already tired of being there, of seeing the smile on the infuriating woman's face. He was tired of sitting next to his father, pretending not to notice the tension in the man's jaw that meant dinner tonight would be an event to flee from.

"So," the therapist had been rambling on, and Brett realized he must have been meant to pay attention, "let's start by assessing each of your motives for coming in today. What do each of you want to achieve by participating in therapy?"

She seemed pretty surprised when no one in Brett's family volunteered to go first in this infuriating recreation of his preschool's circle time.

"Janice, why don't you start?"

The woman's eyes cut to Brett's mother, who looked as though she'd much rather be on another of her faked business trips. Brett almost wished she was, and that for once he'd run off with her.

"Understanding." His mother ran a hand through her blonde hair, the same honey-colored locks which her only child had inherited.

Brett nearly snorted. If she expected to understand him or the man she'd married, she was even more delusional than he'd thought she was.

"Care to elaborate on that?" the therapist pressed, giving Brett's mom a smile that must have been meant to be encouraging.

"I want to understand my son," Mrs. Archer began after a moment, "I want to understand my husband. They've both changed, and I want to know why."

"No one here has changed." Brett's father snapped, the tone of his voice immediately causing Brett to flinch and then hurry to cover up the motion, "You've just realized that you made a mistake, and instead of trying to fix yourself you've decided everyone else should be repaired."

"Roger," the therapist soothed, and Brett had to roll his eyes at the pathetic attempt to calm down the untamable beast, "why do you think your wife has made a mistake? What is it that you think she has done?"

"I don't think!" Mr. Archer snarled, one hand coming down on the therapist's desk, "I know. She's been married to me for eighteen years, and she's finally realized I'm not perfect. No one is, although she seems to think she's somehow an exception to that rule. No one is perfect unless her name is Janice Archer."

"I never said anything like that." Brett's mother defended, "No one is perfect, they shouldn't have to be. I just want to understand why you're so angry all the time, why things have been the way they are."

Brett's father rolled his eyes to the sky, and Brett had already anticipated what was coming before it happened.

He'd seen that look enough to know his dear old dad had heard enough.

"I think we're done here." Mr. Archer boomed, "This is going to go nowhere, and it's a waste of my well-earned money."

"Roger," Brett thought their therapist looked pretty startled by his father's declaration, "why don't you talk us through what you're thinking. Why is this a waste of money for you?"

"I'm not telling you a damn thing." Brett's dad spat, standing up quickly, "I'm not going to sit here and let someone analyze me when no one else in the room wants to be here. There's nothing wrong with me, and there's nothing wrong with my son that proper parenting can't straighten out."

Brett had read the signs. All reason had abandoned his father in favor of the familiar angry glare. Brett knew well enough that he'd better stand up right then or risk a scolding for somehow coming across as defiant or reluctant.

The teen got to his feet, following right behind his father as they headed out of the office. They moved briskly across the parking lot, scrambling into Mr. Archer's car before Brett's mom had even left the building. Her red Toyota was parked, alienated, on the other side of the lot, and Brett half hoped that she'd take off again. If she didn't show up at home tonight, he could at least enjoy a bit of peace while listening to his father rant and pretending, for the sake of staying on the man's good side, to agree with every word.

The radio was cranked up, some rock-and-roll song booming through the speakers. Brett counted down the thirty seconds, and right on cue his dad reached over to slam his hand down on the display. The music ceased, plunging them both into silence.

Brett wasn't about to break it, staring out the window at the row of houses passing by. It was September, and his town had been caught between summer spirit and the world of Halloween decorations. He wondered vaguely if, when next month rolled around, he could convince his father to put out the old decorations for the first time in four or five years.

He highly doubted it, and sure didn't think he could ask.

He withdrew into the depths of his own mind, thinking about the game tomorrow and the accompanying party to follow. It had been getting him through this week since Monday, and he reckoned he could use the vision of tomorrow night to make it through these next few hours the same way.

•••

Brett walked through Ethan Duncan's front door at ten past ten, overly anxious to forget the sound of his father's voice for at least a little while. He'd been hearing too much of it lately, hearing too much shouting at home and seeing too much of his paternal figure's fist both directly and indirectly.

Ethan's home had already deteriorated into a state of chaos, with beer cans and empty potato chip bags spread across the floor. Music blared from the living room, some overly popular pop song that Brett hated filling the entirety of his wide receiver's house.

The game had only ended half an hour ago, and Brett had no idea how such madness had erupted so quickly. He decided that Ethan was lucky to have the parents he did. If he somehow failed to get this mess taken care of before they got home, he could be sure they wouldn't be out to lay a hand on him.

Brett found that he was easily jealous of Ethan and his seemingly-perfect life. Ethan never had anything to hide.

"Hey, dude!" Ethan spotted him almost immediately, hurrying over like his life might end if he didn't greet his quarterback, "Here, have a beer. You look like you need it."

At one point before the start of this year, Brett might have argued against underage drinking. Morals and all that good stuff, he'd have said. Now, as a junior who'd been made all too aware of how usefully mind-numbing drinks were, Brett had no complaints.

No one understood the reason for his transformation. Luckily, most of his peers just assumed that Brett had gotten over his fears, that he'd decided to man up and have a good time like most everybody else.

Ethan shoved a drink into Brett's hand, offering up a carefree smile.

"Thanks man." Brett acknowledged, returning a smile that he hoped seemed real enough. Give him half an hour, he thought, and he wouldn't be pretending anymore.

He followed Ethan into the kitchen, finishing off his drink in a few minutes and pulling another one out of the fridge without much prompting.

Brett let himself get lost in each drink he selected, only half listening to Ethan rambling nonsensically on and on.

"Mom's making me go to SAT prep," Ethan was saying, "says I'm not allowed to skip it. I'm not taking the test for two more months, but I've apparently gotta start this program anyway. It's a waste of money if you ask me. And time. Who gives up their Saturday morning for that shit?"

Brett sighed disinterestedly.

"I know plenty of people." he lied, engrossed in his fourth drink and feeling pretty annoyed at Ethan's attitude. He'd already listened to his girlfriend yammering about the program, he didn't need his friend's negative opinion ruining a good time.

"Really?" Ethan grinned, "Who? And are you saying they do it voluntarily? That's awful."

"Andrea." Brett asserted, "Don't ask me why she does it. C'mon, Ethan. No one talks about SAT practice unless they have to. Stop being so irritating by dwelling on it."

Ethan rolled his eyes, but didn't answer. Instead, he ushered Brett away from the kitchen,directing him back into the living room as though both of them had a duty to stay in there. The clock on the wall told Brett it was eleven-fifteen, and he was mildly shocked to realize his half hour in the kitchen had been more like forty-five or fifty minutes.

He'd be dead if he wasn't home by eleven-thirty, and he had neglected to find out if his girlfriend had showed up amongst the masses.

Angrier than he had been at Ethan, Brett decided he didn't have time to bother looking for her now.

Damn Ethan for holding him hostage in that senseless conversation for half his curfew.

Brett stormed away from Ethan, who seemed a little taken aback by the attitude. Ethan had seen Brett aggravated before, but the quarterback had a habit of hiding his rage from a majority of his peers. Whenever someone saw his true personality, he made sure it was at a time when his consumption of beer could be blamed.

Exiting the living room, Brett marched down the hallway and out into the crisp evening air. He cursed himself for not owning a car, then cursed his parents for expecting so much and providing so little.

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he nearly missed the two other figures standing on Ethan's sidewalk.

In the light of the streetlights, Brett could make out the figure of a scrawny sophomore boy, standing in front of a girl with shoulder length, dark brown hair.

He didn't have to study her for long to recognize her, her favorite pair of boots giving her away.

"Hey!" Brett snapped, sounding a lot like his father when he spoke.

The girl's head snapped in his direction, her deep brown eyes meeting his green ones as she took in his expression.

Andrea Fields had been caught in mid-conversation thanks to her boyfriend's appearance, and now looked relatively unsure of where she stood in the unfolding equation.

The sophomore took Brett in with curiosity.

"Get out of here." the quarterback asserted, taking a step toward the boy who, seemingly out of instinct, turned on his heel and ran for Ethan's door.

Brett found himself left alone with his girlfriend in the middle of the sidewalk, an uncontainable anger sweeping its way through him.

He was never good enough anymore.

Sure, he could spend his time listening to Ethan go on about all sorts of pointless things, but no one else could be bothered with him. He was perfect on the football field, but off it he was a constant disappointment whose parents couldn't even find it within themselves to respect him.

Was this his latest form of torment? His own girlfriend dared to avoid him in favor of someone younger.

"So this is where you've been tonight?" Brett demanded, one hand moving forward to clamp down on her shoulder.

The now terrified sixteen-year-old stared back at him, speechless.

"Well?" Brett snarled, "What's the excuse? Am I not good enough?"

Andrea looked to her shoes, then to his face, then to her shoes again.

"He was asking about-"

"I'm sure he was." Brett's other hand gripped her opposite shoulder,forcing her to walk backward as he directed her away from the line of view of Ethan's partygoers.

She opened her mouth, a small squeak being the only reward for her effort.

"Haven't you figured out by now that I'll find out about this sort of thing? You'd probably find it funny to make me look like a fool, wouldn't you? It'd give you and the rest of those cheerleaders something to talk about, something to spread all over the school. I'm tired of being undermined."

Brett was reminded of his father as his left hand changed position, leaving the diminutive girl's shoulder to direct itself toward her face.

He hated himself, and that made him even angrier. His father would be proud that he's finally becoming a real man, that he's not afraid to assert himself.

At the same time, Brett wished it were his father that he were taking out his rage upon, wished he could make himself proud for once.

Brett's fist connected forcefully with his girlfriend's cheek in the same manner his father's hand often did the same to him.

Andrea stared back at him for a moment, the fear displayed in every line of her face. He was forever grateful that she was sensible enough not to scream, because he knew it'd make him that much angrier. Brett hated being angry like this, but there wasn't much he could do about it save what he was doing now.

He reckoned that was pretty disgraceful, but he'd been caught in a cycle he couldn't get out of, the path laid ahead of him like the fists that followed each other repeatedly to Andrea Fields's face, occasionally causing her head to snap back.

Brett let himself get lost in the anger, telling himself morosely that she deserved it all for spending all her time out here with that sophomore nerd instead of coming to fulfill her duty as girlfriend by finding him.

If she'd come for him, this would of been avoided, and he told her so between the punches.

He was relieved when he finally stopped feeling quite so angry, when the overwhelming fury was limited to a dull roar at the back of his mind. He felt an overwhelming tide of guilt upon looking at Andrea in a sensible state of mind, the realization that the future bruises and the tears already tracking down her cheeks were a direct result of his actions. Brett wanted to apologize, but his father never apologized for this sort of lapse in control. Like his father, Brett felt better afterward, and it frightened him.

He took off at a run, disregarding everything but the street toward which he was running. If he didn't hurry, he'd be late getting home, and it was a risk he was too smart to take. His sneakers pounded against the pavement, the adrenaline filling him as he ran from one problem to return to a thousand more.