One and a half more years, you can make it through.

High school is a nightmare.

I need a smoke.

My fingers twitch in my pockets. Two more days of this seems too much to deal with.  I should go home.

If you go home, I tell myself, then you can't visit Justin later.

I don't know why I force myself here when there's no visible reward. Getting my head shoved into a set of blue locker doors isn't exactly the first thing on my mind in terms of pleasure. In fact, it's not even on my list.

If Justin were here...

But he's not. He's six feet under the ground.

A flash of blue darts by my left, stops, and darts back at me.

"Heeeeeeey! It's you again!" Timmy grins up at me. He's a good head shorter than me, and bursting with energy.

It's unnatural for eight o' clock on the morning.

A couple of kids sneer, but most of them just leave us alone. One has the generosity of yelling, "the fag don't speak, scene-queen," before heading on his way.

"Do you know where the office is? I'm supposed to be there before first period but I got kind of lost."

And nobody had the decency to ask him if he needed some help finding his way. Unbelievable.

I point in no specific direction. His nose wrinkles up in confusion.

Just.

Like.

Justin's.

"That's the ceiling," he states, and then tugs my sleeve. "How about you show me? You look like you could do with getting out of this hallway."

I can't argue with that. I lead him towards the outside courtyard and across the mist soaked grass. The office is on the far side of school, out of place and sticking out at an awkward angle off the side of the gym. The artificially happy light glows out the windows, foggy on the inside and dripping with condensation.

I point again, hoping he won't insist that I enter, but he has other ideas.

I allow myself to be pulled through the door. It seems any fight I had left disintegrates with his contact on my skin.

"How can I help you?" The woman behind the desk smiles falsely over the counter.

"Hi," Timmy starts, "I'm Timmy McKinn-"

"McKinnon," she finishes for him. "The new student."

"Yup! That's me."

She turns to face me before recognizing the just inches of face visible behind shaggy bangs. "Hello Damian."

I give her a nod.

"Damian." Timmy rolls my name around in his mouth. "Is that your name?"

Sure kid.

"I like that."

The lady returns with his schedule. "So, these are the classes you have been enrolled in here, and the room numbers are right next to the period." She points out where each class is on a printout map. By the time she's finished, it's well past the late bell.

"I suppose I'll have to write you both late passes. Damian, you have...?"

I don't answer her. Jackman.

"Psst.." the boy beside me whispers. "Who's your first period?"

"It's alright," she assures Timmy, "he hasn't spoken for quite some time now. I'll just look it up on the computer."

"Ah, Jackman."

Timmy hurries to check the piece of paper gripped tight in his hands. "Same as me! Look, Damian, we'll be in the same class!"

I force out a smile. He's too cute to break his little heart just yet.

"You must be magic," the receptionist says. "That's the most reaction I've seen out of him in a while."

Timmy shrugs innocently. "He just needs a little love. Everyone could use a little love. Would you like a hug?" he offers.

"Why..." She looks taken aback. "Couldn't say I wouldn't mind one."

She accepts the small blue haired boy's hug.

"You kids hurry to class, alright? Goodbye, Damian; goodbye ,Timmy.  Have a great first day, and welcome to Ashland."

"She was nice," Timmy gushes and holds the door open for me.

I glare up at the sky where Justin is undoubtedly laughing down at us.

He looks up too. "Are you looking for him? Justin."

I've already found him.

The way his colored hair falls into his face and he blows it back out, it reminds me of someone. Someone I'm not healed enough to find again.

"Hi Justin."  He waves up towards the clouds. "Say hi to Z for me if you see him up there."

Could Z be Zachary?

Who's Z?

I stop and stare. I watch him continue to shake his hand towards the heavens. I watch the way his vision blurs with tears before another smile breaks across his face. They were laughter tears. They had to be laughter tears.

"Do you want to go?" Timmy holds out his arm to me.

I wrap mine around his and skip after. He sings "We're off to see the Wizard" as loud as he possibly can. Just a few more decibels and he'd be written up by half a dozen teachers.

"Come on, Damian! Sing with me! We're off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz!" he screams. Even all strained, the kid has got a nice voice. He looks like he's having the time of his life doing it, completely unconcerned with anyone else's opinion of him.

"Loosen up, babe." He stops so suddenly, I almost run into the wall. "I know inside you've got something soft and squishy."

After that, he throws open the door with all the confidence of a movie star.

"Can I help you?" Mr. Jackman looks surprised to see me trailing after such a beacon of attention. He accepts my late pass with lips pursed.

Everyone's too focused on the new kid at the front of the room to watch me stumble to my seat in the back corner.

The once occupied space beside me now has its chair cold and vacant. The black plastic desk in front of his spot is filled with smudged words, no careful hand to re-trace the lines of picture after picture spent hours on completing.

"And you must be the new student. Timothy-Edward, I believe?"

"Timmy," Timmy corrects him.

Mr. Jackman accepts his pass as well and hands him a beat up copy of a textbook. "We hope you enjoy your time here in Ashland. You may take the seat next to Damian. As you arrived together, I presume you do not need his introduction."

"Thank you."

He shuffles his way along the floor. His feet tap the linoleum.

"As I was saying, cells undergo mitosis during reproduction..." he continues with the lecture.

"Hey, Damian?" a whisper crosses across the table.

I turn and face the direction it comes from.

"Do I gotta write my name in my book?" His eyes scan down the list of names with a horrified look. Gay slurs and teenage ignorance line the columns.

Do I look like the kind of person who'd know?

"I don't think I will."

He reads over the blurry lines in front of him.  Coming to the last name, decorated post-mortem, he gasps.

I've seen it before.  Justin Sykes.  One down, eleven to go.

"That's horrible," he mumbles. The note sets him off, and he sits quiet for the remainder of the period. He's out of his seat and out the door before I can see if he needs help finding his next class.

But it wasn't quick enough for me to miss the pained look painted across his face.

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