"Pook!" I squeal as soon as I get home, seeing our family's golden retriever laying on the grass of the yard and scratching his back with it. As a result, he looks like a giant fish out of the water, making some of the apprehension I had about going home ease a bit. 

When the dog hears my feet start to crunch the grass underneath me, he hops off of the grass and trots over to me. Like always he goes to jump and put his front paws on my stomach, but I make sure to take a step back so that he fails. The first time he ever did that, I fell straight on my back and cracked my head open. I still remember Lucas rushing over to me, putting his warm hands all over my face and begging me to say if I was okay. 

That had been seventh grade, back when he actually cared about my well-being. He'd held my hand the entire time the doctor sewed my head back together. So that I wouldn't have to do it, Lucas also explained to the doctor why my parents weren't there. He used to be so good to me, so caring. 

Once again feeling that familiar urge to cry my heart out, I drop to my knees and bury my face into Pookies' soft fur. The dog moves his head to fit mine, making me feel so loved even though it's only by a dog, so the tears slowly start to make their way back down. 

Insanely proud of myself for not giving in and crying like I usually do, I give the dog a quick kiss on the nose and then bring myself back to my feet. I look over at the place I've called home my entire life and, not even meaning to, I wince a little. 

It's not exactly the nicest home on the block. The shutters of my bedroom my window are a little bit loose, making them look sloppy and ugly. There are weeds where the flower bed should be and where there should be grass, there's dirt. Sure, there's some grass here and there, but it's only in little splotches. With my mom working all of the time to cover for my dad's debts and drinking problem, she's never had the time to make it look better. My dad, well, he hasn't gotten off of the couch for more than twenty minutes in about ten years. 

Heading towards the door, I strain my ears and listen for any yelling or crying. When I realize that it's good and clear, I push my key in and open the door, automatically getting hit with the familiar smell of alcohol and smoke. Well...I guess my dad got up to get himself some cigarettes today. 

I don't see him anywhere, thank God, so I quickly make my way into my bedroom and lock the door behind me. My room, so tiny that it can't even politely be called quaint, is painted a light blue color that always seems to put me a little bit at ease. There's a small twin-sized bed shoved in one of the corners and that's pretty much my holding space for everything. Because the room is so small it can never really look clean, but I always try and keep it tidied up. 

I fall back onto my bed spread and look up at the ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers that Lucas helped me put up towards the end of the sixth grade. I'd been so excited to have them because I've always loved looking up at the sky, looking at the stars, but in this city it's so foggy that they're always hard to see. And so Lucas bought these for me one day, saying that I could look at the stars without even having to go outside. 

Thinking about it now, I realize that I should probably take them down because they're "unhealthy" but they're such a major part of my room that I doubt I'd be able to sleep at night without them there. 

My thoughts, though, are interrupted by the sound of the doorbell chiming throughout the old house. Reluctantly peeling myself from my bed because the odds of my dad answering the door are so insanely slim, I make my way through the house and then pull open the front door, expecting a tax collector or an evictor.  

I definitely wasn't expecting to see Lucas Hamilton standing on my door step, looking as out of place as a bull in a china shop. 

Immediately feeling my entire body tense up in defense, I cross my arms over my chest and ask crossly, "What do you want?" 

Judging by the almost hurt expression on his face, it's obvious that he was expecting to come here and be treated like he is at school by all of the other students. Does he not realize that I'm not one of his followers, that there's no way in hell I'm going to treat him decently after everything he's put me through? Did he honestly believe I'd treat him nicely? 

Well, he must be more stupid than I originally thought. 

Looking around the house as if he's seen it for the first time-not the millionth and ninth, if I'm counting correctly-he clears his throat and says, "You left your jacket in the principal's office earlier...I was just coming to bring it back." 

"How kind of you," I say sarcastically, in a tone that makes even me wince a little bit. This pent up aggression sure is deep.  

His eyes linger on my face a second longer than normal, as if he's checking to make sure that this is actually happening, that I'm actually treating him this horribly, before he hands me the plain black cotton hoody. I guess I'd been so caught up in hating his face that I'd forgotten to notice to jacket he was holding. 

I yank it out of his grasp, hugging it to my chest as if it too will betray me after being in his hold for so long.  

Rolling his eyes he says, "You know...this is where normal people say thank you." 

"Just because I'm not kissing your feet doesn't mean I'm not normal. You brought me my jacket. Whoop-de-freaking-do." 

Shaking his head in utter shock, he says, "Considering how rude to me you were today you should just be happy I brought it." 

My voice immediately raises due to the utter fury his statement brings out in me. "How rude I was to you?! Do you not even remember..." 

My voice immediately gets silenced when I feel a dark and brooding presence come up beside me. My body tenses even more-I'm surprised that's even possible-when I realize that it's my father and that he's heard the whole thing. He's probably mad that I disrupted his TV time. 

His voice, gruff with cigarette smoke, says, "What's this? A boy?" 

Breaking furious gazes with Lucas who's been glaring at me even though my rant got stopped in the middle, I turn to my father and say in a petrified tone, "Dad he was just bringing me my jacket back..." 

"What? After he felt you up in the back of his truck?" It's almost surprising how he doesn't even sound angry as he says this. He's eerily calm which, I know from experience, is just the calm before the storm. The arguments even between him and my mom always start out with low-blow comments made in a calm voice. Sometimes I just wish he'd be angry with me. It wouldn't hurt as much. 

I shake my head furiously, going to tell him that it is in no way what it looks like, but Lucas beats me to it. He says, "Mr. Brown, it's not like that. She left at school today." 

But it's like my father doesn't even listen. Even after Lucas' comment which pissed me off as much as it made me respect him a little more because most guys would be terrified of my dad, he looks at me like I'm the scum on the bottom of his shoe. Shaking his head, he says in a bone-chilling tone, "What a whore." 

Feeling like I've been slapped right across the face with the hardest of hands, I argue, "Dad it's not like that! Lucas said that...I said that, it's not like that. He has a girlfriend." Maybe long ago I'd wished that something like that would happen between Lucas and I, but those feelings are long gone. 

My dad doesn't respond to me. Instead he just gives a snort of laughter, as if he's taunting me or something, and then disappears back into the darkness of the house. Feeling as if tears are climbing rock wall straight to my eyes, I turn around to face Lucas and, in a meek tone, I tell him, "Sorry...I didn't..." 

He takes a step forward and says, "Naomi, I had no idea it was still..." 

But I don't want to hear his pity for me. I don't want to hear that he feels sorry for me. That's the last thing I want from Lucas Hamilton. So I just shake my head and, sniffling back tears, I tell him, "Thanks for the jacket," and then shut the door in his face. 

OoOoO 

Later that night as I'm lying in bed, listening to my dad screaming at my mom about how she's raised such a whore, such a slut, I'm feeling hot and misty tears run down my cheeks. It's been so long since I've actually cried about their fights, probably months now, but I guess it's been because there fights have never really been about me. They've always been about their problems, about their issues with each other. Never me. 

And, well, it hurts like utter hell to hear your own father call you such awful names. 

The whole thing with Lucas showing up on my doorstep probably had a good thing to do with it to, seeing as how just the sight of his face makes these awful feelings rise up in me. His appearance just pushed my emotions over the edge and, well, it's made me resent him even more. 

The sound of a loud beep cuts through the air, breaking through my parents screams for just one blissful second, and when I look over I see that I've gotten a new text message. Blinking in surprise because I never actually communicate with kids out of school, I grab the lit up phone from my bed side table. 

It's from Lucas. 

Look, we don't have to talk about it or anything, but just tell me you're alright. I'm sorry if I made anything happen this afternoon, I didn't know it would happen. 

Torn between wanting to feel good because it's nice that he has somewhat of a shred of care for me and wanting to feel angry because he's butting in on my personal life, I click the phone off and throw it down by my feet. Leave it to him to upset my delicate balance of emotions even during this whole mess. 

It's nice that he cares, even if it is just a little bit. For these past two years I've honestly felt like no one has cared about me. Lucas obviously didn't because he didn't see any problem with ditching me after so many years of friendship and my parents have been always too caught up in their own drama to ever show concern. I never had anyone to vent to when someone pissed me off or when someone made me want to cry. 

So in that aspect of the whole thing, I like that he's texted me. 

But another part of me feels like he's invading the privacy rights that he ditched the moment he chose Destiny over me. He doesn't have the privilege to know what's going on in my life anymore. Maybe he used to, when I would sleep at his house when my parents were really going at it, but not anymore. Not after he walked out. 

And with that thought in mind, I pick my phone up from where it landed by my feet and type in my reply. 

I'm fine. 

With that, I power off my phone and then cuddle deeper into my blankets, praying that my parents tone it down so that I might get some sleep tonight.