Near Perfect Part 1
      “New school, new house, new life, new problems, new enemies… Moving sucks.” These words spilled from the mouth of Michael Knickes as he shifted his hefty backpack from on shoulder to another. This was his second day in the city of Kerkland. Despite what his parents said, Michael was convinced that Kerkland was more of a miniature suburb than a city. After living the first half of his life in Chicago, nothing could really be classified as a ‘city’. The reason they’d shifted their home to this place was his father. It was his work that had forced the move, but Michael didn’t really think that he had to drag the rest of the family along. He was never home anyway. Let him come live in the backwater town and let them stay on 14th street, a block from a movie theatre and the coffee shop with internet. Michael doubted that Kerkland even had a movie theatre, let alone a place like E- Java. It was situated in Louisiana, but nowhere near the party streets of New Orleans. The teenagers probably wrestled alligators for fun, there didn’t seem like there was much else to do.
      Michael sighed deeply and glanced over his schedule for school. It gave him something to look at besides the trees and stagnant ponds that seemed to dominate the scenery. The walk to school wasn’t a long one, but dragging his feet helped keep the inevitable future of entering the building at bay. He despised the idea of being a new student. It was nothing he’d ever admit, but he felt vulnerable walking into high school alone. With no reputation in place, people would immediately make judgments of him, while walking in with someone would deter people’s attention until he had a chance to smooth out his nervousness. Despite this, he’d denied his little sister’s offer of company. She’d wanted to leave early and Michael had no intention of being prompt on his first day. It would make him look like a suck-up. 
      Through his muddled thoughts, a low brick wall caught his attention. Though running almost twenty minutes late, Michael paused to examine it. He had no interest in the wall itself, but the large graffiti tag on it was more impressive than most he’d seen in Chicago. The letters were elaborate and interlocked, but, very distinctly, they read ‘Adrian’. It was no nickname, by any means, so the artist was bold enough to put down his own name. Michael didn’t tag himself, but he admired and studied the markings on a regular basis. The graffiti was near enough to the school to suggest a student, so Michael continued on. His want to meet the artist got him through the front door without a second thought of his first day jitters. Michael kept a sharp eye and ear all morning but let it slip by forth class. It didn’t seem important enough in the afternoon.
      The day had been long and hot and the school showed no signs of having an air-conditioner. Michael could feel his undershirt clinging to his skin. The humidity level was ludicrously high, but no one else seemed to notice. To Michael, it was suffocating. The hallways and classrooms closed in around him like a cheap horror scene. It was insufferable. It was also making him very irritable. The last bell came none too soon. Michael tossed his bag on his shoulder and worked his way through the crowded hall. Feeling slightly like a sardine, he squeezed through the slowly moving masses to a locker back. A single voice broke the monotonous buzz of the students, pausing Michael’s hand as he entered his new combination. “You’re not allowed to wear that. That’s my style.”
      He wasn’t sure whether he was being addressed or not. No one had been so bold all day, so he assumed not and opened his locker. “Are you ignoring me?” A strong hand spun him around and Michael hit the locker bank hard. The voice belonged to a tall brunette in a torn-up white shirt. He was obviously a very confident individual, but cocky and aggressive. Michael quickly racked his brain for why he’d caught his attention.
      Nothing immediately came to mind, so he asked, “What?” His unconscious attitude problem leaked into the question. The punk straightened up and crossed his arms over his broad chest. Michael noted the unnerving size of his biceps, but noticed something else as well. There was paint under his nails. It could have been anything, but he was sure it was paint.
      “I said that’s my style,” he stated again. Michael snapped back to reality in time to see his gesture at the wallet chain hanging form his pocket. Michael fingered a metal link. It wasn’t something he’d really call a style. It was a habit from living in the city. A wallet chain deterred small-time thieves from picking pockets. It was an awfully goofy thing to start an argument over. He glanced at the punk’s pocket, which sported two heavy chains. 
      Still agitated by the pressing heat, Michael snapped at him, “It’s not your style. Get over it! I’ve probably been wearing this a lot longer that you!” 
      The hall swam a little.
      The punk cocked an eyebrow, Michael thought his blue eyes were too soft for his demeanor, but that wouldn’t stop his from chewing him out. He released his agitation form the day on him. “You think you can just pick a fight with me over style?! For you it may just be a style, but for me, it was a necessity for a long time! And don’t just think that you can push me around!”
      The hall danced.
      Michael steadied himself against the lockers. A brief flicker of concern passed over the punk’s face, Michael wondered what it was for. 
      “Take your shirt off.”
      The order caught him completely off-guard. Michael flushed deeply. “What?!” he asked defensively.
      The hall spun and the curious faces of students melted in and out of focus.
      The punk reached for him, he was saying something, “You have to take off…” Michael jerked away and slammed into the lockers. He’d forgotten they were there. His thoughts flew. Vaguely, he wondered if they were being too loud. Teachers don’t really like it when students shout in the halls. The punk’s eyes were so blue. Michael’s legs went out beneath him and he plunged into darkness.
      
      When the city boy groggily returned to consciousness, he was in a room that was significantly cooler than the rest of the school. Michael tried to shake the black sluggishness form his mind, but it wouldn’t seem to let go. His whole body refused to listen to him. Control slowly returned and Michael opened his eyes to a fluorescent ceiling light. He squinted against it. Still fighting the cement feeling of his muscles, Michael pushed himself upright. He was laying a cheap cot, stripped to his waist. There were several other such cots in the room, but few furnishings otherwise. Posters on the walls informed readers on the proper ways to wash their hands and how to avoid getting a cold.
      “You’re in the nurse’s office. She says you’re suffering from heat exhaustion, but I could have told you that.” Michael turned to find his aggressor from earlier. The punk was quietly seated in a vinyl covered chair in the corner of the room. His expression was more serene than before. The nurse came through the door before Michael had a chance to reply. She was a portly woman with a sweet face. If dressed in red and white, Michael suspected she would be mistaken for Mrs. Claus. She gave him a quick smile and turned her attention to the brunette punk. 
      “You can head to your detention now, Adrian,” she said curtly. Michael perked up slightly. Adrian stood and took one of her chubby hands. 
      He layered his voice with honey, “But Mrs. Andrews, I’m very worried about my friend and I can always make up that detention. Is his health not more important than making up a few unexcused absences?” Michael sat forward on the cot, which groaned a complaint under his shifting weight.
      “Your name is Adrian?” he asked, unable to conceal his excitement. The punk gave him a dangerous sidelong look and Mrs. Andrews snatched away her hand.
      “I know better than that, Adrian. Stop using this poor boy to get out of punishment,” she scolded him. 
      Adrian dropped the honey for sarcasm, “He must be awfully sick if he can’t remember my name.” She rolled her eyes at him as though she was very used to this behavior and felt Michael’s forehead.
      “You’ll be alright sweetheart, but you need to wear fewer layers,” she told Michael softly, adding, “and drink more fluids.” Her wisdom shared, she returned to her office. Michael didn’t bother to wait until she was gone to question Adrian.
      “You did the graffiti outside, didn’t you?” 
      Not quite sure what was so thrilling about it, the punk nodded. He’d had plenty of people notice his work before, but it usually only landed him in the sheriff’s holding tank for an afternoon. Unsure of how to respond to the younger teen’s admiration, Adrian changed subjects. “Why the hell were you wearing so much shit? Did you want to kill yourself? When it’s ninety-something outside, I don’t think you need a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Not to mention the fact that it’s all black,” he griped at him. Michael returned to his defensive edge. He could feel is forgotten irritation returning.
      “This is what I’m used to! I just moved from Chicago, for God’s sake. If you don’t wear layers there, you freeze! Besides, I don’t own any lighter clothes.” Not wanting to argue again, Michael stood to gather his things. A wave of dizziness swept over him, but he didn’t let it knock him down again. Adrian got up and followed Michael’s storming movement out the door.
      “You are a very touchy person,” the punk stated calmly. Michael paused to look at him.
      “Only when I’m around you,” he returned. It was true. Normally, it took a long time to spool him up. He wasn’t sure what it was about this teenage rebel that just stirred his blood. All it took was a little bait to get him shouting. Michael left the school, determined to ignore him. Not much ignoring was required; however, as Adrian parted company with him before they reached the road. Once he was gone, Michael slowed his pace. How he was he going to survive the year if this boy could play with his emotions like a cat with a mouse? He thought he had more control over himself than that.
      Halfway home, Michael caught the sound of a motorcycle engine. It was distant, but getting louder fast. Michael had asked his parents for a motorcycle once, but his mother nearly fainted at the idea and his father, well, his father hadn’t been home. It wasn’t until the sound was near deafening that he realized the motorcycle was barreling down the street towards him. Michael jumped onto the sidewalk to get out of its way, but the rider killed the engine next to him and hopped off. It was Adrian. Michael’s exasperated sigh made him smile.
      “Hey Chicago, you always going to walk home, or are you going to get a car?” he asked, half mocking, half playful. 
      Michael reached his last leg. He set down his backpack and said, “Alright you. I’m not going to just sit back and take crap from you. I’m not the wimp you obviously seem to think I am.”
      Adrian laughed as Michael took an easily defendable pose, “And what’s that supposed to be?”
      “I’ve been taking Kung Fu since I was four. I’m a second level black belt and I warn you, I’m not going to take this anymore,” Michael stated boldly. He’d never used it against someone before, but he knew how. Wasn’t that enough? Rather than back off like Michael hoped, however, the punk approached him.
      “So you’re going to pose at me and hop that I go away? Come on Chicago, I know a bluff when I see one,” he stated as he stopped an arm’s length away from him. To his surprise, Michael lashed out with more speed than seemed possible. He spun into a well-perfected round house kick that landed squarely in Adrian’s stomach. The force of the blow forced the air from his lungs and caused him to stagger back several steps. A little shocked himself, Michael settled back on two feet.
      “Told you,” he said timidly, as though he needed to acknowledge what he’d done. Adrian put his hands on his knees to brace himself while he caught his breath. He really hadn’t expected anything from the new kid, not that he would let him get away with it. When he felt up to it, Adrian grabbed Michael’s shoulders and tossed him in the nearest body of water. Michael’s surprised yelp was cut short when he hit the placid liquid.
      “Now, what were you saying?” Adrian asked the silence that followed. The younger boy didn’t come to the surface. Uncertain, Adrian approached the pond. It wasn’t deep, and he knew it. Under the surface, Michael waited. He hoped the punk would come to see where he was. As soon as he came into view, not that much of anything was visible in the murky water, Michael would get him. 
      His chance came. A hand shot from the water and grasped Adrian’s ankle, dragging him in. Successful, Michael climbed from the pond. Mud and water sloughed from his body in a downpour. Michael turned in time to see Adrian pop to the surface. Not quite knowing why, Michael began laughing. Scowl slowly fading, Adrian joined him. Neither really knew what was funny, they were both sopping wet and covered in grime, but they laughed all the same. The situation seemed to be an odd one and it didn’t really matter anymore. Adrian regained the sidewalk and wrung out his shirt. “I do have to say, you impress me, Chicago. I wasn’t expecting you to actually attack me.”
      Michael slung back his wavy, red hair, which he’d dyed in rebellion before they’d moved, and asked, “Why do you keep calling me Chicago?”
      “Well, what’s your name?”
      “Michael.”
      Adrian considered for a moment and shook his head. “No, I think I’m just going to call you Chicago,” he replied. Michael sighed, but smiled, feeling that he might have made the beginnings of a friend. Adrian picked up the discarded backpack and swung it dangerously. “Just for that little stunt, I think I should toss this in,” he threatened playfully. 
      Michael jumped for it with a yell, “Don’t! You’ll ruin my electronics?”
      The dangerous swing paused, “Electronics?”
      He snatched his bag. “Yeah, like my mp3 player,” Michael said as he glanced inside.
      A slight look of disgust crossed Adrian’s features. So he was one of those kids, a spoiled brat who gets what he wants, when he wants. “I’ll see you later, Chicago.” Michael glanced up as Adrian got on his motorcycle. His sudden change of mood left Michael standing, confused and alone. His good humor faded and he shouldered his bag.
      “Fine, be that way.” He walked the rest of the way home, his shoes squishing with mud and water. When Michael slammed the front door, his mother’s voice perked up from the kitchen, “How was your first day, Love?”
      His response was sharper than he intended, “It was horrid! I want to go back to Chicago! I passed out and I was thrown in a bog and nobody talked to me except one person, and he was an asshole!” Before she came out to see him, Michael raced up the stairs and into his room. After a few minutes, his mother came knocking at his door. 
      She was highly protective of him and wouldn’t just let him mope. She didn’t bother his sister half as much. It wasn’t fair that she was so suffocating caring with him and only because of the situation he’d gone through in Chicago. It could have happened to anyone, the fact that it happened to him didn’t mean that he needed her that much more.
      Michael turned on the shower and yelled at the door, “I’m fine, I just need a bath! We can talk later.” She didn’t knock again. It made him feel a bit guilty; after all, she was only worried about him. Once he was clean again, Michael plunked down at his cluttered desk to do his homework. He used one of his numerous unpacked boxes as a foot rest. The papers spread out before him wouldn’t take long. They all seemed remedial compared to the level he’d been on in the city. He’d gone to a very good school in Chicago, so it put him a bit further ahead in his current curriculum. Michael finished half a worksheet and sighed. He’d go mad in this town unless he found something to do. 
      A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. His younger sister poked her head in the room, not waiting for a response. Elizabeth was two years younger than him, just starting her freshmen year in high school. This was the first time they’d been in the same school together, not that he’d seen her much. Elizabeth crossed the room and sat on the edge of his bed.
      “Mom told me you were having a problem with the heat. I was just going to go by myself, but may I suggest we go to the mall? You need some thinner clothes,” she suggested. Michael closed his textbook and smiled.
      “That would be great. How did you find out about the mall?” he asked as he got up to search for shoes. 
      She swung her feet and replied, “I looked it up in the yellow pages. Do you think I’m incompetent? Mom said that you should drive, being I only have my permit.”
      
      It didn’t turn out to be much of a mall, but it had stores and it got them out of the house. Despite himself, Michael felt his mood brighten as time passed. He purchased enough light clothing to last until they could go out again; staying away from black though he had a fondness for it. They slowed as their bags got heavier and their wallets lighter. When it got late, they went home. Michael finished his homework and went to bed, hoping tomorrow would be brighter.
      
      The second day of school went much like the first. The building was still scalding, but it wasn’t as bad in shorts. The students still ignored him, but he brought a book to pass the time. All in all, it was much the same, but not as bad. On the way home, however, things got interesting.
      Despite all of his jokes about alligators, Michael had yet to see one in Louisiana. He encountered his first three blocks from home. The animal lay, dormant, in a patch of sun on the road. At first sight, Michael took it to be a log, but a second glance caused him to jump. He quickly crossed to the far edge of the sidewalk and froze. The alligator didn’t seem to notice him. In fact, it didn’t even seem to be alive. Michael squinted at the creature, but couldn’t detect any movement. 
      Thinking it had been hit by a car and died, he dared to stop on the road. The closest he’d been to a wild animal was a white tiger at the Chicago Zoo, but there’d been a sheet of Plexiglas between them. He stopped within a few feet of it, fascinated. It wasn’t as large as the ones seen on television, but Michael estimated that it had to be close to six feet from nose to tail.
      He glanced up from his scrutiny at the sound of an approaching motorcycle. Adrian was racing down the road at a speed that would get a person thrown in jail in Chicago. Michael sighed and stepped off the road, not expecting him to stop. He and Adrian hadn’t really spoken all day. He wasn’t really sure what he’d done to make him mad, but he didn’t have the heart to pursue it.
      Rather than passing by and speeding on, like Michael expected, Adrian rolled over the dormant alligator. The creature was not as dead as Michael thought it was; in fact, it was very alive and very angry. The beast snapped around, its mouth open wide. Michael had never thought an animal could have so many teeth. Its menacing hiss made his knees weak.
      “Get on the bike you dumb-ass!” came Adrian’s shout. Michael broke his horrified trance and jumped on the motorcycle behind the broad-shouldered punk. He took off. The alligator chased them for several yards before giving up and slinking back into the swamp. Michael watched over his shoulder.
      “I could’ve sworn that thing was dead,” he yelled over the sound of the engine.
      Adrian laughed and answered, “No, they like to sunbathe in the road. Where do I turn?”
      “What?”
      “Where do I turn to take you home?”
      Michael was shocked, but didn’t have long to ponder on it. “Next road! Next road! You’re going to miss it!” he shouted as they sped towards his turn off. To his dismay, Adrian didn’t slow down. Instead, he took the corner at an angle that made Michael’s heart stop. The younger teen held onto Adrian for dear life, yelling at the top of his lungs. When the bike slowed, Michael considered jumping off.
      “Where to next?” the punk asked over his shoulder
      “You’re crazy! Let me off this thing right now!”
      “Can’t do that, now where do I turn next? You don’t want to wait until we’re at the street again, we may slide if I take the turn too much faster.”
      Michael’s heart pounded in his ears, no, he didn’t want that. “Two more streets. It’s Allen Grove. My house is 3170,” he told him. Despite the early warning, Adrian still took the corner at a dangerous speed. Michael gripped his waist desperately. As soon as the motorcycle came to a stop, he leapt from the vehicle.
      The punk chuckled at his antics. “Listen Chicago; don’t make any plans after school tomorrow. We’re going to go have some fun.” Michael wondered at his offer, being he didn’t look like the type who had clean fun. Adrian didn’t exactly leave room for argument, however, and drove off before he could respond.
      Pale and shaky, Michael headed inside. His mother looked at him with alarm. “What’s the matter, dear? You look like you’ve had quite a fright,” she said and ran a gentle hand through his hair. 
      His voice quivered slightly as he spoke, “A guy from school gave me a ride home. He’s a very scary driver.”
      Her brow furrowed enough to show the crow’s feet around her eyes. “So this guy is a friend of yours?” she questioned tentatively. Michael shrugged and flopped on the couch, trying to regain his calm. When he said nothing more, his mother returned to her cleaning.
      
      Michael quickly learned that when Adrian said afternoon, he meant during the middle of class. The punk stopped him in the hall. He grabbed his arm and asked, “You ready to go?” The question confused him. He’d yet to go to gym, which was the last class of the day. He’d never skipped school before, but Adrian seemed to be on better terms with him and he didn’t want to upset him again. A friend would be a good thing to gain at the expense of PE class.
      “Yeah, ok.” Michael fooled him to the student parking lot and regretfully got on the dreaded motorcycle behind him. “So, where are we going?” he asked as he settle against Adrian. His warmth was almost comforting enough to make him for get the previous horror of riding on the bike. 
      Adrian inserted the key into the ignition. “The arcade, it gets more crowded when school let’s out,” he said before the engine roared to life. Michael tightened his hold in preparation for the ride. The fact that the town had an arcade was uplifting. He tried not to get his hopes too high, not expecting it to be much of an arcade, but it would be better than nothing.
      The monotonous scenery went by in a green blur. When the road was straight, the trip wasn’t as frightening. Without thinking about it, Michael laid his face against Adrian’s back. For the time being, he was content to just watch the world go by.
      “You like me or something Chicago?” 
      Michael realized what he meant instantly, sitting away from him. “Sorry, I was just… I was just,” he stammered, not coming up with an answer. He didn’t end up needing one, they pulled into the parking lot and Adrian hopped off. Michael turned away to hide the flush he knew had to be tinting his face. He wasn’t sure why he was blushing. After all, it was a mistake and Adrian was a boy. Michael banished it from his mind for the time being. It wouldn’t matter until he had time to think about it.
      Despite his low expectations, Michael was disappointed in the game selection and relative age of the systems. “These games are ancient, Adrian! You guys actually play these?! That’s like the original Pac-Man! Not even a remake, like the original!” he raved. The machined were indeed ancient. They seemed to be well-kept, but there was nothing in the dimly-lit room newer than ten to fifteen years. The supervisor behind the snack counter wasn’t exactly a spring chicken either.
      Adrian rolled his gorgeous blue eyes towards the roof. “You can complain about anything, can’t you, Chicago?” he asked with exasperation, adding, “Let’s just play something.”
      The first game they chose was a two-player fighter that Michael had never seen before. He quickly learned that Adrian was no newcomer to the gaming world. The punk pulled off impossible combos that hacked away at Michael’s character. “You’re too good at this!” he shouted between his bursts of laughter. Adrian grinned and maneuvered his character in for the killing blow. It came down in all of its pixilated fury, destroying the other fighter. Michael hit the top panel with frustration.
      “You up for a rematch?” Adrian questioned him with an arched eyebrow.
      The redhead fished in his pockets for more quarters. “You’re on.” It wasn’t long before their coin supply ran out. The ancient games proved to be entertainment enough and Michael was appeased. Though not something he would confess, Michael recognized Adrian as the better arcade player. 
      A small crowd began to accumulate in the worn out building. Kids lingered in clusters near the doors and around certain games. School had let out. The arcade, being one of the few hangouts in town, became very populated after three PM.
      Adrian leaned over to be heard above the rising commotion, “Since we’re out of money, I suggest we get out of here. It’ll only get worse.” Michael agreed whole-heartedly. It had seemed like a very brief amount of fun, but crowded arcades weren’t the best way to spend an afternoon. Michael had never really liked waiting to play games anyway. He found that watching a game ruined all the good parts, like hearing the ending of a movie before going to see it. 
      Michael got on the bike, thinking it was awfully early to be heading home. Adrian was thinking the same thing. Rather than turning left out of the parking lot, towards home, he turned his motorcycle right and went north. Michael wasn’t the best with directions, but he had a decent enough orientation to know they were going the wrong way. He decided not to ask, and slid his hands up to the safety of Adrian’s shoulders.
      The destination the punk had in mind was an old cemetery. The grounds were started several hundred years ago and many of the gravestones were unreadable. The area was not swampy, like other parts of the city, making Michael suspect that it was on higher ground. It had numerous large trees on the property. They were big, droopy trees that hung long enough to brush stone markers here and there. 
      Near the entrance to the cemetery was a large group of students smoking and passing around bottles in brown paper sacks. Most of them were dressed entirely in black. Some sported tattoos, while others had numerous piercings. Michael hoped desperately that Adrian hadn’t brought him here to hang out with them. He’d been offered drugs and alcohol before, but he’d said no then and he’d say no again. If Adrian had expected him to be like them, he’d be disappointed. 
      To his surprise, and great relief, Adrian walked past them with little more than a ‘hey’. They nodded to acknowledge him, but nothing more. So this wasn’t his normal group. Michael gave them a meek smile and trotted to keep up with the punk’s longer stride. Adrian took an immediate interest in the graves, glancing at those that were closest as they passed. He seemed to be looking for something specific. “I want you to see something, Chicago,” he said somberly and knelt at a gravestone. The marker read the name of a boy that had died when he was only five. Besides that he was a beloved son and brother, there was little commentary on it.
      Michael didn’t understand why they’d stopped at this particular grave. Adrian answered his unspoken question without words. He pulled a toy truck from his pocket and set it on the stone’s ledge. “He was my little brother.” Michael’s heart sunk.
      It was hard to lose someone close, especially someone that’s family. The younger teen found he was at a loss for words, “I’m sorry… I… Why are you telling me this?” Adrian stood and brushed off his knees.
      He sighed, “I’m not sure. I though the graveyard would be a place you might like to see and my little brother… well; he was here, so I thought, why not? Maybe you’d use it to explain some of my quarks, so I wouldn’t have to.”
      Michael shifted his weight to one foot and furrowed his brow. “Wait, so you… You used your little brother so I’d think you were more normal? And why’d you assume I’d want to come here?!” His quick change of topic made Adrian chuckle, but his eyes were sad. “How did he die?” The question caught the punk off-guard.
      “He just got sick one day and never got better. By the time my dad decided to take him to the doctor, it was too late.” It was a pain that was nothing more than an old scar. The boy had been mourned a great deal, but there were no more tears to shed. Adrian left it alone quickly. “I really thought you were a graveyard kind of guy, Chicago. I mean, you really seem to like black, so a graveyard sounded like a good match for you,” he said with a smirk, trying to get a rise out of Michael. He got what he wanted.
      “I wear black for a different reason! I’m not a Goth, I’m a theatre geek! Only, I’ve noticed that your school doesn’t have a theatre, so I guess that would just make me a geek.” When he realized the punk’s tactic, the younger teen grinned and switched gears. “You know, I think that you aren’t what you seem. You act like you’re a tough guy, but you’re really just a big softy. Why else would you try so hard to please me?”
      Adrian gave him an offended expression and retorted, “I can’t believe you! That hurts Chicago, that hurts right here.” He pulled up his shirt and pointed at a long, diagonal scar on his chest. Laughing he dropped it.
      “What happened?” Michael asked; the joke was done. The scar concerned him, but it was old. He hoped the punk wasn’t involved in trouble. Something so large was obviously not an accident.
      Adrian didn’t seem concerned, however, and answered without hesitating, “My friend and I were both a little drunk and we started fighting. I ‘m not quite sure which one of us broke a bottle first, but he hit me with his. He felt horrible about it in the morning.”
      Michael nodded, not quite sure what to think about it. The fact that Adrian drank wasn’t very pleasing, but Michael wondered who really started the fight. He’d heard somewhere that when a person was drunk, they acted most like their natural self.
      Thinking Adrian had told him a few personal things, Michael figured it was his turn. “I’ve got a scar like that, only mine’s a little shorter,” he said and exposed his side. The strip of puckered flesh was two to three inches long and had signs that it had been stitched. Michael didn’t wait for him to ask for an explanation, “Mine doesn’t really have a funny story behind it. I got mugged on my way home from work one night. He stabbed me and took my backpack, but I didn’t have a lot in it, so I didn’t lose much. It was two hours before anyone found me, and I’d lost a lot of blood. The doctor was pretty certain that I wouldn’t make it. He told my mother that I had a fifteen percent survival rate, which is probably something he should’ve just kept to himself. A lot of big city doctors don’t have much sympathy. After three nights in intensive care, my condition finally started to improve. My mother had never treated me the same since.”
      Adrian was silent when he finished. He didn’t know how to react. The younger teen didn’t seem very affected by the memory, but he suspected it was buried deep. Adrian’s lips parted, but nothing came out. After a moment, he found his voice, “That’s ruff. I never would have guessed that you went through something like that. You’re a tuff kid Chicago.” Those deep cobalt eyes were very soft as he spoke; compassion ruled his normally cool expression. Michael smiled inwardly. He wouldn’t tell him that it took years of therapy to make him a normal teenager again. His last session had been a week before the move, but they weren’t going to search for a new therapist in New Orleans.
      Neither spoke on it again, letting the subject slip away. “I’m going to go look around,” Michael murmured. Adrian let him go, watching as he wondered off between the lines of graves. His heart ached for the boy. The punk had been in scrapes and scuffles before, but he’d always known he’d gotten himself into it. To be the victim of a random act of violence was much harder to handle.
      With a sigh, Adrian walked back towards the front of the cemetery and the smoke-clouded teenagers. A girl with heavy eyeliner turned towards him. She had her dark strands of hair pulled into a sloppy pile on her head, the style was held together by a few bobby pins. “What’s with the kid, Adrian?” she asked and took a long swig from the beer in her hand.
      A secretive smile passed over his face. “Well, I like him.”
      “Like Alex?”
      “Yeah.”
      She shrugged and lit a cigarette. “So, you trying to replace John while he’s in jail?”
      Adrian sat on the edge of a gravestone and answered, shaking his head at the cigarette she offered, “No, that’s a bit different. John and I are friends.”
      Michael stopped nearby. If Adrian considered this ‘John’ a friend, but he was different, then what did that make him? The girl Adrian was speaking with didn’t say anything about it. Michael resumed walking, making sure they heard his approach. As he expected, the conversation was dropped when he got close. Feeling betrayed the younger teen spoke up, “I’m ready to go.” Adrian cocked an eyebrow at him.
      “Already? You really are a party crasher, Chicago,” he commented in a light tone. He got to his feet and said a quick farewell. Michael didn’t speak on the way to the parking lot. Adrian had brushed him off as less than a friend so easily. If his friend John was really in jail, then perhaps he was no more than a replacement. It made Michael feel like cheap entertainment.
      He didn’t get on the motorcycle behind Adrian. “So how’d your friend get thrown in jail?”
      The punk pursed his lips and spoke quietly, “He pushed the local sheriff to his limit. It’s not the first time he’s been thrown in prison, but it’s not like he’s been to the big house. It’s just the little local prison. The sheriff caught him stealing and got him canned for a month.”
      Michael cast his gaze to the cement. Weeds poked up through cracks in the unkempt surface. “Am I really just a replacement until he comes back? I know you’ve known him longest, so it makes sense that you’d be better friends with him, but did you only talk to me because you thought I’d be good entertainment while he was gone?” he asked timidly, not willing to meet Adrian’s enchanting blue eyes.
      When the punk answered, he was almost scolding, “Do you really believe everything people tell you, Chicago? I thought you had a bit more sense than that.”
      Both ashamed and relieved at the same time, Michael climbed on the back of the bike. “So, I’m not just a bit of fun and games? You really want to hang out with me?”
      “Yes, I really want to hang out with you. You make it sound like a soap opera Chicago.”
      The ride home was quiet, but not as awkward as Michael had expected it to be. Surprisingly, Adrian didn’t drive as recklessly as his normally did, or Michael was just getting used to it. The punk dropped him off at the curb, but stopped him as he was heading inside, “Chicago. Why don’t I get you a job where I work? You said you worked before, so maybe it’ll help you get settled.”
      Michael stood, dumbfounded, for a moment and grinned. “Yeah, that’d be great,” he yelled back to him. A job would help normalize things a little and give him time to get to know Adrian better. It sounded like a great idea.
      
      Michael went through the application process the next afternoon, which consisted of Adrian, the manager, and him talking for a brief amount of time. It was really Adrian doing all the talking, and the manager, Joel, asking a few questions while Michael stood to the side quietly. After barely a minute of this, the manager looked him up and down and grunted in approval. “You’re hired. You start today. Work for you?” he said bluntly. Michael nodded vigorously, not wanting to keep the man waiting. He seemed like he ran a tight ship and didn’t leave room for questions or laziness.
      “Good. Adrian will show you where to get an apron and where the sink is. You start with dishes.”
      The younger teen waited until they were out of earshot before bombarding Adrian, “Dishes? When you said you worked at a restaurant, I thought you would get me a job waiting tables, or bussing them, but dishes?” Adrian rolled his eyes and pulled an apron off a hook, slipping it over Michael’s head.
      “Stop complaining. At least you have a job,” he said in a chiding manner, adding, “That’s the stack that’s accumulated since this morning, you’d better get to work.”
      Michael turned to behold a mountain of glass wear. His enthusiasm for work hit rock-bottom. He’d really liked his last job, working at the internet café down the road, but he didn’t even like doing the dishes his family generated at dinner. The stack was daunting.
      The punk pat his shoulder and leaned close, speaking next to his ear in a soft voice, “Good luck.” His breath on Michael’s skin sent a chill down his spine.
      By the time he started recovering; Adrian was pushing open the door to the main part of the diner. “No! Adrian, don’t leave me with all this!” but his plea didn’t bring him back to the kitchens. Michael grumbled a bit and turned to the food crusted plates. His hands would be nothing but prune by the end of his shift. The stack suggested that they hadn’t had a dishwasher until now. Michael felt certain that they just bought new plates whenever the old ones were dirty. How else could such a pile accumulate?
      He set his jaw. It didn’t matter how big the stack was, he wouldn’t let it beat him. Michael began cleaning furiously. The water was nearly scalding at first, but he got used to it. He worked an hour without seeming to make a dent, but, slowly, the pile began to diminish. More plates and glasses came in, sinking his hopes like the last battleship on the board. His pace couldn’t be picked up much more without the risk of breaking something.
      The later it got, however, the fewer items that came in to be washed. The pile began to shrink again. By nine-forty-five, it was gone. Michael was just washing the last of it when Adrian came in to check on him. He really hadn’t expected the kid to make much progress, but having it entirely done impressed him.
      “Geez, Chicago, you must have worked non-stop. Did you even take a break for dinner?” he asked as he filed the receipts from the night. Michael set the glass he was working on in the drying wrack and unplugged the drain. He didn’t answer, a little tired and grumpy from the evening of soapy water. 
      Adrian smirked and shook his head. “What am I going to do with you, Chicago? Wait!” he paused with a thought and continued, “Stay here, I’ll be right back.” He left Michael to get dried off and hang up his apron.
      The punk poked his head into the dining area where his manager was closing up for the night. “Hey Joel!” The middle-aged man flicked off the outside lights and turned.
      “What is it Adrian?”
      “Come see how much work Michael’s done.”
      His bushy brow lifted a bit and he followed Adrian into the back. The teen stepped aside with a proud little grin so he could see that the dishes were even put away in their respective places. The manager nodded and gave a grunt of approval.
      “Good work, another couple of days like this, and you’ll be working the front,” he said to Michael, the second part, he directed at Adrian, “Start training him to be a waiter. He can handle the dinner crowd with you.” This was all the ‘praise’ he bestowed, but it was enough. He picked up his hat and coat and left them to finish closing. “Remember to turn off the light, Adrian, everyone else is gone.”
      “Alright Joel.”
      When he closed the door, Adrian grabbed the younger teen’s shoulders. His enthusiasm was contagious. “See Chicago! He likes you. You’ll be moving up in no time,” he told him happily.
      A reluctant smile crawled across Michael’s face as he caught the punk’s mood. “How is it being a waiter, do you get a lot of good tips?”
      Adrian draped his well-muscled arm over his shoulders and led him to the back door as he spoke, “You’d be surprised. When the grub is as good and as cheap as it is here, people are really friendly with their tips.”
      Michael waited as Adrian switched off the remaining lights and locked the door behind him. The two strolled towards the parking lot, pleased with life and the company in it. A question came to mind that Michael meant to ask earlier, “Hey Adrian?”
      “Yeah Chicago?”
      “When you tossed me in the pond, you know, and I pulled you in, we seemed to be doing okay. Right after that though, you just drove off like you were pissed at me. Why?”
      Adrian studied him for a moment and chuckled. “You have a weird sense of okay, but I was just goofing off with you… but I guess I’m kind of avoiding the question. When you said you had all those expensive electronics, I thought that you were just a rich brat that got everything you asked for. It made me sick, but I didn’t really give you a chance to explain,” he replied sincerely.
      Michael blinked; it wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting. “Brat? I was working two jobs to save up for those.”
      Adrian leaned against the seat of his motorcycle and crossed his arms over his chest. He chose his works carefully to smooth the little crease that had formed on Michael’s forehead, “I’ve changed my opinion of you since then… So you worked two jobs? What’d you do?” The crease disappeared.
      “I worked at and internet café and a bookstore. I was technically a waiter at E-Java, but I did a lot of maintenance work on the computers and I was a cashier and shelf-er for Pages,” Michael said and joined Adrian against his bike. The peace between them was restored yet again. Both were grinning like idiots, but neither really noticed.
      
      In two days time, Michael began his training as a waiter. He trailed Adrian everywhere in the restaurant, absorbing the way the manager wanted things run. Whenever the punk had a moment, he gave Michael tips and tricks to remember. “Never argue with a customer, always watch the level of people’s drinks, and don’t ever tell the cook to hurry. Tell him to hurry and you’ll never get your food. He’s really ornery,” he said, occasionally glancing at the tables to make sure he wasn’t needed. He continued on in a rush, “Take the orders around the table to the right and speak as clearly as possible. Keep out of the busboy’s way or he’ll curse at you in Spanish, make sure orders are right before you even take it to the table and…”
      Michael cut off Adrian’s words by simply putting his hand over his mouth. He spoke evenly, but had a little grin playing at the corner of his lips, “Adrian, breathe. I’ve done this before.” 
      The confusion that had clouded his bright blue eyes cleared and he smiled, hurrying off to a table that had summoned him. Michael sighed. Adrian was a different person outside of school; it was like he shed his tough guy skin and took on a whole new persona. The other Adrian was someone who was pleasant with people. He cared about those near him, but not just at work. 
      The longer it had been since school had let out, the more open and friendly he got. Michael wondered if he really cared that much about his image with other students. He really didn’t seem the type. Maybe something else was causing a change. He wondered if some other influence was altering Adrian’s attitude. Whatever it was, it had to be good. He liked the punk that much more when he smiled. Despite recognizing and appreciating Adrian’s changes, Michael didn’t have clue of how involved with them he really was. The only recent change in the older teen’s life, was the addition of the boy he fondly called Chicago.
      The night began to wind down, giving the two teens an opportunity to get off their feet. They collapsed in a booth, exhausted, near the end of the diner. Adrian took several large gulps of water and sighed, welcoming the chance to relax on a Saturday night. “Is it always so busy on the weekends?” Michael complained. The punk wiped sweat from his brow with a napkin.
      “You think this is busy, you should have seen it Friday.”
      “I knew it was busy on Friday, I was doing the dishes.”
      There was silence for a moment, and then the laughter came, a roar of it between them. They quieted down quickly so as not to disturb the remaining guests. Adrian leaned forward on the table and knocked a few decibels out of his voice, “So tomorrow, let’s go out and do something fun.” Michael agreed, he was fully ready to get out and do something, even if he didn’t know what it was.
      
      Bright and early the next morning, Adrian pulled up in front of the other teen’s house in a battered pick-up truck. The old beast’s tail pipe released a shotgun blast as he turned it off. Michael answered the door on the first ring, sleep rumpled and slightly grumpy. Adrian ran a hand through the other teen’s hair to smooth it. “Look who just rolled out of bed, morning gorgeous,” he cooed playfully.
      Not quite the monster he was when he first got up, Michael moved out of the doorframe to let him in. “Why are you here so early and what’s with the truck?” Michael grumbled at him as he shambled up the stairs.
      The punk followed, amused, and answered his incoherent ramblings, “Well you have to go out early for fishing. The truck’s for the gear.” The boy was quite charming when he was fresh out of bed. Michael started digging for clothes in his room while Adrian stood by one of the many piles that had yet to make it to the closet. Trying to be helpful and get him moving faster, the punk unburied a shirt and tossed it as him. Michael slipped it over his head and yawned.
      Adrian glanced around his room while he got changed, taking in the numerous Broadway posters. The CD shelf contained very little aside from soundtracks. A very large stack of worn scripts covered the desk, but they could be seen on every other available surface. Adrian hadn’t realized how very involved his Chicago had been in theatre. His room suggested a life dedicated to it. 
      The punk returned his attention to Michael and realized that he should not be permitted to get dressed in his state, especially not on his own. “Chicago, you’re shirt is backward, and your socks don’t match,” Adrian commented. Michael gave him a groggy look that said he hadn’t caught a word. Adrian groaned and dragged the younger boy to him by the waist of his pants. “You really aren’t a morning person, are you?” he muttered and stripped off Michael’s shirt. Flipping it the right way, he slipped it back over the boy’s ruffled mane of hair. Michael gave him a gorgeous, sleepy smile and thanked him. 
      “Come on Chicago, let’s get going.” 
      He stumbled down the stairs after Adrian and told his mother he was leaving. She didn’t think she’d ever see her son this early in the morning, but she told him not to be back too late, and to be safe.
      
      By the time they reached Adrian’s chosen fishing spot, Michael was much more awake. “I’ve never been fishing before,” the city boy said. He pulled equipment out of the back of the truck as Adrian indicated they needed it. The punk hopped onto a gigantic tree that arched over the boggy lake. Michael followed him more tentatively; not so certain in his footing. They hadn’t gone too far out of town to fish, perhaps a few miles. The younger teen thought the lake looked like a set out of Swamp Thing, moss covered trees and all. He half expected the green creature to slide out of the murky waters.
      Adrian pushed a fishing pole into his hands and flopped down on the bent trunk. Michael sat beside him, steadying himself against a thick branch. As a last precaution, the punk roped his cooler to the tree. “Alright, we’re all set Chicago, grab a worm.” Adrian offered him a Styrofoam container full of dirt. Michael peered inside curiously, but didn’t move to take it.
      “Worms? Aren’t we going to use lures? Aren’t lures better?” he asked weakly. Adrian sighed and pulled a night crawler from the cup. He cut it in half with his thumbnail, offering Michael a piece. The younger teen took it as gingerly as possible, a grimace on his face.
      “Do you even know how to put a worm on a hook?” Adrian asked as he strung his own bait on the curved hook. He tossed the line into the water and trapped the pole under his boot, leaning over to give Michael a hand. Much to the younger teen’s disgust, he made him thread the half of the squirming night crawler with the hook.
      “This is so gross Adrian! Why do people do this by choice?” he half heartedly whined. It was almost worth it to feel Adrian’s hands guiding his own, but he couldn’t tell him that. He knew the punk would never spend time with him again if he said what he really wanted to.
      “There, now toss it in.”
      Michael started to, but caught himself before he let go. “What if an alligator grabs my line and pulls me in?” he whispered fearfully. Adrian hung his head, trying not to snicker.
      “If an alligator did decide to eat your worm, the line would just snap.”
      “But what if it doesn’t?! What if the first tug pulls me off balance and I fall in? It would eat me!”
      “I wouldn’t let you fall in.”
      “But are you faster than an alligator, Adrian, can you honestly tell me that?”
      “Fast enough to keep you up here.” Both exasperated and amused, Adrian finished the conversation. He whipped out a switch-blade and stuck it in the tree. “If something big grabs your line, I’ll cut it,” he finalized. Michael let the hook go, dropping it into the lake with a soft ‘plunk’. 
      Time crawled by as they settled back to wait. It really wasn’t so bad, past the worm thing. Being uneventful, it was really quite relaxing. The boys talked in subtle tones about anything that came to mind. Michael described Chicago. Adrian told stories of trouble he’d gotten in with the sheriff. Michael explained plays he’d been in. Adrian spoke about a dirt bike race he’d participated in.
      A slight tug on the younger teen’s line caused him to jump a mile. “Calm down, you’ve got a fish. Reel it in,” the punk instructed him. Michael did as he was told, fighting the fishes movements the best he could. When it broke the surface, it became much easier to pull in. He got the thrashing creature to eye level, but kept in an arms length away.
      “What now Adrian?!” he yelled. The punk was having a hard time balancing his laughter, fishing pole, and soda from the cooler while trying to reach for the fish Michael had reeled in. He dropped the soda can and grabbed the struggling bass by the lips, working out the hook.
      “Ok, Chicago, you caught a fish. You want to hold it?” Michael shook his head fiercely. Adrian smiled opened one of the many fastenings on an odd chain. He slid the rod of metal in through the fish’s gills and out through its mouth, snapping it closed. Michael watched as he lowered the chain into the water.
      “So that’s to keep them alive?"
      “Yep.”
      “What are we going to do with them when we’re done?”
      Adrian reveled in his clueless nature. “We’re going to take them home and put them in a tank,” he said coyly. Michael fell for the bait.
      “Really? Do you have a big enough tank?”
      “No Chicago, we’re not taking them home.” 
      Thoroughly confused, Michael asked, “But then, what are we going to do with them?”
      “You’ll see, re-bait your hook.”
      He reluctantly did so, and tossed it back in the water.
      
      The sun made a track across the sky as they slowly filled the clasps on the chain. When it made it to the horizon, Adrian got up and trotted down the tree trunk. “So you still haven’t told me what we’re doing with these fish,” the city boy mentioned casually. Adrian said nothing, starting a stack of wood by the truck. Rather than ask again, he loaded things into the bed of the truck.
      The punk knelt near the wood he’d dragged together and lit it up. Mental puzzle pieces fell into place, making Adrian’s intentions clear. “You’re going to roast the fish, aren’t you?!” Michael exclaimed. Metal skewers appeared from the cab of the truck.
      “Bingo.” 
      Adrian fetched the chain of fish and started working with his pocket knife. He scraped off their scales, and then got them hung over the fire.
      The sounds of the night soon made themselves known. Hoots, growls, and screeches forced Michael closer to Adrian and the fire. It wasn’t until they were touching shoulders that the punk said anything. “The outdoors aren’t going to eat you.” Embarrassed, Michael slid away a little. His heart leaped like a terrified rabbit, but he refused to show his fear.
      “I’m not worried about the outdoors!” he said in defense.
      Adrian pulled him back towards him with a smug grin. “I’d say you’re horrified of the outdoors. You know, you really don’t have a lot to worry about out here. Most animals will be scared off by the fire.” Slightly comforted, Michael relaxed against him. Unfortunately, Adrian couldn’t keep his mouth shut, adding, “Except bears. Bears could possibly be drawn to the light, not to mention the smell of fish.”
      The younger teen popped to his feet instantly and started for the truck. “Let’s go home! Let’s go home now! I can’t deal with bears!” Michael blathered in a panicked voice. Adrian grabbed his jeans pocket and pulled him down.
      “Bears are few and far between. You should be more worried about the Louisiana Python. Well, and the swamp tigers. Those are really dangerous.”
      Michael’s heart stopped hammering. A boiling anger flushed his face and clenched his fists. “You jerk! I can’t believe you! Swamp Tigers?!” he shouted at him furiously. The older teen couldn’t help himself; he burst out in fits of rolling laughter. Michael’s fury lost its edge, but he continued yelling, “You bastard! I believed you too!”
      “That’s what’s so funny about it.”
      “I hate you! You suck!”
      Adrian’s expression melted to one that was very sly. He leaned close, his voice a husky whisper, “Only if you want me to.” The flush on Michael’s face deepened to near purple, his mouth working like the fish they’d caught earlier in the day. Adrian gave him his space. “I was joking, Chicago! It’s okay,” he said, his light mood returning. 
      The punk removed the blackened fish from the flame. When the shock of events wore off, they ate what was left of the semi-charcoaled fish. Michael didn’t feel as bad about being tricked when he could make fun of Adrian for his poor cooking skills. They swapped playful insults for a time and finished the remaining sodas in the cooler. At the end of the evening, they lay in the bed of Adrian’s truck and watched the stars. When Michael fell asleep against the older boy’s shoulder, they drove home.  
      
      Only one light was on when they pulled up to Michael's house.  He slid out of the truck cringed.  "I'll bet that's my mom, she's probably waiting up for me," he told Adrian.
      "Chicago, meet me in the lunchroom after first block.  I’ve got something I want to show you."  Michael glanced over his shoulder and gave the punk a quick smile.  "Okay," he replied.  Adrian pulled out onto the road and Michael slipped inside, hoping not to be noticed.  He heard the yelling instantly.  Just be sure, he checked the garage.  His father's car was there.  
      The screaming intensified as he came up the stairs.  The walls obscured the words, but the voice was his mother's.  She was raging, although it wasn't the loudest she'd ever been.  That fight had been horrid, ending with his mother throwing her favorite face against the wall.  
      His father's baritone voice joined in and they both rose to be heard over the other.  Michael's great mood from his day with Adrian went out like a fire in a downpour.  He edged past his parents’ room and opened the door to his sister's bedroom.  He knew of she wouldn't be asleep, but she never took the fighting well.  
      The room had become Liz’s sanctuary in soft pinks and boy band posters, but she, strangely, wasn't in it.  Michael knew she could only be one other place.  He went to the end of the hall and pushed opened the door to his room.  His little sister was seated on his bed, holding a pillow to her chest like a stuffed toy.  Streaks on her face betrayed that she’d been crying.
      "How long have they been doing this?"  Michael asked softly.
      Liz sobbed and collected herself before responding, "Since dad got home.  They tried to pretend that nothing was wrong at dinner, but mom wouldn't say anything."  Her voice cracked before she got any further and she burst into a fresh round of tears.  Michael sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her into a hug.  He hated them for it.  Every relationship had its ups and downs, but they couldn't be in the same room with each other without breaking into an all-out battle.  It had gotten progressively worse over the years, but Michael couldn't remember a time without their fights.  
      Usually starting with trivial things, their fights would last for hours and go as far as whose idea it was to get married.  He continued to cradle his baby sister, trying to drown out their shouts.  Sobs racked her tiny frame.  He had to get her to stop thinking about it.  "Hey, I found Stratigo when I was unpacking.  Why don't we play?"  He suggested, lifting her blotchy face to see her eyes.  She gave a vain attempt to wipe away her tears and nodded.  Michael fetched the box.  It was one of her favorite games.  She was highly competitive and always seemed to win, but Michael hoped it would help her calm down.
      The two player game required each contender to set up an army to protect their flag.  The pieces had different numbers that dictated what was in their power to kill.  The flags were hidden by the players in the mass of nearly identical pieces.  Despite how long Michael had played this game with his sister, he could never find her flag.
      The game did its job, stopping Liz's tears.  They went through five successive games, four of which Liz won.  Setting up for the sixth, Michael glanced at the clock on his bedside table.  The glowing digital numbers read 1 a.m., but the raised voices in his parents’ room were still going strong.  At a breaking point, Michael looked up at his little sister.  She was exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes that he knew had to be echoed under his own.  
      "I can't take this anymore of this," he stated.  Liz said nothing as he left, but pulled the pillow back to her chest for comfort.  
      At his parents’ door, Michael took a deep breath to calm himself, and knocked sharply.  The voices inside died instantly.  It was a moment before the door opened, his mother's face framed in the light.  Michael didn't give her chance to speak, directing his words at both of them, "Elizabeth and I have school tomorrow.  If you don't mind, we'd like to get some sleep."  His father stood awkwardly by the dresser, not willing to get into the conversation.
      His mother opened her mouth, he was certain to apologize, but he didn't wait to hear what she had to say.  He was tired of apologies. ‘I'm sorry we made you and your sister miserable during our family vacation.  I'm sorry we ruined your grandparents’ anniversary.  I'm sorry.’  He was sick of hearing it. To be truly sorry was to fix the problem. 
      Michael stormed down the hall, refusing to see how he left his mother standing.  He refused to accept her apology and he refused to see the hurt expression he knew was on her face.  Michael pushed back the impending tears, he wouldn't cry.  He had to be strong for Liz.  The heartbroken teen put his little sister to bed, turning off the alarm she had set for five.  He knew she'd get angry when she found out, but she needed the rest.  He'd get her up when he woke up.  
      
      Getting out of bed the next morning proved to be more difficult than Michael had expected it to be.  He managed to roll out of out about 10 minutes late.  In Liz's pink sanctuary he broke some bad news, "You're going to be late. You've got to get up."  His sister groaned and mumbled from somewhere in the mass of blankets, "The alarm hasn't even gone off yet, go away."  
      "I turned it off last night."  Liz shot up in a wild display of hair and sheets.  
      "You what?!"  She screeched at him as she flew across the room to her closet.  "Why would you turn off my alarm?!  You have no idea how long I take to get ready!"  Michael rolled his eyes at her ranting.  
      "You can be late one day.  Tie your hair back in a ponytail and get a shower when you get home," he suggested.  She appeared from the closet with the death glare that could melt metal.
      "Are you joking?  I wouldn't dare go to school looking like a sleez!"  

[END OF PART ONE]