Chapter 1

Adam Kimura sighed with relief as he finally clicked "save" on the computer. He didn't normally work in the advertising department, but today was a little different. Because Jesse Winters, the guy usually in charge of the ads for the school paper, had come down with a bad cold, Adam was left to do both his own section--school club activities--and the ads. He'd worked hard all week to learn the format needed and collect the advertisements, and had still been unable to quite get everything finished, so the journalism teacher had given him a key to his office the afternoon before, just so Adam could get to school an hour early and finish the job. It had been hard work, and he was exhausted, but he knew it would all be worth it.

Leaving a post-it to Mr. Davis on his cluttered desk, Adam shut down the program at long last and left the office, locking the door behind him. The hallway was crowded, but he managed to squeeze through the throng of fellow high schoolers to get to the main office, where he quickly dropped the set of keys into Mr. Davis's mailbox just as the bell rang.

As Adam walked toward his first class, satisfied with his work and anticipating an offer of extra credit, he kept thinking about one ad in particular. A role play over the Internet... What an interesting idea.

Sara Vallejo's dark eyes widened in surprise, and her mouth formed a startled "o" when she felt a pair of arms wrap around her shoulders from behind.

"Hi there, angel," a deep voice murmured sensually, just before the touch of familiar lips brushed her ear.

She turned her head to the side, giving her boyfriend a playfully scornful glare. "Nicholas! You nearly scared me to death. I have half a mind to thwap you over the head with a frying pan!"

"I'd like to see you try it, wench," Nick Camus laughed, hugging her back against his chest.

"Geez, you two sound married already," Sara's companion, Zachary, snorted.

Sara blinked at him, and a smirk twisted Nick's mouth. "How would you know? I don't see you running around with a sweetheart."

Zachary continued to frown at Nick. "We were in the middle of a discussion, if you don't mind," the blonde snapped, ignoring the remark.

"Oh? Well, you'll have to finish it some other time." With that, Nicholas spun Sara around, and, his arm draped possessively over her shoulders, steered her in the opposite direction.

The pretty girl kept turning her head to look at Zachary, who was standing in the middle of the hall with first a stunned, then an angry, look on his face. Nick wouldn't let her stop to explain, though, and forced her to walk faster.

When the couple was finally out of the building, Sara slapped his arm away. "Why did you do that? That was very rude."

Nick shrugged. "I don't like him."

"Well, maybe I do!"

"What?!"

"Nicholas! You know it's nothing like that. Zach's just a friend! Don't even pretend you think otherwise; you know me better."

"He's still a creep." Nick shoved his hands into his pockets, looking down with a scowl.

"Why do you say that?" Sara shot him a dark look. "He never did anything to you." She turned quickly and started down the steps ahead of him.

Nick caught up with her on the sidewalk, matching her brisk pace and making a grab for her arm, but she twisted away. He stopped dead in his tracks, and after walking a little ahead, Sara slowed down, gradually came to a stop once she realized he wasnt following, and then turned.

"...Aren't you taking me home?"

"Not if you don't want me to."

"...You always take me home."

"But I won't, if you'd rather ride with someone else."

They stared at each other, knowing what needed to be said but Nick's pride stood between them. It was Sara who finally broke the silence.

"That hurts, Nick."

He looked away, realizing who was at fault, then walked closer and looked into her eyes. "I'm a moron."

"You're not a moron..."

"I'm a moron, and you know it."

They wrapped their arms around each other and held on tight, the late spring sun showering them with warmth and the cool breeze gently scattering their troubles to the wind.

Nicholas buried his face in Sara's long, dark hair, breathing in the scent so deeply he could almost taste her.

"I love you," she murmured against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said, moving to kiss her cheek.

"You're forgiven," she returned immediately.

"I don't deserve you."

"Don't say that."

"It's true."

"But I want you," she protested.

Nick pulled away and brushed Sara's hair out of her face, his hands resting at last on her slight shoulders. She clung to his waist, looking up into his eyes.

"...So you're starting to tell people?"

"I didn't say anything!" she cried in astonishment. "I don't think he meant that literally."

"...I wouldn't mind, either way," Nick smiled a little shyly. "I just thought you said you were still thinking about it."

"That's what I tried to tell myself," she murmured, fighting the smile that came so naturally to her sweet lips at the mere thought of it.

"You'd better make your decision soon," Nick said warningly. He drew his hand back to check an imaginary watch. "We graduate in just two months!"

"Is that some kind of threat?" she asked teasingly.

Nick laughed. "What makes you think I'd ask anyone else to be my wife, wench?" He kissed the tip of her nose, eliciting a cute little mew from her, then the two walked to Nick's car with their arms around one another's waists.

It was a beautiful Friday afternoon.

He was scratching away at his sculpture--a private project, no doubt, that had nothing to do with real classwork--and looked intent on his labor, but he knew she was there. She knew he fucking knew she was there.

"...Mr. Preston." It was the fourth time she's spoken his name.

Again, no answer.

"Mr. Preston!"

With a scowl and a grunt, the art instructor leaned back from his workdesk to glare over his glasses at the short girl who had so rudely demanded his attention. "I am aware of your presence, Miss Duquene. There is no need to screech."

Melinda frowned down at her art teacher, angered but undeterred from her purpose. "If you knew I was standing here, you should have said something."

"If you are the one requiring some assistance, is it not your place to ask for it?" he shot back, still giving her that look that said his was the only significant opinion. "This isn't MacDonald's, Miss Duquene; do not expect me to ask 'How may I help you?'."

Trembling with anger and close to tears, Melinda couldn't even give him a proper retort before spinning on her heel and storming out of the room. On her way down the hall, she paused her stride only to toss her painting--yet another unmerited "C" staining her painstaking efforts--into the trash bin next to the snack machine.

"Are you okay?"

Olivia gasped as Michael's hand reached down to help her up.

"Does it hurt? Can you stand?"

"I...I'm fine," she said softly, the color rising to her cheeks when she turned to face him. Why do I have to be such a klutz? she screamed inside. But at least she was on her feet. No thanks to you, Olivia.

"Sure?" Her handsome opponent wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his free hand; in the other he clutched a tennis racket.

"I'm sure," she smiled, blinking at him. He grinned--oh, that irresistable smile!--and went to retrieve the ball she's missed by a mile. He gently bounced it to her from across the court, and it came to rest just a few feet away.

"I'll see you next week!" he called, waving as he exited the gate.

She waved, mouthing "Bye," but was now too mortified to speak. "You are so clumsy!" she hissed out loud, bending to retrieve their ball. She'd barely had the courage to ask her crush for tennis lessons; now she was ruining all her hard-earned attention by making herself look like a fool. She slammed the ball at the ground, expecting it to bounce easily back into her outstretched hand. Instead, it bounced high and fell back down--bopping her in the head.

Blushing even more brighly, Olivia picked up the ball and just hoped that Michael had been far enough away by now to have missed the incident. On her way out the gate, she picked up her towel, her water bottle, and the copy of the school paper she'd purchased at lunch and had yet to read.

Zachary sighed aloud, frustrated and impatient. It was his fault, really, for missing the bus. It hadn't been the first time, but it was still a major hassle. He lived much too far from home to walk, and he wouldn't have dared to try, anyway. The last time he'd walked home alone... Maybe he'd only been a freshman, but that didn't stop them from going after him. Why couldn't they have just left him alone? Because of them, he'd--

But that was a long time ago, another school. He'd left those people and places behind. Things were different now. Yet his hunger for revenge would boil up every time he climbed onto that bus, traveling much farther than should be necessary just to go to a crummy school that wasn't worth the time or effort he put into getting there. He wanted to make them pay. Almost four years later, and he still wanted his retribution.

He didn't have homework. He never did. What took the other students an entire period to accomplish, Zachary could finish in under fifteen minutes. Why were they all so slow? Was he in a school for the mentally challenged, or was the average student at Grandeview High really all the hope the world had to offer for the future?

The sun was going down, and he was still waiting for his slob of a father to pick him up. He sat cross-legged on the bench in front of the high school, bemoaning the death of his Gameboy's batteries, and wondered with a sneer if the drunk even remembered he'd called. It had been over two hours ago.

The wind picked up, blowing papers across the sidwalk in front of him. A page from the school newspaper got caught under his tennis shoe, and he lifted his toes to let it go. It stuck to his foot.

"Aw, man!" he whined, realizing that a wad of chewing gum had glued the two inseparably. After reaching down and trying without success to free the page without leaving gum stuck to his shoe, he kicked his leg out and screamed at the sky, "Why? Why do these things always have to happen to me?"

The paper rattled in the breeze as though answering him. He reached down and ripped it away, a good third of it clinging to his sole.

He was about to crumble the paper and toss it to the sidewalk, when an advertisement caught his eye.

"...Who's there?"

"...It's me, Momma. Momma, it's me. Look--Im right here."

"My eyes are open, Melinda; I can't see you."

Melinda bit her lip, fighting to control her voice even as hot tears stung her eyes and blurred her vision. She clasped her mother's hand more tightly, staring down at the pale, faded form that had once been rosy and alive. The nurse had said "not long," and Melinda knew it must be true.

"It's dark, Momma," she consoled her mother, though it was a lie. "It's too dark to see."

"That's what I told him, but he wouldn't listen," Mrs. Duquene said in a low growl. "I told him, I said, 'Earl! It's too dark in here!' but he wouldn't listen to me... He wouldn't listen..." The woman was crying, now, bitter, angry tears of things long past.

"It's okay, Momma," Melinda whispered, kissing her mother's cold, skeletal hand. "He can't hurt you now, Momma. He can't hurt you now."

"Why?" the frail woman continued to sob. "Why do you lock me in here? The baby, Earl... The baby's crying..."

Melinda got nothing from anyone as she left the hospital--not one kind word, not a single touch on her shoulder. Her mother had battled the cancer for as long as her body would allow. Brain tumors were crushing the last of her sanity, whatever had been left once the doctors had gotten through with her. Melinda's father--long-gone for nearly a decade now--had been an abusive spouse, a "wife beater," the papers had declared. It had been eight years since Brian Duquene had disappeared, but everyone knew he'd run off with another woman. They knew that as surely as they knew Amber Duquene had been driven out of her mind over it.

Six years of counseling, and what had been accomplished? It had worn her mother down, and nothing else. It wasn't cheap for a single parent to pay those big-shot psychologists, and none of them had been able to stifle Amber's intense fear of the dark; even though she had lost her eyesight, she still insisted that the nurses let her sleep with the lights on.

"She'll be seeing the lights of heaven soon," her aunt had said, the last time she'd visited. That was a month ago, before Momma had been hospitalized, and back then, Melinda had told her she was wrong.

"She's gonna get well," she'd sworn insistently. "You watch and see! My momma's gonna be fine!"

A month later, Amber was just waiting to die.

I need to escape, Melinda thought dolefully. God, I just want to get away from it all.

She stood in the parking lot for a few minutes, the wind drying her tears as quickly as they fell and causing her face to itch. Scratching her cheek so quickly and suddenly that she unknowingly cut herself, she turned from what she knew would soon be her mother's grave, and started for the bus stop.

There wasn't a lot to do at home. She'd cleaned the house spotless and kept it that way, once her mother had been taken away. Only two weeks, and she felt as though she'd been living alone for years.

Melinda booted up the computer in the living room and walked away for a while; it took the antique at least ten minutes to get started, so she had time to start dinner.

I hate eating alone, she thought. But she didn't really have any friends.

It was seven-thirty.

Mike pulled the crinkled paper out of his math book and skimmed the page until he found the caption once more.

"Michael Wolfe, senior, sets a new record for Grandeview High."

He grinned at the picture of himself, savoring the victory. Tennis was his game. He owned it.

He carried the article to his desk, tapping his mouse to bring his computer out of hibernation, then grabbed a random frame to trade a photograph of his family for the tiny article. He cut it down to a suitable size then secured it in the frame, setting it on the shelf to admire for a moment. He dumped the photo into the messy desk drawer with his scissors, then started to do the same with the scrap paper. But his mother's gently chiding voice came back to remind him to "clean this place out every once in a while!" so instead he decided to put the scraps in the wastebasket...if he could find it.

He started wadding up the scraps, but then an advertisement caught his eye. "Dude!" he practically screamed at the ad. "Ben Brooks is selling his car?!" He made a grab for his phone, but as he began frantically dialing, read that Ben would be "out Friday night" and to call Saturday.

'I'll dial at exactly midnight,' Mike thought, 'then no one will beat me to it!'

He grinned at his master plan then sat down again at his desk, skimming the rest of the scrap of paper while he dialed into the Internet.

Michael didn't really know what "role playing" was, but it was Friday night and he had nothing better to do--heaven forbid he should be so bored as to study--so he created an account with MSN and waited.

It was twenty minutes to eight.
"Come on, sweetheart!" Nick moaned. He frowned at Sara impatiently from where he lie on his bed, waiting for her to pick a movie from those listed in the back of the school paper. "There aren't that many showing! If we don't get going soon, we'll miss them all!"

Sara pursed her lips, seated at Nick's desk with the school newspaper in her hands. "I really can't choose," she said, frowning. "Why don't you pick something?" She looked at him over the top of the paper.

"We already went over this," he laughed, turning onto his side. "I told you, I'm not going to the theater to watch the movie." He winked.

She squinted her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him.

"Tempting, wench..."

She blinked at him innocently.

"Let's just forget it," he said, flopping onto his back again.

"No!" she pouted. "I told you I couldn't decide; you should have just picked something."

"It's too late now. We only have fifteen minutes before the eight o'clock shows, and I'm not waiting until ten to go to the movies."

"...I'm sorry."

"I'm not. I'm sure we can find something else to do." He turned his head to look at her lustfully.

Sara's eyes widened. She jumped out of the chair and walked closer, smacking him in the head with the rolled-up newspaper.

"Ouch!" he cried, pretending it hurt. He grabbed the paper out of her hands and sat up, flipping through it casually. "Maybe there's a movie on TV tonight, or we can go rent something... If you want, I can...order a..."

"...Hm?"

"..."

"...Nick?"

"Hey, look at this!"

"What is it?" Sara joined him on the bed to see what he was reading.

"Check out this ad."

They read together in silence, then looked at each other. Sara shrugged. "So?"

"...You don't think it looks like fun?"

"Whatever you want to do."

He laughed and grabbed her for a hug. "Why do you always let me get my way?" He kissed her.

"Do I?"

"You stay right here," he said, jumping up.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to use my brother's computer."

"Huh?"

"I want you to play, too."

"I don't know anything about role playing!"

"Me either," Nick said with a shrug. "But it will be more fun to play together, don't you think?" He turned his computer on, then left the room. She smiled as she listened to his eager footfalls in the hallway.

Nick returned a few moments later. "I'm all set. Let me help you get an ID."

It was five minutes till eight when they finished creating Sara's account.

It was mere seconds until eight. The young Japanese-American high school student had his pointer on the button, ready to begin. He had just a few more seconds to wait...just a few more seconds.

From the corner of his eye, all three numbers on the digital clock changed, and his finger clicked the mouse reflexively. Inside the conference room, he smiled with eagerness when he saw other screen names join his inside the chat.

Adam cracked his fingers. "Let the game begin..."