Disclaimer: These guys are mine. Please don't do anything bad.

A/N: A ridiculously long time in coming, I know. And I'm ashamed; seriously.I have no idea why I'm blocked so badly on this story - though it might be the fact that it turns out it's only half over instead of, like, four-fifths. Le sigh.

Anyway. This chapter and the one after it are for Siriusly James, as a Christmas present. Happy holidays, love!

Consciousness hit her like one of Paul’s flying tackles. Tiffany jolted to a sitting position, at a loss for where she was. She remembered drifting off in front of the door, but when she opened her eyes, she was most definitely back in her bedroom. What was even more confusing was seeing Paul curled up next to her, scrunched into a ball.

Tiffany shoved him with her foot and knuckled her eyes. “Wha’s goin’ on?” she demanded when Paul stirred. “Why’m I here? Why’re YOU here? Why aren’t we at school?” Tiffany looked across the room and saw that Jolene was still buried in her massive mound of frilly blankets. “Why isn’t Jo at school? What’s happening?”

Paul hissed softly and moved as though he was going to hug her but thought better of it, fingers twitching in the fabric of his sleep pants instead. “Mom let us all stay home today,” he said, and his voice was weird. Tiffany couldn’t describe it; it was just off. “And you’re here ‘cause Mom carried you here when she woke up this morning. We got a call from the office this morning.”

“What happened?” Tiffany’s stomach folded in on itself, leaving nothing but an empty space. “Is Papa okay?”

Paul’s face twitched in something that Tiffany had heard grownups call a nervous tic. She’d never seen him do that before. “He left a note at work, on his desk. He . . . he’s gone, Tiff’y.”

And suddenly, her stomach returned, coming back so quickly that it almost made her throw up. Tiffany pulled her knees up to her chest and focussed on keeping her food down. “Gone?”

“He left,” Paul said, quiet and flat-sounding, “He and the secretary. Didn’t leave us any money or anything, either. He just . . . God, it doesn’t matter. But he isn’t coming back.”

Tiffany fought to breathe around whatever it was that was squeezing the air out of her chest. “How do you know?”

“He said so,” Paul closed his eyes and repeated the inhale-hold-exhale slowly routine a few times before continuing. “And apparently his note said — I’m so sorry, Tiff’y, I — that he’s sorry he lied to you, he wanted to take you with him, but he just couldn’t. And he hopes you didn’t wait too long.”

She scrambled backwards, backing herself into a corner and wrapping her arms around her knees, creating a barrier between herself and what her brother was saying. “No!” Tiffany shouted. Across the room, Jolene started and flailed around in her fluffy cocoon before emerging, hair frizzed and face at once frightened and confused. “You’re lying!”

“Tiffany!” Paul’s face twisted, and his eyes went wide. “Why would I lie to you? Why would you even SAY that?”

“You are!” Tiffany felt the prickle behind her eyelids again, and jammed her fists into her eye sockets. “You are you are you are! You’re just jealous! Papa liked me and not you and you’re lying and he’s coming back and you’re lying and jealous and LYING!”

She heard Paul’s sharp intake of breath, quick but shaky, and released in a shuddering reverse-gasp. “I would never,” he started, but couldn’t finish and Tiffany could hear the tears in his voice. She felt the bed tilt as his weight moved off it. “Mom’s out trying to find a job,” Paul said, words choppy because he was trying to say them fast, before he started crying. “I’m going to go see if Bethie’s awake.”

And then, he was gone. Tiffany clutched her hair and rocked back and forth, as if by closing herself off this would all go away. She ignored Jolene’s almost panicked requests and the patter of feet when her younger sister ran off to find Paul.

Tiffany wanted to crawl back under the covers and pretend that none of this would happen, but she just couldn’t. As soon as she lay down, her legs began to twitch and refused to stop, so Tiffany climbed back out, changed into a pair of sweats and pulled on her sneakers, then left the house.

No one saw her go, which was good because Paul would have tried to stop her. He didn’t understand why Tiffany needed to do something when she was upset, rather than just sit there and cry to herself or listen to angry music (or crazy opera, in Paul’s case — he loved listening to Don Giovanni and Lucia di Lammermoor when something was wrong). She had to move.

And so, she ran.

Their new house was in the residential area of the city, near enough to the church her family attended and not too long a walk from both schools. Not much traffic came through it except for when people drove to and from work, so even if Tiffany had been of the right temperament to worry about being hit by cars, she wouldn’t have had to worry.

She ran up the street to the convenience store where they would sometimes go to buy candy or rent movies when Paul got his paycheque, across to the gas station that they didn’t go to anymore because the owner had made rude remarks about Mama, over and down to the park where they would go play if the weather was nice (and sometimes if it wasn’t; the sandbox was twice as much fun when it was raining and they could play at being explorers stuck in quicksand). Tiffany repeated the circuit until her lungs burned and her legs hurt so badly that she couldn’t even think about Papa or Paul or anything else but how much she wanted to rest. Once she reached that stage, Tiffany turned and headed for home.

When she got there, Paul was waiting.

Despite her angry “Hey!” and attempt at pushing him away, Paul caught Tiffany in his arms and held her, face mushed up against her shoulder. His whole body trembled and he was sobbing.

“Don’t ever —“ he said between gasps for breath, and Tiffany was so shocked that couldn’t even shove him off. “I was so worried, I didn’t know where — and if Mom came — I thought you’d — so scared and just — never again!” Paul pulled back, holding her at arm’s length. His face was red and tracked with tears, his expression awfully contorted between scared, relieved, and furious. “Where on Earth did you GO?”

“Running,” Tiffany said, trying to catch her breath and squirm out from under Paul’s fingers, but they just gripped harder.

“From now on, I don’t care how mad at me you are,” Paul shook her, just a little, “I want you to TELL me before you go off somewhere. I would’ve called the police except they would ask too many questions and —“ he cut himself off. “The POINT is, you can’t do this anymore. With Dad gone it’s my job to look after all of you and I can’t do that if you just take off.”

Tiffany scowled. “Just ‘cause you say Papa’s gone doesn’t mean you’re the boss,” she said, and this surprised him enough that she was able to slip free and run upstairs to take a shower.

Mama came home some time that afternoon; Tiffany was fidgeting in her room, chafing at not being able to leave again, and only knew of her mother’s return because of the fuss that suddenly ensued downstairs. Jolene kept saying “Pizza!” again and again, and Paul and Elizabeth were speaking so quickly they became unintelligible.

Tiffany made her way downstairs only because there was a prospect of food; she couldn’t bear seeing Mama right now, not with things so messed up, but her stomach was growling. She clumped into the dining room, snatched a slice of pizza, and shovelled it into her mouth with the intention of ignoring anyone who tried to speak to her. No one did.

Everyone was too busy pestering Mama, attacking her with questions as she collapsed onto the couch and peeled off her shoes. Paul took them from her and tossed them toward the door; Bethy gave him an irked look and placed them neatly on the mat, lined up exactly with the edge. “Are you okay, Mom?” Elizabeth asked, even as she ran into the kitchen and returned with a wet washcloth for Mama’s forehead.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Mama worked on a smile that she must have been practicing for hours; it almost looked genuine until one saw how tired it was around the edges. “No job today, but I’ll keep looking,” almost to herself, she added, “We’re going to have to hire a sitter. I can’t take Anthony and Mitchell; it’s too far for them to walk.”

“We can’t afford a babysitter for that long,” Paul said around an enormous mouthful of pizza. He had sauce all over his face and the toppings were trying to escape over his fingers. He frowned, a funny set to his jaw. “Mom, what if —“

“No,” Mama said sharply, before he even had the chance to finish. “No. Definitely not!”

“You don’t even know what I was going to SAY.”

“You need a high school diploma, Paul,” Mama said, and Paul’s eyes shifted away to stare at his errant pepperoni. “I never finished, and I’m really regretting it now.”

Paul set down his food suddenly and pushed his plate away. “You didn’t finish because you had me,” his voice was small and sounded like he was trying to force it through a hole the size of a pinprick. He shivered. “I wrecked your career ‘cause you decided to keep me,” Paul’s face spasmed the same way it had in Tiffany’s room earlier. “It’s only fair that I stay home to help you.”

Mama’s mouth was pressed to a thin line and she waved her slice at him, splattering everyone with tomato sauce as she told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was never to say that about himself again. Jolene complained but went back to inhaling her own meal, though her eyes were large and it was clear that she was trying desperately — and failing just as much — to understand what was going on. “I said no,” Mama used the same tone of voice as when they wanted cookies before supper, except stronger this time. “And we’ll talk about this later.”

Tiffany looked from Mama to Paul and saw that she’d hurt him by turning down his offer to help the only way he knew how. And even though she’d been mad at Paul earlier, Tiffany took his side immediately. “Mama? When’re you gonna tell everyone about the baby that’s coming?”

Hah, Tiffany thought triumphantly, that’s got her. But her elation didn’t last long because Mama absolutely crumpled, even though she tried her hardest to pull back the ‘Mother in Control’ expression that she’d worked on for years and never perfected. The others were gaping at Tiffany, mouths wide.

“Tiffany, how —“ Mama took the cloth from her forehead and draped it on her chest to dry.

“I . . .” here, she paused. Mere seconds before it was too late, Tiffany realized she would get in trouble if she said Papa told her before left and she hadn’t said anything to Mama about it then. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, feeling like a mouse was running up and down inside the back of her shirt. “I heard you and Papa,” she said finally, “When I had my nightmare.”

Mama didn’t seem to know whether to accept this or not, but eventually she just shook her head, drawing one hand down from forehead to chin. “I suppose there’s no point in hiding it,” she said, “We’re going to have one more baby in the house.”

It took a long time for the clamour to die down. Jolene kept demanding to know whether the new baby was a boy or a girl and refused to accept ‘I don’t know’ — Mama finally threw up her arms and said girl, and Jolene ran around screeching, obviously not realizing Mama had no idea. Paul and Elizabeth’s questions were more practical, but Paul’s were definitely angrier.

“How far along are you?” Paul bit off the ends of his words, and his eyes narrowed. When Mama answered, he counted backwards on his fingers and almost fell over. “Are you — you can’t — please tell me you’re —“ Mama shook his head, and Paul ground his teeth. “That bastard.”

“Language!”

“It’s not like they haven’t heard it from him,” Paul said bitterly, but he apologized immediately after that.

“Listen,” Mama brushed everyone aside and stood up, walking over to crouch awkwardly in front of their ancient tape player. She fished around in the box of cassettes for a few minutes before emerging with one in particular, which she pushed into the deck with a satisfied grin.

When the first verse began, Paul started to laugh; Elizabeth joined him soon after. Mama stood in the centre of the room and held out her hand. “Dance with me, Pauly,” she said, beckoning him with a gesture. “I know you like it, and he never let you.”

Paul smiled softly and curled his fingers around hers, one hand on her waist. By the time the chorus was in full swing, those old enough to talk were lustily shouting ‘I will survive’ as loud as they could without worrying about staying on key.

Tiffany sat on the couch and watched them, the tight chest feeling back again. Mama didn’t have to say it outright — Paul’s dancing feet said everything for him, as did Elizabeth’s happy expression — but she was glad Papa was gone. So was Paul, so was Bethy. Jolene wasn’t old enough to understand and was just enjoying the dance. The littlest two wouldn’t even remember him, and the baby who wasn’t born yet? Hah.

They didn’t love Papa. None of them did, not anymore. They wouldn’t miss him. They were dancing and singing and laughing about how good it was that he’d finally gone so they could be free and they didn’t care that he’d left Tiffany behind.

She left, slipping upstairs before anyone could see her tears.

School ended for the non-eighth-graders a few days later, and for the first time that she could remember, Tiffany didn’t know what to do with her time. In previous years she’d joined the baseball team and was kept busy with games and practices, and had so many friends that the entire neighbourhood was her playground.

This time, she just didn’t feel like it.

Sports in general just felt silly to her, running around after a ball or people with no real point. Tiffany didn’t want to have to bother with rules and what you could or couldn’t do; she just wanted to tackle someone and have them fight back as hard as they could, to see if it would help her feel less angry.

And with Papa gone there was no one to come watch her games, either; Paul would have come, but the day after Papa left Paul spent all his time looking for jobs and taking care of the babies when Mama went out searching.

Tiffany ended up staying home most of the time, half-heartedly helping out with the little ones. Baby Mitchell endeared himself more to Tiffany than she’d like to admit with his perpetual frown and tendency to scream rather than cry. He was annoying to babysit, but he seemed to feed off her anger — Mitchie was the calmest when Tiffany was in a horrible mood and stalked around the house with him in her arms.

Paul found a job, then another; and if that wasn’t enough, he found a third. They never saw him anymore; he left at six a.m. for the early shift at the nearest grocery store (where they paid him, not cash, but a week’s worth of food every Friday), came home to grab a quick meal around one before heading out to wash dishes at the restaurant across from the high school, then headed over at eight to Shopper’s Drug-Mart for the late shift, stocking boxes in the back. He tumbled into bed around two-thirty, and woke up at five to do it all again.

Even Tiffany, who’d stopped talking to Paul completely because he was exhausted to the point of snapping at anyone who tried, had to admire his determination. Every week he returned from his first job laden with bags of groceries, and every other he dutifully handed over his other paycheques to Mama.

Sunday was Paul’s only day off. He went to church with the family (something that Tiffany, who’d always shared Papa’s scepticism of religion, was beginning to hate), then collapsed into bed until supper time. After, though, was Paul’s time to make up for not seeing his family for the rest of the week, and for a few hours from dessert until the little ones started falling asleep on the carpet, it was though everything was okay again.

Bethy, at twelve, was old enough to corn detassle, despite having an allergic reaction that made her swell up any time the leaves cut her. Tiffany sometimes thought that she’d be better at the job than Elizabeth would, but her sister explained that they wouldn’t take Tiffany even if she would be a good worker. Tiffany was grumpy and felt rather useless, especially when Jolene made pocket change picking up recyclables and handing them in to the corner store. Eventually Tiffany started doing yard work for the neighbours.

The worst part was that everyone knew. Not the whole town, goodness no, because the Flemings were new. But those who resided in the vicinity of the block certainly were aware of what had happened. Tiffany had to grit her teeth and pretend she couldn’t hear them whispering to each other in that sympathetic tone she despised. Pretend she didn’t notice when the same people called her to mow their lawns three times in the same week.

One day, she knocked on Mrs. Porter’s door to announce that she’d finished trimming the front hedge. When the lady answered, she was on the phone and half-distracted, handing Tiffany her payment and a cookie and sending her on her way. Tiffany said thank you and went down the stairs, though not before she heard Mrs. Porter say, “Sorry, I was just speaking to the neighbour girl. Her father left, poor dear, and she’s been trying —“

Tiffany’s hand clenched hard enough to crumple the bills almost into unrecognition, and she switched trajectories mid-stride, heading for the hardware store. While she was there she bought a can of latex paint that looked black to her but went by the dubious name of ‘The Landlord’s Daughter’.

Jolene was at a friend’s house, playing; Paul and Elizabeth were at work, and Mama was job hunting again. Anthony and Mitchell were probably at one of the other neighbour’s, maybe Mrs. McGill, an elderly lady whose children and grandchildren were all grown up and who loved taking care of the little ones and refused to charge money.

Perfect. Tiffany dropped the rest of her money on the counter, only feeling a little guilty about spending a few dollars’ worth, and lugged the litre-can up the stairs to her room. She stared at the wall for a few minutes, eyes narrowed, then clambered up onto her bed. There, she tore down all the posters she’d affixed to her walls; sports teams, key players, a few rock bands that she and Papa would listen to. She threw the papers down onto the floor, glared at them, then ripped them into smaller pieces and shoved them into the garbage can.

The second phase took a bit longer, for her bed, while not particularly large or heavy, was difficult for a nine-year-old to manoeuvre. Eventually, Tiffany dragged it a few feet from the wall, stood back on top of it, and balanced the can precariously on the covers while she pried the top off.

She hesitated, but only for a few seconds. Tiffany picked up the can, hefted it in one hand, then threw the contents as hard as she could at the wall.

Black paint spattered everywhere; mostly on the wall where it was aimed, but some hit the floor, the bed, Tiffany herself, and even the ceiling. There was still some left, so she faced the wall adjacent to it and repeated the process until it was gone.

Previously, the room had been done in white because they couldn’t properly compromise between Tiffany’s desired navy blue and Jolene’s pink without it looking like some sort of cotton candy confectionary. Tiffany examined the uneven mess of dark on light, the drips and bubbles on the surface, decided it looked sufficiently chaotic, and nodded. She pushed the bed back to its normal position, then opened all the windows in the house and turned on the bedroom fan to get rid of the paint-smell.

Mama was mad when she figured it out, but the tiredness worn out and Tiffany didn’t get much more than a half-hearted lecture that was cut short when she had to go throw up. After that, no one said anything else about it.