Note: I was really unhappy with the first chapter, so I'm glad that it recieved a warm welcome. :) I'll definitely keep writing this if that keeps up. Thanks!

Chapter Two

As they walked down the sidewalk in front of the school, Zack pulled a soccer ball out of his bag and dropped it on the pavement in front of Tristan's feet. Tristan glared at him through his dark fringe and walked around the ball.

"Come on," Zack urged him, dribbling the ball and jogging to catch up to his friend. "Why don't you like soccer? If you tried it, you'd love it!"

Tristan stopped in front of the bus shelter and replied, "I don't play sports, Zack. We've been over this."

"But why not?" Zack demanded.

Tristan considered giving him a lecture on social groups in high school and the behavior expected of someone like him, but he'd been through it all before. Zack simply did not understand that Tristan could not be caught dead playing soccer in public.

So he just shrugged and changed the subject. "Do you like my new eyeliner?" he asked, having a hard time coming up with a topic other than the weather.

"Yeah, it's cool," Zack said, shrugged and popping the ball off his knees. "I wonder if Aaron plays soccer."

Tristan shook his head. "Guys like him don' dirty. They don't do things that could cause them irreparable physical damage."

"Sounds like you," Zack replied, side-kicking the ball into the empty shelter and running after it. Tristan glared at him. "He can really play the piano though. And the guitar. And a bunch of other instruments."

"Is he better than you?"

Zack stopped dribbling for a moment and looked thoughtful. "Probably not," he decided. "He's got no passion for the guitar. Plus he's only classically trained. Doesn't get the same rhythm assortments as I could. But he could really be great." The moment of thoughtfullness passed, and the dark-haired boy once again shot the ball into the shelter. A few minutes later, a Rapid bus pulled up and the boys, plus a few other students around them, got on.

Every day after school, Tristan rode the Rapid Route 50 bus home from school. And every day, the whole bus stared at him when he got on. Most of the other passengers were elderly, it being the middle of the afternoon. So, Tristan rolled his eyes and ignored the glares that his hair and clothes attracted as he plopped down onto an empty seat. Zack sat beside him, spinning his soccer ball in his hands.

Tristan watched him play with the ball, knowing well the boy's inability to sit still for long. But no one ever stared at Zack for being different; appearance-
wise, Zack was pretty average, he supposed. He had jet black hair to his chin, but he was half-Japanese, so Tristan figured that the almost-Asian eyes made black hair okay. Plus, Zack didn't wear make-up or baggy clothes like he did; his clothes were usually bright, happy colors: yellows, greens, sometimes he wore pink.

'He doesn't fit with me at all,' Tristan thought to himself, and once again wondered why he was friends with Zack. The few other goth kids in school wouldn't talk to him because he was friends with Zack.

Suddenly a small, cute girl was standing in front of them. Zack looked up, eyes wide in askance.

"Hi, Zack," the girl said, smiling and seemingly ignoring Tristan.

"Um, hi," Zack replied, the ball paused between his fingers. Tristan held back the urge to laugh at the deer-in-the-headlights look on his face.

"I saw you playing guitar in the band room today," the girl said. "You were really great."

Zack's light olive skin was suddenly deep red. All he said was, "oh."

Tristan recognized the girl as one of the voyeurs outside of the band room after school. She was a year younger than them, a freshman, but she was cute and sweet: probably Zack's type. If only he could speak.

Instead Zack gulped and lowered the ball to his lap. The girl stood waiting for a reply, a strange look gracing her petite features.

"Listen," the girl continued, "there is a party this weekend, Friday, at the skate park in Niles. Do you think you'd want to go with me?" She looked a lot less sure of herself now. Tristan covered his smirk with his black-painted nails.

"Uh, I have to..." the words were barely audible, more like hisses as Zack ducked his head to hide his burning cheeks, "...practice," he finished, staring at his lap.

"Oh." The girl looked awfully surprised. 'She's probably never been turned down before,' Tristan figured. 'Sad.'

When the girl got off the bus at the next stop, Tristan laughed and laughed, ignoring the alarmed glares of the old ladies around him.

"You're hopeless!" he wheezed. Zack was still red, but he'd started wiggling his feet around, signally that he was back to normal now. "You're supposed to say, 'OK,' you know?"

"I can't," was all Zack could say to defend himself. A few minutes later, though, he was twisting and tossing the ball around, only looking slightly shaken.

"Gotta watch for cooties, right?" Tristan asked, still grinning at his friend.

Zack just shrugged.

--------------------

After leaving the band room, Aaron glided out the main doors and into the back seat of his parents' black Mercedes. Jerry, the chauffer, asked him how his day was, but Aaron ignored him and took out his planner: he knew the man didn't care.

In the "Notes" section of his planner, Aaron carefully wrote the following words: "Soul in Guitar." He began to close the planner, then wrote as an afterthough: "Zack?" and slammed the book shut.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled through the gates to his parent's Chicago residence. The house was based on an 18th century Italian villa, except three or four times as big. Aaron admitted that he enjoyed letting his eyes follow the long vines up the sides of the house, but his parents' fascination with gates and walling their homes like fortresses was bothersome.

Aaron noted the limosine parked to the side of the entranceway and hoped, futiley, that his parents would not expect him to entertain with them. After wandering touring the high school and meeting all the strange teenagers he had that day, all he wanted to do was sit in his room and do some homework or write some music. He did not want to play for guests today.

But when he found his parents in the parlor, the expectant and strained grins on their faces assured him that he would be playing, and playing well for these particular guests.

"Aaron, darling," his mother said, moving from the fireplace to his side and leading him to the middle of the parlor. There was an older couple, around his parents' ages, sitting on the couch looking judgemental and grumpy. His father sat in the chair next to the fireplace, gray-streaked brown hair slicked back tightly. The last chair in the room was taken by a boy, probably in his late teens or early twenties. The boy had his brown hair slicked back just like Aaron's father, and, Aaron noticed, just like the man on the couch.

"This is Robert and Kay Rothman," Aaron's mother said, gesturing to the couple on the couch, "and their son, Christopher." The boy in the chair smirked and watched as Aaron shook hands with the Rothmans, who looked less than enthused.

"Our Christopher," Mrs. Rothman began, gesturing to her son, "has been advising major stock-holders, including my husband and I, since he was sixteen. He is a financial genius." She raised a brow and looked up at Aaron's mother. "What does your boy do?"

Mrs. Denison smiled at her son. "Our Aaron plays six instruments," ('Four,' Aaron said to himself), "and writes orchestral music for the St. John's private school." Aaron could see his father nodding in the corner of his eye. "He'll be featured in the flood benefit concert with a local high school next month, playing classical piano."

Aaron could tell that his parents were very proud of him. He could also tell that Mr. and Mrs. Rothman couldn't care less about how well he could play the piano. His parents judged everything with their ears.

"Son," Mr. Denison began, "would you please play a piece on the violin for Mr. and Mrs. Rothman?" Though his father smiled, it was not a request. Aaron smiled back and nodded, excusing himself to retrieve one of the violins in the music room down the hall. His mother followed after him and spoke to him when the door closed behind them.

"Mrs. and Mrs. Rothman are very influential members of the board at St. Johns," she explained, slowly walking around the music room. Sometimes, Aaron thought she must simply like the sound of her heels against the wood floors. "Christopher Rothman would be a very good aquiantance for you to make early on." She stopped across the room and looked back at him. "You understand, darling?"

Aaron nodded, forcing a smile. "Yes, mother."

"That's my boy." Mrs. Denison kissed the top of his head of feathery blonde hair and left the room. Aaron let out a small sigh, but kept his face neutral, thinking about his performance. He tried not to think about how much he hated making friends with people at his parents's suggestions. They always ended up being assholes. But he would try again with this Christopher. How could he deny his loving mother?