Author's note: Thank you to slightlyobssessive for the lovely review!

Chapter 2: But I Didn't Do It! At Least Not on Purpose!

A gulp formed in his larynx and slowly moved down his throat, heavily and painfully. He rubbed his eyes and peered closer. Yes, dust! Specks of them were still hanging around, as if waiting for another explosion to happen. Peter couldn't help but throw a frightened glance at the remaining bookshelves, most of which were old and teetering at an unnatural angle. Maybe someone had snuck in a bunch of molotov cocktails. But then the place would simply be reeking of gas. Wait, come to think of it - there was no smell - at least not of a substance that suggested the employment of homemade explosives. There was just more smell of old socks and books.

He heard a scraping behind him and he quickly turned around. Lloyd was getting up slowly, backing away from him like he was a dangerous cobra. His lips were trembling and his pale face even whiter than anyone had ever thought possible. "Lloyd?"

Lloyd shook his head (actually it looked more like the head had shivered on its own account).

"Lloyd! You don't - what are you doing?"

"You did it."

Peter's jaw dropped, for the hundredth time that day. "WHAT?"

"The books - bomb - you never warned me - but of course you wouldn't!"

"Lloyd; do I look like a terrorist to you?"

"My mom says that we never know for sure! They can be all nice to you and be your best friend and their mom bakes the best cookies and you're invited to play PS2 at their houses every day but they're really bad people - " Lloyd burst out into a string of speech that would have made Geena Davis proud but here he gulped and stumbled a bit, " - and all of a sudden one a fine day they blow buildings up and try to kill you for no reason at all! GAAAAH!!" And with that, Lloyd made a run for the library door, his thick red mop of a hair (worse than Peter's) jumping up and down like roadkill on his head. Peter gaped at his back, because really, there was nothing he could do, nor had he any sense at all to also get the hell out of the library and shake and moan like the other kids.

But no...

As he rose from his chair and gazed long and hard at the piles of dust, something inside of him felt almost calm - as if it was actually all right. Nothing was out of place. Everyone else was just being plain, freaking paranoid. But another half of him could only yell the same thing all over and over again: WHY IN THE NAME OF EVERYTHING HOLY AND SENILE DID YOU DO THAT, YOU MORON? The last part of him could do nothing but stand rooted to the spot and wonder: what the hell is going on? Most importantly: what is wrong with you?

"Mr. Sherlom is on his way," said Dylan Macintosher suddenly and Peter whirled around in surprise.

"What?"

The basketball star shrugged. "Hey, no worries man."

"How can I not be worried? I didn't do it!"

"I know," he said, nodding assuredly.

Peter frowned. What the hell was he talking about?

Right on cue, Mr. Sherlom stormed into the desolated library and immediately wasted no time at all marching up towards Peter. "You again!"

"But - but Sir! I didn't do it!"

"First, the janitor, now my library?" Oh and did he mention that Mr. Sherlom was also the teacher in charge of the library? Tres excellente.

He shook his head. "I swear, Sir, I didn't do anything. I didn't sneak in any form of explosives - or - or even soda - "

"Baaah!" yelled Mr. Sherlom right into his face. His own was purple with red streaks on his cheeks, as if someone with newly-clipped fingernails had just scratched him. "I'm not falling for any of your gibberish excuses again! DETENTION, Mr. O'Malley - till you learn how to tame your wild, impulsive Irish streak!"

Peter's jaw dropped, again. This - is - clearly - racism! He had to make one last bid at his freedom and that last bid he unwisely spurted out in a bubbling stream of champagne: "Dylan, Sir, Dylan! He knows I didn't bring anything in! Check my bags, Sir! Question him! I'm innocent!"

That helped zilch. In fact, it only served to aggravate the already aggravated situation. Instead of tomorrow, Mr. Sherlom set him for detention right away, and Peter was ordered to clean up the dust and ashes in the library to his, the cankerous math teacher's, satisfaction.

The day could not get any worse.

---

"Almost there," he said hoarsely, touching down at the street along which stood his own house. The sun was beginning to set. Splattered with dust patches invading his nostrils, Peter O'Malley was not a happy person. The walk home had not even helped to clear his respiratory channels. So for the past few hours he was obliged to sneeze and wheeze his way home, earning annoyed glances when he took the shortcut through the park right at the edge of Bailey Pond. He had been tempted to just throw himself into the water; at least just to clear his throat and sinus, but even if he had drowned it would be great as well. How could he ever set foot in school again after the stupid library incident? He didn't mean to do it, He was a good, respectful, law-abiding student. How could anyone (Peter shook his head at the thought of Lloyd) think of him as a selfish, attention-hungry vandal? At least that was what Mr. Sherlom had made it look like. After his anger at the sight of the utter destruction of precious library books, Mr. Sherlom had drawn up a chair and sat beside Peter as he bit his lip and swept the debris into a mini dustpan and gave him a mini-counselling session. Peter didn't remember much of it, except that thinking of ways to tackle piles and heaps of dust and scraps without them getting up his nose and down his trachea was more enlightening. The session ended with Mr. Sherlom promising that he would inform his mother about the incident himself and left the library for Peter to lock up as soon as he was done, much to the boy's utter horror.

Now, he knew that his mother didn't give a nut to whatever he did in school (even when he had handed in one English essay one day late and the overzealous Mrs. Hummer had called his mother right away and demanded a one-to-one session, she had merely replied, "He's a big boy.", and Mrs. Hummer had never treated him that way again), but he couldn't help feeling that he might have pushed the limit this time. He had not only broken the school law (vandalism is top of the school's never-ever-do-its besides, presumably, underage consumption of alchohol. Not like anyone cared. Except for him, that is) but he had also destroyed holy sources of learning and knowledge as well as his own reputation and rapport with the discipline teacher. No mother could see that off easily, not even his.

Suddenly a thought struck him. Wait, why was it his fault in the first place? Why had he been thinking as if he was the one behind it all? He didn't remember intending to do it. Actually, he had felt as if he had erupted. The blasted headache... it probably had left his common sense - senseless - and thus duped him into thinking that he had set those books off after all. He would never dream of smuggling cigarettes, let alone mini-bombs, into school. So technically, he hadn't done it.

Technically.

But why, if then, had Lloyd given him that terrified look, as if Peter had been covered in blood and holding up a butcher knife; a serial killer caught in the act of killing - books? Had Lloyd actually seen him do it? Sneak to the back of the bookshelves and taped explosives to the back of said shelves, then tiptoed back to the table in evil giggles and pressed the button that activated said explosives? Peter halted. He had to find out for himself.

He snuck through the garden of the Thomasons just four houses away from his own to the street on the other side where Lloyd lived. He had been to his house often enough to walk him back to his house for their usual gaming sessions (Lloyd's mother wouldn't let him walk alone, despite his age). The Thomasons' miniature poodle yapped at him madly and tried to bite his ankle but, knowing how annoying toy dogs could get, luckily none of the household came out to see what was the cause of the dumbed down riot. Peter stuck his tongue out at the poodle (he never could see what people liked about such a pointless dog) just before he climbed over the sturdy back gate and into another garden, which was thankfully dogless and temporarily uninhabited.

Reaching Lloyd's house, he didn't hesitate to jab his thumb repeatedly at the doorbell. He was practically jumping; impatient for the truth. He knew he was right, innocent - HE HAD TO BE.

The door was opened in short order. "Lloyd!"

"P - Peter?" Lloyd looked just about ready to dart back into the house.

Seeing just how nervous and anxious his friend was, Peter's enthusiasm was beginning to die down. But he couldn't bail out. Not at this moment.

He took a deep breath. "Look, Lloyd, I'm not going to hurt you - you know I won't," he paused, "won't you?"

Lloyd's toes fidgeted (visible though he was corduroy sneakers). "I know, but..."

"Then why? You - you called me a terrorist, for God's sakes!"

"I didn't know what to think, okay? Don't shout at me like that," he whimpered. "It makes me scared."

Peter frowned. "I didn't shout." He couldn't sense any strain on his voice box. Was Lloyd dreaming?

"Yes, you did!" It seemed that Lloyd had finally come out of his shell and lost his temper as well. "You don't realise what you're doing, do you? That's your problem, Peter - not mine. I know you blew the library up. You did it! You're delusional, you know that? You're living in an alternate reality - "

"No, I'm not!" Now he really shouted. "And I know what I'm doing, okay? I'm standing on your doorstep, trying to know for sure what happened from one of the few friends that I have ever had but we end up having a shouting match. Tell me that I'm just imagining things. Tell me that - that I'm a lunatic!"

"YOU ARE!" burst out Lloyd, his face as red as beet. "YOU ARE YOU ARE you are... oh God - just go AWAY!"

And the door slammed in his face.

---

"Ooof!" said his mother as soon as he kicked the screen door open, too frustrated and bewildered to care about the dent on the wood. "I'm the door. I'm grievously hurt by an ingrate."

"Har har," he replied sarcastically.

She sensed his grouchiness and clicked her tongue. "Someone had a bad day in school."

"And can we not talk about it?"

"Is it about a girl?"

"No."

"Basketball tryout?"

"No."

"Dylan Macintosher?"

"No!" He held up two fingers and arranged them mere inches from each other. "I am this close to losing my mind. Can you leave me alone to unravel my latest mistake?"

"It's supposed to be 'can you help me unravel my latest mistake'," she shook her head disapprovingly. "God, Anna Nalick would be so ashamed of you, you know that?"

"I don't care about Analick," he muttered. "I just want to be left alone. Okay?"

"You don't have to shout like that, Mister! Just in case you'd noticed, I am your mother!"

"I didn't - "

She grabbed his arm, dragged him to the kitchen island as if she was dragging an insolent donkey's ropes and seated him on one chair, she taking another. "You're angry. I know. You did something that you didn't mean to."

"Mom..." Strangely, the simmering heat inside of him, the one that had been fusing anger, despair, and confusion in a brew deadlier and headier than Guinness, began to lax a little, as if something was reaching out to it and cooling the heat waves. Then she whispered, "Sssh... take a deep breath." He did, and as he did so, she drew him into her arms and held him in a hug, his head resting on her shoulder. All the day's tires and worries washed away like a healing balm. The flames were doused. He was left wondering why the hell had he acted so foolishly, thought so immaturely, and behaved so admirably stupid.

"I've been an idiot," he mumbled, but his words were muffled in her light blue sweater. Mmm, she smelt good. Must have been the lemon scent that he had pressed her to buy instead of the usual lime one. Ooh, he didn't regret it one bit.

"Yes, you have." But she was smiling as she said so, and he smiled too. He broke into a shaky laugh and hugged her tighter. "Thanks, Mom."

She kissed him on his forehead. "Hey, anytime, baby boy. Was just returning favour. Yeurgh - you smell just awful! Wash up right this instant and be down for dinner in ten minutes! No later! No less!"

"Yes, ma'am," but his enthusiasm was still 500 miles away from returning to him.

---

Peter appreciated the fact that during the two-hour wait for dinner, his mother had not tried to 'unravel his latest mistake'. Instead, she had brought up only idle talk, injecting unnecessary excitement into them. For instance, her new would-be clients, Patricia Brommel and her husband Gary Brommel. The Bailey Pond Town Council had decided that they needed a museum showcasing the town's rich cultural history (though everyone knew full and well that the place had been inhabited by Irish folk and... Irish folk, who intermarried and produced... more Irish folk). Anyhow, Patricia, or Pat as she insisted to be known, was put in charge of the designing the interior and what better way for an newly-anointed, inexperienced interior designer to do it other than hiring a long-time, self-appointed, experienced interior designer? Hesper O'Malley's name was the only one to be found on the town directory.

"That sounds... great," replied Peter blandly. Everything, in fact, including his mother's ever-so-delicious spicy Buffalo Breasts (chicken breasts, mind you), seemed to taste like chopped-up cardboard.

"I know!" she squealed and clapped her hands. "The prophet is finally getting accepted in her own town! I just proved a proverb wrong! It's not great - it's phenomenal!"

"Yeah, it is."

"Guess how they're going to contain the museum?"

He shrugged as he poked at his Buffalo Breast. "Build a new building?"

"Half right. They're going to demolish the old Beers Here Inn and build another one on it."

"But that's crazy." Judging from the expression on Peter's face, he might as well have though it sane. But she was far too worked up to be brought back to earth.

"I know! Isn't it senseless? If there's anything to prove our rich cultural history, it's that! The Inn! You can learn so much from the people who visit it. So what if everything in it, including the people, have rotted? It's historical!"

"Yeah, that sucks."

"So tomorrow," she grinned widely, "when Pat and Gary come over for tea tomorrow, I will try to talk them out of bulldozing the poor, poor Inn. Maybe they could renovate it instead and chuck the museum in there. It'll save them so much money and the need to pollute. Oh, why am I living in the same town as those doofuses?"

Suddenly, it struck Peter. He had to tell her what had happened. Hiding it from her wouldn't help him at all. What if he would do something much worse tomorrow in school? What would he cause to blow up next? Lloyd? Mr. Sherlom? He had been mad at the books because if it weren't for the idiotically colossal history books, he could have gone home and had a nice lunch; maybe even a nap. He had been robbed of his sanity - by the books. And his mind somehow solved the equation by drawing up the answer that books equals to trouble, hunger, suffer...

The next thing he knew, the books (and their shelves) had disappeared. Exploded to fine smithereens, in fact.

He shuddered at the thought of Mr. Sherlom explaining math answers at the blackboard and suddenly blowing up. POOF! And leaving bits of flesh behind as well. That's just - EEW.

And that could be considered murder.

She sensed the mislocation of his attention and sighed, sensing that it was pointless to tell him about her planning to paint the museum red just to spite half of Bailey Pond when she was not about to get a few laughs. She put the fork on the tip of her plate and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Peter honey?" she asked in the gentlest voice that she could manage. He didn't even spare her a glance but poked at his Buffalo Breast idly.

"Are you trying to dig holes in that chicken?"

"No."

"You sound lifeless. Like a zombie. Do you mind telling me what happened in school today?"

"Mom... it's just - " he fidgeted in his chair, "it's complicated."

"And you don't want to talk about it? I'm your mum, Peter."

"Do I have to tell you everything?"

She arched her eyebrows. "Do you have to? Oh but excuse me, sir, I have an identity crisis - I think that I am the woman who has given birth to you and nurtured you and saved you from malnourishment and - oooh what do they call these women? Oh yes - mother!"

"Some bookcases got blown up in the library, okay? And I - I may have very well been behind it." He lowered his head and fixed his eyes on his chicken. He'd done it. He was... done for.

She gave him an incredulous stare, for she really felt increduled. Peter O'Malley, her very own flesh and blood, the scaredy-cat, passive-submissive son of hers, doing the work of vandals? "What? You 'may'?"

He sighed tiredly, now wishing desperately that he could just, please, melt into the walnut floor and seep up back into his room. Why had he ever opened his - his stupid mouth? "I - I don't know, okay," he managed to croak out, in the end. That was the truth, anyhow. He just didn't know what had happened. Was it just a scary coincidence that he had had the most head-splitting, er, headache and then some bookcases erupted into smithereeens behind him? Or was it his fault? For all he knew, he couldn't have been connected to it at all. But then again, he could have been...

Hesper sighed and pecked his forehead. "I'll leave you to think about it. You don't want this chicken anymore, do you?" She took his plate and he was left alone at the table. He bit his lip and rested his head on the table. What on earth was he to do?

---