Kara was lounged out on the couch, her vinyl outfit clinging to her in the most unappealing way ( to me at least ). Her head dropped over the edge of the arm and her waist length, artificial red hair streamed to the floor. Her aqua eyes, which didn't quite fit the way she looked, were heavily lined with kohl and her lips painted a deep red. One platform booted heel was on the back of the couch and the other dropped casually the floor.

I think Alex was growling. Drake started to edge out of the room -- and I can't say I blame him. We were still waiting for Kara to come home. In the meantime, Alex had searched the internet for anything relating to Kara.

She had a huge gallery on the club website ( so wrongly titled 'Get Your Goth On' ) -- even pictures of her half dressed and covered in glitter ( and, in some, fake blood, baring theatrical fangs ), doing something dirty to a metal pole. I heard a small snap. Upon looking down, I discovered that Alex had taken the buttons off the mouse.

I edged out of the room too.

I nearly tripped over Drake, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, rolling himself a fresh fag. He blinked back at me, lighting the tip with a deft motion of his hand.

I sat down too, looking at the greenish, powdery stuff he was smoking. I was a little tempted, but I silenced it. I'm not a complete virgin when it comes to imbibing drugs. I've had prescription stuff in me. It had been a stupid move, taking all that codeine, however you spell that, had been a huge mistake. I couldn't move, all I had done was lie there and sweat, praying to god that someone would find me before I passed out. I was afraid they were going to pump my stomach.

Somehow, I got through that all right. Granted, I was sick for a week, but I threw out the rest of the pills and vowed that I was never get "high" again.

Drake exhaled a plume of smoke, coughing heavily and eventually spitting a large wad of mucus into a corner. He sniffed and shrugged at my grossed out expression and took another drag, closing his eyes and sighing with pleasure. I crossed my arms and looked in the other direction.

Every protocol for drug abuse they had ever taught me in school was directly ( and flagrantly ) crossed by Drake. His presence alone screamed 'weirdo', and while maybe that wasn't 'completely stoned, horny and fucked in the head weirdo', it at least accounted for something. I supposed I'd have to live with the fact that he liked me beyond friendship right then. At least he wasn't so terrible looking.

I listened to Alex begin to swear loudly in the computer room and I got to my feet. Drake grabbed my pant leg and shook a finger at me, admonishing me as if I was a child.

"You don't want to go in there. We're going to get you home in time right now, I'll deal with lover-boy in there afterwards. We wouldn't want your pretty face to get smashed." He patted his own swollen visage. I shuffled down the stairs and gathered up my backpack and books, heavily weighed down by those clothes. I heard Drake's boots clunking down the stairs mixed with the rattle of the car keys being pulled from deep within an odd pocket of his long coat and I grimaced.

I hated having to be alone with him.

o-o-o

Well, it wasn't so bad. Drake was just mellow enough to say nothing for the entire ride back to Rehoboth, preferring to hum along with his Guess Who tape. I watched the dingy city homes change into suburbia and then into the rural-esque landscape of my town. Or at least it would. Drake paused in the better area of Attleboro territory, deterring from the main road momentarily. We stopped in front of an elderly Victorian house, complete with turret and beautiful veranda. It was the sort of place you dreamed about living in. Drake nodded at it.

"There." Was all he said, but I knew what he meant in that instant. Alex's old house. It fit, along with the rest of his stories. It was an expensive looking place, probably with a lush interior and open rooms in the turret where a child could waste hours on a winter's day thinking of the future and playing. Being happy. I pressed my fingers against the window as I tried to get a better look.

We pulled away and I sank back into the seat, pitying Alex again. It seemed that every fragment that existed to remind him that he was not where he wanted to be, or was in a place that he was frustrated with and wanted to leave, pricked him in a way I think I understood a bit.

I knew it was stupid to think that I got that. That I could comprehend that. But I had to believe it, the same way I had this ridiculous faith in Alex to be the better person when he was in trouble.

So what admiration was that? I only ever confused myself more. It was a sickening admiration, it was terrible and awful and I wished it, willed it away, but it stayed. I closed my hands around it, feeling for the neck, but only wound up embracing it and wanting to protect it.

In a way...I had never wanted to before. I smeared the oily marks of my fingers on the glass with anger and threw a dirty glance to my emotions.

o-o-o

"So..."

"So..."

"College..."

"Fucking college..."

You say that like it's a prison term."

"It might as well be."

"Suck it up."

Alex threw a brochure at my head from where he was hunched over a pile of them. I caught it and read the title. Drew University.

"That was on purpose." I said, throwing it back to him. "You can't go there...that's my name!"

"You think?" Alex gave me a withering look. "I've got Harvard in here too, if that makes you feel any better at all."

I shrugged and leaned back on my towel. We were down at the pond. The only place where we could hang out because, well, the parents really wouldn't let us otherwise. Rick tried to drown Bryan -- I had to get up for this didn't I?

I waded out where the two were altercating and grabbed them both by the bathing suit. "If you do not cut that out, so help me god, I will make you skinny dip."

The two boys looked back at me in terror.

"She's serious!" Alex chimed in from the beach. "It's happened before -- fear for your pants!"

The two boys practically fled for their lives when I let them go. Alex laughed sumptuously from his place beneath the mountain of pamphlets. I growled from where I was and rounded on him. Alex raised his eyebrows, as if to dare me. I tackled him, pinning him with a knee on his chest and my hands on his shoulders. He surrendered with an exaggerated face.

"So..." I rolled over to the side.

"So..."

"Your girlfriend..."

"My girlfriend..."

"What happened with her?"

Alex grunted stiffly. "I'd prefer to not talk about that."

"She dump you?"

No answer.

"Did she?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business."

"It is."

"It's not."

"Just don't go cut your wrists or anything."

"So..."

"So..."

"You and Drake..."

"No."

"Oh, come on! Your soooooo cute together!"

"Faggot."

"Oh please."

"So..."

"He's trying to be nice."

"No."

"Oh, in the honor of getting out of the whiny, poor me, I really need to get laid-"

"NO."

"It could be innocent enough. He's a lot like me."

"Really? I never noticed."

"Well, granted, that night wasn't the best idea, and breaking into your house, or tying you up to..."

"That's three strikes."

"Eh, ok . . . so, who would you do?"

"No one."

"You will eventually."

"I should probably look forward to getting better at dating without any boy's hands or mouth coming in contact with my body."

"Eh..."

"But I guess that's ok if you need to have wild sex with your girlfriend every time you see her."

"Are you trying to tell me something here?"

"I meant you."

"We don't have wild sex every time."

"Still eliminates romance."

"We've got plenty of romance!"

"She yells at you, uses you for sex and money...three strikes."

"Well," Alex sat up, now indignant. "At least she's not unfaithful or a smart ass."

"Since when are we doing anything of that sort?"

"Gar...you know what I mean."

"So, the three strike method isn't any good."

"It is."

"Then you should follow it."

o-o-o

Blah…

Summer entails all the best and worst qualities that one could possibly want. You don't have to do anything and you don't have to anything. Ah, a paradox? I think not. The glory of summer is that you really don't have to do anything unless you're crazy and get a job. As such, if you have a job, all you want to do is nothing which you are not entitled to do and can only watch others laze about. They're bored, though, whether they admit it or not. So you really can't win with summer like that.

I stretched on my towel and groaned. So bored. I was too bloody lazy to get a job -- that and if I was at home, there was no need to send Rick to some place that would cost money, you know, like summer camp.

That said, at least there was only two more weeks of sitting on my fat arse before I went to summer camp myself. Sleep away camp, in fact, for musicians. There were things to do there, bands to hopefully try out for and become part of and perform with; perfect. I needed something extra, other than sitting on my fat arse, that is.

I tapped on the volume button of my CD player before changing the song. It had only take a year, but it had been done, I couldn't stand anything I was known for listening to. Good Charlotte? Hell no, hit me with something Clash or Bad Brains and I'd be happier. I stretched again and decided that I was going to get a sunburn if I didn't move soon.

And, personally, I didn't care if Rick drowned either way.

I hadn't seen Alex in a while, a few days at least, since the end of school. I couldn't think of a reason that I needed to see him and my parents were still harboring that animosity for him. Which, in retrospect, makes no sense because they still thought that the twins were ok and Rick played with Bryan plenty. It was just Alex, who apparently corrupted the innocent.

I snorted, getting a lungful of sand. Corrupted? Yeah, he was. In some sense. Who knows what he does when he really misses Kara. So far as I know, they bang every time the see each other. Interesting, but not really. I wonder if they had any STDs. On second thought, I'm probably happier not knowing about that at all.

o-o-o

I cocked my head, studying the drum case. Oh . . . these things weren't making my job any easier. The bass drum was the largest of them all, so, logically, it's case was the largest of them all. Padded too. I couldn't figure out how to get the damn thing in the case. I picked up the heavy drum again, trying to fit it in with no success.

I set it down and sat on one of the other cases. Snare, already packed -- the cymbals were already packed too, the high hat broken down and stored. All I need to get was the bass drum, then load it all into my dad's vehicle. It would take too long tomorrow morning, so I was doing it now. At ten at night. Being on time has never been one of my strong suits. I rubbed my eyes and told myself it was just one more drum.

There was a tapping on the garage door.

"S'open!" I yelled, picking up the bass again, accidentally kicking the case halfway across the garage. Just peachy . . .

"Need some help?" Alex was hovering in the doorway, checking behind himself every few seconds, checking the house.

"Yes." I managed, putting the drum down again. "Can't get this in."

He dragged the case back over, looked at it and hefted said drum into it without a second thought. I slid the lid on and buckled it down. I stood the case up and hauled it outside. Alex followed with the cymbal bags.

"Are you...going somewhere?"

"Summer camp." I grunted as I shoved the bass into the car. "It's like band camp -- without the marching band."

"Oh..."

I took the cymbal bags from him. "You ok?"

"Just a little surprised. You never mentioned it."

I shrugged. "It was a birthday gift from my parents, I didn't think that it really mattered. It's only three weeks, what could possibly happen?"

Alex shrugged. "I don't know."

"Don't look so depressed."

He shrugged again and turned back to the garage, retrieving the snare and the high hat. "Three weeks?"

"Yeah, three weeks. It's going to be ok."

Alex said something I didn't catch before wandering back into his yard, where I lost sight of him in his black shirt.

o-o-o

"Foreman, Troy."

"Here!"

"Cabin Eight."

"Forrester, Dru."

"Here!" I hollered, raising my hand. I was standing in the queue with my drum set cases along with other drummers. And to be honest, there was only one other girl and she did not look pleasant. The rest of the twenty odd drummers were boys.

"Cabin . . . oh."

"Yeah?" I rolled my eyes as the counselor gave me a good once over.

"You are listed as Dru . . . we assumed that meant you were a -- "

"Guy?" I finished. "My name is Andrea."

"So..." The counselor glanced around. "How comfortable are you bunking with a couple guys for a night or two?"

I shrugged. "Nothing I can't handle."

"Good, Cabin Seven."

I grabbed the cymbal bags and began to move my things.

o-o-o

I officially hate pine trees. It doesn't matter how good this camp is, there is no way my cases escaped without a good coating of sap. I was cussing as I hauled the bass into the storage area of my 'cabin', which was actually a small house consisting mostly of storage space. Good idea considering the amount of shit everyone brought.

I maneuvered the bass into place, then headed to get my bag of clothes and such. I nearly collided with a red haired case.

"Oh my god!" He swore loudly. "Shit -- I'm sorry."

"No, it's ok . . . do you need help with that?" I asked, peeping around the drum. He grinned.

"Yeah, I got another bass back there, you don't mind, do you?"

I rolled my eyes. "Look, I maybe a girl, but I managed to get my set back here all by my lonesome."

"Sweetheart, I don't care what you do as long as you move." He grunted, configuring the case in his arms.

I shifted to the side and he passed. I found my bag after a frantic search, figuring I had forgotten it in the midst of double checking my drums and worrying about Alex ( not much . . . just a little ). My red-headed drummer popped out of the paths -- artificial red hair, like Kara's, and only on the crown of his head, the rest was artificial black. Goth.

He lifted his other bass and took off ahead of me. I followed behind slowly, not being surprised in the least when I learned we were staying in the same cabin.

He practically dropped the other bass and parked his ass on it, smiling, slightly unrepentant. "I see since you've followed me all the way here that you either have a thing for drummers or you're staying here."

"It's the latter, yes. I also gather from your tone of voice that you are the last person I want to be sharing a room with."

He licked his lip ring and grinned again. "I'm Clay. Joey Clay, but because you like me so much, I want you to call me Clay."

"I'm Andrea Forester, and because I want you to be as far away as possible, call me Dru."

"Ah," he winked, "Playing hard to get, I see."

I snorted. "You wish."

"My boyfriend would kill me you know, he's rather jealous."

I choked on my own spit. "Your...boyfriend?"

Clay cackled. "Surprised?"

I shrugged. "Try me."

He nodded. "I will."

Clay was definitely one of the most flamboyant people I'd ever met. He was superficial in every way, but somehow, that kept on being interesting. After finishing lugging his drums, he cheerfully admitted that he'd had both girlfriends and boyfriends and had tried innumerable substances, but preferred to get high off life instead. In short, he was someone to hang out with until dinner when the rest of the musicians would be thrown in to the mix.

I finished tucking my clothes into a drawer as Clay did the same. A shirt sailed over my head. I vaguely recalled Drake doing something like that. I turned around, assuming, you know, that it was a spare. Well, no, Clay struck a pose in his boxers. I quickly turned around.

"Turned on?" He asked merrily.

"Please put your clothes on." I said.

He huffed. "I can't try you if you don't let me."

"Please, please put your clothes on."

"You got someone back home who'd get mighty jealous?"

"Put them on!" I snapped. "Thank god I'm only in here for a few days."

"Where you going?"

"For a walk!"

Which was also a bad idea, because when I got back, he had my bondage pants on and was casually reading a magazine. He just smiled, all smug, when I resigned to this fact and flopped onto the pathetically small camp bed.

We walked to the mess hall in a rather awkward fashion. We were talking, yes, but Clay was also checking out anything that moved and I was trying to pretend I didn't notice this. I gathered that my face was very red indeed by the time I had my tray in front of me, scouting a table. I ignored Clay, opting for a table of emo girls.

To say it went badly would be an understatement. It started out innocent enough, just a chat on clothes and make up, but then it escalated into music. I snorted when one of them said how playing the Used on the drums was sooooo hard. I snorted, jabbing my fork at her, saying playfully that In Flames was much harder – it was a double bass. She wrinkled her nose, passing off In Flames as a second rate metal band. I was ok with that, not happy, but ok, differences in opinions.

Too bad she was looking to up the ante. She claimed that My Chemical Romance was tough on rhythm because of the speed. I rolled my eyes and asked if she had ever attempted at Mindless Self Indulgence, in which case the tempo was closer equated with flying. She again passed off the difficulty.

So I said she couldn't have been all that good is she couldn't do simple stuff. She said she was into changing the song around, making them different. I said that was only an excuse to suck and get away with it. Now, see, if your sitting with the whole band, you probably shouldn't get them mad. It's like releasing a pack of hyenas, those angered emo girls. I practically fled for where Clay was.

"That didn't take long. What did they do? Bite?"

"Yes and no."

Another tough guy down the line sniggered. Clay sushed him.

"Oh, but don't worry, I'll make sure they don't get you."

"Don't touch me."

"But honey – "

"No touching."

"You're no fun, you know that?"

o-o-o

One of the first things they all had us do was fill out a sheet with our favorite bands and styles. They would then group you together by general interest, but it didn't mean that someone from indie would stay in indie, if someone needed a guitarist and you were free, you went to whatever band needed you, even if it was a Scandinavian death metal-loving band.

I looked at the people I was milling with, noticing the conspicuous lack of what I thought I was into. Clay waved at me, again, from where he was nearly shacked up with the very uncomfortable looking bassist of his group. Poor guy never stood a chance.

Quite suddenly, the tough guy from the night before beckoned me, and I say tough and mean it, now. Kid was strapping – hell, I wouldn't even call him a kid – and the picture of anarchy punk at its best, right to the Mohawk.

"You play the drums?" He asked in his deep voice. I nodded slowly.

"Good, we're in area thirteen at four this afternoon." He walked off.

Clay pounced. "I put in a good word for you!"

"Eh, what?"

"Sean needed a drummer! You needed a band. Plus, they're not bad looking guys."

"It still doesn't tell me what's going to happen to me if I show up."

"Pff, you'll be fine. Just knock them out."

"With what, my bass pedal?"

"Sure. I have two, I'll let you borrow one so you don't get your dirty. Girls can't have dirty equipment."

"Don't every say that again."

"Lighten up. Oh – why didn't I think of it before?"

"What?"

"You must have someone who takes good care of you at home. That's why you're so . . . pissy."

"I am not pissy."

"You've got a bitch, admit it."

"Alex is not my bitch."

"And now I have a name!"

I paused. I hadn't meant to say that, but seemed to pop right out of my mouth. Clay clapped his hands with glee.

"Oh, who is this Alex? Is he cute? Older? Younger? A sex machine?"

"Erm, he's taken."

"Taken? By you, naturally."

"No, by his girlfriend. She's a stripper."

"Then she's not his girlfriend, she's his whore."

"No, his girlfriend, trust me on this one."

"So then he's got a cheatin' heart if he's all over you."

"When did you come to that conclusion?"

"I don't know, but it seems to bother you and that's what makes it interesting."

"Get uninterested."

"I'll bet you two are madly in love with each other won't admit it! Doomed from the start."

"Nope."

"Dur-ew, you're in denial."

"And you're on crack."

o-o-o

Sean was sizing me up, as were the other three band members behind him. They were not ok with me being a girl.

"Can you play "Riot Squad" without a hitch?" He asked, as if this was the deciding factor on whether or not I was acceptable. I nodded slowly.

"I've practiced it before, yes."

He narrowed his eyes. "Well?"

"Well?"

"Play."

"Now?"

"Now."

"My drums aren't set up."

"On the wall."

"I'll flatten the heads on my sticks."

"Just do it. The only open spot in Alternative after us is that whiny chick band, what are they calling themselves? Oh yeah, Spontaneous. It's us or them."

"At least they'd be polite."

"You picked a fight with half of them last night."

". . . oh."

"Play."

I grudgingly dragged my first case out, causing them all to groan. I had to set up the drums, I was staying no matter what.

o-o-o

"It wasn't that bad was it?"

"No . . . "

"So there. Everyone wins."

"Can I have my pants back now?"

"I don't know; I really like them. Your ass has stretched them out just the right amount to be comfortable on me. It's a beautiful thing really."

I rolled my eyes at Clay. His lips tugged into a smile and he winked at me.

"Good thing you are gay." I muttered.

"Bisexual." He corrected me. "There is a difference."

"Yeah, you've just got a higher chance of getting AIDS or STDs or something."

Even Clay had to look a little, little bit annoyed by that.

"Suit yourself." He shut his light off. "Last time I do you a favor."

I huffed and rolled over as well. Tomorrow was brining the assignments anyway, which was sure to bring work.

o-o-o

No. NO. Not covers! Anything but covers! But that was the issue. We were to do covers from the sixties to eighties, varying genres to please different tastes.

We were working out our set list. It was to be four songs long, which worked because there were only four of us in this band. I was pushing for an AC/DC cover seeing as we were doing Black Sabbath, Crass and Minor Threat already and I wanted some say in this.

They wanted me to pick between the Buzzcocks or Dead Kennedys.

Then, Sean, our crabby bassist and singer took a stab at me. "If you want it, then you sing it!"

I swallowed hard. "I . . . I can't sing! You're the one who sings, I just play the drums."

"Yeah?" He shot back. "Well I can't scream like that, so, "Orgasm Addict" or "We've Got A Bigger Problem Now"?"

"Ugh . . . fine, I'll sing, but your reputation is going to be wrecked." I snapped. "Add "The Jack" to your list -- wait, on second thought, "Highway to Hell", I know that one better."

Sean sniggered as the guitarist, Rob, added the song in.

"We have three weeks. Get your lazy asses moving. Mack, sheet music and fingerings, Rob, lyrics, I will get onto the computers and burn the music and, Dru . . . " Sean turned to me with his hands on his hips. "Learn to sing."

o-o-o

Clay wasn't talking to me at dinner. My stupid big mouth got me into this, but like hell I was going to make up for it. He gave me a glare again, but somehow I found it hard to take it seriously. Then again, I knew why when I got back to our room.

"Where are all my pants?!" I screamed as I tore through my drawers. "CLAY!"

He strode out of the bathroom, my favorite pair of cutoffs on, and smacked his ass. "Damn it if they all don't look perfect on me."

"Clay." I fumbled around for words. "I need my pants."

He shrugged. "It's your peace offering to me. I get full access to your pants, we get along again, no more hating my roommate."

I gaped at him as he adjusted the waist of my pants again. "That's not fair."

Clay sniffed. "And neither is what you did, so there. Be happy. It's not like it's your underwear or anything."

"But, but – I need pants!"

"You have a skirt in there, don't you?"

"Well, yeah, because my mom made me bring it – "

"Then wear it." Clay smiled. "And I'll consider giving you some of your pants back."

o-o-o

Sean was giving me an odd look. So was Mack. I was going to have both of their heads if they continued staring.

"Yes! I own one! Now fuck off." I shot at them.

"Can you play in that?" Sean said.

"Yes." I hissed.

"I didn't even think you owned one of those." Added Mack.

I adjusted my skirt and took my place behind the base drum. "Are we playing, or are you ogling?"

Both turned away and scooped up their instruments and sniggering audibly. I hate Clay.

o-o-o

I rubbed my eyes as Sean banged his head against the soundboard. His brilliant idea had been hauling me to the studio and running through "Highway" as many times as humanly possible, forcing me to listen to my own screeching time after time after time. And it wasn't getting any better. Finally, Rob grabbed the back of Sean's mohawk to keep him from continuing.

Rob was sane. I liked Rob -- he could also sing, so he and Sean traded off when they were at home, but Sean was singing here. Clay lounged in the background with a back issue of Rolling Stone propped up as he eyed Sean. He never stopped, did he?

Rob cracked open the door to where I was sitting with the microphone dangling in front of me.

"You want me to do it?" He asked. I shook my head.

"Sean won't let me...stay, I think, if I don't jump. And...I don't want to go anywhere." I twisted my cuff. "The only other band I have to go to thinks I'm just...insensitive?"

"Oh..." Rob nodded. "All our dudes look like chicks and our chicks look like dykes?"

"'Cause emo is one step below transvestite." I laughed. Sean roared from the other side.

"Look," Rob said, "Stop trying to sound so much like the original, it might suck, but it might also cover our asses. Now I think Sean needs saving from your...roommate. "

We looked back at the glass panel where Clay had a sumptuous smile on his face and Sean was pinned in a corner. I cocked my head.

"Is Sean gay?"

Rob swallowed hard. "No...but let's say there was a dare last year involving gay chicken that ran around the camp, Sean went a little overboard, won a lot of money though."

"He's regretting it?"

We winced as Sean nearly tossed much smaller Clay against a wall before sitting back down at the soundboard and screaming for me to start again.

"Yeah, I'd say so."

o-o-o

Clay wasn't that bad to bunk with once you got past the horny gay boy part. Then he was ok. But I had taken to locking whatever pants he'd given me back up at night. Now he had a plate of biscuits resting on his tummy while he scarfed them down, all the while holding a yaoi novel above his head, trying to read and talk to me at the same time. Clay's theory was that the more distractions there were, the more options to ditch what it was that you were supposed to be doing, it would make it easier to concentrate since you would have to master blocking the rest out.

In short, it made very little sense at all. Then again, it's just the way he was. He wanted to flirt and tease and he really didn't give a damn with who -- he didn't give a reason, and I gradually accepted the fact that there probably wasn't one behind half his actions. Clay sat up suddenly, snapping his fingers.

"Want to see something cool?" He asked, trying to get the biscuits back on the plate. I shrugged. The last "cool" thing he showed me was his stash of shameless shojou manga. Clay dove into his suitcase before pulling out a beaten binder. He flipped through it, handing the book over with a smile.

"Ain't he cute?"

"He's in tights...sparkly tights."

"Well, of course. He's a figure skater."

"How on god's green earth did you meet a figure skater?"

"Friend of a friend and a game of Seven Minutes In Heaven. He was in closet 'til I took him in the closet."

I rolled my eyes. "That's such a good basis for a relationship."

Clay's grin slipped a bit. "Actually, it wasn't...but, well, we're still together and whatnot. Doesn't matter then."

"Someone else?"

Clay shrugged. "He's behaving like I do normally. I understand it, but it doesn't stop it from annoying me a bit. So, if there's someone else, then I guess I'd have to get over it."

I frowned, closing the book. "I've got a friend who acts a lot like you. Though she should probably learn something from it."

He nodded sagely. "Desperate?"

"She's just Jess. She's always been like that. She's passed up so many good guys to do shit with losers." I leaned back against the wall. "I don't talk to her much anymore. It's because I know what it is she's doing, I think."

Clay got serious. "It is. You know? She's ashamed. Oh man. You are good at that."

I snorted. "Uh, for all my sixteen years, I have learned that I am basically the least perceptive person in the world. Completely."

He laughed now, taking his book back, looking at me and nodding. "There is definitely someone who takes very good care of you."

I glanced at him. "I take care of myself."

Clay put down the book again. "In the cold hearted bitch sense, or in the actual eating, bathing and sleeping sense?"

"The second one." I said. "So…I guess there's no one who takes care of me other than me. I mean, my parents pretty much leave me to my own devices…which is fine."

"That sounds flat."

"Well…" I leaned back into my pillows. "They pay for stuff like this, but, you know, I'm home alone a lot."

Clay's lips quirked. "I don't do philosophical chat related to family problems, you know."

"Eh." I shrugged. "It's not like it matters anyway."

o-o-o

I crashed against my cymbals, the wild flourish lasting long after the rest of the instruments had faded away. Another pound to the bass and I grabbed the cymbals to silence them. There. We had that song down.

In fact, the only song that we couldn't nail was Highway. Which was beginning to be a bit of a problem since we only had a week left of camp to do it, to perfect it. I felt guilty as they looked at me again. Rob had offered many times to sing in my stead, that way we didn't need to find another drummer to take over. I had declined again, wanting to keep my song in the set.

I set my sticks down, tentatively looking at the microphone that was in front of me. I really belonged in the back with my drum set, yes I did. That's why I liked the drums. If you don't showboat, then you can basically be invisible. You know, aside from the noise part. And no one ever remembers who the drummer is. Things like that make it a very attractive position for someone like me.

Ah, but now I was going to have to sing. And it's not like I had picked some random song from a local band, which I could have done, but rather one that was extremely well known. To think I could have just submitted to Sean's will and stayed in the back.

I tapped the microphone and Sean gave me a nasty look. Rob mouthed off to Sean about how Sean could be getting his spotlight if he wasn't a stubborn git about his set lists and couldn't suck it up and sing the damn song. Sean was now madder and I knew my high pitched screeching wasn't about to make anything better. I heard Mack sigh quite audibly into his keyboard.

"From the top." Sean grumbled, counting off the time. A quick nod and Rob presented the opening chords while Mack turned on the drums only recording he'd gleaned from the internet. I swallowed.

"Livin' easy, lovin' free." I choked out. "Season ticket on a one way ride."

I watched the three of them collectively wince.

"Askin' nothing, leave me be; takin' everything in my stride." I was beginning to feel the problem now. There was music, but nothing in my hands. I signaled from them to cut the music and then dragged the mike over my drums, setting it up accordingly. Rob chuckled.

"Good idea." He said, and I saluted him. Mack left the keyboard and scooped up his guitar as Rob played the opening again. I counted off with my sticks and, for the first time in near three weeks, I got it right.

o-o-o

Clay was in a tizzy when I, the conquering hero, returned the cabin. He was, of all things, finishing sewing a costume; his, in fact. He mumbled a greeting to me around his pins before cursing loudly as he poke his thumb again. It was too comical, then, to see Clay, a made up, dyed down and black clad boy in my pants, I might add, sewing. And swearing as he tried to add the sparkly trim.

"Going all out, aren't we?" I asked, fingering the edge of the fabric. He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, don't know, want to impress them I guess." Clay threaded his needle again. "I mean, him, he's coming. I want to impress him."

"Your skater?"

"Yeah." Clay ceded softly. "We've been fighting…I just want to make up is all. I'd miss too much and I really don't deal well with missing people and I don't want to miss him. Things like that."

I smiled, offering to take the needle and thread from him. "I know how to deal with men like you; rather…it usually works with girls. It usually involves a lot of listening and some chocolate. Maybe some good music too. Or we can skip the chocolate and get right to the music."

Clay rubbed his lip piercing thoughtfully, an odd habit of his, staring off into the ceiling. "It's…not that I want to, but I need to."

"Love?" I asked, an odd sense of déjà vu creeping over me.

"I can't explain it to you. And I won't say that because I am only a teenager. Infatuation, maybe, maybe a deeper infatuation; maybe it's lust. Just lust."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself, not me." I noted, glancing up at him. "You sure?"

Clay shifted his gaze to the window. "I really don't know anymore. All I think I know is that I'm too young for love, in any event. That's not what it is."

I pulled another stitch tight. "Whatever. Try this on."

o-o-o

"Oh god."

"You can't back out now."

"I can't?"

"No."

"Please?"

"Dru."

"What?"

"You are the most –"

"Sean!"

"Rob!"

"Dru!"

"Sean!"

"ROBERT."

"Dru!"

"All of you shut the hell up!" Mack yelled. "We have five minutes for her to adjust the set and for you two morons to get set up. Try to do it without killing each other."

Sean, Rob and I looked back at one another, flustered now at the idea of getting on the stage in front of everyone. Ha. Yeah, it was real now. And now my sticks felt awkward and slick in my hands. There was no way I was going to be able to play and sing.

I was the third song. Oh, goodness gracious, this was not going to go well.

Clay, whose band was also up that night, patted me on the back, his concerned expression lost in his black make up and his sequins. He had no jitters, he'd explained earlier, never had and probably never would. I swallowed hard and began running through the set again. It was four songs. Fifteen to twenty minutes was the max. Our longest was four minutes; it was also our opener. Mack had insisted we use Black Sabbath first before speeding into Crass' "Banned from the Roxy" where Sean could stop singing and start yelling. After that, he'd said, waving his marker to stress is point, bring them back in with something they all knew; Highway to Hell. After that, move into Sean's favorite Minor Threat anthem.

It seemed so perfect on paper. I tried not to look at the crowd as I slunk onto the stage and settled into the set. I practically yanked the cymbals down to my height in the thinly veiled attempt to hide between them. Sean and Rob stepped out in front, their instruments gleaming under the lights. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched ever resourceful Mack trudge in with his keyboard and his guitar; the latter slung over his back unceremoniously and trailing various wires.

I barely heard Sean's intro, but I did hear him pounding away at his bass to get my attention to play already. Thankfully, I seemed to own an autopilot system that took over for the first song. I snapped out of it, though, when the feedback began to whine out of Rob's guitar signaling "Banned from the Roxy".

Sean jumped up, crashing down with enough force to rattle my bones.

"Banned from the Roxy, ok! Never much liked to play there much anyways!" He screamed, jumping again, abandoning the bass, raising his hands for all the kids to jump. "They said they only wanted well behaved boys, do they think guitars and microphones are just fucking toys?

"Fuck 'em! I've chosen to make my own stand about that's wrong with this land!" I watched as Sean became a maniac; jumping around and flailing his limbs. I wonder if that's why they put me between his favorites, because he was this enthusiastic. They didn't need a break to music they knew; they needed a break from a maniac.

Rob's acidic feedback ripped into our ears as he pushed his fingers down, driving the noise to a higher and higher pitch. Mack soon joined in with a metallic whine while Sean's bass moaned on and on. One, two three and four, then cut. Everyone dropped their hands while I picked up the solo they had insisted on, loud and ravish before fading off into a simple beat on the bass drum with everyone in the crowd.

I watched wide eyed as the jumping ceased with my pounding. Sean was saying something about how the drummer just had to get some attention and had insisted on performing a song.

"And, may I add," he said cordially, his voice warped and thin, "that the she is a girl."

I rolled my eyes. Yeah, because the fact that I had boobs didn't account for anything; they did all see me get on the stage. Thanks Sean, just drag the microphone back here so I can kick your ass with it.

"Don't fuck up." He hissed as he set the stand down.

"Piss off." I shot at him.

"Bitch."

"Bastard!"

"Forester! Danvers! We can hear you!" Screamed one of the adults on tech. "And unless you want to get pulled, get on with it!"

Sean shot me another dirty look, before stomping back up front.

I felt my stomach flip around and I dipped lower behind the cymbals, cramping myself and making it harder to play. I fumbled over the words before hitting stride by closing my eyes as tight as I could. As I prepared to launch into the first chorus, I felt an almighty shove from behind.

Clay was rolling his eyes and now taking my seat. He unhooked the microphone, handed it to me and told me to get up front and scream. I gaped at him and I could feel all those eyes on my back. I marched to the front, listened to Clay count off.

"I'M ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL!" I belted out, swinging my head to the side to avoid direct contact with the front row. I scream and jump and do anything that takes my mind off the crowd. If I stop moving, than I am more noticeable than, say, the moron who has moshed so hard he's spewing his lunch up on the kid next to him.

At the same time that they were watching me, all they saw was the forced enthusiasm while my mind thrashed in protest. It was more of a quiet thing. So was I. As I passed the mike back to Sean, he clapped me on the back and gave a grudging comment of what I think was praise.

"Do you get it now?"

o-o-o

My parents couldn't stop staring at Clay. Not even after he'd assured them he was gay as the day was long. My father blinked; I could see the speech on delinquents forming in his head. I suppressed a smile and turned back to Clay.

He'd performed brilliantly last night, without a doubt. His whole band had been perfect and they were one of the top-rated groups of the camp. Their tracks were secured on a spare disk, tucked carefully into my backpack. Clay was playing with his lip ring, his eyes red from spending most of last night saying he wasn't crying in the bathroom. As long as I didn't acknowledge that he really had been, we were good.

"Thanks." Clay shrugged. "I guess it's weird saying goodbye to someone you don't know."

"Thanks?" I asked. "I know you well enough…"

"Yeah…but you don't need to try to clean up someone else's mess." He shrugged again. "It's been weird having someone around who is…"

"Eh?"

"A good friend. If I wasn't queer, I wouldn't let you leave until I had your number and a good feel."

I sighed. Yes. He was Clay all right. "You have my screen name and good bye."

"Bye!" He patted my head and twirled away to where ever he was from to begin with.

o-o-o

By the time we had rolled into the driveway, it was dusk. I checked the clock. Only a bit past seven thirty; I groaned, knowing that I would be taking all my things out of the car by myself. I was left to my task as my mom made dinner and dad put on the game. It was such an odd feeling, this normalcy. I felt like something was missing.

I rolled my eyes. I was a little paranoid about things since Clay had made off with my pants; though I had gotten them all back, it had taken a while. It was sort of funny that I'd most likely never see him again. I pulled the snare and floor tom from the car, listening to my left shoulder pop indignantly. I dropped the tom and began to rub it furiously.

The twilight had been silent, but now it was shattered by the nasty crack that was certainly no body part of mine. It took me five minutes to put together the occurrence; five minutes where I had shrugged it off and gone back to unloading. Five minutes before I stopped breathing and started running. I could even hear the creak of my knees as I shot into the dark.

It had taken me five minutes to think, "Oh my god, ALEX!"

I had never been wrong about his situations, now that I think about it. I saw him coming around the right side of his house. He caught sight of me and disappeared again to the back. I never stopped to think about following him, frantic as I was. I tripped over a bush, colliding with the house.

"Alex?" I whispered. "Where are you?"

There was no answer.

"Alex, it's me, it's – "

He cut in over my whispering, "DON'T!"

I spun wildly to look behind me as a darkened figured swung downwards at me. I panicked and stayed rooted to the spot. I felt someone seize me by the forearm, so the implement only smashed into the top of my left shoulder. There was an earsplitting roar of pain flushing through my system at that moment.

I bit down a scream as Alex held my down now. He looked apologetic, but furious now too. I felt my eyes begin to water.

"Hurt." I managed. Alex told me to lay still. He would get help. I had to be quiet. He vanished, leaving me there in the dark.

And a deeper understanding hit me; this was his end of the battle. This what I wouldn't understand; having to rely on someone blindly to help when I could not. When someone had hurt me, kept me there and tortured me. When I had to keep on doing it to save the person who they would harm if I wasn't there for them. I had to stand in the middle.

It took twenty minutes for the ambulance to get there; a veritable armada of people running to my side, Alex in the lead. I cried as the slid me onto the gurney after placing me in a neck brace. I also saw them cuffing Alex's parents. Then I passed out.

o-o-o

I came to in a hospital room, stark and white and as pressed as clothes fresh from the cleaners. I closed my eyes and registered the dull throb in my shoulder.

"It's broken." I turned my head carefully in the direction of the speaker. Alex smiled grimly back at me.

"I missed you." He admitted. "Welcome home."

"Fuck." I said. "Are these painkillers or water?"

"First timers…no, straight edge." He laughed.

"Mind explaining?" I asked. "I think it's time."

He gazed mournfully out the window. "I'm sorry."

"It was me or you." I offered. "You don't need any more of this."

"It's so funny to be on the other side." Alex was still looking out the window. "To be the one giving you the get well card."

"Alex —"

"Why couldn't have you stay put?"

"Because." I muttered. "Did you know that I had forgotten about you?"

He shifted his eyes to my general direction. "That was probably was for the best."

"It killed me." I told him, wishing I could cross my arms and give him a stern look. "You are my friend and I'll be damned if I don't help you out."

"How are you so loyal?" He tilted his head at me. "It's endearing, but so frustrating."

"You didn't think I was back yet, did you?"

He sighed. "Yeah."

"You can't do this on your own, you need witnesses."

"Drake. Kara. They would have helped me."

"You couldn't even make it out of the house."

"What does it matter?"

"What happened to you?"

"It was only three weeks."

"Alexander." I said forcefully. He finally caught my eye and frowned. It was time; he had to know that this was time to tell me. Please, anything, tell me why I was here and why I was doped with narcotics. I wanted to beg. And if that didn't work, I planned on throwing a fit until he did.

"I was locked in my room." He swallowed. "I waited until you were gone…then I told them I was leaving. It would have been a cleaner break for you, I figured, if you weren't there and then they locked me in my room. I mean, the police are probably going through the place now. They're going to get to it and shit will happen."

"Alex…"

"Abuse. That's what they're saying. Abuse. Child abuse. Bryan and Kelly in foster care; is that my fault? I don't know anymore. I don't care anymore. I got out…what you heard was the trim coming off the house…you're so stupid." He smiled weakly. "Stupid girl, running into the fray blind. Getting hurt when it she could have stayed safe."

I leaned back. "So what's going to happen?"

"I'm in a lot of trouble. But so are they."

"I'm sorry I got in the way."

"Dru…" He crossed his arms on the mattress, resting his head on them. "To be honest, I don't think I would have had it any other way. 'Cept for the broken bones."

"Yeah." I giggled. "It's silly, isn't it?"

"Little bit." He scrunched up his nose. "They gave you a morphine drip; I'm a little jealous."

"You know me, I'll do anything to score a hit."

"Yeah." Alex chuckled. "That's you."

We both sighed, letting the silence rule again. I felt Alex shifting to my side and suddenly felt the tips of his fingers sliding into my hair.

"What the?"

"Shut up." He snapped. "I always wish someone would play with my hair and give me a head massage when I feel like crap, so it must feel good now. You're going to be quiet and you're going to like it."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever makes you feel better Tavares."

"Yeah…whatever makes me feel better."

Spin me round again and rub my eyes.
This can't be happening.
The takeover, the sweeping insensitivity of this
still life.
Hide and seek.
Trains and sewing machines.
(Oh, you won't catch me around here)
Blood and tears,
they were here first.

Opal Zene: Don't worry about the lurker thing, it doesn't bother me. I do feel the need to respond to your mention of music genres. I have since learned that a genre explanation varies from person to person, so one person might call something punk and another emo. Whatever definition I give is always subject to constant change as I add different bands into the mix; plus I'm relatively thorough about the history of a genre.

I make a point of knowing about my music (most of the time, usually the more modern it is, the less of a grasp I have on it). I can't bring myself to be a music snob (I tried…I can't…I just like listening to as much as I can). I would suggest the reading of "Nothing Feels Good" since it gives a very open discussion on what makes and kills a certain genre; though it's focused on emo music evolving from punk, it's still a good read. Yes! Someone who gets the music references! And a metalhead to boot; aw, you just made my day with that review.

To all, I worry about the length between chapters…but there should only be two more after this. Then some serious revision, rewriting and, maybe, submitting it for publishing. I might as well try. XP Rock. – poseur punk