Chapter One:

New town, new school, new life, I kept repeating to myself. My mom had been telling me this same phrase for three months now, assuring me this move was a good thing. I was trying to let her words wash over me and have some kind of impact, but they never seemed to sink in. My gut feeling told me this would be my worst year yet, and I was desperately trying to reassure myself differently. I couldn't take any more drama.

I shuddered slightly, remembering my old town, and the school that had been hell for me. I remembered the looks, the whispers, the split lip and black eyes. No. I didn't want to remember. I wanted to file those memories in a drawer, lock them up to where they can't be touched again. They were too painful…

My suitcase was almost done getting unpacked when I heard a familiar song coming from my purse at top volume. My eyes slid closed, listening to the lyrics. American Dream by Silverstein…the one band who got me through all of middle and high school. Well, them and Nirvana. Sometimes I was a tossup.

Peeling myself away from the unpacking and dug into my purse, I extracted my phone. It was a text from a guy back home, Ash Hunter. He was the only person who ever texted me. He thought he knew me, and I tried telling him I was different, but he wouldn't listen to me. He just kept ignoring the rumors and pretending I was a princess. He was too kind, and way too good for me, which is why I deleted his name from my contact list without looking at his text. New town, new school, new life, right? I couldn't be burdened by the past any longer.

Besides, it was summertime, and I had all the time in the world to go exploring my new territory and sneak into clubs to listen to the local bands who probably didn't have a shred of talent, but I would enjoy anyway because it was something to do and music was my life.

I promised my mom I'd finish packing before I went out and did anything stupid, though. She knew she couldn't stop me from doing what I wanted, and disagreeing with everything I believed in had ended in lots of screaming matches with no common ground, so we stopped talking about anything important. She didn't bother to see things my way anymore, and she'd stopped trying to control me. She asked me to be careful, and think about things before I do them, and not to get in trouble, but she never stopped me on my way out the door anymore. Sometimes I wonder if she's just given up, or if she still prays to God every night, sobs catching in her throat, to keep me safe and have me come home so she wouldn't have to be alone.

Truth is, my mom was just as lost as me these days. Things built up inside of her that she wouldn't talk about, and she let all of the fire inside her go out. As much as I'd hated the way she'd yell at me about my clothes and hair and makeup and language and music and all of that, at least she showed she cared. I wasn't sure if I liked his whole giving up on me thing. I liked doing what I wanted, but I still wanted her to care what would happen to me. Would she even flinch if I took a razor to my wrists and ended it all tonight? I honestly didn't know anymore.

One by one, I unloaded my things, my memories. My clothes were placed neatly in their drawers and hung up in my spacious walk in closet. All my books were on their shelf, alphabetized by author. My shoes were lined nicely on the floor of my closet, Converse in all different colors, and my different kinds of boots following them. I unpacked my bag of makeup, and my crates of notebooks, and all my films, records, and cd's I had collected over the years. And underneath all the junk was the one picture I had framed, that had been on my night stand since I was seven; the picture of my dad and me, after the best day of my life.

It was summer, and I was a bored, yet obsessed little kid, who'd just been introduced to Phantom of the Opera. I'd somehow gotten my hands on the book at the used bookstore, and I didn't put it down till the book was completely finished. And then I'd dragged my parents out to find every single movie that had been made from the book, and watched them all day long. The 1925 Lon Chaney version was always my favorite, and I'd watched it a million times that summer. And if I wasn't watching the movie, the soundtrack tot eh play was blasting from my boom box as I, very off key and loudly, pretended I could sing opera like Christine did, and I would act out the songs as if I were the one in the musical, the actress with her name in lights. Because if there was one thing I loved more than music, it was acting. And I'd known from there on out I wanted to grow up and star in films, and do something with an emotion that came from within.

The music and all the Phantom of the Opera talk was getting on my mother's nerves, though, and she'd complain to my father when he came home from work, who'd listen bemusedly and promised he'd do something about it.

He took vacation time off work, and declared a special father/daughter summer trip, the two of us in the Big Apple, where I believed dreams came true. We spent a week there, sightseeing and having so much fun. And then he took me to see Phantom of the Opera on Broadway our last night there. It changed my life forever. The picture was of us outside the theater, me in my dress I couldn't stand, with the biggest grin on my face, underneath the play's billboard sign. I had been in heaven.

The memories of that day always made me smile, and feel a little sadness at the same time. If only all the memories of my dad had been as happy as that one…

I put the picture back on my desk and continued unpacking my stuff. It was 2:30 in the afternoon by the time I finished, and I descended the steps and padded into the kitchen, finding my mom unpacking dishes and other appliances we used.

I cleared my throat. "Hey," I said softly, opening the fridge and extracting a green apple. Green apples were the only kind I liked. The red were too sweet, and those yellow ones were always like mush. But the green ones were wonderful. I bit in, the sour juice running down my chin, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. "I finished packing," I stated.

She nodded, not looking at me. "Are you going out?"

I felt myself shrug. "Unless you want help unpacking this kitchen stuff."

She paused, midway unwrapping her china, and put it down on the counter. She turned around to face me, mouth open, as if she were going to spill all the secrets hoarded inside of her. Then she shrank into herself, sighing heavily. "No, it's okay. Go out and have fun. Please try and make it back before midnight, okay?"

I smiled softly, tinged with sadness and disappointment. Why couldn't she just talk to me about it? She wasn't in this alone; I was just as hurt and upset and confused as she is. If she would just lay her heart out there and confess to me what she was going through, maybe we could mend this rift between us. I knew that's what she wanted. I wanted it, too.

"Okay," I whispered towards her, sliding my iPod out of my pocket as I walked down my driveway and to the sidewalk, away from my house. I pressed shuffle, and Silverstein came pouring through my headphones, not to my surprise at all. I mused on the lyrics as I walked through the stifling air, pulling my hood up around me.

Close your eyes to fight the demons, deep within your mind. Satisfied, your worst intentions; I'm your sacrifice. They always had lyrics I could feel deep within my bones, touching things I wouldn't speak about, but were always there, haunting me. Silverstein songs said what I was always too afraid to admit to myself.

I pushed my walking speed up, ignoring the sweat beginning to trickle down my back. I loved walking. The world around me, with so much dark chaos in it, was such a beautiful planet. The lush trees and wild blooming flowers, the endless stretch of serene blue clouds, the hidden mysteries of the earth in the unforeseen nature. I cherished that stuff. Plus, I just liked the burning feeling in my legs, the tug and pull of muscle and tendon. It was therapeutic.

Before long, I'd reached town, and ducked into a Dunkin Donuts. The apple didn't help my growling stomach, and we still hadn't unpacked our coffee maker, so I was caffeine deprived at the moment. I bought a cappuccino and my favorite kind of doughnut, with the chocolate icing on top and the cream in the middle.

I sat at an empty table near the back of the café and sipped my hot coffee cautiously, so I didn't burn my tongue. Then I took a book out of my purse and settled into the hypnotic lull of prose.

I'd gotten through a few pages when someone stopped at my table. I took a headphone out of my ear and glanced up, meeting a boy with a box of doughnuts in his hand. He wore black low- top Converse, jeans with rips at the knees, and a long sleeved black t-shirt. I smiled at the tattoos I saw on his neck, loving that he wasn't afraid to express himself. I glanced at his face, my breath catching in my throat. He had a silver lip ring and a nose ring, and short black hair. He was wearing eyeliner, and I was sure mascara, around his eyes, a color that I couldn't quite pinpoint. He smirked at me and my heart fluttered a bit.

"You're really a Kings of Leon fan?" he asked me, motioning to the music coming out of my headphones. Without asking, he slid into the seat across from me, placing the large box on the table.

I stared at him for a minute, trying to find my words. "Not really," I finally said, swallowing. "The lead singer's voice is great, but he can't write lyrics for shit. But it's one of my dad's favorite bands, so…"

"Right. Your dad doesn't have very good taste in music," he frowned. His eyes raked over me, lingering on my shirt, a grin on his lips. He had a gorgeous grin. "I see you do, though. I love the Sex Pistols."

I chuckled softly. "Yeah, they're pretty amazing. I used to have a bit of a crush in Sid Vicious."

"Didn't everyone? That dude's fucking hot. And awesome. He had style, even though he was such a hot mess."

I nodded, not knowing what to say back to that comment. Instead, I took another sip of my coffee, which was turning lukewarm. He didn't say anything else, and he didn't leave, so I went back to reading my book.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

I held up the copy for him to read, and he made a face. "Sylvia Plath? Really? How boring."

One of my eyebrows arched up. "Have you ever even read any of her stuff? It's much more fascinating than those comic books you read."

He gave me a weird look, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing. "How did you know I read comics?"

"Just a hunch." I let a laugh out. "But it's cool; I read them, too. I probably have more Superman comics than you've ever seen."

"Well, that's true. I'm a Marvel comics guy."

"Oh, no," I groaned. "Marvel? How do you live with yourself? DC is so much better. The only good comics Marvel produces are X-Men and Hellboy."

"Now you're talking. Those are my favorite."

"I had a feeling."

I smiled at him, and he smiled back. "So you're new here, huh?"

"Yeah. Just moved here from Florida," I said, nodding.

"Bit of a change."

"Just a bit. I've always wanted to live in New York, but my mom doesn't like big cities. This is the closest she'd let me come to my dreams."

"To Jersey?" He laughed; an infectious one that made you laugh because it was so ridiculous. "Oh, that's really living the dream.

"Tell me about it," I murmured. I didn't want to spill my whole life to this guy, but I felt like I could if I wanted. It was easy talking to him, effortless in a way. He had that sort of open face and body language, and a way of speaking that let you know there were absolutely no judgments with him.

"Are you enrolled at Belleville High?"

"Um, yeah."

"Mmm, good luck. It's common knowledge that anything that doesn't look, talk, or walk like a football player or cheerleader gets pounded on. And somehow, you don't look the cheerleader type to me."

"Oh, great. As if life wasn't hell already. Now I have to deal with more stuck up bitches who glare at me weird. Senior year should be fun!"

He did that infectious laugh again, and I grinned at him. "Ah, it's cool. My friends and I will come to your rescue if those bitches give you any trouble. They're all afraid of us."

"Thanks," I whispered.

We sat there for a moment more, staring at each other. Then he smacked his hands down on the table and stood up. "Speaking of my friends," he said, "I'm on a doughnut run for them. They'll kill me for taking so long with their food. Doughnuts are like religion for them."

"Smart friends," I mused.

He laughed again. "Not really." He grabbed his doughnut box off the table and tucked the chair back in. "I'm Frank, by the way." He held out a hand towards me, and I took it, shaking it.

"Roslyn."

"Well, see ya around, Roslyn," he said, turning around and leaving, without a glance back towards me.

I leaned back in my chair, bookmarking my spot and putting my book back in my purse. There was no way I could concentrate of Plath right now.

Frank, I thought. It was nice to put a name to that face and attitude. It suited him.

My head fluttered again at the thought of him. There was some kind of mystery to him, something I couldn't' put my finger on. He's one of those guys that reel you in with their charm and good looks and maybe it turns out your conversations flow and you have a lot in common and the chemistry is so denial. Or they just become your best friend for life. But nothing like that ever happened to me. Changes are even though we'd be going to the same high school in the fall, I would never see Frank again.

The thought saddened me for some reason. It has been a long time since I'd had a friend, or really anyone I could talk to. I didn't fit in with any of the girls back home, and I must say I didn't try hard enough to be their friend. It was my fault for pushing them away. But I was right to. As soon as the rumors spread, things started getting pretty nasty for me.

That was then. This is the fresh star my mom had been so eager to submit to. If there was anyone like Frank at Belleville High, anyone who looked at me with eyes that pierced into the depths of my soul, anyone who would understand me for who I was, anyone who didn't shy away, who knew beyond its perfect façade that life was generally cold and unfeeling, then I might actually like it here.

Maybe it was time I started moving on. After all, it was a clean slate. No one here knew about what had happened; they wouldn't go around saying the things the others used to say. I'd been wallowing in my self-pity for too long now, anyway. It all happened four months ago. It was time to forget what happened and move on.

I don't know why I felt I should fit in with Frank. My body still buzzed with the images of meeting him earlier. He was perfect. There was this deep down knowing inside me, gnawing at me, trying to figure out what this meant. I'd liked guys before, no doubt. But I'd never felt that tingling sensation, this mysterious knowing, for any guy when I first met him. The second my eyes laid on Frank, it stole my breath away. And not because of his good looks, because that was a definite, but it was something else. He had a je ne sais quoi about him.

I never believed in love at first sight, only lust. But could the legends be true? Did some people just know the one the second they meet? Anything seemed possible at this point.

I was mulling on that possibility all day, and still dwelling on it when I walked in the door to my new house. I turned the lights off and locked the door and went towards the stairs to my room. I'd just reached the bottom of my staircase when I noticed the light on my mom's bedroom was on. Checking the clock on m cell phone, I realized it was only 10:30. But usually she was asleep by then.

Silently, I crept behind her door and listened, peering in the crack she'd left open. She had a box on her bed, a huge cardboard box, and I knew what was inside of it. It was my dad's thing she had kept, like his soft leather jacket that always smelled like his aftershave. She kept his guitar pick in there, and the notebook full of songs and poems and short stories he used to write in his nearly illegible handwriting. The photo albums he'd made were at the bottom of the box, scrapbooks full of our memories and life together. I didn't think Mom had the courage to look at them.

But here she was, pictures scattered on the bed and a photo album opened. She was pouring over memories, trying to heal the pain. She half smiled as she held open a page, stroked the picture with her forefinger. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what picture she was staring at.

I couldn't do it. The pain in my chest stabbed me every time. I tried to think back on those times. They were gone; he was never coming back. And there wasn't anything I could do to lessen the pain anymore. It just didn't work. I wanted to be strong, numb. I didn't want to let it all get to me. I didn't want to fall into that bottomless sea, drown in its flowing tide. I wouldn't survive the darkness.

A lump rose in my throat, and I moved out of the shadows, up the stairs, and slammed the door behind me, locking it. I grabbed the picture of my dad and me off the nightstand and got under all the covers in my bed, curling into fetal position and hugging the frame to my chest, picture facing away from me. I tried to hold back the tears as best I could, but the sadness was swamping me.

My cheeks were still wet when the morning light began to rise behind my bedroom window.