Hello again. Thanks so very much for choosing this story to read out of all the others on the list … it is, you must believe, greatly appreciated.

So for those of you who know me, you may know what my style of writing is like. If that's the case, that's great. If not, read on and find out. Why have I mentioned this? Well, I am glad you've asked. I want to know how exactly I can improve. Tear me down, if you must -- trust me, as long as it's useful, I don't care. Go ahead, be brutally honest, hammer me with criticism. Believe it or not, I would be grateful.

And second of all, I am sending a desperate plea to anyone who may be able to help me with a problem. I know that the readers and authors on ff.net come from all walks of life and have all kinds of different experiences under their belts. So to those of you who may know any sort of solution, my problem is this: I am currently seventeen years old, soon to be eighteen. Of the three colleges to which I applied, I have been accepted at all three and could not be happier about that. However, my choice has been, and still is, New York University, a fantastic school for my desired major of journalism. Only one barrier is in the way: money. I know this is a problem almost everyone faces, but as my dad was just recently unemployed for almost a year, it's as if I've been struck by the Plague itself. Although he is working at the moment, the job pays next to nothing, and we are fearful that the loans for which we are applying may fall through and be denied. Of course, if someone out there reading this right now knew a way I could make some money, potentially and most desirably, by way of writing, it would be great. In about another month and a half, I will be working three jobs myself to compensate for our previous loss of income and earn some cash for school. I don't care what it takes. This is my desperate, heartfelt plea for ANY kind of solution at all. Newspapers; children's books; independent agencies looking for a certain plot or character; someone looking for a hand-written, personalised story; ANYTHING … I don't care. I will do it. Email skyefeyden@hotmail.com or leave it in a review, if you'd be so graciously kind.

That has to be the single longest author's note I've ever left … I figured it's worth a shot. My readers, however few, have always been kind to me, and what have I got to lose? If you're still hanging on, thanks so much. You don't know how much appreciate it.

A million times thanks,

--Skye Feyden

Forever

Chapter One: Friends

The soft sounds of AOL Instant Messenger floated forth from the dimly lit den.

"Spot?" Skittery asked, cautiously turning the corner. "You there?"

A grunt. So the answer was yes.

"Everyone's looking for you. Why don't you come out?"

Spot did not turn around. He pulled up a flashing window and began to type. Skittery could faintly see the piece of conversation.

KingConny6: Everyone's here, why aren't u?

BetOnTheBay10: I'm sick, Spot! I told you that!

KingConny6: I'll call u tomorrow then, alright?

BetOnTheBay10: Fine. Tell the boys I said hello. I wish I could be there to see u.

KingConny6: Me 2. I gotta go, Race. I'll call tomorrow. Talk 2 u then.

BetOnTheBay10: Miss u, Spot. Bye.

Spot quickly shut out the window. When he turned around, he looked angry.

"Always gotta know what I'm up to, doncha?" he growled in a low voice.

"I didn't see any of it," Skittery lied solemnly. "So come on out, and have some fun."

Turning back to the computer, Spot signed off of Instant Messenger and pushed the chair into the desk. He did give a lop-sided smile to Skittery, but it seemed more tired than anything else. Weakly he said, "It's not the way it looks."

They walked together through the den and the hallway into the living room where a large group of boys was gathered. The room was huge, much the same as the rest of the house, and now it was filled with loud music and chatter.

On the couch sat a boy named Tommy Myers, otherwise known as Mush for his gentle heart. Engaging him in conversation was Alan Parker, or Kid Blink because of his eye which was no longer really an eye. Mush appeared enrapt at the conversation, his big dark eyes sparkling as Alan talked.

Casually drinking a few cans of beer, nothing serious, were Danny "Snitch" Murphy, Jack "Cowboy" Kelly, Mark "Specs" Murray, and Erik "Dutchy" Samson. Their talk, ironically enough, had turned to the autumn's Republican Convention to be held in New York City, their home. Davey Jacobs sat at a nearby table, slouched in his seat, nodding occasionally and sipping from a cup of apple juice. Skittery looked at them and smiled. This small party was a joint effort between his mother and himself; for his part, it was an after-Christmas get-together, and for his mother's part, it was in honor of her son's acceptance to New York University, Early Decision, of course. It was senior year of high school, and Skittery wanted every open opportunity he had spent with his friends.

The lights of the city beyond lit up the night. Skittery felt warm as he glanced at them from the window of the incredibly giant townhouse. He had lived here all his life, choosing to stay with his mother after this parents' messy divorce. Come to think of it, he said to himself, we all stayed with Mom. "We" meant his ten-year-old brother James and eight-year-old sister Maddy.

"Get back here!" Danny called and laughed. The beer in his hand was still his first, and no signs of drunkenness were evident in his voice or movements. Leftover eggnog sat in a pitcher on the table.

"Huh?" Skittery asked, seating himself next to Davey. "What was the question?"

"Democratic Party: who wins your endorsement, Skitts?"

Skittery groaned. "Eh, politics. Come on, boys, we're supposed to be having a good time, not trying to fix the system. Can't we discuss anything else?"

"Sorry, I forgot," Jack snickered. "Your dad ruined politics for you a long time ago."

"You mean the dead-beat?" Skittery tried to smile. He was not sure that his anger would ever die. Not only had his father practically lived at work, Skittery also suspected him of having several mistresses to be satisfied by when he was supposed to be at home, spending time with his wife and three children. What the man had put Skittery's mother through … Skittery was not sure it was forgivable.

But he smiled at his friends. "Sorry." he said humbly.

"What about you, Spot?" Danny turned his attention to the frowning Irish boy. "Will you lower yourself down from your golden throne long enough to grace us commoners with your thoughts?"

"We sound like nerds," Spot alerted. "Don't you hear it?"

"I can hear it, but it can stay a secret from the rest of New York. Come on, Spot, any opinions?" Specs raised an eyebrow.

Spot considered, then answered. "Nah. Not sure. There are more important things for me to worry about right now."

Everyone nodded as if they understood. After a moment of ponderous silence, Mush raised his glass and proclaimed, "A toast … to our boy Skittery, and his accomplishments. Let this be a beginning, not an end. To Michael."

All the boys raised their glasses and repeated, "To Michael!" while Skittery himself merely nodded his head in a humble gesture of acknowledgement.

"Don't forget about Christmas, and New York, too," he said as they all sipped from the warm eggnog. "I'll raise my glass to them."

"So our little boy's goin' to the big University," said Spot. He grinned.

"One of us had to stay in New York," Skittery shrugged. "Why not me?"

"You could have gone into the army, like me," said Mush proudly. "To see the world."

"I'll see the world, eventually," Skittery smiled gently. "But for now, New York's gonna shelter me."

"What do you think it'll be like when we all leave?" asked Danny and a flurry of excited conversation arose.

Skittery listened half-heartedly, but was actually absorbed in watching the city through the window. The lights of the skyscrapers twinkled in the distance, warming up the dark night. He watched the cars roll along the street below, wondering what sort of people occupied the drivers' seats. Probably New Yorkers like himself, he decided, and average Joes. They probably loved their city as much as he did and had ambitions like his. But on this night, more than any other, he was a step above them: he was in his warm home, surrounded by his best friends, even in the midst of the city he loved most. Then he wondered how different it would be next year.

Better not to think about it yet, he decided, because it will happen soon enough.

The chatter of the boys floated past his ears. Then he heard Spot call, "Ah, calm dahn, you're all gettin' too loud. Look at poor Skitts ovah there -- he ain't able tah get a word in edge-wise."

Skittery smiled. "I'm just listening to you guys. Actually, I'm surprised the neighbors haven't called yet."

"That's why I'm tellin' 'em they gotta keep it down!" Spot exclaimed. Someone threw a pillow at him. "Why's it always 'torture the Brooklyn kid'?" he howled in indignation, then grinned wolfishly. "You ain't gonna get away with that, kid!"

"And I suppose you think that you can stop him?" Specs asked. His blond friend Erik Samson, AKA Dutchy on behalf on his ethnicity, grinned widely, but there was no innocence in it, try as he might.

Spot leapt, but not before Alan Parker got ahold of him. The result was an odd combination of forward motion and strong restraint, a backwards-type of flying. A gurgly noise came from Spot as he rounded on Blink and got in a few good punches, not full-force, but enough to make the one-eyed boy yelp and let go. Pillows rained down from every which direction as Spot tried, almost successfully, to block the hits. Even when the cushion supply was strewn out of reach, laughter ensued, and Spot was congratulated on his superior reflexes. "I ain't king'a Brooklyn for nothin'," he assured them, violet eyes alight with his sweet smile. Skittery knew that Spot's smile and his tough-guy ways had stolen the heart of many a girl, but he was not so sure that Spot was as … tough as he seemed.

It was late into the night was they left, taking the buses and subways back to their homes. Out of respect for Skittery's tired mother they had agreed to sleep at their own places, and now Skittery was left with the responsibility of cleaning up the various piles of mess stacked around the room. No bother, though, he thought as he glanced the den over, I miss them when they're away.

"Michael?" He heard his mother coming down the stairs. She was in her bathrobe, hair all askew and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. "Michael, are they gone?"

He ignored the question and took the cigarette from her. He was taller than her now, and stronger.

"Michael, please, baby, give that back," she begged and out of pity and obedience he handed it over to her. With a long trail of smoke drifting from her lips, she said, "Oh, the mess isn't bad. They're good boys, so nice."

"I'll clean it up, Mom," Skittery said. "Don't worry about it. You go to bed."

"Oh, Michael, thank you." Her relief was obvious. Ever since the divorce, she seemed to have become so much more frantic and harried, always in disarray and smoking the same cigarettes she had vowed to give up so many times before. "Give me a kiss, son, and if I need you tomorrow morning, will you take Maddy to her ballet classes?"

"Sure I will, Momma. You go to sleep. You look tired, Momma, but put out that cigarette."

Reluctantly she agreed. Skittery moved toward the living room to collect the empty cans, but his mother called out, "Where's my kiss, Michael?"

He leaned down and laid soft lips on her pale cheek. "Good night, Mom. I love you."

"I love you, too, Michael." She turned and took a few steps, then hesitated. Without facing him, she said, "You know I'm very proud of you, Michael, don't you?"

Skittery nodded. "Of course, Momma."

"Well, good night, then," she said after the confirmation and turned and went back up the stairs. "Don't stay up too late," came the call as she reached the top, then Skittery heard her door click shut, and all was quiet.

Not quiet, exactly, he realised as he listened to the street below. He had long become accustomed to the noise outside, the noise of the city, but now, when he was all alone, he strained to hear the world beyond. Exhaustion fell upon him, and he looked over at the mess. Well, it's sure not going anywhere, he thought sleepily to himself. I can take care of it tomorrow.

After traipsing upstairs to his room, he pulled off his shirt and jeans and fell into bed. With one click he shut off the lamp on his bedside table. The cool darkness felt good before he pulled the blankets over himself.

New York surrounded him from every direction and the light of the city managed to slip faintly through his windows. But it was the same as the noise, and he paid it no heed.

Tomorrow, he thought, then yawned. Tomorrow what? It would all be better? He wasn't sure. But it was the last thought in his mind before the blissful darkness fell.

Tomorrow …