A/N: If you haven't seen the Breakfast Club yet. Hurry, get to it.

Cam

I realize that my last year of high school is all about endurance.

And if I don't know about endurance by now, then my dad's long shot dreams for me to be drafted before I hit the big 2-0 will be for shit. According to him, I have exactly three years left.

I'm a ticking clock, losing time (not control, as my therapist reminds me). The thing is, Dr. Kaparowitz doesn't get that I am in control. I chose to go back Toronto, back to the Ice Hounds, back to everything that almost brought me to the lowest low I've ever brought myself to. And she always ends up pitching me a curveball: 'Do you like hockey?' She's been asking this one since day one, almost a year ago today. My answer is always the same.

'Yes,' I pretty much lie. The only lie I tell her, really.

Sure, I'd like it better if I didn't have a deadline and all this pressure attached to it. It'd be so much better if it was a just-for-shits game with older brothers, Justin and Mick.

Whatever. The point is, I don't cut anymore. I don't get into scraps with niners at all. I don't hole myself up in greenhouses…

And when I lie to everyone else, I don't get the bullshit. I know exactly how it'd go down for me if I did let people in. I'd be that one kid in class everyone knows about, the lost cause. They always want to give lost causes something, like giving you their tears or lectures about how much you're worth will make everything better.

Though the pills the doctor gave me help, and I'm comfortable with the routine. My mom's an angel for trying her hardest not to smother me or treat me like I'm made of glass. Everything that's prescribed helps some. But, they never warn you about what it would mean for everyone to know, that after all is said and done, no one wants to be friends with the kid who might actually lose it on them.

So, I live in my head mostly. No one would want in there. Sometimes, I think up miserable, fucked up things that I want so badly to say out loud. I don't, of course, not at school. That's what my therapist is for. This way, no one gets hurt, and no one has a reason to leave.

Maybe I'll find a way out of hockey, if and when I get drafted. Maybe my dad will understand…

'You okay, Saunders?' Zig appears out of nowhere.

'Jesus, man,' I snap at him, trying to stand without looking too spooked, holding on to the metal bar above me. I wonder if he's been hiding behind the bleachers all along, staking out. 'I've been waiting in the dirt forever.'

'Uh,' he replies lamely, and I wonder why he has to take this long to respond. He only shrugs, and mumbles, 'Lost track of time.'

This is our routine: at the top of the hour for my spare, he comes to find me behind the furthest bleachers of the football field. He doesn't tell anyone, and I would never let him tell anyone.

Do I trust him? Not entirely. He's definitely not the same band geek that I traded a few messy punches with last year, though I'm definitely not buying the Outsiders getup that he's obviously copping. I mean, the guy is obviously taking that grade nine book report way too seriously.

They say he got kicked out of his own house, that he's dealing to make it out on his own now. I mean, I should feel bad, and I might feel bad for him, but I'm not sure if I believe the rumours. Anyways, I can't help it if I almost always smother an urge to laugh out loud when I see him trying to strut, that's right, strut his way towards our meeting spot.

And when he's this close, I feel like my skin is always itching with something contagious. But, it's especially acting up now, when he's actually talking to me, wondering if I'm 'okay'.

Then there's the single most important detail I can't forget. No matter how many times I bring up the memory of him calling me a 'psycho', triggering me to literally end it all, I can't deny the stronger memory of his real panic. He was wearing the same shirt that he is wearing today. I remember this because I see a stubborn, fading stain from my own blood that I smeared on its front. And his face, white and screaming into his phone for help the whole night, the night he pulled me out of the greenhouse.

He hasn't told anyone. Not even her. Even now, I'm sure he's still trying to make amends.

'Did you brin' the vligh'?' He asks me, a single blunt flopping with every syllable in his mouth. He pats himself for assurance.

With an impatient flourish, I light my lighter by his mouth, singeing the tip of the paper before he looks as though he's about to ask again.

There's this routine too. The drug deal with his friendly discount of my asking for it, and him paying, always saying I can just get him later. I never do.

He passes me the blunt reluctantly, puffing out a plume of smoke before curiosity breaks through again.

'Are you okay?' He persists. 'Because you look-'

'Like I've been waiting for a half hour for your dumb ass? Where were you, anyway?' I redirect, forcefully blowing out from my lungs. I can't even enjoy this right now.

This is not part of our deal. I wonder if I have to start paying him just to keep his mouth shut.

He's suddenly got this huge, goofy grin, spreading all the way across his face. Once it's there, I feel like he's having a hard time getting rid of it. I really don't want to know.

'Nevermind.'

He pinches the blunt back out of my mouth, and he's still smiling, like he's got a secret he really, really wants to share.

'Nevermind,' I repeat for good measure.

That grin is making him look like a walking, talking contradiction in his rip-sleeved, all-black look today. I want to laugh at him now, like I've been waiting to today, because all I see is the dork that I know he is dying to burst at his seams. But, I just manage a heavy eye roll, because I'm aware of my own uniform, and it's just as pathetically cliche-an Ice Hound letterman jacket. So, when he doesn't pass up the chance to make fun of my newest shade of plaid today or the way my longer hair is not at all different from the other guys on my team, I do give him a real laugh.

'See you next week, Novak.' I blow out a final puff, and thankfully I leave it there when I see the concern flooding back in his eyes.

I don't know what's worse, a pseudo friendship with him, threatening to become a real one, or his pity.

'Birdman!' Dallas wrangles me into the cafeteria. He still has no clue what that nickname means to me. He only thinks we've picked off from last hockey season, when I left for a 'family emergency', which isn't so much of a lie when you think about it. But, this time around I grin back at him, like I own that shit, that I really wanted to scale that catwalk as a joke. The guys kept saying it'd be sick if we got Simpson's attention, and, with his natural knack for fumbling these sort of things, he'd cause mass hysteria. Apparently, the idea of someone having a public meltdown is hilarious.

And this is another routine. This is one that I've gotten much better at the second time around.

We walk past the tables, now and again stopping to make the rounds for the power squad and the puck bunnies, and anyone else that just wants in on the parents-out-of-town-kind-of-parties on the weekends.

I think I've gotten my smile down, since no one seems to notice my straining sometimes, and I've trained myself to ask the usuals, 'Did you see how much so-and-so drank on Saturday?' or 'Are you going to so-and-so's thing after our game?'

We almost make it to our table when I hear her name, and then there's a vice grip on my insides. I take a sharp inhale that I'm trying to hide. And I'm reminded of the first time I saw Maya, heard her since, well, since we broke up over a year ago.

That was on my way to the Principal Simpson's office on my first day back. She didn't stay longer than the noise she made that sounded like she was having trouble breathing or maybe it was a disgusted, dry heaving fit. All I know is that I somehow decided to shut down in front of her, and I couldn't hear anything louder than the hammering of my own heart in my ears. She left me then, trapped by my own feet that weighed about a ton of bricks, wondering what she really thought of me now.

I realized then that I had to give up on this idea that I'd be prepared for her when I came back. And, really, I never stood a chance before. It's clear that my luck's never going to change.

Degrassi is a big school. You could literally not know a third of your grade simply because there isn't enough time in the day to pass the same people in the hallways, let alone know all of them. So, it's a wonder that I can count the number of instances I've seen and heard her on both my hands. Neither of us mean it, I'm sure. In fact, I'm positive that we're both downright religious about avoiding each other, finding barriers with crowds and our friends, finding interesting spots on the wall to fix our sights on as we find ourselves passing each other, alone in the halls.

Then it happens again, and no matter how many times I've tried to pull the plug of my looping film reel, I let it stay for as long as it does. I blink and I see her from before, her small hand on the back of my neck, the pretty bow her mouth makes before she licks her lips, and I hear her softer singing voice when she thinks no one is listening. Another strike against my chest, and it feels impossibly tight. I ball fists at my sides.

Fuck.

I blink and I exhale, relieved because she's far enough and concentrating on someone else.

'You really think you can get away with this?' Terri, a red-faced power squadder, is standing opposite of Maya.

Maya, as some have made comment about, is not the same girl I remember. I believe them not because she's traded in her glasses for heavy, dark kohl lining her eyes, or because her dark, mismatched clothing that reminds me of my older brother's bedroom pinup of Courtney Love is swallowing up her tiny frame. When she tucks her hair back, I see her right ear that's almost completely covered in piercings. But, it's not all of that either.

Maya is almost a sister to her friend next to her (Gabby or Grace), who is equally studded and dressed to be deliberately different. Almost. She has left her hair blonde, a splash of colour that stands out from the shades of black and gray. I wonder if that might mean something, like, I don't know, maybe the old Maya hasn't completely transformed yet. Is the girl in the photobooth still in there?

Offhandedly, I keep wondering why I haven't seen the friends I know she was attached to the hip to before, like Tristan or Tori. Even Zig is mostly absent by her side, and he only seems to be with her when Gabby or Grace is giving him shit about something. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that this sometimes comforts me.

Again, none of this stuff would really strike me if I didn't see this other change for myself. She's just different, the way she carries herself, like she's waiting for someone to provoke her, like she is now. Her eyes are just waiting on Terri.

'Look,' Terri's voice is shrill and I'm sure it could be picked up by some poor dogs nearby, while she shakes her phone in front of Maya. 'What do you call this?'

'A cell phone in my face?' Maya quips, trying to hide a poorly disguised smile.

Dallas pushes me down into our seats with the team. 'This is gunna be good,' he snickers at the pair of girls, crossing his arms, reclining in his seat.

I'm not comfortable, I realize my palms are getting clammy.

'It's Tyler's. You know, Tyler, my boyfriend. And they're texts about you!' Terri's waterworks start now. 'You're disgusting, you know that? You think the guys invite you to drink and waste space at our parties because they like you? You-y-you're s-such a…'

I actually feel my breath catch in my throat, but I can't look away when Maya's eyes flicker on me. There isn't hatred in them, like the dagger eyes she's thrown toward Terri, but worse-they're blank slates, empty. Before I shift uncomfortably in my jacket, before they tell me to join the team in wagering who's coming out alive in this one, she lets go of me, her eyes back on Terri.

'A Whore!' Maya bursts furiously, ignoring Gabby or Grace's pleas to walk away from the crowd that's stopped to watch the show. 'Don't worry, I know thanks to the art I saw while I was puking my eight am vodka fix in the stalls this morning.'

Terri is taken aback, as if she wasn't prepared to say it herself. Then, Zoe finally comes out of the squad's standing jumble to meet Terri, most likely telling her to leave it. I'm slow on the uptake on a lot of gossip at school, especially spread by the power squad, and in part to my not giving a shit most of the time. But, when I think I've just moved to break out of my uncomfortable spot of frozen heat, I feel Dallas' hand on my shoulder, as if to keep me in place. I'm not sure if it's because I'm trying to move toward the girls or if he thinks I will.

Then it's over. She's gone and the crowd disperses in one swift, fast-forward motion, and I'm glad it does because I need to stop feeling my stomach plummeting, so I won't feel like I'm sinking right through my seat.

'Teases,' Owen Milligan sighs heavily, seemingly deprived. 'Always all talk, man.'

I snap my head harshly in his direction, and, as though Dallas notices again, I'm stopped. Except, this time I'm finally reminded of why I take control to keep my mouth shut and my interests with the team before me. I'm going to ignore what's triggering me to go back to being a one-man-rage-machine, and just stay.

If I don't know about endurance by now, I know that I will absolutely regret it.