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The rush of adrenalin Violet got from jamming her still-burning cigarette into the back of Leah's hand propelled her through the crowd of onlookers in the cafeteria and into the anonymity and relative safety of the busy hallway. Violet felt like laughing; the grin on her face couldn't be suppressed as the shriek of pain and outrage her bully had yelped bounced joyfully around in her head. Was there anything more satisfying than getting back at someone you hated, who took pleasure in tormenting you?

Violet hurried along the corridor, clutching the strap of her messenger bag where it lay across her chest. Burning that bitch had been great, but Violet wasn't eager to stick around to see what was going to happen next.

She pushed open the heavy door at the end of the hall and emerged into a gloriously sunny California afternoon. With a sigh, she reached into her bag and fished out a cigarette, lighting it as she walked across the grounds to the student parking lot. She missed Boston and its harbour grey skies and rain, its driving wet snow and slush. The freakishly nice weather here just couldn't compare.

Violet turned down the back lane that connected the student parking lot to the main street ahead. She was done with school for today at the very least. She didn't know what she was going to tell her parents, who would both undoubtedly be at home to give her shit, but she'd think of something.

"Hey little girl, you want some candy?"

Violet had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn't heard the car approach her from behind. She jumped in surprise, turning around.

Tate was leaning out the driver's side window of a beat up brown Chevette.

"Perv," she said, hoping her tone was indifferent enough. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Maybe," Tate replied.

"Do a lot of girls go for that?" Violet asked, raising her eyebrows and gesturing with her cigarette. "Is that your best panty-dropping line?"

A smile pulled sharply at the corner of his mouth, and he shook his head. "Nope."

"Nope, not a lot of girls go for that, or nope, it's not your best panty-dropping line?"

"Both," he said. "You want a ride?"

In the midst of their somewhat weird flirtation, Violet hesitated for a moment, remembering her dad's warning. But the boy in the driver's seat with his flannel shirt and ripped jeans, his hair in his eyes, as Billy Corgan's voice wailed plaintively from the radio, seemed anything but threatening.

"Sure, if it's not out of your way," Violet said.

An odd look passed over Tate's face, and then he smiled that weird, Cheshire Cat smile he had, his eyes bright. "It's not," he replied simply.

Tossing her cigarette to the pavement, Violet went around the car and climbed in the passenger seat.

"Buckle up," Tate said, taking his foot off the brake. "Safety first."

Violet rolled her eyes and fastened her seat belt. Tate pressed on the gas and Violet watched as the bland mid-century modern suburban brick building of her high school shrunk in the rearview mirror. She smiled, and Billy Corgan sang about pink ribbon scars and regrets.

"You ever notice how this song sounds cheerful, but the lyrics are actually about being really fucking depressed?" Violet asked.

"Yeah," Tate replied, not taking his eyes off the road. "Not everybody gets that."

"I know." Violet looked out her window, watching ranch houses and bungalows pass by as they approached her neighbourhood. "Don't you have class this afternoon?"

"Nope," Tate replied. "You?"

"Yeah, but I kinda figured I might be better off making myself scarce."

"I saw what you did to Leah," Tate said.

"You did?" Violet replied, unable to keep the eagerness out of her voice. The thought of him seeing her fight off her bullies made a strange little thrill stir in the pit of her stomach.

"Yeah, me and everyone else," Tate said. He gave a hollow laugh. "Stupid fucks love a good beatdown as long as they're not the ones getting their asses kicked."

"Ugh, this place is so full of assholes," Violet complained, letting her head fall back against the headrest. "I wish we'd never moved here. I hate everything about this stupid place."

Silence fell in the car as the final chords of "Today" faded away. The radio DJ began talking, and Tate reached over, jabbing a button and silencing the raucous voice.

"You hate everything about living here?" Tate asked, glancing at her. Violet picked up his meaning and gave a slight shrug of her shoulders.

"Maybe not absolutely everything," she replied. Tate eyed her for a beat and then smiled, a soft and genuine smile that almost looked out of place on his face.

They spent the rest of the ride in a stretch of silence that wasn't uncomfortable in the slightest. Tate could have kept driving for days and Violet wouldn't have minded at all.

Tate turned onto her street, and Violet was about to thank him for the ride when he pulled into Constance's driveway and killed the motor.

"Um, I don't think you can park here," Violet said, confused.

"Sure I can," Tate replied. "I live here."

"What?" Violet said. She stared at him in disbelief for a moment before recovering. "Oh my god, you live next door to me? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't have time. Your dad was kicking me out."

"And the five minutes of complete silence that just went by was an inadequate amount of time for you to say, 'Oh, by the way, I live next door to you'?"

"I'm sorry," Tate said, shrugging. He didn't sound apologetic.

"You're kind of an asshole," Violet observed.

"So are you," he replied, not seeming offended in the slightest.

Violet rolled her eyes, and looked to check whether her dad's car was in the driveway. It was. She sighed, already weary of the confrontation to come.

"What's wrong?" Tate asked.

"My parents are going to bitch me out for skipping school, that's all," she replied. "But thanks for the -"

"You can come hide out at my place," Tate said, interrupting her. His words rushed out in a jumble, like he wanted to say them before he could think twice. Violet regarded him. His expression was uncertain, and she could tell he was waiting for her to turn him down.

When presented with the choice between her parents' feeble attempts at discipline and an afternoon spent in Tate's company, there really was no debate.

"Sure," she said, lifting her shoulders in an ambivalent shrug. "You seem like the kind of guy who keeps lots of weird shit in his room. I'm up for that."

Tate led her into the house, which was much smaller and humbler than her own, a classic craftsman-style bungalow. It was quiet and dark inside, a cool reprieve from the hot afternoon sun. The air was stale, and it smelled of Pine Sol and cigarettes, with an undertone of flowery potpourri. Tate walked briskly to the back of the house, past the living room and the kitchen, without stopping. Violet tried to take in her surroundings as she followed him, but the tidy, traditional rooms seemed to contain no trace of the boy in front of her.

As they passed a narrow table against the hallway wall, a framed portrait caught Violet's eye and she stopped. It was a photo of Tate and a girl with dark hair, on a beautiful summer day. They were smiling.

"Who's this?" she asked, picking up the frame to examine it more closely.

Tate stopped, turning around. When Violet glanced up from the photo, she found him frowning down at it. He took it from her, his fingers brushing against hers.

"That's me and Addie, my sister," he said, his thumb leaving a humid fingerprint on the glass as he replaced it on the table. His tone was guarded but contained no meanness. He looked up. "She has Down's," he continued, watching her closely.

"She has a great smile," Violet replied. "Does she live with you?"

Tate just looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah. She's at her day program right now."

"Cool. So do I get to see your bedroom? Or do I have to wait out here while you clean up all the dirty underwear and porn and used Kleenexes?"

Tate gaped at her, and then let out a shaky bark of laughter. "No, come on."

They continued down the hallway until he stopped at the next to last door. Violet expected signs or posters to warn parental visitors away, but the door was clean, painted in the same pale yellow colour as the rest of the trim in the hallway.

Tate opened the door and Violet followed him, and as she crossed the threshold the thought occurred to her that she was in a stranger's house all alone, that no one knew where she was, that she knew nothing about this boy except that he was a patient of her father's and that he had a penchant for trespassing.

Violet stepped into the room, closed the door behind her, and took a long look around.

Tate's bedroom was surprisingly neat, no piles of laundry or stacks of dirty dishes to be seen. His bed was made and there were a few textbooks on his desk. Over his bed hung a Nirvana poster, the cover of In Utero. Violet went closer, examining it. She loved that cover; the plastic organs on display fascinated her.

When she turned around, Tate was leaning back against his desk chair, watching her.

"I love 'Heart-Shaped Box,'" Violet offered, breaking the silence that had descended between them.

"'All Apologies' is my favourite," Tate replied.

"What a shocker," Violet said, walking over to where he stood. She stopped right next to him, almost too close, to check out the junk tacked to the bulletin board on his wall. She wanted to see if he would move away from her. He didn't.

Violet leaned back and glanced down to see that one of the desk drawers wasn't closed all the way, something blocking it. Feeling bold, she reached down and grasped it, tugging it out of the drawer.

"What's this?" she asked, extracting a piece of red, white and blue striped grosgrain ribbon.

Tate gave a sort of displeased grunt and shook his head. "It's nothing, Violet, don't -"

Violet pulled, and dangling from her hand was a medal for a track event the previous year. She looked up to see Tate watching her anxiously, his expression hovering somewhere between embarrassment and annoyance.

"You run track?" she asked.

"Used to," he replied, defensive. "Look, it's stupid, just -"

"It's not stupid. It's cool – you got first place. You were good at it. Why'd you stop?"

Tate didn't reply. He reached down and gently took the medal from her, staring down at it. He ran his thumb over the engraved words on its shiny surface – First Place.

"Last year wasn't a great year," he said, leaning down past Violet and dropping the medal back into the drawer before closing it. When he straightened up, he was standing right in Violet's space, toe to toe, looking down at her.

Violet didn't flinch or step back. "Is that why you're seeing my dad?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you like to answer questions with questions to avoid actually answering them," she replied.

At that, he nearly smiled. "You sound like your dad. Do you eavesdrop on his sessions? Isn't that some kind of breach of people's privacy?"

"Probably," Violet shrugged, turning away to check out the pile of CDs and tapes by his stereo. "But it's interesting. And it's not like I'd tell people anything I heard. Who would I tell?"

"You ever eavesdrop on me?"

Violet was reading the liner notes of Superunknown by Soundgarden. She looked up at Tate, cocking an eyebrow. "That's pretty conceited of you. You're too boring to bother eavesdropping on."

Tate didn't reply. He just looked at her, worry entering his expression. Violet grinned.

"I'm kidding. I've never eavesdropped on you. And I won't, either, now that we're friends. Maybe before when you were just some weirdo guy from my school..." she trailed off, still smiling at him.

"Are we friends?" he asked, unsmiling. He didn't seem to be picking up on Violet's teasing.

"Sure, why not," she replied. "You're more tolerable than most of the dumb shits around here."

The backhanded compliment seemed to please him and he relaxed, leaning back against his desk once again. Violet eyed his downturned blond head before her eyes slid to the side and she noticed a piece of notepaper tacked to his bulletin board. She walked over and removed the thumbtack, pressing it back into the cork as she held the paper in her hands, looking down at the black birds flying chaotically across the page.

"This is what you were drawing, the other day," she said, glancing at him. "Do you like to draw? You're good at it."

Tate gave a noncommittal shrug. "You can keep -"

"Why is there a girl in your room, Tate?"

Violet jumped. Constance stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. Violet hadn't even heard her enter the house or open Tate's bedroom door.

"This is Violet," Tate mumbled. "She just moved in next door."

"Yes, I have made Violet's acquaintance already. But what is she doing in your bedroom? And why was the door closed?"

"We were just –" Violet began to defend them both, but Constance held up her hand.

"I am not interested in your justifications, young lady," she said, giving a shake of her perfectly coifed head.

"We're in the same history class," Tate said, his voice low and steely. "Violet's new, and I was going to help her get caught up."

"Well," Constance huffed, disbelieving. "I'm not sure any girl who would go into a young man's bedroom is someone you ought to be spending time with." She eyed them both, a canny expression in her eyes. "But I suppose you're just being neighbourly."

Tate didn't reply, glaring furiously down at his shoes.

"But we'll leave the door open," Constance said. "I wouldn't want Mrs. Harmon thinking I'm not a trustworthy chaperone."

Constance left, and Violet turned to Tate, about to make a quip about his mother being a weird relic from the '50s, but the words died in her mouth when she saw the dark expression on his face. She stared, surprised by the depth of the anger she found there.

"You should go," Tate said, still glowering down at the floor.

"Okay," Violet replied softly. Just like that, the spell had been broken and she was only too willing to leave, even if it meant dealing with her parents. She held out the piece of notepaper between her fingers. "Can I keep this?"

Tate looked down at her hand, and then back up. Violet was surprised to see that his eyes were damp. She stared; she didn't know what to say.

"Yeah, keep it," Tate said, his eyes sad.

Violet merely nodded and left the room without another word, grabbing her bag and slipping silently out the back door of the house without encountering Constance.

When she entered her own house, she found her parents locked in another heated argument of hissed, angry whispers – for her benefit, she supposed, which was hilarious – in the kitchen, and so she was able to retreat to her bedroom without having to endure another empty lecture, without even being noticed.

In her room, she threw her bag down by the door and went to her stereo, flipping through her CDs until she found The Cranberries' Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can't We? Violet popped open the door and put the CD in before tapping it shut and hitting the play button. She went to her bed, sprawling across it on her stomach, and pulled the piece of notepaper from her pocket.

She opened it, trying to decide what to do with it, whether to display it or tuck it away somewhere safe where no one would see it except her. She looked down at the pale blue ink lines and the dark black scribbled birds, and her breath caught in her throat.

The black shapes weren't birds at all. They were splatters of blood.


Violet was late for English Lit, but given that her face and arms were scratched all to shit and she was pretty sure part of her scalp had been yanked off her head when Leah grabbed a handful of her hair during lunch, she found she didn't much care.

Walking down the empty hallway, she considered skipping the rest of the afternoon and going home again, but she was already in shit with her parents for the other day. As it turned out, Westfield was vigilant enough to let parents know when their kids were missing classes, but not vigilant enough to prevent savage beatings in the quad at noon.

With a sigh, Violet made for the library, electing to hide out there until her next class. At least she'd only get shit for missing one class today.

There were only a handful of people in the library, spread out at the tables and in the stacks, with the early afternoon sunshine slanting in through the high windows. Violet liked the library; it was the only place in the school that wasn't completely horrible.

It was also the only place she could be certain never to encounter Leah and her little band of sycophants.

Violet walked down the stacks, running her fingers along the ridges of dust-jacketed book spines. She wandered her way through the Dewey Decimal System until she came to the end of a row of shelves and found an isolated study area populated by a few old, ugly orange couches and a couple of tables.

At one of the tables sat Tate, his blond head bent down over the book in front of him.

Violet hesitated, watching him as he turned a page and rested his elbow on the table. She hadn't talked to him in a couple of days, or even seen him around. Things had been left somewhat strange between them, what with his mom implying that she was a slut and all.

She was considering turning around and finding another place to hide in the library when Tate looked up. Immediately she felt her face flush, but Tate smiled, tipping his head to gesture her over.

Violet went, not knowing what else to do, and took the empty seat beside him.

He closed the book in front of him, an anthology of Romantic poetry. For a class, Violet guessed, but she didn't have time to ask, for Tate was frowning at her, reaching over to brush her hair out of her face.

"Did she do that to you?" he asked softly, taking in the scratches on her face.

"Yeah," Violet whispered back, rolling her eyes. "I have got to figure out a way to get that bitch off my case."

"People can be such assholes," Tate replied. His voice dropped lower, and he leaned in. "What would you do to get back at her, if you were going to?"

"Kill her," Violet said with a cavalier shrug.

Tate had gone very still, watching her closely. "Really?"

"Yeah, I'd blow her brains out, if I could just get my hands on a gun," Violet deadpanned. Tate's expression was rapt, and Violet grinned. "Jesus, I'm kidding – I wouldn't actually kill her. I'm not a psycho."

Tate blinked. "I know," he said. He looked back down at the book in front of him for a moment, and then slid a sideways glance her way. "But it would be pretty great if she left you alone, though, right?"

"It would be fantastic," Violet replied on a sigh. "Doubt it, though. I just want everyone to leave me alone, really. I'm sick of the hassle, you know?"

Tate nodded in commiseration. "You got class this afternoon?"

"Yeah, Civics. You?"

"Chemistry," Tate replied. There was a pause, and Violet wondered if perhaps he wanted to be left alone to study or read. But Tate raised his eyebrows and leaned closer to her. "There's a book here about famous LA murders, and it has lots of crime scene photos and shit. I found it last year when I was doing research for a history paper. Wanna go find it?"

Violet smiled, feeling her spirits lift considerably. "Yeah, totally. Does it have stuff about the Black Dahlia?"

"Of course," Tate replied, his expression splitting open into a grin. He stood up from the desk, and held out his hand.

Violet would rather have eaten glass than admit it, but when she put her hand in Tate's and felt his fingers wrap loosely around hers as he pulled her up from her chair, a warm sensation pulsed through her chest, and she was grateful to finally have a friend.