Hi! I would have had this chapter out sooner, but I got grounded and couldn't update. But I guess it was a blessing in disguise, since it helped me write more of the story. Anyway, just as a side note, the story does take place in sort of present time. It's August 2010 for them, so a few months in the past. Just thought I should put that one out there! I guess you'd say this chapter is sort of a filler, or whatever, but it helps you understand my character Roslyn a little more, and alludes to many more secrets that will come out in future chapters. Also, I feel like I should add that this story is rated Mature, but it might be a while before my chapters reflect that. There's a certain chain of events that have to happen in order for it to get there. Anyways, enjoy the chapters! Reviews are always appreciated.

xo, Hailee

Chapter Four:

Frank and I walked into my house and put our stuff down on my kitchen counter; I had my school stuff and he had his car keys and a cigarette pack. We sort of stood there awkwardly, till he cleared his throat.

"Your house looks exactly like mine," he commented, breaking the tension nicely.

"Oh. Fascinating," I quipped. I started to walk up the stairs, and I could hear Frank's footfalls behind me. I opened the door to my room and turned on the light, then entered and sat on my bed. Frank lingered at the doorframe. His eyes moved around the room, taking everything in.

He whistled. "Wow. You've got a lot of posters on your wall."

"Yeah, I know. But it's comforting."

He walked around the room, fingering the posters. "Phantom of the Opera, Avenue Q, Breakfast Club, Rancid, Papa Roach, Madina Lake, The Misfits, Avenged Sevenfold, As I Lay Dying…these are great, Roslyn."

"Thanks. My dad got them for me. I think he liked them as much as I did sometimes."

"Your dad who listens to Kings of Leon?"

"He likes British music. He grew up there, so he's fond of any British band trying to make it in the US."

"That's awesome. Where in England did your dad come from?"

"Manchester."

"That's wicked. I've always wanted to travel there someday if I ever get the chance. I heard it's really beautiful."

Frank sat down on the bed across from me, facing me so it was easier to have a conversation with him. "It is."

"So, um, at the risk of getting personal," he started, "While I was stalking you, I noticed it was just you and your mom here. Is that why you moved here? Because your parents got divorced? I'm only asking because my parents are divorced and I live with my mom. And you always speak so highly of your dad, so you get along with him, like I do with mine."

I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat and fought with myself not to cry about my father. I didn't like to talk about him. He wasn't a safe subject for me. But I knew I could trust Frank already. I knew he wasn't going to think anything bad about me.

With a sigh, I divulged to him. "Um, no. My mom and I moved here because Florida held too many painful memories. My dad's not around because he…he died a few months ago."

Frank turned pale. "Oh, shit, Roslyn, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hash that stuff. Forget I asked."

"It's okay. I have to admit it sometime."

"Still, I should probably change the subject to something else. We should play 20 questions. Except I get to ask all the questions."

I rolled my eyes at him. "Okay, but only if you answer your questions, too. It's only fair since you stalked me all summer."

Frank laughed. I was totally beginning to love the sound of that laugh. It was completely infectious. And strange. And entertaining. "Deal."

I changed my position on my bed from sitting cross-legged to lying down. Then I pulled at Frank's hand till he was lying next to me on the bed. I didn't release his hand, and he didn't pull away.

"Okay, first question," Frank mused. "Hmm, who's your favorite author?"

"Sylvia Plath, obviously. I've read everything she's written. What about you?"

"That guy who writes the Maxim Ride books. Those books kickass."

"Not much of a reader, huh?"

"I thought we went over this. I like comics."

"Of course. Excuse my ignorance."

He poked my side and I jerked away from him. Frank took notice.

"Are you ticklish, Roslyn?"

I crossed my arms over my chest. Declaring to him I was, and hated it, would yield in nothing but him tickling me. If I told him I wasn't, he wouldn't believe me, and he'd tickle me anyway. "Maybe," I told him.

"You'd kill me if I tried, wouldn't you?"

"Absolutely."

Just for good measure, he tried to poke me again, and I shifted out of his reach. I hated being tickled. There was nothing fun about it.

"For the record, I'm ticklish, too," Frank told me. "That way when I do tickle you, we're even."

I shook my head. I really liked this, being here, with Frank. I don't care if I barely knew him. That was the point of this. I'd seen glimpses and moments where I saw him really show his personality. But one on one is intimate. It's the best way to really get to know someone. No strings, no pressure. Calm and collected and relaxing. It's a safe place.

"Got any more questions for me?" I asked.

"If you could have any superpower, what would it be?" he responded.

I rolled my eyes. "Such a cliché question. I'd want the power of invisibility at will. It's what I'd feel most comfortable as."

"I would love the ability to stop tome. You know, be able to pause, rewind, fast forward. Keep the memories alive."

"Is that why you have so many tattoos?" I asked. "So you can keep all the memories alive?"

Frank twisted toward me, propping his elbow on my pillow and put his hand behind his head. "That's exactly it. Memories are just too important to forget. My tattoos are my scrapbook, a moment in time that means something to me. Each tattoo has its purpose, and a special reason for being in my memory."

"That's actually one of the best reasons for getting tattoos I've ever heard."

Frank laughed again. "Thanks. Glad someone agreed with me. My dad freaked when I got my first tattoo. It was bad."

"Well, probably because with all these, you can't ever get a real desk job or anything like that."

"Yeah, but that was never in my future," he told me. "It's always been music. Both my grandfather and my dad were musicians; it's in my blood. I was in my first punk band when I was 11. I've always known that I'd be up on stage, me and my guitar, and performing. It's never been anything else for me."

"Being a musician is a hard goal to achieve," I murmured. Not that I was any better. Going out to Hollywood in hopes of becoming an actress is all I'd ever wanted to do someday.

"But it's one I'm willing to take. The band I'm in now, Pencey Prep, we've been doing a lot of gigs lately. We're working on getting our shit together so we can get out there and put out records. I'll keep trying till I get what I'm after."

You're much braver than me, then," I commented. "I've always been passionate about acting. But I know I could never go out there and make myself famous."

"Why?" he asked.

"Why?" I repeated back to him.

"Yeah, why? Why not go out there and try to make something of yourself? Why hold yourself back from doing what you love?"

"Because I know I'll never make it. I'm not gonna be good enough for them."

"Bullshit! Roslyn, you're letting them get into your head. You're letting them tell you what you can and can't do. Don't let them influence you like that. You've got to stick to what you believe, go for what you want, believe in yourself. It's the only way to make it in this world."

I stared up at my ceiling and bit my lip, processing Frank's words. I knew where he was coming from. But there was no believing in myself anymore. My dad had been the one to encourage everything, to tell me I was good enough, and that I could. We'd made a list of goals and plans together. But those dreams just aren't tangible anymore. They'd died when he got dick. They were buried in that coffin with him.

"I guess so," I told him, knowing I didn't sound one bit sure of his words.

"Subject change?" he asked, knowing I was uncomfortable. I nodded, grateful to him. "Got any hidden tattoos?"

I laughed. "No. But I've always wanted to get one."

"Oh, really? What of?" He sounded so excited and eager, and his eyes lit up at my words.

"It's a quote from a Nirvana song that's been stuck inside my head ever since I was little. 'I'm not like them, but I can pretend.' Those lyrics have pretty much defined me my whole life. They're a part of me now, somehow."

Frank nodded, looking thoughtful. "'I'm not like them, but I can pretend.' I like that. I think you should get it. Where were you thinking of putting it?"

I shrugged. "I don't know, my shoulder blade or something, I guess."

"Cool. You should really get it, though, if it means so much to you. I'll totally come with you for moral support if the needles freak you out."

"Ah, no. I'm good with needles. They don't bother me. They remind me of hospitals and being sick, but they don't bother me. I might take you up on that offer sometime."

"I'd look forward to it," he told me. "So, what's your favorite season?"

"Autumn! I love October, when all the leaves turn orange and crunch under your feet and the air's all chilly and the whole world seems set in place."

"And there's Halloween," he added.

I nodded. "Yes, there's that. It's my favorite holiday."

"Mine, too. Especially since I was born on Halloween."

"No way! Seriously?"

"I kid you not. Seriously."

"That's so creepy. But so cool!" I told him. "I was born the 28th, so I'm not far off. Us Scorpios got to stick together."

"Hell yeah! We'll have a joint party. It'll be fun."

I laughed. Parties, I had a feeling, were always crazy with these guys. But that did sound fun. "But it would have to be a costume party."

"Absolutely! I've already planned out my costume."

"Oh, really? And what is Frank Iero going as this year?"

"The creepy bunny guy from Donnie Darko." He grinned like a madman, and I burst out laughing.

"Oh, that's great! I can't wait to see that. But that is fitting. Wasn't his name Frank?"

"It sure was," he agreed. "What about your plans?"

"I don't know. I kinda feel liike tackling the Ziggy Stardust character this year."

"Now that," Frank said, pointing at me, "is something I would love to see. As a fellow Bowie fan, that Ziggy Stardust costume would be awesome to see. You should do it. Have Gerard help you with the designs. He's an even bigger Bowie fan than I am. He'd jump all over that shit."

"Sounds like a plan then," I told him.

Frank sighed. "I have a feeling this is going to be a good year," he said.

"Yeah," I murmured. "Me too."

"Of course it will be. There's never a dull moment when you're hanging out with me and the rest of the guys. You should see us playing Call of Duty. It's chaos."

"You guys play Call of Duty? 20 bucks says I can beat all your asses at that game. I'm an expert player."

"OMG! A girl plays Call of Duty?"

I laughed. "Yes. And I'm proud of it, too."

"Bet on, Roslyn." He shook my hand in confirmation. I would beat them all, too. I was pretty confident about that one.

I don't know how long Frank and I laid on my bed, talking. About anything, everything. He was the perfect person to talk to. He was passionate and had an opinion about everything. But he was funny and entertaining and that famous grin with his laugh, which he affectionately calls his pot laugh, went a long way with him.

Because of him being so amazing, I let him on a little secret. "I don't keep many memories of my father. I have a picture of us, his favorite albums, and his guitar. That's it. His other memories are just too hard."

"You were really close with your dad, huh?" Frank asked softly.

"Yeah. He was like my partner in crime, my rock. My mom was always the practical one, complaining I had my head in the clouds. My dad would just laugh, with this twinkle in his eye, and tell her there was nothing wrong with dreamers. He told me I could reach up and touch the clouds if I wanted."

I hope he understood where I was coming from, explaining why I'd given up on everything so easily.

"Why is it easy for you to keep those things of his, but not others?" he asked.

I was silent for a minute, trying to find a good way to answer him. "The day we took the picture was the happiest day of my life. I felt safe and content, and so incredibly glad I got to share it with him. It's a good memory. The music because…because that's what we bonded over. His love for it made me want to be that passionate for it. He brought me to one of the best things in my life. They remind me of him, his spark.

"The guitar's a different story. I don't want to keep it, but I have to. That guitar meant the world to him. When I was eight, he let me name it. And he never complained when I told him her name was Daisy. She was our little secret. Every time I was upset, I used to lock myself in my bedroom. He'd pick my lock, sit down at the foot of my bed, and just play. It made me forget why I was so angry and hurt. It was our special thing.

"My dad…he had cancer. He went through chemo and stuff, but the treatments weren't working for him. When it got close to the end, he pulled me next to him, in his arms, in the hospital bed, and whispered in my ear. He said, 'I know you've been hurting, and feel like the world is out to get you. I wanted to write you one last time before I go, so you'll always have a memory. When you're ready, when you've healed the hurt and the world is no longer your enemy, you read it. Look for it on our special place. It'll be waiting for you.

"After he died, I looked in his guitar case. There was an envelope with my name on it on top of Daisy. I keep it, the guitar in its case with the letter, in my closet, just waiting for when I can open it.

"I keep it because I know I'm not ready to open it yet. But being here, with you, with all your heart and passion, and the guys…you all remind me so much of him. What he believed in. I think, if I spend enough time with you all, I'll get closer to being able to open that latter. I'll get closer to being okay again."

I swallowed, and for the first time since I'd spoken about it, I turned to look at frank. He was staring at me, his lips tight, his eyes on mine, just breathing evenly. Then, slowly, he reached for me hand. I let him take it, knot his fingers through mine.

"Roslyn, why do you cut?" he finally asked.

I started breaking his hold on my hand by sitting up. "What?"

"I know you do it. I watched you this summer, lying in the grass, picking flowers with your headphones in. You always press into the skin on your right forearm. At the party, there was blood on your sleeve. I'm not judging you for it, or accusing you of anything. But does it have to do with your father?"

My jaw clenched and my breathing grew erratic. Cutting was my secret that I didn't want him to know. I didn't like him to know I hurt myself that way. That I was so broken. That I used a razor to make myself feel better, to forget about the past.

"I…I don't want to talk about it," I said slowly, and quietly, lying back down next to Frank. He took my hand again, and with his other hand he placed it on my cuts, or where he knew they were. I flinched, but didn't pull away from him. Instead, I closed my eyes and leaned on his chest, focusing on breathing in and out.

"I know you don't want to talk about it, Roslyn," Frank whispered, his lips brushing against my earlobe. I could feel his hot breath. "I'm here for you when you do. As long as it takes. The offer still stands, no matter what."

I nodded, knowing he could feel my response. "But just so you know," he continued. "The cutting? It's okay. We've all got our reasons. Maybe one day I'll share with you mine."

I wanted to ask what he meant by that, but also didn't want to ruin the moment. Instead, I just curled into him, and he wrapped a strong, protective arm around my waist. It felt good, lying here with him, having him hold me. I almost felt like a whole person. I almost felt read again. I didn't know what was going to happen with me these next few months, but I knew Frank and I were always going to be friends. We had that bond of understanding. And for that, I knew everything would be okay, even when it seemed like it wouldn't.

Our moment was interrupted by keys jangling at the front door. Reluctantly, and with a suppressed groan, I slid out of Frank's safety blanket arms. "You have to go," I whispered towards him, getting out of bed. "My mom's home."

He nodded. "Okay. Do you want me to pick you up tomorrow?"

I thought about it for a few seconds. "No, that's okay. I think I'll walk to school. You're welcome to join me if you want."

He chuckled. "I'll think about it. I'm not one for exercise, but you just might be worth it."

I smiled at him. He raised a hand to my cheek. "You have nice dimples," he commented.

I walked Frank down the steps to the kitchen, where we'd left our stuff earlier. My mom watched us silently, pretending to rifle through the mail. I shouldered my messenger pack and he grabbed his keys off the table, and then I escorted him to the front door.

When we were on the porch, he gave me a hug, then got into his Trans Am. I stayed there, watching him leave, park his car in a driveway two houses away, and walk through his front door. Then I went inside, heading towards the stairs, away from my mother.

She was waiting at the stairwell, standing. She held out Frank's cigarette pack. "Your friend left these," she said quietly, looking down at the red box instead of at me. That was the first time she'd spoken in a long time to me.

"Thanks," I replied, equally as quiet, and took the pack from her hand. She gave a tiny nod, then left me.

I walked up the steps to my bedroom. And from there, I stared at my deep purple walls, tying too make sense of this confusing reality.