When Whitney next opened her eyes, she couldn't focus. Everything was fuzzy and clouded around the edges- as though her eyesight had suddenly deteriorated. She tried focusing on a single object, and the world spun, like some absurd carousel that was at high speed and wouldn't let her off.

She moaned quietly, and squeezed her eyes shut again; she felt queasy.

No-one, except probably Star and Max, had noticed her fall. The music still pounded, people were still writhing back and forth, screaming delightedly. Several flame-filled drums had been knocked over. Sparklers had been brought, and were being waved around by excited children.

She tried to sit up, and a white-hot poker corkscrewed across her forehead. It felt like she had a massive drum of pain inside her head, pounding against her temples. Her stomach lurched again.

"Honey, are you okay?" Max sounded worried, and when she tried to sit up again, two arms that resembled tree trunks snaked around her middle, and lifted her easily. She swayed precariously; Max's arms tightened. They felt like ice.

Star was at her shoulder, her expression a mixture of sadness and sympathy. Whitney was very pale.

"My…head…" she managed; her lips felt like leather. Her stomach did backflips, and the drum slammed inside her head again. She whimpered; what had happened? Had the drink been spiked?

"Headache?" Max asked quietly, his eyes speculative behind his enormous glasses. She nodded as best she could. Her skin felt like it was on fire; she half-expected to see her skin be angry and red, as though she'd scalded it. It was sensitive; every move she made sent a fresh wave of fiery pain over her body. She felt very vulnerable, exposed; she was glad that Max and Star were here, otherwise…

Her thin frame shuddered uncontrollably, and the world spun again. The inside of her mouth was parched; it was a desert, where the wind was scorching and harsh, and there was nothing but dry sand. It wasn't even soft, but sharp and stabbing, and she moaned again, louder this time.

"There's something seriously wrong with me," she croaked. "Max…"

Above her, she thought she heard laughter. Struggling to focus, she made out the vague shapes of the four boys from the video store. The one with the white hair was smirking, the others practically howling with laughter.

And she suddenly knew that they were laughing at her.

Her legs threatened to buckle underneath her, and Max lifted her gently again. "Do you want me to take you home, Whitney?" he asked softly.

If Whitney had been in any other state of mind, she would have surely realised that she hadn't once told Max her name.

"I think that'd be the best idea," she squeaked. She was going to be in so much trouble when she got home. She didn't want to go, but she certainly didn't want to stay here- not when the boys were laughing at her.

"Okay," he murmured. "Let's go."

He half-walked, half-carried her away from the mass of writhing people. Star didn't move. As Whitney looked back, she saw that her face was sparkling with tears, and, as she looked, the other girl mouthed I'm Sorry.

As she got into Max's big, red, boat of a car, she wondered what exactly Star was sorry for. It wasn't her fault that her drink had been spiked…

She looked back over her shoulder, to blearily see whether the boys were still there.

They weren't.

XxX

Max's car was huge and luxurious, and practically screamed money, but Whitney couldn't concentrate on anything other than trying not to unleash the contents of her stomach on his fine upholstery. Although it was good that she wasn't standing anymore, her stomach did flips inside of her, lurching precariously from side to side often, and the parched feeling in her throat intensified. She sat poker-straight in the passenger seat, her hands curled into tight fists. She wouldn't vomit here. She. Would. Not. Vomit. Here.

The drive was probably no longer than a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity. When at last the car came to a safe stop, right outside her new house, she tumbled out of the car, and vomited spectacularly on the ground. She pushed at her hair weakly, not wanting it to be caught in the onslaught.

Retching uncontrollably, her stomach clenching painfully, she became horribly aware that Max was standing over her, his expression puzzled. "I- I'm sorry…" she whispered wetly, fighting a sudden urge to cry. Max raised an eyebrow.

"What have you got to be sorry for, my dear?" he asked pleasantly. "You didn't damage the inside of my car, after all."

"I'm still sorry," she said.

He hauled her upright again. "Don't be sorry," he said, smiling kindly, "Some of us just don't take to drinks as well as others do."

She didn't know what to say to that. She'd honestly thought that the liquid inside had been punch- not any kind of alcohol.

Then they were at Whitney's door, Max keeping an arm around her shoulders to stop her from keeling over, the other rapping at the door smartly. Everything Max did was smooth, efficient. It was kind of creepy.

Then again, what did she know? She could barely see straight!

A sleepy-looking Chris answered the door after the second knock. To Chris, punctuality was everything; he hated keeping people waiting. The glazed-over look I his eyes disappeared the moment he saw his stepdaughter, slumped against a strange man's shoulder.

"What's…going on?" he asked, narrowing his eyes dangerously. Whitney was very pale, and, as he looked her over, he could see beads of sweat rolling off of her, and her dress was splattered with- something red. Wine?

He was worried about her, that was for sure, but inside him, anger began to bubble and froth as well. Andrea had told him everything, and although she was well inside the curfew, she was drunk- very drunk, from the looks of it. She'd deliberately disobeyed her mother.

Since Whitney appeared to not be capable of speech aside from a weak moan, he directed his question at the older man. He was nearly a full head taller than Chris, and built like a truck. He might have been intimidated by this man, had he not been wearing a sympathetic smile that made his eyes twinkle.

"I'm afraid your daughter has had a bit of an accident," he said solemnly. He offered a huge hand to Chris, who took it reluctantly. "My name's Max. I'm Star's father…?"

The name Star was known by Chris. Andrea had said that Star was something of a hippy. And that their daughter had somehow become friends with her.

He realised that Max was waiting for him to introduce himself, and he forced a grim smile on his face. "Chris," he said curtly. "What happened to Whitney, Max?"

"I don't really know," the older man said, looking mystified himself, "One minute she was dancing with Star, having a great time, and next thing I know, she nearly passed out on the ground! I couldn't leave her like that. Star and I drove her straight home, before she could get into any trouble." And trouble she might very well get in, Max thought, grinning inwardly, in more ways than one.

Chris sighed. "Let me take her off your hands." And Whitney was transferred smoothly from one man to the other. If she'd been even slightly awake, she would have noticed that going from Max to Chris was like stepping out from an ice shower and jumping into a warm bath. "Thanks for taking her home, Max. I hope she wasn't too much hassle for you."

Whitney stirred into life inside her stepfather's arms, and coughed wetly. "My throat…" she groaned, cupping a hand around it, as though that was going to do something.

"I'm afraid she might have had a bit too much to drink," Max said apologetically. Chris's grip on Whitney tightened, and she winced. He was really angry with her. She was going to cop it in the morning.

When Chris spoke next, though, he was remarkably calm. He clapped Max on the shoulder with his free hand. "Thanks again for taking care of her, Max."

"Oh, not at all!" Max replied, eyes serious behind his absurd glasses, "I sincerely hope she gets better soon."

"So do I." The threat in his voice was obvious, even to Whitney. Max smiled awkwardly, and turned to return to his flamboyant red car, looking back only once.

He smiled.

XxX

Once they were inside the house, Chris dropped the façade. He sat Whitney down in a chair, and once he was sure that she wouldn't vomit again, he rounded on her. "Why?" he demanded quietly, not wanting to wake Andrea and Rob, "Why did you go ahead and disobey your mother when she told you not to go ahead and-"

"Chris, there's something seriously wrong with me." Her voice was little more than a whisper. She'd stopped shaking, but she was still sweating profusely, and more than a little pale. "I feel terrible…"

He sighed. "Whitney, there's nothing wrong with you. You're just drunk."

"No!" She shouted, startling both of them, "No, there is seriously something wrong with me!"

She was going to wake up the whole damned house if she kept yelling like that. Chris glared at her, his normally good-natured face now sharp and ugly. "Go upstairs and sleep it off, for Christ sake, Whitney. I'll deal with you later, young lady."

She tried to stand up, but, after a few tense moments, couldn't manage it. Chris, despite himself, picked her up like a small child, and carried her to bed.

He loved her like she was his own, but there was going to be hell the next morning.

XxX

Lucy was busy knitting away when Max returned home. It had slowed down after nine-thirty at the store, and Maria had assured her that she could handle it, after agreeing that she would ring Lucy or Max should things speed up, although it was obvious that that wasn't going to happen. Lucy usually enjoyed knitting, creating new things, but tonight, she was knitting for two reasons; firstly, to keep the gnawing hunger away, and secondly, to keep her mind off the nice girl that Max had decided to condemn.

It wasn't working.

Her huge, hulking husband appeared in the doorway, looking pleased with himself. Lucy wondered whether the girl was already dead or not. Despite her worries, she forced a warm smile. "Hi, honey," she greeted, "How was your night?"

She leaned forward for her customary welcome-home-kiss, but he surprised her. He swept her off the chair and into his arms, giving her a crushing hug. "Thoroughly fulfilling," he whispered, kissing her nose. "Oh, Lucy, you're not going to be alone for much longer!" he cried, spinning her around delightedly.

I've never been alone, Max. I have Michael and Sam to worry about. I didn't wish this fate for poor Whitney…

She laughed. "That's great!"

"Mom, you're not alone anyway." Both Max and Lucy turned to see Sam at the foot of the stairs, Batman comic in hand. Lucy's youngest, Sam was at the tender age of thirteen, with a mop of light brown, curly hair, and the most eccentric dress sense Max had ever seen. Baggy jeans, an oversized t-shirt with seemingly random paint splotches, and bright red sneakers, Sam always looked slightly out of place. His dark eyes bored into Max's, full of loathing. He then turned to his mother, who felt her heart sink. "You've got me and Mike, remember?"

Lucy unwound herself from Max and hurried over to her son, giving him a fierce hug. "Honey, that's not what Max was talking about, and I'd never forget you and Michael. You know that, right?"

"Sure," he muttered, permitting his mother to kiss him. This had been hard on all of them, but Sam especially. After the little spat with the Boys, he was disliked by them and the Frog brothers. Well, perhaps 'disliked' was an understatement. They hated her Sam. Sam wasn't allowed in the comic store anymore, something that had hit him particularly hard. Alan and Edgar had been his best friends back in the day, and now he wasn't allowed anywhere near them.

"I love you to bits, Sam," Lucy said, stroking her son's hair. He scowled. "Nothing's ever going to change that."

"I know, Mom," he sighed, untangling himself, "Can I have something to eat?"

She grinned. "Sure."

For the next half an hour, everything was all right again. Max, Sam, and Lucy- it felt like a family, a perfectly normal family.

Well, as normal a family as they could be.

XxX

The next morning, when Whitney opened her eyes, it was like someone had suddenly jabbed her in the socket with a white-hot poker. The sunlight stung. "Ugh," she groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. She'd never been a morning person, and today she felt worse than ever.

As the memories of last night surfaced, she groaned again. She was in so much trouble. In fact, she almost didn't want to get up if it meant that she was going to be yelled at. But she knew that it would only get worse if she delayed it any longer, so, rather reluctantly, she forced herself out of bed, blinking rapidly against the bright sunlight. Funny, it seemed a lot brighter than usual- it was irritating.

Brushing the last of the crusty sleep from her eyes, she pulled the curtains closed before getting dressed, which brought some relief. Surprisingly, her dress only had a single red stain on it- somehow, she'd avoided soiling her dress with her vomit the night before. Pulling on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, she started downstairs, stopped, reached for a pair of sunglasses sitting on her bedside table, and slid them on, before hurrying down to meet Andrea and Chris.

Rob stuck his head out his door as she passed. "You're gonna get it," he said cheerfully, "Mom and Dad are real mad at you."

"I know," she sighed. "I'm mad at me, too."

"What happened?" he asked. "Were you real sick or something?"

"I guess so," she said, and she wasn't sure why, but a spike of annoyance rose up from her gut, "Why do you care, anyway?"

"I-" Rob looked hurt. Whitney rarely, if ever, snapped at her brother. "Nothing. I was just worried about you, that's all."

Whitney already felt the regret that followed an outburst. Why had she acted like such a bitch to her brother, whom she loved dearly? "Rob, I'm-"

He slammed the door in her face.

She stood there for a moment, deeply upset. She hadn't meant to upset Rob, really, she hadn't. But for some reason…

She sighed. She had to face the parents sooner or later, and she may as well get it over and done with.

Adjusting her sunglasses, she padded into the kitchen. Andrea was there in her nightgown, staring fixedly at her bowl of cereal. Chris was pacing, his agitation rolling off of him in generous waves. Whitney stopped in the doorway, and exhaled noisily. It was bright in here; Andrea had opened all the windows, and sunlight streamed in seamlessly. It was very pretty, but somehow painful. Whitney felt a dull throb develop above her left eye, and she grimaced.

Chris saw her grimace, and he frowned. "So the illustrious Whitney has finally decided to grace us with her company," he almost snarled. Andrea looked up, startled. When she saw her daughter standing in the doorway, her expression went from surprised to disappointment in an instant. "You're in trouble, missy."

"How much?" Whitney asked dully, the throbbing less painful than annoying, but it was persistent. What a fabulous time to develop a headache, especially after last night!

Andrea stood up, arms crossed. "A lot, Whitney Jane Thompson."

Chris seemed to be taking the offensive here. "How could you do this, Whitney? How could you deliberately disobey your mother and I?"

That stung- almost as much as the sun. Whitney started forward angrily. "I didn't disobey you at all!" she cried, hurt. She hated fighting- and now she was fighting with all her family members. "I didn't drink at all- I had one glass of punch!"

"Punch. Sure," Chris said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Max told me everything. He said you had a bit too much to drink. And, judging by your condition last night, it was way too much for you, young lady!"

Whitney gasped. That wasn't true at all- she had had only one glass of punch. Sure, there had been alcohol passed around at the party- but she hadn't accepted any. Nothing, except that one glass of punch. She knew that that was the truth, and it hurt that her parents didn't believe her. She'd always, always been close with her family, and she hated to fight with them. "I'm telling you the truth!" She shouted. "I only had a glass of punch!"

"If that's true," her mother said quietly, "Then why were nearly unconscious last night?"

Whitney stopped. Why had she reacted like that? It'd only been one glass of punch…

"Aha," Chris said triumphantly, "She finally admits it!"

"I didn't admit anything," she snapped. Her head…the drum was back. If her mind was the drum, then the thing that was striking it was a war hammer, pounding at her rapidly and without mercy. Her head felt like an eggshell about to break- it hurt that much. "I just…can't…"

"Can't what, honey?" Her mother's voice was soft, soothing. Like Whitney, she hated fighting with her family- she liked to handle things peacefully. True, she still handed out punishments when they were necessary, but she didn't like to yell, unlike Chris.

"I can't figure out why…I felt so bad after that one drink," Whitney muttered. Her sunglasses had slid down her nose, and she pushed them back up clumsily.

It did not go unnoticed by Chris. "What's with the sunglasses inside?" he asked suddenly.

Whitney shrugged. "My eyes hurt."

Both Andrea and Chris exchanged worried glances.

XxX

The pimply teenager took a long drag on his cigarette, and blew the smoke out lazily in Edgar's direction. Not one to listen to rules, he'd practically filled up the comic book store with smoke, and neither teen running the store was happy. Alan was waving a comic around his face frantically, trying not to inhale the foul smoke.

Edgar and Alan hated him, but he was a good customer. He came twice a week, and ravished the brothers in money, even going so far as to tip them occasionally. He was now investigating some Green Lantern comics, having already bought most of Batman and Superman.

"Some party last night, huh?" he asked them pleasantly, taking another drag on his cigarette.

"I guess," both said in unison. In actuality, none of them had made it to the concert- they'd been too busy restocking shelves, while their parents dozed in the corner.

The older boy laughed. "Yeah, it was really something! You shoulda seen this one chick, me and my mates think she was drugged."

Alan raised an eyebrow. "Drugged?"

"Yeah, drugged. She had a drink, right- and next thing we know, she passed right out on the ground! Some hippy chick and this real tall guy helped her up, though." He sounded slightly regretful, and that sickened Alan to his stomach.

Edgar seemed interested, though. "A real tall guy, you say?" he asked gruffly, moving closer.

"Yeah. Tall, like real tall, and built like a bloody truck. I think he runs that video store- you know, the one across from you guys."

Edgar felt his pulse race with excitement. He locked eyes with his brother, and they smiled broadly.

It was time.

XxX

As part of her punishment, Whitney wasn't allowed out for the weekend, and her collection of tapes had been confiscated. She could still talk to Star, but only on schooldays. She wasn't to accept drinks from another person again, unless it was a family member. And she also had to help her mother with the housework for the day.

It was hell.

What made matters worse, as the sun rose, and was at its peak around lunchtime, Whitney felt herself becoming increasingly fatigued. Her body ached and groaned, and she just wanted to sleep. Her thighs ached dully. She found that it became increasingly hard to keep her eyes open- her eyelids felt so heavy!

She'd told her parents this, but they thought it was just a hangover, and that some 'good, hard work' would do her wonders.

Whitney sighed, and paused in the middle of her sweeping. Her parents were probably right. Maybe, just maybe, doing some hard work would ease some of the pain in her head. She looked out the window, to see Rob lying in the front yard reading his comic, and Chris puttering around in the garden. Normally, it'd be something she'd long to join in on, but today…the sun seemed too bright. Bright, and…oddly painful. Whitney's eyes began watering, even behind the dark sunglasses.

Wincing, she rubbed at her eyes furiously. They stung so much! Was this a normal reaction to a hangover?

Whatever. She was just going to push through this- just like she'd pushed through Mom's divorce with Kevin.

She moved away from the window. The sun was just too irritating for her right now.

XxX

Later that afternoon, when she'd finished everything, she flounced into the living room, and collapsed onto the couch.

"Wow, you look really tired," Rob observed from his place in front of the TV, "Are you sure you're okay, Whitney?"

Andrea was busily stirring something into delicious life in the kitchen down the hall, so she missed that remark, but Chris, sprawled on the ground next to Rob, heard everything. He spun around and glanced at his stepdaughter. Rob was right- Whitney looked exhausted. She was pale, and beads of sweat dripped down her face. Her hair clung to her like a helmet, and her face- was it thinner?

They were minuscule changes, so subtle that if Chris hadn't looked properly, he would have missed them entirely.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

Whitney looked, and smiled. You didn't need to be a rocket scientist to know that it was forced. "I'm fine, Chris, really."

"You don't look fine," he persisted.

"I really am," she insisted. "I'm just- well, I'm famished, that's all."

"I'm glad to hear that!" Andrea called from the kitchen. "Dinner's up!"

And, for a short while, everything was forgotten, as everyone dug into the delicious quiche that Andrea had made.

XxX

Whitney couldn't get to bed fast enough. After her strangely exhausting day…all she wanted to do was sleep. Yet, at the same time, she didn't want to. Part of her wanted to stay awake, to enjoy the darkness that soon enveloped Santa Carla.

It was like her body clock had gone haywire.

She wasn't sure what she wanted to do- did she want to sleep, or stay awake?

Eventually, after several hours of tossing and turning, sleep finally claimed her. Her heavy eyelids fell, and her breathing soon slowed, becoming peaceful. She sighed happily in her sleep, and turned over, unaware that her bed was several feet below her.

She was levitating.

A/N: Hey guys, what do you think of this so far? Is it okay? A little review letting me know what you think would be greatly appreciated ^_^