Life revolved around me like a scene of a gunshot in the movies. You have the protagonist: some white, hetero, Jesus type of motherfucker whose mouth just wrote a check his ass couldn't cash. The antagonist is a brooding type who's described as "dark" if he isn't already a minority, and he's wasted enough money in ammo to feed a small border town for a year. The FPS rate is so high that you can see the bullet enter the chamber, explode from the barrel and whiz past the progs face. And even though he's standing there in the middle of it all, he's never hit, and bullets fly past like he's being protected by the hand of God. Those were always Artie's favorites. Something to do with the cinematography. He'd explained it to me once, but I couldn't keep up once he'd gotten going. I could see his passion for cinema then, and it made me uneasy because there was nothing I was quite as passionate about.

In less than six months, high school would be over. All of my friends would be preparing to get out of this town, and I was halfway to becoming a Lima loser. Artie would pack up to go to Prague or New York or somewhere else, and Sugar would go with him because her dad could buy her way into anywhere. Quinn had applied for early admission to Yale and her acceptance package was waiting for her when she came back from Cabo. Blaine and Kurt were making plans to move to New York together and live with their mutual friend, Rachel, and Tina was waiting impatiently on schools in Chicago. Mercedes and I weren't exactly on speaking terms at the moment, but the last time we talked, she was thinking about LA again. As for me? I was sitting on a terrible SAT score, mourning the loss of my potential football career, and wondering what the hell else there was for me to do.

I used to draw all the time. When I was younger, around seven or eight, I made my own comic strip about a master spy named the Blonde Chameleon, but I was too afraid to show anybody. Sawyer caught me working on it once and snatched it out of my hands before I could react. I pushed against him, pummeling him with my small fists in a vain attempt to make him return it, but he held it out of my reach and calmly told me to just let him read it. I remember how focused he became as he studied it, his jade eyes full of wisdom and criticism, while I stood there a giant ball of nerves, wringing my hands in an invisible ritual. His eyes grew wide as he turned page after page, devouring my adventures with rapt attention.

When he was finished, he handed it back to me and gave me a queer look. "Sam," he said slowly, bending down on one knee so that he could see me eye to eye.

"You hate it, don't you?" I whispered back before he could say the words himself. I couldn't look him in the eye even though he tugged at my chin so that I would lift my face.

"No!" He said quickly, seeing my disappointment, and I jerked my head up to meet his eyes. He had the biggest grin. "It's awesome! Really! You're really good at this. You should definitely let me know when it's finished, though. I want to be the first to read it all."

I was more careful with hiding my comics from then on, but I did as he asked and allowed him to read the books as I finished them. I never told him, but I lived for the look of satisfaction on Sawyer's face as he read them. Because, for once, he was impressed with me.

My parents didn't share the same fascination with my drawings as Sawyer did. Dad was always too busy to notice, and Mom was so enamored with Sawyer that she never left room enough for anybody else.

I sat in the kitchen once a few years later drawing up a storm for three hours before anyone even came in. There was this picture of Bugs Bunny that I was determined to copy, but I was also looking for a little bit of recognition. I was ready for my parents to see the gift that Sawyer was convinced I possessed. I'd just put on the final touches when Mom came in to start dinner. I didn't dare look her in the eye and only pretended to shield the picture so that my timidity would peak her interest. She orbited around me for a moment like the Moon orbits the Earth and removed a few things from the fridge. Then she glanced at me sidelong and cleared her throat. I slid the picture closer to her in the same moment.

"Can you take that in the living room, Sam? I need to start on dinner."

I was so determined that the dismissal didn't register at first, but even if I failed to comprehend it, my sinking posture gave away the hurt that I didn't automatically recognize was there.

"Um, what have you got there?" She said quickly in an attempt to mask her former indifference.

"It's Bugs Bunny," I replied, pushing the picture right in front of her. "I drew it!"

She picked it up to examine it closer, then, seeing the original, grabbed it to compare. I was cheezing like I'd won the lottery while her head was filling up with skepticism, though at nine no one could expect me to understand that. "You traced this, didn't you?" She said finally, and everything I'd prepared for slipped right through my fingers.

"N-no," I defended virulently. "I drew it!"

"I can see where you copied," she said. "This one's a little bigger, but you just moved it around a bit."

"I didn't copy it!" I said, snatching it from her hands and nearly ripping it in the process.

"Okay, Sam," she chuckled. "I hope your homework's finished if you've spent this much time drawing a picture."

She was always worried about my homework because of how poor my school performance was at that time. I realized then that it had never even dawned on her that I might actually be smart or talented in other ways. The way she said drawing was like a cheese grater to my talent. She'd sawed my pride in half without a full realization of what she'd done. She was the sun now, and I was her Pluto. I would never show my mother another picture again, but she was still my mother, and gaining her approval was the slowest acting poison that God had ever created.

I was editing the third issue of the Blonde Chameleon when Dad broke the news of Sawyer's death. To me there was little point in finishing it because no one else was going to read it. No one else's eyes sparkled at my creations. No one else believed that I was talented. I buried them with Sawyer. I stuffed them in his coffin before they closed the lid and lowered him into the ground. That's where they belonged. With the only person that had ever made them come to life.

Now I doodled from time to time, but I stopped investing so much time in seriously pursuing art. I admired other people's art instead and obsessed over other people's comics. People think that your dreams die as you get older if you fail to cultivate them, but, for certain people, they shrivel in the womb before they even know what life is.

Before my parents told us that we were moving to Lima, I thought I had a glimpse of the greatness waiting for me on the other side of high school. I'd graduate with Honors and go on to be a big shot with a full ride in either football or academics at some D1 school where my legacy would actually begin. I never thought too much farther from that, though, because I didn't actually know what I wanted to do after that. I wasn't nine anymore, and the Blonde Chameleon and all of his adventures had faded into obscurity. All of my friends seemed to have it together, though. So I played the game, too, even though I was starting to drown.

"Listen to this song," Quinn said, turning up the volume. There Is A Light That Never Goes Out blasted at us from every corner of her brash Canary yellow Ford coupe. "I feel it under my skin. God, Morrissey sets my loins on fire."

"Women don't have loins," I said with a crooked smile.

"I know that." She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye and pursed her lips. "You know what I mean."

I was Marty McFly, and she was Jennifer, and we raced down "Paradise Road" towards a back door down an alley in Lima Heights Adjacent where we could forget everything. When we went there, we were British Brat Packers from the eighties or nineties. Quinn could never decide which was better. And our parents grew up on Iggy Pop, Bowie, and the Stones while we worshipped Oasis, The Cure, and The Smiths. Quinn knew a lot of pop culture and at some point had decided that things were probably better back then. Parents were better. The music was better. But I knew better, and no matter what, there was always a time when everything was absolute shit. No amount of music would change that.

The last notes overlapped into the beginning of Back To The Old House, and Quinn sighed. "This is probably my least favorite song," she whispered, and she reached out for my hand. The promise ring was wrapped delicately around her right ring finger, and she'd been wearing it for three weeks now. I gripped my fingers around hers, and she smiled. She was thinking about the big, white house where she'd left her innocence.

"You're right," I agreed, but I wasn't going there with her. My thoughts were stuck on two Saturdays ago and the anguish in Mercedes' eyes as Morrissey crooned in the background.

January passed by like a hazy morning, and as far as I knew, my parents never found out about my New Year's escapades. Even if they had, all of my misdeeds were being overshadowed by Grandma Jean's illness. She'd caught the flu in the week following Christmas, and this was one devil she couldn't seem to shake. Dad traveled so often to Tennessee that he was like a phantom when we saw him, and Mom walked around like death was on her heels. The façade of happiness that the holidays ushered in was swept out the door like last year's bad luck, and bitterness and resentment settled in its place whenever both my parents were home. I spent most afternoons staring at the stars on my ceiling. There was comfort in my room, at least, and sometimes I'd pull Stevie and Stacey in, and we'd all lie on the floor with the lights out and dream of the stars.

I realized that my parents had completely forgotten about my punishment a week into the new year after I'd skipped school and crashed at Quinn's house, not returning until later that night. Mom told me that she had been worried then asked if I had a good time. She hugged me tightly, whispering how much she loved me, and I swallowed a lump in my throat before returning the sentiment. She let me go reluctantly—I could tell by her sigh as she did it—and she cupped my cheek before going to bed. I felt like I was suffocating, and I felt ashamed for no reason at all. But I had gained back my freedom, and that meant that I could finally breathe. And I could finally see Mercedes again.

Seeing her on New Year's Eve felt like what you're supposed to feel when coming home from a long vacation. You've missed the feel of your own bed and the sound of your guitar. But you don't realize how much you miss those things until they're coming back to you. I pounded the pavement to Broken Records, and I wasn't even sure she'd be there, but I was hopeful and excited anyways.

"Santana's going to meet us there," Quinn said, her face popping in and out of focus as we passed underneath the orange lamps that lined the sides of the highway. "She says it's going to be super crowded."

I nodded and stared out the window. I didn't know who this Santana person was, but it didn't matter. Most of Quinn's friends were the same. We were all running away from something. There was a lot of night before us and pale white clouds loomed high above us, pregnant with snow, and I was hoping for a whiteout.

Mercedes was filling out paperwork and wearing a green dress. I remember it because I thought about how much it matched my eyes, which made me wonder if she'd been thinking the same thing when she picked it out. But that was probably me overreaching and wishfully thinking. Ask poured from the speakers as I walked up behind her. She was expecting me. I could tell by the way she turned ever so slightly but not enough for me to see her face. Had I been anyone else, she'd have greeted me the moment I walked into the store.

I reached out a hand to tap her on the shoulder but stopped midway as a vision of a warehouse downtown and Mercedes' apprehension settled over me. I dropped my hand to my side and cleared my throat instead. "I want to say that I'm sorry for trying to kiss you the last time I saw you. I made you really uncomfortable, and I never wanted to do that." I took a deep breath. "I'd understand if you still didn't want to see me, but if you do, I thought it'd be best to start there."

She paused in her work a moment, and I waited for her to say something, anything, but she just dug around in a box on the counter and continued.

"Mercedes?" My resolve was fading. Of course she was still angry with me. I should've called first instead of just showing up, again, at her doorstep as if she had all the time in the world to entertain me.

"Okay," I relented. "I get it. You're still mad at me, and I can understand that, but the least you could do is tell me that instead of letting me feel like an idiot." I gnawed on my bottom lip. Waiting. And she kept on cataloging like I wasn't even there. "Forget it."

I turned to leave and walked as slowly as I could, praying that Mercedes would be like every other woman in the movies and stop me from walking out, then tell me that I was being a twat. Then we'd move forward. But she let me get all the way to the door, and she still hadn't said anything.

"Really?" I said, turning back to her. "Are you waiting on me to beg or something because I'm not above doing that?"

"Okay, I'm not mad at you," she said exasperatedly.

"Oh, thank God," I said releasing a breath. She faced me and leaned against the counter with her arms folded. "For a second I thought you were actually going to let me walk out the door."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I thought about it." She gave a crooked smile. "I was mad at you. No. I was furious, but I was really angry with myself for letting things get that far. I know better than that." She moved to sit on the arm of an orange velvet chair across from the green leather one I usually occupied. "You're dating Quinn, Sam, and if you want us to stay friends, then you have to honor that. We both have to do a better job."

"I know," I sighed, sitting down across from her.

"And if that's something that you can't do, then tell me now because I don't want the same thing to happen a week from now. It's not fair to anybody."

She was right. Of course she was right. I'd said practically the same thing that night as I lay in bed. "You're my best friend, Mercedes, and I don't want to lose that."

"You are an idiot, though."

She smiled a little more, and I drummed my fingers on the arms of my chair. "So are we okay?"

"Yeah," she said. "We're okay."

I struggled to keep up with Quinn as she pulled me down a dark alley towards a barely lit back door. She disentangled our fingers and wrapped herself around a raven-haired vamp with caramel skin and a cheeky disposition.

"This is Santana," Quinn said, peeling herself from the other girl, who regarded me with a critical eye. Quinn reached out and grasped my hand again. "And this is Sam."

Santana was a slightly younger version of Raphael. They had the same skin and smile, but it was in her mannerisms that the similarity was most evident. I wondered if they were related. I gave a small smile while Santana continued to look me over. "Jesus Christ, your mouth is huge. You're like a blonde Lisa Rinna," she finally said.

"Nice to meet you, too," I mumbled.

Mercedes refused to walk on eggshells around me, something for which I was grateful, and as the minutes passed, we settled back into our old ways. She made me laugh and feel comfortable. She reached for my hand without fear and brushed the hair out of my eyes when my beanie failed to do its job properly. She played good music. Right now Louder Than Bombs, The Smiths compilation album, was shuffling through its tracks, and Shoplifters of the World Unite urged us to defend the poor.

"Musicians are geniuses," she said. "There's nowhere else in Lima that I would rather work. Not one single place." She moved about the store organizing things as we chatted, and I slouched down in the familiar green chair.

"Question," I said.

"Shoot."

"Are you actually planning to spend the rest of your life here?" I sat up in the chair, crossing my hands over my lap.

"Are you serious?" She asked, looking over her shoulder at me.

"Well, yeah," I shrugged. "It's just, you're really talented Mercedes, and Lima's a waste of a town."

"Everything I chose to love is here," she said, resuming organizing.

"But do you ever think about going back?" I asked as I spun a CD around my index finger. "I mean, you talk about LA like it's Jerusalem."

"Sometimes," she said. "My brother and I had a heart-to-heart over Christmas, and he wants me to go back."

"What do you want?" I stopped spinning the disc and placed it back in its case. Mercedes still had her back to me, and I could tell that she was thinking. It came to me then that she might actually follow her brother's advice, and if she did, there was a good possibility that I might never see her again. There was a hollow place in my stomach now that wasn't there before, and it made me uncomfortable to think of what that might mean.

"I don't know," she admitted. She stopped organizing, turning around and leaning on the shelf behind her. "I left school because my family was going through a lot of stuff at the time. Everyone told me to stay where I was. My boyfriend was so angry and hurt that I was choosing to leave, but with everything going on there was no way that I could stay." She closed her eyes against the weight of her memories, and I wondered how often she repeated this story. "It was the least selfish thing I've ever done." She walked over and settled in across from me.

"Then maybe your brother's right," I swallowed, "and it's time to be selfish again."

She smiled and glanced down at her hands. I could see her weighing the pros and cons in front of me, and I could almost hear her brother urging her to go back, but I didn't want her to leave. I could never tell her that, though.

"What kind of degree were you going for?" I asked, clearing my throat and dragging Mercedes back to the present. "They have a music program, right?"

"I was going for Business, actually," she shrugged.

"Really?" I cocked a brow. "I just thought that with your voice and your obvious love of music that that would be a logical choice."

"Well maybe for someone else it would be, but my dad's a dentist, and to him being a singer was an unreasonable and insane dream. And he's right. There're a lot of people who don't make it. Maybe it'll work out someday, but I need a backup plan." She leaned back into her chair and blew out a breath.

"And this is it, right?" I asked. "This is the end of your grand scheme. I bet your dad is really proud of you right now."

She glared at me. "You're being rude."

"I'm sorry," I said, backing down. "It's just that I can see what you could become, Mercedes, and you're wasting it."

I wondered how many people were privileged enough to get this side of Mercedes. When she sang, she commanded the stage, and her outfits always begged for an audience. I've heard her laugh heartily from time to time, but most of the time she was the quiet guru. She wasn't asking me for help or asking me to acknowledge her talents, but I felt the need then to tell her anyways. So that even though her dad had impregnated her with the idea that her talents weren't enough, I thought that they could be.

"When you open your mouth to sing, people stop and listen. I wish you could hear what I hear when you sing. Then you'd know that your dad's a fucking idiot."

She cracked a smile and turned away for a moment. "Don't call my dad a fucking idiot," she said.

"Fine," I replied, crossing my arms, and when she smiled again, I was sure that she understood the rest of my silent statement.

"Why are you so curious about school right now? Have you heard back from some schools, yet?" She leaned forward again, and she looked lighter already.

I shook my head. "Artie and I are actually meeting next week to go over some stuff about that."

Her face dropped. "You have started sending out applications, haven't you?"

"Yeah," I said slowly. "About that."

"Sam!" She chastised.

"What?" I replied. "I'm not that smart, Mercedes. That's just a fact. I'm dyslexic. I've been working with tutors so my grades are good, but I completely bombed my SATs because I'm not that great at tests. I am trying, though, and I have an appointment with Mrs. Pillsbury-Schuester on Monday to look at some schools that don't require standardized tests."

She sat there for a moment and gave me a sad smile. "I'm sorry," she said. "My dad worked us like dogs, and he was always on us about our grades. Growing up, he'd always say, 'If at first you don't succeed, go home.'" She ran her hands down her skirt and released a breath. "But I shouldn't have assumed. And just because you're dyslexic doesn't mean you're not smart, Sam."

"I know. I should've told you before now, though. I'm not ashamed or anything, but it didn't really seem that important because our friendship has nothing to do with it," I shrugged. "Besides, I called your dad a f—"

"Don't you dare say it again!" She interjected, smacking my leg. Behind her smile, she looked relieved that I didn't dwell on her relationship with her dad, but I understood because I didn't really want to talk about my parents either.

I raised my hands in surrender and laughed. "You're feisty today! I wasn't going to. I just wanted to see what you'd do."

She shook her head playfully and relaxed back into her chair. "So what kind of degree would you like to get?"

"I didn't really dream about going to college when I was little because my grades were so bad. This was before they found out I was dyslexic," I said.

"And now?" She egged. "Aren't you passionate about something? You like music, too. Don't deny it."

"Yeah, but that's just a hobby. I'm not like you," I said shaking my head.

"Well there's got to be something you're good at," She said thoughtfully.

"I used to draw a lot," I shrugged. "I wrote this comic when I was in the third grade about a super spy called the Blonde Chameleon, and I did a bunch of different doodles and stuff." I glanced at Mercedes, and she was giving me a queer look. "I haven't really drawn anything in years, though."

"Sam," she said slowly. "I wish you could see your face when you even start to think about drawing. It's really interesting. You should draw me something some time, okay?"

"I'm going to get another drink!"

"What?" I yelled. I could barely hear over the sound of Axl Rose beckoning me into his wild paradise. My head was starting to swim and Quinn was staying afloat on her usual mix.

"I said," Quinn stood on her toes to whisper in my ear, "I'm going to get another drink. Do you want anything?"

"I'm good," I replied.

"I'll be right back," she said, kissing my cheek. She stumbled towards the kitchen, and I backed into the nearest wall. I'd only had a couple of drinks, and though I'd been offered everything under the sun, I'd refused. I was starting to feel like that was a mistake.

All the kids here were one percenters or close to it, and every so often, they'd go slumming where the cops didn't answer 911 calls so quickly or at all. Most people would pass out here and leave when it was light out because it was safer then. The amount of liquid cash being consumed could pay someone's rent for five years in this part of town, and the money in drugs could secure a future. The kid passed out next to me took joyrides in his daddy's Jag. And there was another girl here whose brother fell from the roof at one of these things. But she was back anyways because her parents still weren't around enough and fake friends were better than nothing.

"God this is boring as hell without a drink," Santana whined. She'd appeared from nowhere and pressed close to me even though it wasn't quite that crowded. "I hate being DD. Quinn owes me her first born child for this. Oh wait," she said with a devilish grin.

"How do you know Quinn again?" I asked. How in the hell did Quinn find people like this?

"I ran that little glee club of yours back in the day," she replied, looking me up and down. "I was the undisputed head bitch in charge."

"You went to McKinley?"

"I ran McKinley when I was there," she corrected. "But I didn't come here to play twenty questions with you unless you're paying."

"I'm not like these other kids here, if that's what you're assuming," I said.

"Believe me, I'd already know if you were," she replied casually. "And with your five dollar haircut and dollar store jeans, Quinn must go slumming a lot more often than everyone else here does. But I can understand her fascination with poor people. Well, at least with you."

"Are you always this much of a bitch?" The words slipped from my mouth before I could contain them.

"Oh please. I'm just keeping it real," she scoffed. "Or would you rather I pretend like everyone else? None of these people give a shit about you, and they only tolerate each other because they've known each other longer."

I shook my head and looked in the direction in which Quinn had disappeared.

"Don't bother," Santana replied. "All these pretty people here are dancing to forget. You're going to be waiting a while." She snaked her fingers into my palm and pulled me from the wall, further into the crowd. "Come on."

The mood was mellowing out as the CD shuffled to a double play of Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now and Back to the Old House. Mercedes had given up on organizing for the day, and with snow beginning to fall, Eddie had called for her to close up early. She'd whipped up some tea from the little pot they kept in the back, and we sat side by side on a rug on the floor waiting for three o'clock.

"Did you ever watch The Addams Family when you were younger?" She asked.

"Absolutely!" I replied. "Christina Ricci has always been a babe."

"You know she's in her 30s now, right?" She smirked over her mug.

"Your point? She's still gorgeous." I sipped at my tea. "I'd have been her Joel all day every day."

"I died to have a family like that," she said. "Gomez and Morticia were the ultimate parents, even if they were morbid. They supported Wednesday and Pusgley endlessly, and they were so in love." She leaned her head against the chair behind her and glanced over to me. "I always wanted to be in love like that."

"You want to raise kids in a house next door to a cemetery?" I joked, and she shook her head.

"You know what I mean," she sighed and looked out the front windows, towards the falling snow. "If I were to be brutally honest with myself, I'd leave Lima the minute someone gave me an offer I couldn't refuse. I'd run like hell."

This was dangerous territory. I could feel it all over my body. Mercedes' face was inscrutable, however, but she kept folding and unfolding her hands.

"But your last boyfriend wasn't even enough to keep you in LA," I said quietly. I could barely hear the words myself over the sound of my own heartbeat mingling with the bass line in Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want. Her eyes flickered down as I captured one of her small hands in mine, tracing a map from her fingertips to her heart lines.

"No," she shook her head. "He wasn't. There were more important things I had to do then, and he couldn't handle that."

"I could," I whispered. I was finding it difficult to breathe properly, and I don't ever remember feeling so finely tuned to everything. This is what she feared, but she never thought that it would happen so quickly. I knew that I should leave, and she'd thank me for it. But I was weaker than she gave me credit for because leaving was the last thing I wanted to do.

I wanted her heart to whisper to God that I was hers because she was too afraid to say it out loud. I wanted to trail constellations across her skin and map them to my own private Eden. I longed to taste the plum reds of her mouth and imbibe my skin with the smell of lavender to remind her of home. I wanted to devour every inch of her beauty with eyes that had never wanted anything until today. I wanted all of this and more, and I think there was a part of her that wanted it, too.

"What?" She said, turning to me again. Her eyes looked right through me, shattering my resolve.

"What kind of offer would that be?"

She smiled, laying her head on my shoulder, and I was suddenly terrified that she could hear the drumming in my chest. "Sing to me while the sun sets and sex me all night. Wake me to see the sun rise and drive the scenic route. Read to me at truck stops and kiss me every once in a while."

"That's it?" I whispered.

"That's it," she replied.

There was never a question as to whether or not I wanted to kiss Mercedes. Had there been any doubt in my mind, it would've been easy to honor the promise I'd only sort of made a little more than two hours before. But I was drawn to her the way the earth follows the sun.

Her lips caressed mine, gliding against me like something sweet and familiar. She poured herself into me and breathed into me new life, warm and delicious. We didn't fumble like inexperienced schoolchildren or rage like angry lovers, and I wondered how I could have gone for so long in my own desert without real rain. Her eyelashes fluttered against my flushing cheeks, and her hand gripped mine to convey the words that she couldn't say.

She pulled away slowly, a sigh escaping her mouth as she disentangled herself from me. And she looked upon me with tortured eyes while I gazed at her as someone finally set free.

"You need to leave," she said, and I didn't object.

"Do you know this girl named Raphael?" I asked Santana. We were sitting on a couch somewhere in the back of the apartment. Her legs were draped across my lap and she relaxed into me while running her fingers through my hair. I don't know when I stopped dancing or for how long Santana had been pressed against me, caressing me. It felt like I'd been there for hours.

"She's my cousin and the reason why I was able to, in one way or another, "legally" buy alcohol when I was sixteen," Santana replied. "Why? You want to bone her?"

"No, no." I shook my head slowly. "I just, she looks like you."

"I'm hotter, though," she said matter-of-factly. "Anyone who's had full visitation rights to the set of rambunctious twins that live on my ribcage could attest to that."

It sounded like an invitation, but I was starting to crash already, and I wasn't willing to test it, so I stared straight ahead. "That's, uh, nice, I guess."

She dug her nails into my scalp a bit, and I winced and shot her a look. "Really?" She said angrily. I could hear a hint of jealousy in her voice.

"What?" I asked innocently.

"Okay, you know what? Let's just cut to the chase. Despite the fact that your mouth-to-face ratio is, like, way off, you still somehow manage to be cute. But Quinn told me all about you, and, make no mistake, every time you open your humongous mouth to do an impression, or moisten an enormous stamp for a lazy giant, you take one step closer to everyone seeing that you are actually a dork. Which is where I come in." Santana licked her lips and trailed her fingers on the back of my neck. "I hereby offer my services as a mistress. I wantz on them froggy lips, and I wantz on 'em now."

Santana was gorgeous, and, despite my reservations, my body was reacting to her advances. "But I'm dating Quinn," I said shaking my head. "I can't."

"Okay, you have absolutely no game," she said, pushing away. She swung her legs from my lap and pushed herself up from the couch. "You're wrong, though. You're exactly like them; you just don't know it yet. Find me when you're ready to stop pretending."

I'd struck out the minute Mercedes had given me another chance. I couldn't understand why I was unable to control myself around her, but if we were going to remain friends, I would need to figure something out.

She was refusing to answer any of my calls, and I dreaded the thought of going by Broken Records or her house because I hadn't just crossed the line; I'd run at it full force and left it behind in the dust. But she hadn't shied away from me, either, and even if she denied it, she'd felt something, too. I think that's what she was most afraid of, and she would rather distance herself from me than do something she might regret. I couldn't say I blamed her, but I wish that I was that strong.

"I wouldn't have said anything to your parents, you know?" Artie said. "You could've told me that you were sneaking out, and Sugar would've come by to get you."

"I didn't want to take the chance," I shrugged.

"I am the master of the parental units," he gloated. "Who wouldn't believe me?"

I lined up a paper football with Artie's fingermade goalposts and flicked it in his direction. It landed half an inch short. "You do look pretty honest," I said, stroking his ego.

"Damn straight," he replied with a smile. "So the next time you need an alibi—"

"Yeah, yeah," I rolled my eyes.

"Alright," he said finally, packing away the football and pulling out a stack of applications more than an inch thick. "Let's get to work."

"A-are you serious?" I asked, fumbling over my words. My tongue felt thick and I cleared my throat a few times as I stared at the pile. "That's more than I was expecting. Mrs. Pillsbury-Schuester didn't say it would be this many."

"Mrs. Pillsbury-Schuester and I thought it might be best for you to have a look at a few different ones," Artie said simply.

"Well how many schools did you apply to?" I asked him.

"36." He popped a wheelie and rocked back and forth in his chair without using his hands as a test to his balance.

"Thirty six?!" Artie gave me a crooked smile. "Why the hell would you apply to that many schools?"

"Well, I had the standard Ivy Leagues and D1 schools, just to cover the basics. Then there were the mandatory Ohio schools to appease my parents and by that time, around school number twenty seven or so, they'd kind of stopped paying attention and I was able to apply for some film schools. And if the laws of probability are correct, I'll get into at least twenty five of them and waitlisted for two or three." He set the chair down then and looked up at me.

"There's no way in hell I'm applying to that many schools," I shook my head. "My brain'll be all messed up by the time I finished the first five."

"You don't have to apply to that many, Sam," Artie assured me. "It's crazy expensive for one, and for two, you won't need to. These are the ones we picked based on what you said you liked, and Mrs. Pillsbury-Schuester thought it would be good for us to narrow them down based on other things like school size and location."

"Oh, okay." I released a sigh of relief.

"I want to help you, not give you extra stress," he said sliding the stack towards me. "Okay?"

"Yeah."

I always thought choosing a college was as easy as deciding to wear a sweater on the first cold day of fall, but as Artie and I went through each school, I began to realize how wrong I was. There was a lot that I hadn't considered, but a common theme began to surface. I definitely hadn't given up on art, even if I hadn't created any of my own in years, and I was seeking California like a lost puppy. From Artie's questioning grin, I could tell that he'd noticed it, too.

The apartment was filthy. I hadn't noticed it at first, but near sobriety did something to your perception that the fuzziness of drunken debauchery numbed. I'd seen a crowd of cockroaches drinking in the sickly sweetness of a spilled drink and the air inside was stifling with the sweat of dirty bodies. That's what had driven me outside to the rooftop, and the cold air had almost cleared my head completely. That's when I saw her.

The girl looked dead. That's the best way that I could describe her. From her pallid complexion to the stillness of the air surrounding her. Her eyes were open and they were so glossy that I could almost see the stars reflected within them, and there was a serenity in the depths of her Caribbean blues. I didn't want to get any closer to her than I already was, but I had to know for sure. I couldn't leave her like this.

I wasn't surprised that no one else seemed to notice. Santana and I had been the only truly lucid ones here, and I'd seen her leaving with some pretty girl a long time ago. It was the blackest part of the night, and I kept thinking that it was fitting for it to be so cold and dark, like the entire world was lost in mourning. She was the girl whose brother had fallen a few years ago, and it made me think of the cruelty of things that in the end God didn't discriminate.

Her family was originally from the suburbs of Boston, and she'd worked a summer internship in New York City last year. She didn't idolize the glamour of it all but spent her parents' money so that she wouldn't feel so alone. But she would give it all up with the right motivation. She saw her future self as a Pollyanna Cowgirl, and she clung to the sprig of hope that things wouldn't always be this way.

It looked like she was still breathing as I moved in closer, and I reached out a hand to touch her and hoped that she was still warm inside, that the light that guided her hadn't yet faded.

"Sylvia!" A shrill voice screamed in my ear, and a dark-skinned girl pushed past me and shook Sylvia out of her reverie.

She blinked her eyes a few times and sat up way too quickly. She breathed in deeply-too fast-and doubled over, retching the contents of her stomach onto the cinderblock tiles. I took a step back to avoid the mess, and she made eye contact with me as her friend helped her to her feet.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" She slurred towards me, rubbing her arms to guard against the cold as she marched her expensive shoes into the mess to avoid coming too close to me.

She was wearing Louboutin heels and a Cartier watch, dressed in the height of fashion. Blood diamonds dripped from her wrists and rose red rubies planted themselves in her ears. By all accounts, she was beautiful to look at but I was still struck with the hollowness in her eyes, like two black holes devouring her light.

Artie was eager to ask about Mercedes. I could see it on his face, but I refused to entertain him because I was still a bit tender from her rejection. It was necessary, but it didn't make it burn any less. I'd talked nonstop for the last ten minutes to postpone his asking, but he'd caught on and stopped responding, and now I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"So," he began, tapping his pencil against the table. "There're a lot of California schools in the 'definitely' stack. Any particular reason why?"

"I don't know. California has nice weather," I deflected.

"Okay, really?" He said. "You're going to make me drag this out?"

"Can we not, Artie?" I sighed. "Just drop it, okay?"

"Dude, you like her," he said pointedly. "Can we just say that so we can move on and figure out what you plan to do about it?"

"I'm not going to do anything about it," I replied exasperatedly, pushing back from the table. "We kissed and then she shut down, and now she's refusing to answer my calls because I'm such a dick."

"Wait, what? You kissed Mercedes?" Artie shook his head and sat up taller in his chair.

"Yeah, but it doesn't even matter because I'm dating Quinn," I shrugged. "And I need to get that hard wired up here." I pointed to my head. "Look, I don't really feel like talking about this right now. Can we just talk about the applications?" There was a desperation within me to avoid the whole damn thing, and I hoped that he understood.

"Fine," he said, backing down, "but you need to figure something out because Quinn, your girlfriend, is going to school in Connecticut, and you're looking at schools in California in the hopes that Mercedes, your friend, goes back. I'm not going to tell you what to do, but I really do hope that you figure it out. For their sakes at least. You're my boy, but I've been through a lot with those two, and the last thing either of them needs is another guy messing with their heads."

It was beginning to get light out, and people had finally begun infesting the streets below, swarming together in their dark coats and hoods. I could just make out Sylvia, however, because of her golden hair. Perhaps she'd felt me staring because she turned to gaze up at us and met my eyes for just a moment. I wondered how we appeared to her then, with her mind taken over by drugs. Did we seem like angels sent to watch over her? Or perhaps we were vultures, the harbingers of death.

Pale, white arms snaked themselves around my waist and Quinn pressed her face into my back. "I found you," she slurred.

I turned from the scene below to face her, and her eyes twinkled with bemusement like she had found the freedom she came here to get. She looked happy for once, and I realized then that I had to keep lying for just a little longer. Until a tomorrow that I dreaded. "Santana ducked out early, but I'm fine to drive."

"Are you sure?" She asked.

"I haven't had anything in a few hours. So yeah."

We found her coat in a room somewhere, and she led me through the apartment, now completely trashed, down the stairs, and to the streets below. I put my hood up to guard against the cold, but Quinn let her hair fly free like Sylvia had before her. I couldn't remember exactly how we'd gotten there, so I let Quinn lead, and I clenched her hand as she dragged me through the thickening crowd towards the car.

I dropped Quinn at home and left to catch the bus despite her pleads for me to stay. I had a lot of thinking to do, and I needed to work on my personal statement. Over the years, I had built an argument for Iron Man as the greatest superhero, and when I mentioned it to Artie, he'd thought it seemed interesting enough to flesh out. Iron Man was never my favorite. Far from it, actually. He was flawed and his motivations were oftentimes affected by a personal vendetta, but Tony Stark taught me that you don't need magic to ensure there was justice in the world. You just need the willingness to fight your own demons.

Artie asked me why choose him and not the other millionaire playboy, Bruce Wayne, and I'd thought about that, too. There was something spellbinding in the way that Tony wasn't afraid for people to know it was him. Most people called it arrogance, but for me it was the purest form of heroism. Yes, it was insane, but it was also brave. You open yourself up to every form of criticism and snatch away the net of safety that anonymity provides. He's not someone that everyman could be; he's someone that you have to be exceptional to be.

The streets were quiet around my house, not like the infestation of rich kids in Lima Heights Adjacent, but this was more unsettling. I didn't bother to creep home like I would have before because my parents weren't paying attention anymore, and I no longer had the energy to pretend. Mom was sitting at the dining table when I entered, and she met me with sleepless eyes.

"Sam," she said menacingly, pushing herself up from the table. "Where the hell have you been all night?"

"I'm sorry I didn't call," I replied. "I've been doing some thinking, but I'm really tired, Mom. Can we talk about this later? Please."

She walked up slowly and blinked back tears, then ran her hands along the arms of my jacket. "I just have to make sure you're real, that you're still here," she mumbled.

My mother was eccentric, but this was not normal. "Mom? Are you okay?" I asked as she began to clench me tighter.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" She was beginning to become hysterical. "Do you have any idea, any idea, how completely out of my mind I was with worry?! Did you even care?"

"I'm fine, Mom. I'm here. I just want to go to bed." I avoided her stare. I just wanted to sleep.

"I thought you were dead!" She began shaking me, and I wrapped my arms around her to calm her. The look she gave me was poisonous. "You disappear for hours, won't answer the phone, and I don't know if you're alive or dead!"

"Mom!" I yelled. "Stop! Look at me!" I held her tightly and looked into her eyes, and she finally gave in. Her body relaxed into mine, and she began sobbing into my shirt.

"Don't ever do this to me again," she sobbed. "I was planning for your funeral! You just can't do things like this to the people who love you so much."

"I know, Mom, and I'm sorry that you were so worried. I'm here now. I'm safe," I assured her.

Where was Dad right now? Probably back in Tennessee. Yes, Grandma Jean needed him, but he should have known better than to leave Mom like this. When I came home late last November, my punishment was swift and relatively painless. There wasn't a lot of yelling or anger, even. My parents were mostly disappointed, both with me and themselves for not being there. But they weathered that storm together. Dad's absence was notable in Mom's dealing with this situation. And my heart throbbed at the thought of her waiting alone all night for me to return.

"Mom?" I loosened my grip on her so that I could push back and see her more clearly. "Where's Dad?"

She released me and grabbed my hand, not bothering to wipe away the tears still streaming down her face. She was wrestling with herself to talk to me. I could tell by her expression. Then she sighed and squeezed my hand. "Your father's in Tennessee, Sam. Grandma Jean," she paused and took a breath. "Your grandmother passed away last night."

AN: This chapter is titled The Smiths or Super Rich Kids based on the songs by the band The Smiths and the song by Frank Ocean, respectively.

Songs featured in this chapter include "Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns N' Roses; "Hotel California" by the Eagles; and "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out," "Back To The Old House," "Ask," "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now," "Shoplifters of the World Unite," and "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want"all from Louder Than Bombs, The Smiths compilation album.

Pop culture found in this chapter includes Looney Toons, Back to the Future, American Graffiti, British Brat Packers, Iggy Pop, David Bowie, the Rolling Stones, Oasis, The Cure, Lunar New Year, Pitch Perfect, The Addams Family, the Garden of Eden, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, Louboutin, Cartier, A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess, blood diamonds, Iron Man, and Batman.

So…I'm pretty sure I accidentally lied to you all and said that I would write much more often. I'm not really sure what happened because it's been about four months or so. My apologies. I have this entire thing mapped out, but this journey has been a true test of writing for me. I used to criticize and whine for those writers I loved to update, but now I understand the other side of that coin. So I won't make anymore promises, but I already know how this will end, and in time I'll get there. I can promise that. Perhaps I'll post the story that this is based on, though I'm completely changing the ending. If I ever get around to doing that, then you'd understand why.

There's a lot of meta in most of these chapters, but this one in particular strikes me. I had originally planned to get this out sooner because it was supposed to be a filler chapter in preparation for the death chapter that's coming up next. I actually started working on this and have had about 75% of it completed for the last few months. But I couldn't bring myself to finish it for one reason or another until last night and today. I added Sylvia in this morning. Sylvia is this whole thing wrapped into a tiny package. She's immersed in this world, and there are times in which her light goes dim, but the person she wants to be, her higher self, keeps finding a way out. That's why she let her hair down at the ground level, unlike most of the others. Sam would like to believe that he's different, but we're learning that he's more similar to the super rich kids than he's comfortable being. This one chapter has become the allegory for the whole damn story, and I didn't plan it that way. I like it when things like this happen.

These characters are an extension of myself in one way or another, and not just because this story is playing out in my mind. I put a bit more of myself into this chapter. While I was drunk once, I told the guy with whom I was infatuated with at the time that he set my loins on fire because I was in a religion class with him and we'd been discussing the subject. I didn't recognize that I should have said womb or at the very least vagina. But he was a good sport about it, and we had an on-again-off-again thing for a while after that. The story of the Bugs Bunny drawing is an almost exact recall from the conversation between my mother and me when I was in the sixth grade. I ended up throwing it away sometime after that. The only evidence I have left from those days is a picture of Daffy Duck. I stopped seriously pursuing art when I was in about the eighth grade, though. And not just because of my mother. There wasn't much support from anyone in that venture, and I hadn't yet learned how to lean on myself. But it's stories like that which make me know that I will fully support my future children, whatever their passions. There are too many damaged adults in this world. I'm one of them. I'm a product of them. But I will break the cycle if I can.

Mind my grammar and any spelling errors. I hope that you're enjoying it! Please comment and critique! Thanks so much!