It was that time of day when the sun was setting, tie-dying the sky a girlish peach color mixed with blue. Owen was sitting on the front steps, staring at nothing in particular. At least he wasn't punching anything; that was a good sign. "Is this seat taken?" ask him. He didn't answer so I assumed it wasn't and sat down on the other side of the steps. "So," I stirred my pickle juice around with my straw, "I'm here if you want to talk."

A long silence.

"Do you know how hard and how long I tried to hate that man with all my might?" he asked. It was a rhetorical question. I stayed silent as he went on. "I tried to hate both of them, my mother and my father. But I couldn't. It felt like they had sucked all the hatred out of me and used it as ammunition to fire at each other. That's when I hurled myself in to the music. All that anger I had inside me, I didn't know what to do with it, who to aim it at. But it seemed that all those heavy metal musicians knew exactly who to hate. They hated the world for me. Obviously that did not take the anger away, we both know that, but music provided that place where I never had to tell anyone the inevitable truth. I didn't have to hate anyone; I didn't have to be so mad because the music expressed my anger, told the truth in ways that I didn't have the strength to tell it."

"Are you angry now?"

"Of course I'm angry. I'm angry at my dad for the last five and a half years since the divorce, how he separated himself from us as if he didn't care. I'm angry at Mallory for saying all the things I should have said, for speaking out when all I could do was walk away and count to ten. I'm angry at her for being angrier than me. And I'm angry at you for being here while this is happening. You shouldn't have to see this."

"But it's good that I did."

"Why's that?"

"If I had not seen this I don't think I would have fully understood you, or even Mallory. I would not have known what to say to you. I know the whole story now. And it's also good that I'm here because who would you have talked to if I wasn't?"

"Good point," he replied, then, with one arm around my waist, reached over and pulled me across the steps, closer to him. The pickle juice sloshed around in my cup, and he glanced down at it, made a face, and stared into space again. "It's just that this whole thing is so stupid."

He stood up abruptly. "Look, why don't you go talk to Mallory? I know she must be royally pissed. I'll be back."

Before I could respond he was gone; he'd disappeared around the corner of the house. I heard a bang. I was about to go tell Owen not to get himself too mad, but thought against it, returning to the house.

I had somehow managed two massive plates of spaghetti and a jar half full of pickle juice up the stairs and was now standing in front of Mallory's closed door.

"Mallory?" I called, nearly dropping my juice.

There was no answer.

"It's me, Annabel. Do you want to talk? I brought your spaghetti." I tried to make my voice sound cheerful, but my words seemed to echo in the hall, dull and lifeless; there was silence again. My arms were getting sore and I shifted my weight a couple of times. I was about to go back downstairs when there was a click, and the door was flung open, slamming against the wall and almost closing right back in my face. I caught it with my foot and walked in.

No matter how many times I came into Mallory's room, the walls still seemed to take me by surprise. Flawless faces stared at me with made up, judgmental eyes, all of them looked as if they were smirking at me. I was extremely careful not to even glance at my own pictures, afraid that I might see that same accusing leer plastered on my face.

Mallory lightened my burden by taking her plate and setting it on her desk. "I'm not very hungry," she told me. She plopped down on her bed. I joined her.

I searched her face; she had not been crying, but her face seemed flushed. I wasn't quite sure what to say. "Um," I tried to think, "are you okay?" was all I could think of.

She exhaled. Her lips parted as if she were going to say something, but then they closed, and she just sat there, looking as lost as I felt. Finally she spoke.

"I―" she paused, "― I'm just so mad." She said. "I've never been this upset before…usually it's Owen who throws all the fits." She laughed awkwardly, bitterly. "It took me a long time to get over what happened with my mom and dad. I was only eleven!" her eyes stared straight into mine, a fire burning inside them. "and just when I feel like I'm safe, just when I get over it, just when I think I can live without him, everything just blows up in my face!

"And the worst part is," she continued, "is that he thinks he can just barge in here and tell me what to do, tell me how I should act, tell me that he is my father? Bull shit!" her voice rose and I jumped. "Sorry," she said, her pitch dropping a few octaves.

I thought about what she had said. back in high school, I sort of felt the same way. If I avoided my problem, them soon enough I would get over them, and they would disappear. And just like Mallory I learned that running from the past only makes it worse when it catches up to you, therefore provoking madness such as this. But I knew from experience that when things are left undone like that, you seethe. You force yourself to believe that its all over and you can just live your life as normally as possible, blotting out what happened, until finally a storm comes and washes all the black ink away and reveals that truth that you are compelled to embrace.

"Did you really think that your father was going to disappear from your life forever?" I asked. Mallory opened her mouth to speak, but I kept talking. "Do you really think that he wanted to make you feel the way you do? Don't you think he regrets the decisions he made, or why else would he be here, at your house, right now? You think that was for nothing?"

She sat there dumbstruck for a moment. And then she did cry. At first she bit her lip, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from coming, but then she just gave up, letting the tears flow freely down her cheeks. Not knowing what else to do, I hugged her, thinking that this is what I would want if I were her. She buried her face in my shoulder, her whole body quivering with loud, angry sobs. In the midst of all this I could hear her muffled voice answering my earlier questions, though I couldn't understand a word she was saying. I didn't need to know what she was saying; she wasn't actually talking to me, though she was speaking so vehemently I did wonder what epiphany she was coming to.

I planned on waiting for her cry it all out, but then there was a knock at the door. Mallory bolted upward, dragging her palms across her swollen eyes. I reached over to her desk and grabbed the box of tissues sitting there, handing them to her. When she had vanquished all remnants of evidence that she was crying, she said, "Come in." her voice still shook a little.

There was hardly any noise as Paul slowly slid the door open, a sorrowful look in his eyes. He glanced at me, then at Mallory, and I took that as a signal. "I think I'll go check to see what Owen's doing?" I tried to make my voice sound cheerful, but not even convincing myself. I gave Mallory a quick pat on the back, grabbed my now cold plate of spaghetti, and squeezed past Paul, who was still hunched in the doorway.

"Thank you," he said to me quietly.

When I got downstairs, Owen was sitting at the table, arms crossed over his chest. "We should go," he said flatly. He didnt look angry, just tired. His chest seemed to expand even bigger as he took a deep breath.

"I'll wrap that up for you," said Theresa, who was standing in the corner of the room, her arms also folding tightly around herself.

I followed her into the kitchen. "Is everything going to be okay?" I asked her. "I mean..."

"I don't know," she cut me off. "I know Paul really does want to work this out, but I don't know if Mallory will cooperate. I hope everything turns out okay, though. He loves her very much, I mean, he's her father!"

I nodded, not knowing what to say. I hoped everything would turn out okay too.