Pete woke up the next morning not hungover and actually feeling pretty good. He'd eaten dinner at Abe's and it was true what Parker had said-his mom was a hell of a good cook. And his mother hadn't spoken to him when he got home and he wondered if she'd told his father what they'd discussed, but didn't ask her about it. And he'd done whatever homework he could remember and gone to sleep feeling alright.

"Petey!" Katrina sat on his bed, smiling down at him. "Petey, mommy says you need to get up!"

"I'm in the process of doing that," he said, groaning and pulling himself out of bed. He stretched his arms and yawned. "Tell her I'll be down in a minute."

"60, 59, 58..." She stood in the doorway, looking the other way with her arms crossed. Pete glared at her.

He fished through the pile of laundry on his desk chair and pulled on a fresh shirt and some pants. He probably didn't need to shave or anything. "Alright, done, you can stop counting, Kat."

"Okay!" Katrina bounced down the stairs. Pete rubbed his eyes and followed her, downed a bowl of Lucky Charms, and saw that his father had apparently taken the car. Great. Wonderful. He was going to have to walk. So much for a good morning. It wasn't that bad to walk, but it was...inconvenient.

"Pete, Dad took the car," his mom said.

"I can see that," he said sourly and grabbed his backpack off the hook and started out the door. He suddenly remembered that he hadn't done his art history homework, then decided it probably didn't matter and he most definitely didn't have time to do it. He pulled out his phone and stuck his earbuds in. His music taste was kind of embarrassing, a sort of a weird combination of Simple Plan-esque bands and Billy Joel-esque artists. He hated half the stuff he'd downloaded anyways but didn't have the heart to delete it.

He was just beginning to relax to the tune of some 2009 My Chemical Romance song when somebody tapped him on the back. He tore his earbuds out and looked behind him.

Fucking fantastic.

"Hey, Scarface." Barkovitch was grinning. "Where's your fancy car?"

"My dad's using it."

"Bummer. You've gotta give me a ride in that thing sometime. Beats the pile of crap bike I have to ride everywhere if I want to go fast."

"I'll let you ride in my car when pigs fly and Ray Garraty is in love with me," Pete said flatly.

Barkovitch laughed. "That was actually pretty fucking funny, Scarface. At least you know how low your chances are. Some guys just keep trying and trying. It's fucking hilarious but at least you're being realistic."

"I was joking, but whatever works for you, I guess." Pete put in one earbud again. Barkovitch walked next to him silently for awhile. There was nobody on the road except them and the seemingly miles of white houses and driveways and front lawns. This was a longer walk than he remembered.

"McVries, are you queer?"

"I thought we'd established this already."

"Yeah, but like what kinda queer?"

"What the hell does it matter to you? Do you want to get in my pants, killer?" Barkovitch made a gesture probably supposed to be indicative of barfing.

"Not in your fucking life, Dumbo! I'm just, I dunno..."

"Snooping for Stebbins?" Pete supplied.

"Stebbins? He's a weirdo but he's no snoop. He's an honest guy." There was a defensiveness in Barkovitch's tone that Pete didn't think he'd ever heard in the small, angry kid's voice before. "But no, to answer your question, I sure as hell am not snooping for Stebbins. I like Dirk. I don't do his weird shit, though." Pete was about to ask who Dirk was, but then realized that was probably Stebbins' first name. "But what kinda queer are you?"

"Does it matter? Look, killer, if you want an honest answer, I don't know. Priscilla broke my fucking heart and I'd like to say I only like guys so I can pretend I never loved her but I did, killer, I did love that fucking cheapskate liar bitch. I love Ray more than I ever loved her and he's already hurt me more than she ever did so I just don't know. Maybe the best way to go is to just not get with anybody. Stop asking me about this shit because I don't know."

There was another silence between them, then Barkovitch said one word. "Damn."

"What?"

"Damn. I never thought you had it in you, Scarface. Congratulations. You're less of a crock of shit than I thought you were."

"I wish I could say the same for you."

"What can I tell you that'll warm your fucking heart? Gee." Barkovitch seemed to think it over. "I kinda like somebody. Kinda. I kinda think somebody's nice and cute and all that shit. I don't think you'll ever believe me, though." Suddenly Pete felt guilt in his chest. Barkovitch made it sound like it was him who was the victim and Pete the bully.

"No, I believe you. Go on."

"That's all there is to it. The shitty little killer who went to juvie learns to love, am I right?" Barkovitch grinned wryly. "Don't feel bad. I fucking hate you. You fucking hate me. That's just how it is."

"Who is it?"

"Like hell I'll tell you."

They finally reached the end of the white houses and crossed the street into town. "Alright, killer. Whatever you say." He paused. "Do you think you'll ever be ready to tell me? I know we're not exactly best buddies, but...I kinda liked this. Being honest with you."

Barkovitch leered at him. "Ha! Scarface admits it! Hear that everybody? Scarface doesn't mind my company!" He laughed raucously. Nobody was on the streets to hear him. Suddenly Pete was laughing too, and he noticed that they were walking side by side.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Kind of a short chapter, but a good one.