Chapter Twenty-Nine

"Ben Franklin felt that no matter what a person's station in life was, they could become a 'self-made man', and go from rags to riches."

Jesse listens as his professor talks, and he jots down a few notes but finds his mind occupied. Number one on his mental list is the therapy sessions he's signed himself and Brock up for later that afternoon. He had figured in the end that it would probably help them both, but he's still nervous, terrified about he's actually going to say. Talk about Jane? About Gale?

Hell, if she knew the history between me and Mr. White, Dr. Parker would probably tell me to run a mile, cancer or not. And I just can't do that.

He has already firmly decided to never breathe aloud a word about his suspicions about Walt and Brock. Brock, at this point, is perfectly safe around Walt, and for that matter, the two have never been totally alone together. He isn't sure Walt would cotton to babysitting, anyway. And, anyway, that's why he pays Donya and gives her a break in the rest for the house.

That and the fact that the property's a money laundering operation for his old drug profits.

But that's beside the point.

Then there's Walt's failing health. Jesse doesn't really know what he'll do when it gets bad. Back when it had been his aunt, he'd easily stopped coming to class in favor of two-thirds taking care of her and one-third smoking weed and watching porn, but he can't do that now. He's come too far and if he halts his education now, he's not sure he'll ever pick it up again.

More selfishly, he needs the distraction. The lecture halls and assigned readings and lunches at the Food Court, the hustle and bustle and anonymity of the school, the monotony of his admissions job, all help him deal, help him with his metamorphosis into someone he never thought he could be.

When he gets home, after therapy, he'll draw up a couple of paragraphs on Ben Franklin.

A little smile appears on his face. His parents would be astounded. Could this be their Jesse, doing his homework? On time, no less.

He wonders what Brock will want for himself when he's older, and he again pledges to never be his parents. He'll love Brock even if he stumbles and falls. But right now, picturing the boys bright eyes and shy smile, he can only picture happiness for his son.


Jesse and Brock's appointments are staggered, Jesse's first, and when Brock returns from school he will bring him by for his own session.

His hands are knotted in his lap, and Diamond smiles at him as she asks the first question.

"So, Jesse. What would you like to talk about?"

Where will he begin?

"Mr. White," he says finally.

"That's your partner?"

"Yeah," Jesse mumbles. Diamond shifts, moves her pen slightly but doesn't write. Something in the natural motion makes him feel more at home. "I call him Mr. White cause, well, he taught me back in high school – we never did anything back then, though. That'd be creepy."

"How long have you two been together?"

"Three months."

"And… he's sick?"

Jesse nods.

"Lung cancer. Terminal, y'know? This is his last year."

"How do you feel about that?"

Jesse swallows.

"Not ready. Not at all."

Diamond looks at him.

"It's okay to feel that way, Jesse. Is anybody ready for someone they love to die?"

Jesse's head goes into his hands.

"I don't know. I know I'm not. I need him to stay."


The dollhouse morphs into a finished product slowly, day by day, until the day Jesse returns to the basement to discover that there is no work left to be done on it, save to populate it with little tenants.

The dark green roof sits on top of a cut-out attic with a moveable flap; underneath are two little bedrooms, and at the bottom are a living room, dining room and a blue and white kitchen.

The people come next; the two find they're on a roll and create them by hand. Brock designs a little version of himself, of Jesse, and of Mr. White and Andrea. They spend the next couple days building them; furniture soon joins it, and Andrea is placed on a little blue couch while Walt and Jesse are in the dining room. The miniature Brock, meanwhile, is placed in the attic, as if investigating it.

"It's beautiful," Jesse breathes, impressed. "You did great, Brock." Brock leans in and lets Jesse tousle his hair, before he wraps his little arms around him and hugs him tight. "I'm so proud of you," Jesse whispers, giving him a little squeeze. "Love you."


Walt would be fooling himself if he said his class is watching with rapt attention. The first row is more-or-less following, and maybe the second row, but as far as he can tell the back rows are either playing Angry Birds or masturbating. Perhaps both.

Walt, however, soldiers on; the class hadn't really done horrible on the first test, and considering that it's only the week of February, they've gotten pretty far in the book so far.

Shaina picks up the slack when he's too tired to muster much enthusiasm, going over problems with the general intensity of a drill sergeant. He thinks back and tries to remember if, in his own days as a TA, he could get up this much excitement.

It's all a blur.

So instead, he thinks of Jesse, and of the upcoming holiday. Walt never put much stock in Valentine's Day, found it terribly commercial and tacky, a way to sell chocolate and big red hearts that didn't even look like real hearts, anyway.

But this year, it seems like he should care. Like he should do something, mark the day, make it a nice one for Jesse.

He ought to start planning.