Tuesday 3 November

I'm getting really fucking tired of reassuring people that I'm Okay. Capital-O Okay. Okay, Fine, Great, Never Been Better. After an especially long, long day, I'm sick of it.

My long, long day started at about 5 am. It's not like I meant to get up that early, but my eyes snapped open well before sunrise and I couldn't get back to sleep. I finally gave up, crawled out of Trunks' bed, and spent the next hour and a half watching godawful talk shows on the local television stations. I began to wonder what kind of cursed career path winds up with you interviewing the West City Zoo's penguin breeders at the asscrack of dawn . . . and then came to the horrifying conclusion that my own career path as a journalist might one day lead me there.

I . . . may need to start taking school more seriously.

I turned off the television, got dressed, and hopped in the car with Trunks at around 7:45. To his credit, Trunks seemed to pick upon the fact that I was not in the mood for a casual chat, and didn't say a word until we pulled into the school parking lot.

Same thing couldn't be said for Nao. The second I plopped down into my seat—just before the bell rang—he handed me a note:

-Are you okay?

I rolled my eyes and wrote back:

-Fine.

Nao raised an eyebrow as he scribbled down:

-You don't look fine. Which was true, I suppose—I knew I had bags under my eyes, and my newly-shorn hair was a complete disaster. Plus, I imagine by this point a scowl had actually made a permanent home on my face.

Still, didn't mean I wanted that pointed out, so I wrote:

-I told you I'm fine. Now. Stop. Asking.

I handed him back the slip of paper. He raised both eyebrows this time before jotting something down. I couldn't tell you what it was, though, because I didn't take the note when he handed it back to me; I just started staring at the chalkboard, pretending to pay attention while Mr. Mori lectured. I could hear Nao let out an exasperated little puff of air before he opened up his own notebook and started to take notes on what Mori was saying. Meanwhile, all I managed to get written was the homework assignment.

I couldn't get out of class fast enough. When the bell rang, I shoved my notebook into my backpack, tearing off half the cover, and damn near broke the zipper closing up my bag. Lucky me, though, Nao doesn't seem to know when to let up. He managed to catch up with me before I got to my literature class.

"Goten, hold up." He pulled me aside. "Are you—"

"I swear to god," I cut him off, "if you ask me if I'm okay, I will punch you in the face."

He didn't let go of my arm. "What is your problem? Look, there's obviously something wrong—"

"For the love of fuck, Nao! Did it occur to you that maybe what has me so pissed off is the fact that people keep fucking asking me if I'm okay?" I shoved his hand off my arm. "Kami, how stupid do you have to be?"

He narrowed his eyes at me. "Well, fuck you too." Which sort of stood out to me, since Nao almost never swears—and he's certainly never sworn at me.

I dunno, maybe I had it coming. But by that point, I was glad to be rid of him. Really.

Naturally, the moment I walked into lit class and took my seat, Dia caught sight of me and asked if I was doing okay. At least she had the good sense to shut up when I growled out a "yes."

So that was that. I just sort of dragged myself through the rest of the day. Sat quietly and doodled through my classes. Ignored Nao through history. Grabbed lunch with Trunks in the hallway, because it's finally too cold to eat outside anymore. Avoided making eye contact with Ava in chemistry. Faked my way through phys ed. Nothing exciting. Nothing new.

By the time 2:30 rolled around, I was more than happy to go home with Trunks, finish up my homework, and get to sleep early. But no, the universe just doesn't know when to leave me the fuck alone. I'd barely cracked open my calc book when I heard three very sharp, very deliberate knocks on my door.

There's only one person I know that knocks like that. I didn't even look up from my desk as the door cracked open and he came inside.

"What do you want, Gohan?"

He chucked a little. "Nice to see you too." He closed the door behind him and moved inside, sitting down on the corner of my bed. I didn't say anything. I just scrawled down one of the problems from my textbook, started solving it, realized I'd fucked it up, erased it, rewrote. Fucked it up again. Ripped the piece of paper out of my notebook and tossed it in the trash. Started over. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Gohan cleared his throat in a distinctly unsubtle fashion. I ignored him until he started speaking.

"What are you working on?" he asked, standing up and peering over my shoulder.

"Integral forms containing inverse trigonometric functions."

"Do you have any idea what those words actually mean?"

"Not a fucking clue." I threw away my second sheet of paper and started my homework assignment a third time, silently cursing myself for zoning out during Mori's lecture. As usual.

Gohan cleared his throat again. "Look, we should probably talk.

I sighed and threw my pencil down onto the desk. "Gohan, I just want to do my calculus homework."

"Wow," he said, this obnoxious half-laugh in his voice, "you are upset."

"Cute." I slammed my textbook shut and turned to face him. "So let me guess. Dad asked you to come here and talk to me."

"Not exactly. He told me what happened. I'm the one who decided to come over. Dad doesn't even know I'm here."

"Whatever," I said, folding my arms and looking away. "So you understand why I'm upset."

"Of course I do," he said, sitting back down on my bed. "I always knew it would upset you if you found out."

My jaw dropped. I forced it shut as I processed this new information.

Gohan knew, all along, that our dad had known about me. Like I haven't had enough insane revelations in my life lately.

And then I thought, shit, of course Dad would trust Gohan with something like this. Because Gohan is the calm, level-headed genius of the family.

Because Gohan is the son he really knows.

"Why . . . " I choked up, swallowed hard, and forced myself to continue. I wasn't pissed—Kami knows why I wasn't pissed—but I was stunned. "God, Gohan, why didn't you tell me?"

He looked away, his expression somewhere between guilty and thoughtful. "Would anything good have come of it?" He looked back at me when I didn't answer. "Look, if and when you have your own kids you'll get it, but sometimes, as a parent, honesty actually isn't the best policy. You really think I ever plan on letting Pan find out she wasn't planned?"

I took a few seconds to get my bearings. "Even if you did, it wouldn't matter. She might have been an accident, but you and Videl stepped up."

Gohan raised an eyebrow at me. "And hasn't Dad?"

"He stayed away," I sighed out. "He knew."

"I know, Goten."

"It's just...it's bad enough that Mom likes you better than me." And it sounds pathetic, but it actually felt good, saying it aloud. And I know Mom loves me, but I really do wonder if she actually likes me. "I just never thought Dad—"

"Okay," he cut me off, "first, you're wrong about Mom."

"Bullshit," I muttered.

"Listen. When I was a kid, Mom wouldn't let me train. Of course her heart was in the right place. She was worried about me. But when you were a kid, she's the one who trained you."

"And she wasn't worried about me?" I failed to see how this was helping his case. If anything, he was proving my point.

"Of course she was. But she cared enough about you, about the fact that you would never be happy if you couldn't let your inner fighter out every once in a while, that she put aside her own fears to train you." He walked back over to me and put a hand on my shoulder. "Do you have any idea how hard that had to be for her? Especially after losing dad?"

Part of me wanted to shrug his hand off. But, for some reason, I didn't. Instead I just asked, "What about you?"

"Huh?"

"How hard was it for you?" It was a question I already knew the answer to—Dad's death had been rough on him. Really rough. I'd seen it firsthand. "I mean, jeez, Gohan, how do you come back from something like that?"

"Want the truth?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, that'd be a nice change of pace."

Gohan ignored my comment. "Honestly, I was fine, at first. I figured that Dad had made his choice, it's not like he was languishing in hell or anything . . . he just figured it was for the best."

I looked him right in the eyes and said:

"I don't remember you being fine."

Gohan looked like he'd been slapped. "Guess I wasn't as good an actor as I'd have liked to believe." He gave me a sad smile and sat back down. "The truth is, it got worse after you were born. I mean . . . you just looked so much like him."

And then it was my turn to feel like being slapped. Because, fuck, if I saw my dad when I looked in the mirror, what the hell did I expect Gohan to see? So I told him to shut the fuck up, that the last thing I needed was my brother reminding me what a terrible burden on his existence I was, that I knew I looked exactly like dad, and why the fuck else would I get this damn haircut?

Gohan cut me off again. I'm starting to wonder if that isn't becoming a bad habit of his.

The first thing he said was that he never thought of me as a burden, that I was what kept him going some days, and that shut me up.

I watched him for a minute before coming up with the ever insightful: "Why?"

"I guess I just felt like I'd fucked up so, so much. I guess . . . the big-brother thing was the only thing I was doing right."

"Other than the whole saving-the-world thing," I grumbled.

He laughed. Not an amused laugh, but one of those nervous chuckles you use to try to defuse tension. Ironic thing is, those laughs always manage to put me more on edge.

"Goten," he started up again, wearing the bitterest smile I'd ever seen on him, "when I thought back to that day, it wasn't defeating Cell that stuck out in my mind. It was Dad's death."

And then he said, more to himself than to me:

"To be honest, I kept blaming myself for it."

And there it was. Gohan was finally admitting what I'd really known since I was a little kid. That Dad's death screwed him up more than he ever wanted to admit.

So I did what any good little brother would do. I stood up and smacked him on the back of his head.

"Ow," he said, rubbing his head, though I knew I didn't really hurt him. I couldn't hurt him if I tried. "What was that for?"

"For being an idiot. You were nine."

He laughed again, that tense, awkward, nasty laugh. "Never said it was rational."

I sat back down, turning away from him in my chair. "Why are you even telling me this?"

"Well, because it sort of leads into why Dad didn't want to come back." Gohan spent the next few minutes explaining how dad had started to think he'd done nothing but cause trouble for the earth. From Radditz (because every family needs that one crazy uncle) to Vegeta (back when he was "the bad guy") to Frieza to the androids (back when they were the bad guys) to Cell—way he figured it, he'd managed to drag every one of them to planet. Like none of that would have happened if it hadn't been for him.

Like he was keeping the world safe by staying dead.

And all I could think up in response was:

"...That doesn't make any sense."

My brother laughed again. Genuinely, this time. He shook his head and shrugged. "It did at the time. Remember, this was years before Buu came along." He looked askance at me. "The point is, given the circumstances . . . well, it's not like he didn't want to be around." He pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Just try to understand. Think you can do that?"

But I guess I'm still not in a place to be 'understanding,' whatever the fuck that means. So I answered his question with another question. "Look, are you going to try to make me go home?"

"I can't make you do anything." He got up and started moving back toward the door. "But I do think it's worth talking this out with Dad."

"Maybe," I said, telling him what I knew he wanted to hear. "Just . . . not yet."

"That's all I'm asking." He smiled at me. "Goten, I know I've told you this already, but . . . you know I'm always here if you need anything. That hasn't changed." And I nodded, because this time, I believed him.

He didn't shut the door behind him when he left.

I stepped into the hallway and leaned against the banister, my eyes following him as he exited the compound. I watched through the window as he popped open his capsule plane—same model as mine—and flew off.

And I thought, long and hard, about what he'd said. About our dad. About our dad's completely reasonable, supremely idiotic reasons for staying away.

Believe it or not, this was easier when I was just angry.

I turned around to go back into my room and give my calculus homework a third try. I ended up running into Bra, literally. She grumbled as she fell backward onto the floor, I leaned down and offered a hand to help her up.

She looked up at me, bearing exactly the same look Vegeta always has right before one of his patented meltdowns. I'd braced myself for the kid's tongue lashing when the scowl fell away, replaced by an expression that was far too thoughtful for that tiny face.

"Goten," Bra said with this little frown. "Um, you seem kind of sad. And mad. You okay?"

Of all the fucking things that made me break. It wasn't my boyfriend's attempts to comfort me, or Bulma's quiet concern, or Gohan's calm, firm attempts to get me to face my father. It was a four year old girl asking me if I was okay.

Because I wanted to say I was. I wanted to say I was capital-o Okay. I wanted to repeat the lie I'd been telling all day. Even if it wasn't true, I wanted to be able to reassure her that it wasn't a big deal, that everything was fine.

But I couldn't do it. I leaned down, I opened my mouth to say, yeah, I'm fine, and before I could even take a breath, my throat tightened up.

And it hit me just how Not Okay I was.