Gordo, squinting in confusion, whispered under his breath, "Who thedid they move and not tell me? Why wouldn't they tell me?" He was almost angry at them before

"Mr. and Mrs. Gordon would not like anymore visitors at this time." What a relief. But whose voice is that? And whywhy would they be having visitors anyway? Could they have.no. No way. That's insane.

The strange man looked at him through the peephole. "Sir, please leave," he announced through the door.

"This is umthis is Gord---I mean, David Gordon. I'm theirtheir son." He still couldn't figure it out. Visitors?

Opening the door, the anonymous man apologized. "I am terribly sorry, sir. Please, let me take your bags for you." Gordo didn't a good look at his face, but he looked grim. What is this, did my parents hire a butler?!

"Dr. Andrews, I thought I told you no" his mother's voice grew louder as the sentence went on. When she reached the foyer and saw her only son, she went into a mild shock. "David!" she squeaked. Gordo noticed her puffy, red eyes, but figured it was just allergies. She walked quickly towards him, and embraced him as if she hadn't seen him in 30 years, although it had actually only been 2. While hugging his mother, his father appeared from the kitchen. He gave Gordo an acknowledging smile, but quickly returned to the grim look, much like that of the doctor.

While he had missed parents and his home, there was still a yearning inside of him to visit his friends. He was the reason why he had come home in the first place. But he knew it would kill his mother to tell her that. He loved his parents both very much, but he hated how they were always constantly psychologically evaluating his every move. He often wondered where he came from. His parents looked into things too deeply. Sure, he was overanalytical himself sometimes, but they look for the psychological influence and effects, and all things scientific. He believed in fate, and destiny. He didn't understand it, but he knew that it existed. Before he developed a mind of his own, he was brainwashed by his parents into thinking that everything in life happened for a scientific reason. They weren't against religion, but they didn't believe most of it.

His mother's soft voice broke into his thoughts.

"David?"

He snapped back into reality. He was at his kitchen table, with his mom and his dad.

"David, is something troubling you?"

"No, Mom, I'm fine, thanks." I wonder how many times I've said that in my lifetime.

His father, at last, spoke. "Are you sure? Nothing on your mind that you'd like to discuss with us?" I can't believe they're still using the same routine after nearly 10 years.

"No, Dad, I'm fine." He picked up his fork and twirled his spaghetti slowly. When he realized his parents were still staring at him and looking worried, he quickened the pace, and tried to make himself look happier. When he smiled, he remembered: Lizzie and Miranda. He needed to talk to them. Although he wasn't usually that much of a talker, he'd want to tell him about his dream, and all the things he had done that he hadn't got to tell them about in his letters. He couldn't believe it, but he longed to see their beautiful faces. He hadn't seen someone smile, and mean it, in a long, long time. It was unbelievable how they could brighten up his day like no one else. How did I live without them for two years?

After he finished his dinner and washed off his plate, he grabbed his jacket, kissed his Mom on the cheek, and said, "I'm going to Lizzie's, Mom. I'll see you in a few hours."

"Oh, son, don't you think you should go up to your room and rest? It's rather late, and you've been driving for hours, and your bed is all fresh and waiting to be slept in." There was a sense of urgency in his mother's voice, but Gordo figured it was just her motherly instinct, wanting to protect him. And his old bed, the one thing he could almost say he missed as much as his friends, all clean and comfortable, was tempting..

He grinned "Alright, just let me get one thing out of my car."

The brisk evening breeze beyond his front door chilled him to the bone. He knew he should be annoyed, but he hadn't felt air so cold in years. He loved everything about Hillridge: the year-round smell of freshly cut grass, the golden sunrise that shimmered down the glittery streets, even the sound of children screaming playfully at the playground made him crack a smile. I can't believe myself. I sound like one of those insanely deep people who go around telling people to slow down their lives. Life is a fast-paced thing. If you take it slowly, you'll get pushed around. That's my mentality.

After he locked his car once more, he saw the newspaper lying on the driveway. I guess I'll check up on current events the old-fashioned way.

Gordo went inside and made himself a cup of coffee. He read the headlines to himself: "Junior High's Rhythmic Gymnastics Team Makes State Championship." He laughed aloud. If only Lizzie were 4 years younger. He continued to read the paper and drink his sugary coffee as he walked upstairs.

His bedroom wasn't nearly as enticing as his mother had made it seem. But he was tired; he'd sleep anywhere right now. He lied down in his bed, which was almost too small for him.

As soon as he finished the article about the new high school principal, he turned the page. Obituaries. Poor old guys. He wasn't trying to be disrespectful. It was just that, well, they were going to die sooner or later.

He scanned down the lists, hoping to see one of his old teachers someone in there. He reached "M" and nearly dropped his cup.

"McGuire, Elizabeth Brooke b. 1988. Alum of Hillridge High School Killed last night by a drunk driver at aprox. 12:00 AM at the corner of Henry Ave. and School House Lane. She went to the Hillridge School for 15 years, from nursery school to 12th grade. The driver of the car she was in was best friend Miranda Sanchez (see below), who was also announced dead"

He flipped down the page.

"Sanchez, Miranda Isabella b. 1988, Alum of Hillridge High School. Announced dead at the scene of the accident between Sanchez's Toyota Corrola and Hillridge resident Eddie Davis's Ford pick-up truck. Davis was drunk at the time of the crash. Sanchez was an aspiring singer who was planning on going to Duke for college next year. Sanchez was 18 years old."

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[A/N: For the record, I spent about 3 hours on this chapter.]