Wow! I got this amazingly good response to the last chapter, so I decided to move my lazy ass and put out another chapter. Just as warning, this doesn't really deal with the problems that Mark and Roger have been having, but it is important. So, please enjoy (and don't kill me!)

Seven: Roger

January—August, 1986

A guitar is a catalyst. A blinding flash of light. A moment of sharp realization. It is an imaginary number. The endless stretch of possibilities, the rate at which, the number of times that something should, could, would, happen.

A camera is a catalyst. It is a chemical reaction on a phenomenal scale. It is the sudden, almost bipolar swing from Hell On Wheels to Adult. It is sobriety. The ability to notice the previously invisible. To pick out the subtle and magnify it. It is it's own kind of drug.

A party is a catalyst. The greatest I know. It is the moment in which every thing changes and you go from having a best friend to having no one and you don't understand what you said and will you ever?

He won't talk to me. He avoids me for the rest of the school year. He does this thing, I hadn't really noticed it before, but I do now. He can make himself disappear. I don't mean it literally, but he has this way about him sometimes that suggests that he's too plain or insignificant to bother looking at. He does that, just goes quiet and fades away, when he wants to take pictures. And now he does it around me. I hardly see him around anymore. Either he's actively avoiding me, or he's doing the Amazing Disappearing Mark act. I think it's a little bit of both actually.

I need to know what I did. What I said that upset him. I mean, I told him something really personal. No one else knows about what I saw, not even my mom. I just couldn't stand telling her I saw it. I didn't want them asking me anymore questions, I just wanted to go home and sleep forever. Maybe that's how my grandfather felt too. Only difference is, he off-ed himself.

So there we. Are lonely suckers without best friends. Odd isn't it, that we became friends at a party and then lost each other at a party? Maybe there's some deeper meaning there, but I can't see it.

All I know is I've gone from being confused, to being hurt, to being angry. So angry. I've never been this angry at someone since my grandfather. I don't understand him and he won't talk to me!

So this is how we are. Between January and June we hardly see each other. We don't talk once. Then I go away from the summer and change and that seems to cement it in place. By the time I come back in September we are officially strangers. Not even ex-best friends, just strangers. Two people who met once at this Halloween party and then never talked to each other again. And minus a few fantastic months in between, I guess that's essentially what we are.

Summer: the next catalyst. My uncle Rob says I can come back, as long as I don't lay a finger on his new dogs. Do I understand? Yes, yes I do. I will stay away from the dogs. I have to promise five times before he lets me into the house.

So I spend the summer like I've spent the past seven, slopping around the farm, doing menial labor for no pay, driving Rob's pick up truck to town for the groceries. It's dull as dirt but it's my only option unless I can raise enough money to fly cross country to California and spend the summer with my mom.

I notice the change, believe me, even a blind person would notice. I've been growing almost non stop since I was thirteen, and let's just say that for the last three years of my life I've been more like a collection of random limbs tied together with string than an actual person. I was skinny and tall and my feet were too big for the rest of me. I felt like Gumby or something. But over the summer I stop looking like a stork in a plaid shirt and start looking like an actual human being.

However, it's not until almost the end of the summer that I finally figure out exactly how different I actually look.

In all of Somerset County, there is only one club, and it's not even technically in Somerset. It's this old church that was de-sanctified and turned into a club. It's called Redemption (corny or what?). It's hot and the beer is bad (I hear this through the grape vine because I've never been there), but they've got a great D.J. and even if they didn't everyone would come because it's the only place for anyone under thirty to come.

It's Peter's idea to go. Peter is this kid who lives a next door. In our patch of Somerset (not all of it is so rural) this means about five miles down the road. Peter's the kind of kid who loves to do risky things. The first summer I spent here he taught me how to use make an anfo bomb. Then we blew up a deserted car. So anyway, one evening he comes over with his best friend, Sal and announces that we're going to Redemption.

"Don't be an idiot, we'll never get in. Do we look twenty one to you?" I ask.

"Well, Sal and I don't but you could pass." He says, leaning against the propane tank by the back door.

"Is your vision impaired? Since when do I look twenty one?" I tend to ask a lot of disbelieving or sarcastic questions when I'm around Peter.

"Just wait and see, Roger. You'll get in. And if we're with you, so will we." He says, confident as ever. Sal nods firmly. He's a man of few words, Sal, probably because he's also a man of few brain cells.

I'm sure that this won't work, so don't ask why two hours later I'm sitting in the driver's seat of Rob's pick up with Sal and Peter, bumping along the crappy country roads towards Redemption. We're never getting in, not in a million years.

I wasn't expecting much, but even so Redemption is a disappointment. It's this tiny little white building with clapboard sidings and crappy stain glass windows. The ground around it is churned mud with beer cans and plastic cups and condoms embedded in it. It looks like a hick club and I almost turn around, but then I hear the music and somehow, I can't. The D.J. really is fantastic. He's got this great mix going and the beat is just....it's the most sexy thing I've ever heard is what it is.

So I take a deep breath and follow Peter and Sal to the door.

The bouncer stares at Peter (who looks about fourteen) for about ten minutes, then at Sal, who looks his age.

"Go away." That's all. He doesn't even ask for I.D.

Then he turns to me and I'm expecting more of the same, but he barely glances at my face before he stamps my hand. It takes me a second to register that. I've just gotten into a club. Is it freaky? Yes. Is it way cool? Totally. I am sixteen and for some reason I've gotten into a twenty one and up club. Divine intervention must have been involved. Appropriate, since this is a church.

Still I'm reeling. Peter and Sal are sent packing, so I guess Peter's second prediction didn't come through, but I honestly don't care. I'm in a fucking club. This is amazing!

The club is everything Rob told me it was. It's like an inferno in here. And the beer does suck, because they let me buy some (they let me buy beer?!) and the D.J. really does rock. Honestly this isn't much better than some parties I've been to. There are the same amount of illegal substances, there is the same bad alcohol. But it's different, too, because everyone is so much older and that makes it just a little cooler.

I'm still reeling from my amazing luck when I see the guy in the mirror above the bar. I notice him because he's wearing the same faded Guns and Roses t-shirt as I am. He's cool! He pulls off the whole faded grungy look way better than I ever have. He doesn't come off looking like a hobo, he looks easy and relaxed and totally in his element. He's not spectacular looking, but he's got good bone structure and there's some aura about him that makes him seem way better looking than he is. But there's something up with his face he's got.....shit. He's got different color eyes.

I spend five minutes feeling like a fucking moron before I realize that laps in intelligence aside (I mean who doesn't recognize their own reflection?) this is a very very good thing. I look older than sixteen, that's obvious enough, I could do a lot with this. I could really use it. It's an imaginary number. A set of amazing possibilities. Infinite chances that I can't waste.

Note: kk! That's that. Roger is rull dumb, no? o well. Next chapter will get into Junior year in high school so we can hear from Marky-Larky. Be ready for the Uber-Angst and, as always, thanks so much for reviewing. It make-eth me so happy!