Author's note: Sincere thanks to Walter for the thorough beta work and support.

Chapter 1

The afternoon sun was fading but Ryan stayed warm running sprints on the bleachers. Soccer season was over but he liked to stay in shape. The bleachers had become a relaxing workout, a refuge from new expectations and confusing emotions. No words to carefully dole out, no looks to decipher here. Up the north side, stretching a bit to hit every other tread, his heart pounded. Over the top seats he ran parallel to the sidelines. Then, down the south side he ran more carefully now. He caught his breath, but his muscles worked harder, braking so he wouldn't trip down the steep stairs.

A light film of sweat covered him. The land hadn't cooled off enough to kick in the offshore breeze yet. He glanced at his watch, 5 o'clock. Seth would be here to pick him up in a half hour. He jogged slowly along the lowest seats and walked up the stairs, cooling down. He stopped at the top for a view of the campus.

He smiled; it never failed to impress him how the place reeked of elegant money. The intricate mosaic wall murals, the cool Spanish arcades, the mocha lattes offered on the lunch veranda, and the professionally manicured playing fields were bordered by perfect rows of palm trees. In the student parking lot, all flavors of Beemers and SUVs were found. Ironically, what impressed him most was what he didn't see - not a single cigarette butt or broken liquor bottle. Not that the students weren't slobs or didn't smoke and drink, but there was always someone to clean after them.

There weren't many people around because of yet another benefit concert being held on the other side of campus. To most students, the particular cause was less relevant than the goal of being seen and admired there. A few dogs barked and chased each other over the field, occasionally returning to an older couple standing mid field. Behind the bleachers, below and a short distance away from Ryan, a red headed boy sat quietly on the curb obviously waiting for a ride.

On the top bleacher seat Ryan held a stretch, forehead to right knee and both hands around the sole of his new kicks, Nike Shox. The shoes made him about a hundred dollars worth of uncomfortable. They were a reminder of the large bills the Cohens were spending on him. He had tried to explain it to Sandy at the mall.

"You guys don't have to do this. My old ones are fine . . ." When this was met with silence, he added, "I can use my Crab Shack money?" More silence but Sandy's eyebrows gathered in a serious conference. In an exasperated mumble Ryan said, "It's just adding up to too much ... more than we had for real things ... rent, food ..."

Sandy tried to look Ryan straight in the eye, but Ryan lowered his gaze and his hair fell over his forehead. "I get it, Ryan. Cut from the same deck and all that. I denounce the inequities of society, too! You feel guilty and wish your folks could have had nice shoes ... nice clothes, nice cars ... hell, enough for reliable groceries. What if our families had money? Would my dad have stayed around? Would your dad be in prison? I don't know. But the answer isn't to deny yourself. Bring about change, don't make futile gestures!" He paused between the next words for emphasis, "Combat - these -injustices."

Sandy seemed embarrassed by his earnestness, and tried to relieve the moment, "Please indulge us. As Seth says: we've never had a real athlete in the family. Let us pepper your game, or would that be sugar your game? Hmmm. So what'll it be – Saucony Hurricane, Nike Shox, or the classic All Stars in a lovely chartreuse? If you get tired of running in them, maybe you can drink them."

So today the kicks also reminded Ryan of a new resolve to not feel bad about getting things. He wasn't sure how his other resolution to "bring about good change" could be put to action. The phrase "combat injustice" sounded ridiculous - something that belonged to a superhero wearing a cape in a scene from Seth's graphical novels. He cringed at the image but the idea had seemed so right to him when Sandy first said it. He'd have to think a bit more on this.

Ryan looked up when he heard a car race up the drive only to slam on the brakes abruptly. A black Benz pulled up a few feet from the boy.

A tall, overweight man in a business suit jumped out of the car.

The boy stood up quickly, hugging a backpack in front of him. Ryan recognized him as Chester Moore from Seth's sailing class. Chester was a slight, sullen boy in the 5th grade who had never said more than a few words to Ryan. But they saw each other at most of the Newpsie events that the Cohens attended.

"Hi, Dad. H-How was the meeting with Dean Kim? I thought it was Mom who was going." Chester said anxiously.

Mr. Moore stared at Chester for a moment before replying coldly, "She wanted to talk to me because your mom is useless. You're failing gym and retard math? You're both useless."

Chester stared at his shoes and said, "The guys don't like me. They spit at me when Coach isn't looking. I'd rather stay in the library . . . but I promise I'll do better."

"They spit on you?" Mr. Moore's voice and face expressed his revulsion. "What did I ever do to deserve you? Stupid and weak. Incredible. Stop crying. I thought we broke you of that nasty habit." He slapped Chester across the face and turned toward the car. He hadn't put much force behind it, but Chester's heels were against the curb and he didn't have the leverage to stop his fall.

Ryan's stomach tensed and he was motionless, watching carefully. The words weren't aimed at him, the slap wouldn't have moved him. He was safe from his bird's eye view. Sixteen years of living with exploding anger, his reactions had become instinctive. If any of the Cohens were in trouble he would already be on the front lines, fists swinging. But Chester reminded him of himself, only younger. Sometimes others had tried to intervene on his behalf, and he would usually get his ass kicked even more when they left. Bullies hated to be called out and would take it out on the weak as soon as they could.

He knew Chester's face wasn't his worse pain. That was the shock of being told, yet again, you had no worth. AJ's punches bruised deep but healed in days. If you learned to read the signs you could stay out of AJ's way most of the time; bury yourself in a good book. But memories of his meek compliance to commands given with the sole purpose of humiliation endured. Many of his mother's lovers would order him to fetch another beer, hoping he wouldn't so they would have an excuse to beat him, if they needed an excuse at all.

Worse still were commands given by someone who occasionally said he loved you. Like when Ryan and Trey were just little kids, whenever it struck their dad's fancy, he demanded they repeat "I'm a little shit" while he roared with drunken laughter.

"Get into the car."

Chester happened to glance up at Ryan as he was getting up. He seemed embarrassed beneath his scowl, and quickly turned away to comply with his father's orders.

Ryan leaped over the guardrail and began to climb down the backside of the bleachers. He didn't know how getting down would be of any help, but Chester's look forced him to do something. The car sped away before he got a quarter of the way down the scaffolding. Combat injustices? Ha, he could never be fast enough, smart enough.