Shoutouts!

Unknown-Dreams: Indeed you are. Sprace will come eventually. But probably not until the end.

Pancakes: I think 'like' is an understatement. SPRACE IS LOVE!

Slightly: Shut up.

Oh, shut it, Slightly. You're just jealous 'cause I haven't slashed you yet.

Slightly: Uhm...May I point out I'm ten?

Oh. Right-o.

itsasledgehammer: Yeah, I get the feeling, too. Especially when he says "That ain't good enough, Jack." It looks like there's a story behind that. -is inspired- OOH!

Slightly: Oh boy.

Kid Blink's Dreamer: Tell me about it. Ah...I haven't heard that in a long time!

Shakespeare's POV

I hovered guiltily over Racetrack as he stared at his palms, shocked. "Race…I know it's hard, but…" I trailed off. I didn't know what to say. I wasn't good at comforting people. "Just…Maybe hating Spot isn't such a good idea. You shouldn't make life hard for him, when he's had a tough life since the day he was born." I dropped my voice to a murmur. "He's had his angel all his life."

I think that's what most did it for Race. The fact that Spot Conlon had such a terrible childhood that he was born with a guardian angel was such a shock. I knew what was happening. Racetrack had had such a sheltered life; he'd known about things like child abuse, murder, rape, but he'd never actually been affected by it.

"What do I do?" he asked helplessly, looking up at me. I sunk down to sit next to him.

"Call a truce. Tell him you don't want to fight anymore. Invite him to see a movie, or something," I advised. He nodded, still dazed.

"Yeah…Yeah, a movie…"

I followed him back into the school to his English class, taught by a creepy man named Bryan Denton. Denton glared at him and demanded an explanation for being late, but Race just sat down in the back, muttering something about, "Had to go to the bathroom."

Race and I spent the period talking; he would write down questions on a sheet of paper, and I would talk to him, since no one could hear me anyway. The bell rang, and Denton was less displeased with Race, because he seemed to be under the impression that Racetrack was taking notes.

"Hey, Conlon!" Race called as he spotted Spot in the hallway.

"Spot!" I scolded.

"Right, sorry, Spot!" Race corrected himself. Spot turned around, surprised to see Racetrack hurrying toward him.

"Can I help you?" Spot asked coolly, leaning against the lockers. Race opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"I'd like to call a truce," I murmured. Race repeated it.

"You what?" Spot demanded, not sure what he was hearing.

"I'd like to call a truce!" Race said, crossing his fingers for luck. Spot's jaw dropped. I felt my face growing hot, and my stomach clenching. Race was incredibly nervous.

"A…truce?" Spot repeated. "Ah, no." I sagged with disappointment.

"Why not?" I demanded, forgetting that Spot couldn't see or hear.

"Why not?" Race repeated. Spot snorted and paused, as if waiting for the punch line.

"You're serious?" he asked, finally. Racetrack nodded, earnestly. Spot studied him for a minute.

"All right. But if I get one whiff of foul play, you'll get the pounding of your life," he warned. Racetrack grinned, and I gave a shout of triumph.

"YES!"