A/N: I FUCKING HATE THIS FUCKING SITE! I had all of your REVIEW REPLIEs WRITTEN UP AND THEN THE DAMN PAGE FUCKING WENT SOMEWHERE AND IT WAS ALL FUCKING GONE! AUGH!

I give up. I can't do it all again. I hope you all can forgive me for not writing up lengthy thank you's (even though I had, and now they're lost in the virutal abyss). I'm sorry. I just feel like crying now. SON OF A BITCH! GODDAMN IT!

And I'm sorry for all the curse words. I swear when I'm angry. I swear when I'm happy. I swear when I'm sad. I just...I swear a lot.

I had even written up the difference between the two bands, but now I can't. I'll tell you next update. Thanks everyone for reviewing. I'll post replies to all of you later (next update). Blame this GODDAMNED SITE!

ENJOY!

Chapter 14: It's Better To Have Loved And Lost

Freddy balanced his chin in his hand, staring cross eyed at the paper in front of him and attempting not to doze off. The teacher, a Mister Something-or-the-Other, stood at the front of the class droning on about this or that. Freddy was pretty sure it had something to do with history, as he was fairly certain he was sitting in social studies class. To say the least, his week had not been good. Between dull classes, detention where he was forced to do his homework and wasn't allowed to listen to any music or drum his pencils on the desk, band practices that lasted for hours on end, and late night drinking in which he tried to sustain a level of alcohol in his system that could pass him out and still leave him arguably function-able in the morning, he was not getting much rest. And any sober minute of the day was spent thinking about Summer, or trying not to think about Summer, trying to figure out why he was thinking about Summer, and wishing he were dead because he couldn't sort out his jumbled mind which was a mess from thinking so much about Summer.

A question was asked and, speak of the devil, a hand shot into the air. Freddy straightened slightly, eyes trailing to study the back of Summer's dark hair, swooping delicately down her back, and moving, swaying, as she tried to get the teacher's attention. For some odd reason, Mister Something-or-the-Other felt that Summer's habit of answering far too many, or rather, all, of the questions asked discouraged other students from trying. So he liked to give others in the classroom a chance by simply ignoring her hand. It drove Summer up the wall, and though he would never admit it, Freddy was annoyed by it too. If she knew the answers, why punish her? Answering the questions gave her some sick pleasure, why deny her that?

It helped that he liked hearing her speak, too. Her voice incited something within him, some semblance of passion, another one of those strange, alien, inexplicable feelings Summer gave him. When she spoke, it made him straighten ever so slightly, perk somewhat, strain his ears, and want to do…well, something at the very least. It usually ended up with him teasing her in some form.

But now, just looking at Summer, ignited that flame of emotion inside of Freddy. They hadn't really spoken since the mall, nearly a week and a half before. They hadn't had a chance, hadn't found a moment alone together. And because of that, he noted unhappily, that meant they hadn't shared any more kisses or embraces since the bookstore. She hadn't even looked at him since then. A few run-ins in the hallway was the closest to touching her he'd been. A flickered glance at lunchtime was all he could catch of her shining eyes, obviously not enough to satiate his want to bask in her stare and attention. Even when he taunted her she barely paid him mind.

She squirmed in her seat now, wriggling her hand in the air, tapping her foot impatiently. Freddy could just picture her lips pursed, her brow drawn together, her cheeks blanched and flushed pink from the dire need to answer the question. He smirked, absently picking his pencil up and twirling it much like a drumstick in the air, eyes never leaving the petite young woman. She was so easy to figure out sometimes. Her motivation, her drive. He could almost predict what she would do next, nearly bouncing in her seat, before clearing her throat, and calling Mister Something-or-the-Other to gain his attention because evidently he must not have noticed her waving. The teacher would sigh and mutter her name, and eagerly she would chirrup the correct, because it was always the correct, answer. Then she would toss her hair over her shoulders, fold her hands on her desk, sit up straight, cross her ankles, and beam up at the exasperated man in the front of the room awaiting praise. He very rarely gave it, usually snapping in annoyance, "Thank you, Miss Hathaway."

But then, sometimes, she was so complicated. Freddy was sure he would understand Quantum Physics before her. He didn't even know what the hell Quantum Physics was.

She hadn't even so much as spoken his name, addressed him even, since the mall. He frowned, a harrowing realization striking him. She was still avoiding him. She was still refusing to acknowledge him, his feelings, his confusion. He'd told her to stop, but now he wasn't sure why he thought simply telling her not to would work. She had been in his arms, and her tears had ceased. She'd seemed frail, small, and completely dependant on him. He'd been fooled for a moment that things were understood between them, things were sorted out, and that perhaps she might have figured out his feelings for her before even he did.

Maybe she had. And maybe she didn't want to return whatever those feelings were.

Anger rushed through his veins, and he scowled blearily down at the blank paper on his desk. He wanted to be mad at her, but mostly he was just mad at himself. He'd almost convinced himself that she cared about him. That she might even…almost…possibly…like…or even love him. But he realized how stupid he'd been.

Nobody would ever love him.

He felt sick. Without warning, the pencil in his hand flung through the air, luckily being seated in the back meant it whizzed harmlessly to the floor. He growled softly at his clumsiness, and ineptness, and moved to pick it up.

"Ah…Mister Jones," the teacher called, almost excitedly. Freddy froze, rolling his eyes to peer horrified up at the man, "How nice of you to participate today. Your answer…?"

"My what?" Freddy murmured, scrunching his nose, his eyes shooting around the classroom, at all the students turned to stare at him. For most of the girls, it wasn't much of a stretch for their necks. But they all seemed surprised that he would volunteer to answer a question. He felt his heart skip when Summer's eyes flashed his direction, until they lowered to her desk. He tried to figure out if it was him that upset her, or the fact she couldn't answer the question now.

"The process by which cells multiply would be…?" the teacher prodded. Freddy grimaced, suppressing the urge to curse out loud. He wasn't in history class, he was in science. At least he could bullshit history.

"Um…" he mumbled, searching his mind for a reasonable answer. He hadn't done his science homework since the first week of seventh grade, "Uh…multiplication?" Snickers around the room rang out that he was wrong. He glowered out at the students, trying to fight his embarrassment and look menacing, even as his face was warm and probably slightly red. "I don't know, alright. Jeez, just ask Summer already," he spat angrily, and the teacher's eyes widened, as the kids drew in their breath as a collective whole. Summer flinched at the drummer speaking her name, especially so harshly.

"Mister Jones, I called you."

"Yeah, well she's the only one that knows the answer. Nobody else gives a damn. Besides, how the hell is knowing the process by which cells multiply going to help me in the real world? Honestly, this class is such a crock.." Freddy immediately regretted blurting the words out, but then, he had been put on the spot, and he very rarely had control of the things that came out of his mouth.

"Your attitude is not appreciated," the teacher seethed, "That's the fifth time this week you've caused disruption in this class. I think you owe your fellow students an apology, Mister Jones."

"I wouldn't have to, if you'd stop calling on me," Freddy muttered. A few kids chuckled, the others stared in disbelief. They all knew that Freddy liked to act the badass, but never had he pushed at a teacher so far.

"I call on you because you are a part of this class," the teacher hissed, his hands tightening around his pointer, knuckles white, his lips pursed in consternation.

"Well I don't know the answers," Freddy retorted, shaking his head, "I would have thought you'd of figured that out by now…Summer knows all the answers, no one else does. Just call on her for Christ's sake. Make her goddamned day, jeez. You know how happy it would make her for you to just call on her first for once? She's the only one that cares about the stupid assignment…only thing she…"

"Mister Jones," the teacher snarled, trying not to blow his top completely, the other students seemed a little stunned, "I would appreciate you leave Miss Hathaway out of this conversation. This is not about her, this is about you. If you would do your homework, or pay attention in some way, perhaps you'd know the answer, much like her, and bring that failing grade up a little…"

"Or maybe I'm just stupid and that's why I don't know the answer," Freddy roared, then slamming his hands against the desk and pushing himself to his feet, he growled, "And maybe it is about her." He grabbed up his backpack, forgetting the pencil and paper, and stormed from the room. He could feel all of their eyes on him, except for those of one person. Summer.

Freddy slammed the bathroom door open and tossed his backpack to the far wall, before slumping against a sink and staring haggardly at his reflection in the mirror. He didn't look so hot. His skin placid, his eyes glazed over, bags and all. He hadn't eaten much lately, either, and it was starting to show. He looked like a drug addict. He shook his head, closing his eyes and trembling considerably, sniffing and fighting back the tears.

"I'm not an alcoholic," he told the empty room in a soft quiver. It didn't answer, but he took the silence as an argument. "I'm not an alcoholic," he repeated, louder, angrier, and the words bounced off the walls reverberating back to him, "I'm not…" he shook his head, pausing for a moment to swallow and take a few painful breaths, "So what if I am. Nobody cares anyways," he smirked ironically, "Summer doesn't care."

It would seem Dewey was wrong. Freddy didn't deserve her. He deserved a bullet through the head more than he deserved her. More than he deserved any girl like her. Any good girl. He didn't deserve Summer, she didn't want him.

Hell, he didn't want her to want him. It wasn't right. She deserved someone better, someone less screwed up. Someone that…that didn't stir up trouble in classes, didn't talk back to teachers, didn't ditch first and second period because of a hangover, didn't kiss her and not know why, didn't force himself on her, didn't make her cry, didn't…didn't do all those things Freddy did.

There came a soft knock at the door, and he turned his head to look at it quizzically. No one knocked on the restroom door. They just barged in. It was a public restroom after all. When no sound followed, he returned to his reflection. Another knock, harder, a bit impatient, maybe a little nervous. He raised an eyebrow at the door, before slowly making his way to it, and swinging it open partially. He was shocked to find Summer standing, fidgeting, raising a hand to knock again. She started, seeing that she was about to knock on his chest, and quickly dropping the hand to her side, lowering her eyes.

"I came to see if you were alright," she whispered. His brow furrowed in confusion, taken aback. Wasn't she avoiding him? "And after what you said in class…" he frowned. Yes, that was the reason behind her presence. Maybe he'd embarrassed her, he thought with satisfaction. Maybe all the other kids had stared at her, maybe a few of the girls had made a few snide comments. Everyone was probably wondering what Summer Hathaway, Miss Perfect, had to do with Freddy Jones, Mister Fuck Up, storming from the classroom. Maybe even she wondered herself.

Adrenaline kicking into his system, he grabbed a hold of her wrist, and pulled her roughly into the bathroom, letting the door shut behind them as she was flung to the far end of the room. She spun, her hair falling about her face, eyes wide, and mouth opening to speak.

"I told you to stop avoiding me," he hissed, and her mouth clamped shut. He scowled. So she wasn't even going to attempt denying it, "I told you that it pissed me off."

"I'm sorry if…" she began to stammer.

"You're avoiding me?"

"No. I don't mean to…"

"Avoid me?"

"Freddy, I…"

"Am avoiding me?"

"Stop that," she cried, then turning from him, wrapping her arms about her body, and trying not to look too much around the boys' restroom. She'd never been in it before. So this was what it looked like, "Alright…I'm avoiding you. But when you asked me to stop, I swear, I had every intention of stopping!"

"Then why?"

"Because…because…" she turned to face him again, meeting his eyes, "You kissed Marta." He felt his stomach drop. He knew that mistake was going to come back and bite him in the ass one day, he just didn't think it would happen like this.

"If you're mad at me…" he started carefully, softly.

"I'm not mad at you," she interjected, then shook her head, "I'm not mad."

"Then why are you avoiding me?"

"Because…because…" she chewed her lower lip thoughtfully, and he tried not to think about how beautiful she seemed with that innocent look on her face, "You'll think it's stupid of me, but…I'm avoiding you because you should be with Marta."

"What?" Freddy gaped at her, "Summer, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Well," Summer stammered, tears filling her eyes, shivering down her cheeks. Great, he made her cry again, "I just…thought that…you know…Marta would be good for you…and…that…I'm not…and…I don't even know what I want from you and…we can't seem to figure out what we're doing…but you kissed Marta, so you must like her and…"

"I was drunk, Summer."

She paused, voice faltering a moment.

"Doesn't matter," she stammered protest, "You still kissed her…which means you wanted her…and I'm sure you weren't that drunk…it happened that Friday. I saw you afterwards, you weren't that intoxicated. You don't get drunk like normal…"

"She was supposed to be you."

"...people, and you don't…what?"

"I'm scum, alright?" Freddy said, stepping forward, "I think of one girl when I'm kissing another. I'm a real jerk, huh?"

"You were thinking of me…when you…"

"Yeah. Stupid, huh?"

Silence.

"Who do you think of, when you kiss me?" Summer dared asked, meek whisper, as Freddy's hand came to touch her cheek and slip behind her neck.

"Who do you think?" he retorted, drawing her forward gently.

"I don't know…"

"I think of you, idiot," he whispered, leaning in, as her eyes closed and lips parted slightly.

The door slammed opened, and Freddy pulled away, turning, frustrated, thinking to yell at the intruder. He caught his words, his mouth banging shut so fast he bit into his tongue. Kyle looked between the two teens in stun, eyes lingering on Summer longer than Freddy found comfortable.

"What is going on?" Kyle demanded, "What are you doing in here, Summer…and…with him?"

"Dude, she ain't your girlfriend anymore," Freddy spat, "So that's none of your business." Kyle narrowed his eyes at the drummer. Summer looked to the tiled floor, pressing her lips together and clasping her hands in front of her, feeling rather awkward and out-of-place.

"I should leave," she mumbled, heading towards the door. Kyle wrapped a hand around her arm, halting her.

"I need to talk to you," he whispered in her ear.

"I really have to go," Summer replied earnestly.

"Well, I really need to talk to you," Kyle answered haughtily, tightening his grasp, smirking and slyly commenting, "Besides, you shouldn't be in the boys' restroom, especially with him. You could get in trouble…I'm sure your mother wouldn't approve…"

"Hey," Freddy snapped, grabbing a hold of Kyle's collar, "She said she had to leave." Kyle glowered down on the blonde, who stared dangerously up at the taller boy, saying steadily, "Let her go."

"Or what? You'll get yourself another month's worth of detention," Kyle shot back, "I know you have that principle in your pocket…what did your daddy pay her off?" Freddy flinched, tightening his hand into a fist, "Or is he sleeping with her?"

"Shut the fuck up. You didn't get in much trouble yourself, if I remember correctly. Maybe because you're the little star jock? The coach couldn't risk getting his precious MVP kicked off the team, does he know what a fag you are with your teeny bopper Barber Boy bullshit?"

"That's quite the mouthful for a miniature booze hound. By the way, how are those Al-Anon meetings going? You know…I'm sure your dad's not sleeping with her, that's a bit presumptuous, and somewhat rude of me to say. I hardly know the man. But I do know you, and well, you were in that office for an awfully long…"

"Will you two stop it?" Summer interrupted, her voice slightly shrill. She looked a bit horrified. Both boys fell shamefaced in silence. They'd almost forgotten she was there. She yanked her arm from Kyle's grasp, and shook her head at them, "I will see the both of you at the Battle of the Bands. Hopefully when this is over….this will be over. Good luck to the both of you." She promptly turned on her heel, storming from the restroom. After a silent moment, Freddy, shaking his head, left as well.

0-0-

The Jones estate was deceivingly dark as Freddy made his way up the driveway. It was late, he knew, but nobody would be in the house to mind. Band practice had run late into the night, and even after everyone had left, including the back-up singers, Freddy and the others, Lawrence, Katie, and Zack, were still left there with Dewey listening to classic rock CDs and watching video tapings of old concerts. They ended up getting in a fight over the importance of the 12-bar blues in rock, thus ending in Freddy and Zack wrestling in a semi-angry, semi-joking fist fight that Dewey was too amused by to break-up. Katie had to step in, and Lawrence was reading a book during the whole event.

The night hadn't been so bad, just long and tedious. It didn't help that every time someone cleared their throat, or whenever Marta would try to strike up a conversation, or even when Dewey announced lightly "it's time to stop goofing off, and get rocking" even as he was usually the one goofing off, Freddy was assaulted with thoughts of Summer. Everything seemed to remind him of the annoying little manager. Of course, the fact she was annoying was one of the things about her he was finding he loved.

No.

Not loved, bad choice of word.

Liked. He liked it about her. Not loved. No. He didn't love anything about her. Love was too strong. That would mean he loved her. And he didn't love her.

Did he?

The door clicking shut seemed to echo through the large house and Freddy tried to erase images of caves from his mind.

So…you're all by yourself?

He shook his head, beginning towards the kitchen, and more importantly, the liquor. Kicking his shoes off, he flung the cabinet open, and dug through it. Hm…what to drink…what to drink…scotch sounded good, a little gin - oh wait, he wasn't picky. He grabbed the first bottle that didn't have a French name on it, and dug into a drawer for the cork remover. Popping the stopper from the bottle, he took a long drawl, and gasped from the burn of alcohol against his throat. Damn, it felt good.

The silence in the house was deafening. He wondered what it was like, for a moment, to come home to a crowded house. This wasn't his home, though, he reminded himself. He didn't think he could deal with a crowded house anyways. He didn't like any of his family members enough to want to be around them very much, and all that left were the domestics, and he didn't even know any of them. He thought briefly about Summer, coming home to Summer. The thought was weirdly nice. He smirked, the term "honey, I'm home", entering his head. How pathetic, he thought. He made a silent vow to never in his life use that phrase.

His stomach grumbled and he realized he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. During lunch, he'd spent the time trying to get Summer's attention, and worrying that he'd lost her for good in the bathroom to even bother eating. Dewey had offered them food at the apartment, but from experience, the band members had learned never to eat anything that Dewey offered.

There were never any leftovers in the Jones' refrigerator. Whatever didn't get eaten was thrown away. Freddy frowned. Katie would have a field day ranting about how wasteful it was, and that there were starving children in China, or India, or somewhere in the world. Of course, Freddy didn't care about starving children somewhere in the world, he cared about himself starving . He was hungry and there was nothing to eat. He glanced at the phone hanging on the wall and considered calling for pizza or Chinese take-out. He took another gulp from the bottle and decided all he needed was his drink anyways. He walked to one of the drawing rooms and took a seat on one of the soft leather couches. It felt good against his skin.

Kind of like Summer. The rest of the day, nothing. No interaction, no talking, no looks, not even an accidental hallway run-in. She was mad at him, he was certain. He shouldn't have gotten in that quarrel with Kyle, he knew. But the bastard was goading him, and it wasn't like he punched the guy again. She didn't approve of the things he'd said, he knew. But he wasn't taking them back anytime soon. Kyle was wrong. He didn't know anything about Freddy. But then, he wasn't far off about Mr. Jones, the father. It was Miss Mullins that Freddy had been defensive for from that lewd comment on Kyle's part.

It must be lonely…

A few more long gulps, and the alcohol was starting to go to Freddy's head, making it light and swimmy. Fuck her, he thought. He was done with the shit she was giving him. He just wanted her because she'd had her boyfriend, and he always wanted what he couldn't have, and now she didn't have a boyfriend, so he didn't want her anymore. Right? He closed his eyes, another drink from the bottle. Exactly. There were so many other girls who were more attractive. So many girls who were looser, hotter, sexier, and less complicated. So many girls he could just call up and have over in a matter of minutes, have in his bed in a matter of hours, and ditch without the mess of heartbreak by morning.

He wished Summer was there. He wished he were kissing her. He wished he had her arms wrapped around him. Wished he could hear her voice, feel her touch, smell her scent, taste her lips and flesh, see those deep dark eyes.

Sure, there were a lot of girls who were more attractive than her, hotter, sexier. But not one of them was as beautiful as her. Not one of them was as pure, as innocent. And sure, he could do whatever he wanted to all those other girls but it was starting to seem all he wanted was her.

He shook his head, sinking back into the couch, slumping and resting the mouth of the bottle under his chin, smelling in the bittersweet scent of the alcohol to further help his buzz. She thought he should be with Marta. He wondered why she thought that. Well…she'd told him. She thought Marta would be good for him. Why? Why Marta? Alright, Marta was sweet, and chaste. She was almost as good a girl as Summer. She was pretty, a good friend, got good grades…Christian. Freddy smirked. Maybe Summer wanted him to find religion. Like that would happen. Not in the Jones family, no sir-ee. And besides, he'd have to read the bible, and that thing is fucking huge, the print is all tiny, and the pages are thinner than toilet paper. The longest book he'd ever read was The Cat In The Hat, and he still had yet to finish it. For a brief moment, he wondered if those kids ever got that damn cat neutered. And then he thought of Summer's cat, which led him to think of Summer.

Marta was too stable, too secure in life. Her mother and father were still together, still very much in love, and she had two siblings, a brother and a sister, that she actually enjoyed spending time with outside of the band and school. She liked to talk about them with the others. Freddy usually didn't listen, as he couldn't relate to the whole family thing.

He'd never seen Marta cry. Well, he'd seen her shed a few tears at the end of Charlotte's Web in third grade, and sob a little when that damn rabid dog was put to sleep, but he'd never seen her actually cry. The tears that rolled down her chin seemed shallow, false even. He'd seen Summer cry tears that seemed to bleed from her heart. And the connection he felt with her was so shocking, so scary, and so comforting. With Marta, everything was fake and so damned easy. He could smile, joke, act like the Freddy Jones everyone saw him as. With Summer, he felt that Freddy Jones fading, revealing the small, fragile, and very shattered real Freddy Jones beneath. It complicated things to no end. Maybe he wanted complication now. He wanted Summer, that was all he was really certain of. Maybe he wasn't such a bad person after all. Maybe he was even, perhaps…a little…normal.

That's…sad…

He took another drink from the bottle, but let it slide mid-gulp from his mouth as every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He sniffed, his eyes watering, perhaps from the alcohol, perhaps from this looming, unnatural feeling washing over him. He didn't know. Perhaps from both. He deadened his eyes, pressing his lips together, and sitting as still as possible. He hoped if he didn't move he wouldn't be noticed.

"I hope that's not the expensive stuff." It was a distant comment. Freddy tensed immediately, taking another stiff drink.

"It's all expensive, dad," he finally found the voice to mutter, leaning forward, his elbows pressed into his knees, holding the bottle loosely between his legs, his fingers clutching the neck. He shifted as the darkness further pervaded him. Mr. Jones strutted slowly, fluidly into the room, standing at Freddy's side.

"You were out late," he went on, in a tone that suggested he was just making an observation.

"I was at band practice," Freddy replied uselessly. He knew his father didn't really care. There was a soft snort.

"Because you're going to be a rock star, right," the older man scoffed, chuckling.

"Dewey says I'm pretty good," Freddy answered quietly, though it sounded empty hanging in the air. His father snorted once more.

"This from a washed up musician," Mr. Jones laughed, "Don't bother listening to him. He's a foul up. He's worse than a has-been, he's a never-was."

"You don't know anything about him," Freddy argued, flickering an enraged glance to his father, before bending further over himself, trembling with the frustration he struggled to bite down, "He's not a washed up musician, dad. And he knows what he's talking about…he really cares about music, and he wouldn't just tell us that, either…he actually cares about…"

"What? You?" Mr. Jones interrupted skeptically, before clapping his son's shoulder, "You can be so stupid sometimes, son. You really think some old man cares about you? Your own mother didn't care about you. But then," he turned, walking away slightly, leaving Freddy rigid, lips pursed together, and quivering, the drink in his hand splashing violently in the bottle from the movement, "She is a bitch. Doesn't care about anyone, but herself and lining her pockets."

"Dad…" Freddy started, but found nothing to say, so he took a shaky drink from the bottle once more.

"I got a call from that woman at your school…"

"Miss Mullins," Freddy murmured numbly.

"She said you were fighting at school with some other boy about a girl named Summer," Mr. Jones continued, and Freddy flinched at hearing his father, who stood for all things bad, tainted, and dark in Freddy's life, speak the name of the one thing that was entirely pure and innocent in his life, the girl he loved, "I can't believe you're fucking around at school because of some slut."

"Summer's not a slut," Freddy snapped, his head shooting up so that he could glower at his father impudently. A look crossed Mr. Jones' face, and Freddy felt sick. He lowered his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He shouldn't have said anything. He should have just let his father talk, then wait for the older man to leave. He shouldn't have said anything.

"Don't tell me you actually like this girl?"

Freddy was silent and his father gave out an amused 'huh'.

"And let me guess, she likes you too?"

Freddy grimaced at the cynicism in that question, reigniting all his self-doubts from earlier that day. He furrowed his brow, focusing his attention on a particular spot of carpet. His stomach knotted.

"Don't be an idiot, for once, Frederick," Mr. Jones hissed, and Freddy bit his inner cheek, letting the bitter metallic blood puddle in the front of his mouth and the stinging pain satiate his need to hurt, "The only thing she sees in you is a trust fund and a pretty face," Mr. Jones snorted again, "She probably says she likes you for your personality. It's a difficult thing to accept, but you're not somebody a girl will ever love," he shook his head, striding from the room, "Take my advice, son, fuck her while you can, then drop her. And quit screwing around at school because of her."

Freddy shook his head, angry tears welling in his eyes and throat. He could hear his father's retreating footfalls reverberating throughout the house. When their echoes died down, he took another long chug from the bottle, easily finishing off more than half of what was left, before letting the pent up anger overcome him and hurling the bottle against the far wall with all his strength. It crashed loudly and shattered into a million pieces. The alcohol left in it splattered onto the plaster and floor, exploding like a bomb. He stared blankly at it for a moment, before leaving towards the kitchen. He was going to need more to drink in order to forget this night, to forget his father, to forget his own pain, his own agony. But mostly, to forget Summer. His head was pounding, his stomach was demanding food, he thought longingly of bed even though he knew he couldn't sleep yet, and suddenly he felt too old for his body.

So…you're all by yourself.

0-0-

Dewey made his way casually into the out-of-the-way pub. As the crowd was sparse, it didn't take him long to spot the professionally dressed, brunette woman sitting stiffly at a booth. He smiled, waltzing over and taking a seat. She started, a tentatively sipped at mug of beer sitting nearly untouched in front of her.

"Hey, Ros," he greeted, then nodded to the bartender and pointing indicatively at the table. The bartender nodded, getting the hint, and turned to grab a mug and fill it with Dewey's usual alcoholic beverage.

"Dewey," Miss Mullins responded with a smile, "How was band practice?"

"Great," Dewey told her with his usual exuberance, "You know, I really think we got a lot done today. We're working on a few songs that I think are turning out pretty great, the band is really coming together, sounding pretty damn rockin', and everything is going great."

"And Summer?"

Dewey drew in his breath through gritted teeth. Shaking his head, his face twisted in a humorous expression.

"Let's just not even talk about that girl, alright. She's hot, she's cold, she's hot, she's cold…I don't know what's up with her. I'm thinking it must be a…uh…that time of the month sort of thing, but then, I don't want to assume."

"Dewey," Miss Mullins cried, shocked, and received a puzzled look.

"Did I say something wrong?"

Miss Mullins shook her head, sighing, and taking another bird-like sip of her beer, as the waiter came and set Dewey's drink down. He nodded a thanks and took a hefty gulp of the frothy golden brown liquid.

"Well, the girls have been hanging out with her lately, and she's been spending her time with the band again…but I don't know…it just doesn't feel the same. She doesn't come to band practices…something having to do with…well…her being a prize or something," Dewey scrunched his nose, then shook his head, grinning, "But we'll figure things out and get things awesome once more. I just know it!"

"That's…uh…very confident of you," Miss Mullin said, nodding They fell silent, quietly drinking their beers. She furtively glanced to the portly man a few times, growing ever pinker with each dared look. She took a deep breath, and cleared her throat, before speaking again, "I really enjoy…you know…coming and having a drink with you…well…every now and then…it's…um…very relieving after work."

"Cool," Dewey replied, "I guess it's pretty rad spending time with someone my age for a change. Well, I mean…Ned's cool and all, but he's not a hot chick and…" he stumbled on his words and looked to his drink, wide-eyed. Did he just refer to Miss Mullins as a 'hot chick'? They fell silent again, until Miss Mullins cleared her throat once more.

"I was thinking…well…I know you're really busy with preparing for the Battle of the Bands, and…" she shifted, fidgeting with her drink, "But I thought…well, there's a concert…Stevie Nicks…and well…it would be a nice break from everything…and you're the only person I could think of that would appreciate that kind of…well…concert…and would possibly…maybe…perhaps…want to go with me?" Dewey looked taken aback, impressed even, and a bit flattered. A slow smile made its way across his face.

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"What? Uh…no…no," Miss Mullins stammered.

"Because if you were, I'd totally be down with it."

Miss Mullins flushed, clearing her throat slightly, and smiling shyly up at him.

"You would?" she meekly questioned.

"Hell yeah."

"Then it's a date?"

"Date."

They took sips from their respective mugs, smiling up at each other.

0-0-

Summer lay on her belly doing her math assignment. She frowned at her backpack, scratching her head with her pencil and wishing she hadn't forgotten her calculator downstairs. She hadn't spoken much with her mother, though the woman acted as though nothing should be wrong between them. Austin had once come close to asking about the incident, his lips twitching at the urge, but he'd fought it, simply snorting under his breath and disappearing into his room. He was still angry, she knew, from what Freddy had done. Or maybe, from what she had done.

Extending her fingers, Summer studied the back of her hand, and then flipped it over to give the same attention to her palm. She shouldn't have slapped him, she knew. Mother slapped him, in much the same manner. And he'd reacted to that. He couldn't stick up for himself against their mother, but against Summer, that was another story.

And Summer couldn't stick up for herself against either of them.

She lightly touched her cheek. The bruise had faded long ago, but it had been a beautiful shade of purplish brown for awhile. A few teachers had asked about it, she'd simply excused it with a fanciful story about tripping over her cat, falling down the stairs and slamming her chin and cheek on the banister in her tumble. She was under the impression that all the faculty believed her. But then, she was little Summer Hathaway, honesty was her credo. Surely she was a bad liar, but when it came to family matters, she was well trained in the art of deceiving others.

Freddy had stuck up for her, though. And he would have done much more if she hadn't stopped him. He would have done so much more…for her.

Pushing her book away, she rolled onto her back, as her heart pounded madly at those thoughts. Maybe he'd just reacted. He did have morals when it came to boys hitting girls.

But then, he had been following her to ensure she got home safely, even though he was infuriated with her.

Battle of the Bands wasn't far away. She wondered who would win. School of Rock always won, but then Kyle and the Barber Boys were recording artists, that had to stand for something. There came a knock at her door, and she frowned its direction. She wasn't in the mood to talk with anyone, but she pulled herself up anyways, straightening her clothes and hair before answering. Her mother stood before her, lips pursed, hand on hip.

"Have you finished your homework?" was the first thing she said. Summer sighed.

"Not yet."

"What do you mean 'not yet'? It's almost time for bed, Summer."

"I know…I'm just…"

"Slacking off, again," her mother interrupted, whisking in. Summer held her tongue, "I talked to Mr. Philbur this afternoon. You may still have a chance at that scholarship. I've set up lunch with him for the weekend. I want you to wear that gray skirt…"

"I hate that gray skirt, mom, it itches," Summer murmured, wishing her mother would leave. The older woman simply scowled, shaking her head.

"I don't care. It gives you a professional look. You really need this, Summer, I don't want you to screw it up like you did last time. None of this rock nonsense. In fact, I'm thinking you should give it all up altogether. You'll go back to the clarinet…the universities like to see that kind of musical background in their students."

"I don't want to go back to the clarinet," Summer mumbled.

"You love the clarinet."

"I loved the clarinet," Summer clarified, trying to hold steadfast to her convictions despite the growing rage in her mother's eyes, "Because you did. And you wanted me to."

"You're developing quite the mouth, young lady. I don't doubt Kyle will not be happy with…"

"It doesn't matter what Kyle is happy with," Summer snapped, "I'm not dating him anymore, mother." She was satisfied with how quickly the older woman's mouth slammed shut. Jutting her chin out, Summer waited for her mother's response. She didn't have to wait long.

"Should I be surprised?" her mother clucked, lips rigid white, "You didn't give him enough time. The way you put that band first. You should have agreed to manage his group, but you never did, did you? And your lack of…motivation and drive. You didn't seem interested, it's no wonder he broke up with you. You two could have gone to Harvard together and…"

"Mom, I broke up with him," Summer interrupted, and her mother's eyes widened, "And...I don't want to talk about this," she opened the door wide and motioned for her mother to leave.

"What? You…what?" the older woman snarled, before grabbing her daughter's arm and pulling her roughly into the room, "I want to talk about this. How could you break up with him?"

"I didn't love him," Summer answered quietly. This seemed to befuddle her mother, and the older woman's mouth dropped open, flapping loosely, until she finally seemed to gather her thoughts and shook her head.

"Love him? Love him? Goddamn it, Summer, you threw away a prospective future because you didn't love him? You're too young to understand that love has nothing to do with it! Love isn't real, love, or trying to be in love will just get in your way. It'll drag you down and…"

"Didn't you love daddy?" Summer interjected, careful. Her heart was pounding now, and her mother drew her lips together. The older woman was quiet a long time, and Summer felt her heart stop.

"Of course I loved daddy," she finally whispered, as though she were lying to a child about Santa Claus'S existence, before shaking her head, and turning towards the door, saying harshly, "You have homework to do, and then go to bed." Without another word, she left, shutting the door promptly behind her.

Summer took a deep breath, before stiffly walking to her bed and slumping down onto it. Her mother didn't love her father? But they'd had the perfect marriage. He was working his way up in the military, and her mother was a hardworking part-time bank teller and fulltime housewife. She remembered so many times when they…when…well…there was the time that they as a family…and then…and her mother…and her father was always…

She curled her legs up under her chin, rocking back and forth a moment. Her mother didn't love her father. It made sense now. Maybe at some time in their marriage, they had at least liked each other, but then the nights when her father stayed out with friends rather than come home to dinner with his family, the early morning yelling contests, the weeks of silent treatment. She'd been too young to understand that those little tensions between her parents should have meant something, or that there should have been more passion between them. Her mother had never been in love. And most definitely not with her father.

Did that mean Summer had never been in love? And that she would never be in love? She took a deep breath. Of course I haven't been in love, she told herself. She was too young, and she'd yet to experience any bond strong enough to describe as love, at least, she was fairly certain she hadn't.

She closed her eyes, laying back on the bed and pulling her math book atop her. For a moment, she stared cross-eyed at the numbers and variables and different equations laid out on the page, but they were a jumbled mess. She lay her book down on her stomach, knowing she had no chance of figuring out the rest of her assignment, and she didn't even want to try. Taking a deep breath, she let her mind wander. Lunch with Mr. Philbur did not sound entertaining. She tried to remember the elderly man, but could only draw up images of Freddy in her mind. If she was never going to be in love, then what was this feeling towards him?

Drowsily, she turned onto her side, knocking the book off the bed and letting her eyes drift shut. She thought of Kyle and Freddy, their near fight in the bathroom. Over her? Why? What did Freddy want from her? Now, even, knowing that she didn't have a boyfriend anymore? She smiled.

Her mother may not have been in love with her father, but she knew she was going to be in love. Because it was already starting. This growing want inside of her. This growing desire to be with this other person, this other soul. This need to connect with him, and to take care of him. This hope that he would protect and care for her. She was already starting to fall in love. She was starting to fall for Freddy. Wasn't she?

She drifted into sleep. Maybe she would call him tomorrow. No. She couldn't. She couldn't possibly talk to him about this. He wouldn't feel the same way. He wouldn't return her feelings, and she couldn't tell him hers. It was all too much, all too weird, all too strange and different, and she liked it. She liked closing her eyes and every conscious thought hazily giving way to dreams of him.

Everything was dark when Pink Floyd filled Summer's ears. She bolted upright, blinked several times, groggily noting that she would have to change her ring tone or she wouldn't be able to listen to The Wall ever again, and felt around her nightstand in search of the melodically chiming phone. She lifted it up, squinting at the number. She couldn't make out the dark digital scribbles, and opted to simply answering.

"Hello?" she murmured painfully in greeting.

"I'll date Marta."

"What?" Summer pulled herself up. The voice was harsh, raspy, but still recognizable at such a low decibel.

"You want me…to…date…Marta…so…I'll…date Marta."

Summer blinked a few times to get the sleep from her eyes, shaking her head, and trying to ignore the severe pauses in that sentence.

"Freddy, what are you talking about?"

"That's what you said…that you want me to date her…and…you know…she'll be good for me…'cause she's…blonde…and I don't know what I'm doing and you don't know what I'm doing and…no….wait…it's the other way around…but….um…if that's what you say I want, then you want it. No…I mean…then you must be right."

"Freddy, slow down…what are you talking…are you drunk?"

"I'm not normal. It doesn't matter anyways…" Freddy went on, his words only slightly slurred, "I'll date Marta, and she won't be you, and then I'll fuck her up, like I fuck everything up. And I just wanted you to know that because it's what I…no…you want, I'm going to date Marta."

Summer slowly lowered herself back to her pillow, feeling a heaviness on her chest, her stomach turning in nausea. What was he saying? He couldn't be serious. He wasn't making any sense. "Freddy…" she whispered, "Stop it."

"Stop what? No…look…you said ask Marta out, so I will. And you know, it's not like I love her or anything, so it really won't hurt when we break up. And it's not like anyone can love me and…"

"Freddy…"

"Shut up, Summer! This is what you want, remember? It's not like you care. It's not like you're going to the Battle of the Bands for me…er…us. It's not like you'll be rooting for me to win. You don't care who wins, as long as it's over. And this is making it more…over…if I date Marta. And the truth is, I don't care anymore, either. Because I'm done fucking around, Summer. I'm done pretending like I can be some warm, fuzzy, good guy. I'm Freddy Jones. Nobody gives a damn about me…not any of them. Not you. I'm the spoiled brat that gets everything and deserves nothing."

"Freddy…don't…" Summer choked, tears forming in her eyes. She wanted to hang up. It wasn't him talking, it was the alcohol, she was certain. Even if it sounded a lot like him. But she couldn't hang up. It was like she was sick in the head, and this was her schitzo fantasy.

"And you know the really…really…pathetic part."

"Please don't do this…"

"The one person in the world I ever wanted, is the one person in the world that could never want me. Because, Summer, no matter what you say, you're too pure, you're too good a person to ever want someone based on the only assets I have; money and looks," Freddy spat bitterly, "You're the only girl that's ever made me feel anything besides anger and nothing. You're right to be scared of hurting me, because you're probably the only person who can. There's nothing between us, babe. There never can…" he swallowed hard, "There never will be. I won't date Marta. She's not you. She's…just….not you. And I want her to be…I can't be with someone that I'd want to be you. Because then it hurts, because the truth is Summer, I really, really, really want you."

Then there was a click, silence, and the dial tone kicked in. Summer's mouth parted, and she quickly covered it with her curled fingers, gasping beneath the lump on her lungs. The only thing that upset her more than the things Freddy had said, was the utter defeat in which he'd said them. It was almost as though he were giving up. She'd never heard so much pain and frustration bottled up in one voice, and it overwhelmed her just listening to it through the phone.

She put the cell back down on the nightstand, surprised to see how steady her hand was.

And then she broke into silent sobs.

END A/N: Well...I really hate this chapter. It didn't turn out very well (in my opinion). But this was, kind of, the one closetwriter was waiting for. This was Freddy's chapter. I know you all may be wondering, "why doesn't Freddy just say something to his father, tell the guy to shut up?" Keep in mind, that this has been Freddy's life. That this is the kind of treatment his father has ALWAYS given him, and when you're raised being told you're worthless and will never be loved, and that everyone only likes you for your good looks and money, and that you always fuck everything up...well...you sort of start to believe it yourself. I know, I know...poor Freddy. And maybe a little poor Summer in there too?

Anyways...god, I had some things I wanted to say, but now I'm just pissed at this whole goddamned site, and I just can't get my head on straight. I should mention that this chapter is a little late getting up because today was my birthday and I went and did stuff with my family. I hope you can forgive me.

Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors, and please REVIEW. I really feel like crying now...god, I'm SO FUCKING PISSED!

I'm sorry.

THANKS FOR READING. And Peace.