My parents did not go over well with Roger.

From what I'd perceived, he was not an open person, and although I knew deep down he was capable of compassion, he had trouble showing it. Whatever happened between him and his father, or maybe just life itself, drove Roger to be silent and bitter. I wondered what prompted his sense of humor and sincerity when one on one.

But then again there was a lot about him that I didn't know.

For some miraculous reason, Roger joined my family at the dinner table. When my mother stood over him to dish out the food she'd prepared, he pushed away from the table slightly and said quietly, "No, no I can't."

My mother insisted, as expected.

Again, Roger replied, "No. That's okay. It's your food. I don't belong here."

My mother shook the serving spoon at him and said, "Oh no honey, you're our guest. It's perfectly all right, take as much as you'd like."

But then firmly, almost fiercely, Roger growled, "No."

I had to butt in, out of courtesy for Roger, saying, "Mom. Stop. He doesn't want any right now. I promise that if he gets hungry later I'll feed him."

I grinned at Roger but he pretended to ignore me and stared blankly at his empty plate.

Dinner was discomfited.

For the first few minutes, the only sound was the clinking of forks on plates and the occasional passing car out front.

My sister tried telling us about Adam- her boyfriend of three and a half years. They planned on collaboratively buying a flat on Delancy Street in the City, and as of late the deed had officially become theirs.

This was joyous family news, which sent my parents into an uproar of congratulations, but I couldn't help but think that Roger was taking this as bragging.

He just averted his eyes and stared at his plate until I was through eating.

When he saw me clear my plate he perked up a bit, as if this were his ticket out of the family atmosphere. He was correct.

As we walked up to my bedroom, I said, "You better not tell me you're hungry later."

He just smiled.

Once in the safety of my room, I asked him, "So how did you find my house anyway?"

"Phonebook."

"Oh."

We were quiet for a few minutes. I sat down on the edge of my bed and watched Roger pace the perimeter of my room.

"Mark- I kind of want to leave."

"You what? Really?"

"I mean, it's not your family or anything, but I need to think about some things."

I was quiet for a second- I felt offended, so then I said, "Well…can you think about them for my movie? I need some more footage."

This was my way of telling him that I didn't want him to go, without sounding desperate.

He sat down on my bed and asked, "…So, what are you going to do with that movie anyway?"

His interest was a good sign. I sat down on the floor, facing him.

"Well, I was gonna submit the finished product to a film festival, but I have no way of making other copies, so I think I'm going to concentrate on editing it and then sending the best pieces as part of an application for college."

He nodded and said, "I like that idea."

"I'm glad." I replied.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Julliard." I laughed. "But on a more realistic scale, I'd really like to go to Brown…University. You know…Rhode Island. For filmmaking."

"Hence your movie."

I paused a moment and then agreed, "Yeah. Do you…- what do you want to do?"

He went into unattached dinner table mode. He sighed.

"I wanna move to the City, eventually…Hopefully. I'd like to write songs. And play music. Play clubs. But I don't know. Me and the other five thousand musicians in New York. I don't really have a backup plan."

I thought about this for a moment.

I shrugged. "So don't make one. You don't need one. Just do it."

He stared at me.

I continued.

"I don't have a backup plan. I don't believe in a 'plan B'. I'm disregarding everyone else, any outside force. Nothing is absolute Roger, just as nothing is impossible. That's…my philosophy anyway. I don't impose much on people, but I think you should hear me out on this. I mean, I could get rejected from every college I apply to, and my camera could go up in flames, but that's not gonna prevent me from buying another one and trying something else! I only have one passion and I plan to mold the rest of my life around it. Correct me if I'm wrong in saying we're similar there."

"How the fuck are you that sure of yourself?"

"Sure of myself? Ha! Are you kidding me? I spend the majority of my time in a darkroom developing pictures of other people! I'm sure of the world around me…"

He just stared, urging me to continue.

"What else should I say? I…my parents want me to study business…Or law. Or medicine. What? Can you honestly see me as a Wall street baron, or even a doctor? Maybe I have the potential, but I don't care. That's not what I want out of life. Even my parents, who've managed to influence me thus far- 'Do I always do what my mommy tells me?' A lot of the time, but that's my choice. Once I'm out I'm gone. And I mean that in more ways than one."

"…You really think I can do it?"

"Yes Roger, that's basically what I'm saying."

"Damn Mark. What in the hell happened to, 'Oh my God, I don't know why I go to school!'"

"What? That was a good question. I really made me think. But this is personal. I go to school because it's the law-" I shot him a sideways glance, "And because it's going to help me get somewhere in life. 'Somewhere' might be Hollywood screenwriting, or some corner of Fifth Avenue begging for change to buy film."

Roger gave me a look of such total respect it made me blush.

"Are you always this way?"

"What way?"

"Optimistic? Inspiring? Determined?"

I snorted. "Me?"

"Do you not hear yourself talking?"

"Come on Roger, tell me you don't think that way too? I saw you onstage. I heard you sing- I heard your voice-" I put up my palms and wiggled my fingers in his face. "There was destiny in that voice."

He chocked back a laugh.

"Yes, I think you can do it."

"But what if I don't?"

"We really do accent each other, Charles Manson. For every ounce of optimism you add a pound of pessimism. You will."

"But what if I don't..."

I shook my head. "But you will."

He lowered his eyes and clenched one of his fists, pounding it on the mattress. "You can't know that! Fuck you, Mark. You're just trying to make me feel better about tonight."

Another mood swing. I'd ventured into uncharted territory without a map.

"I'm not trying to make you feel anything! I'm trying to convince you that you're not the worthless piece of shit that you put yourself down to be! Actually, I wasn't even doing that! I was telling you about my plans for the future. Sorry if I got out of hand. Sorry if I got your hopes up."

He opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it and sat quietly for a moment.

He said at length, "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. I understand."

He snarled and threw up his hands.

"How could you possibly understand!"

"Okay. You know what? Maybe I can't. Not all the things you have to think about. But you don't…have to do it alone. I'm not a fucking therapist. God no. But I'm a friend."

He wrung his hands. I looked at him, not to intimidate him, but to assert myself.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." He fell silent again. Then he said, "Not now. But someday."

Wow.

I nodded.

I hope he held true to that. It was a good enough answer for me.