Chapter 4:

"Sarcasm is the protest of the weak," –Gene Forrester, A Separate Peace.

"Naturally," –Phineas, A Separate Peace.

Jorge groaned as the plane slammed to a landing. Already visiting his father. He hated his dad. He'd hated him ever since he was eleven—when his dad had taken off and never come back. He was ashamed of his dad—if he ever had a son, he knew he would never do something like that to him. Jorge had thought he'd never hear from his dad again.

But then he had called back. Asking Jorge to forgive him, asking Jorge to love him again. Jorge had hung up, feeling the bitter anger swallow him. Jorge got mad easily.

His dad hadn't cared when he'd cried his heart out at night, had he? His dad hadn't been there when he asked his mom where Daddy had gone, had he? His dad hadn't been there when he wrote silent letters in his head, trying to see his father again—see the person in the monster he had become. His dad wasn't there at the band practices; his dad wasn't there at all those lonely hockey games—his dad wasn't there for it all. He'd missed it all.

Mom had been there. Mom listened to him. Mom supported him. Mom was there for every single thing that Dad wasn't. But Mom forgave more easily than Jorge did. That's why she'd shipped him off to West Virginia when his dad had asked to see him over the summer.

Jorge hadn't seen his dad for five years, seeing that he was now sixteen. He hadn't spoken to him since he was twelve. And now he was going to meet him.

Here goes nothing, he thought as his heart hammered in his chest. He wished he could be anywhere but here.

xxx

Weston's yawn nearly split his head open as his plane smoothly landed. Putting his iPod away, he stretched out, his long arms hitting Jason who sat next to him. (Jason's and West's camps were both located in Los Angeles; they would be pretty close this summer). Jason moaned and shoved a carton of orange juice from the airplane meal into West's lap. (Jason particularly didn't like planes; they made him more nervous than usual). A girl threw Jason a hopeful glance, but he ignored it, and said, "This is it, then?"

West nodded, with a pang of sadness through his chest. He'd miss Jason.

As the plane finally stopped its movement, West grabbed his backpack full of sugar, coffee beans, his iPod, and the Traveling Jacket, and grimly got off the plane, only stopping to give Jason a quick hug. He didn't look back. West hadn't looked back ever since his dad had died. It hurt too much.

He didn't want to remember what had happened those days after his dad died. He didn't look back at Jason now. He couldn't stand to see the pain that filled Jason's eyes. Jason was someone who needed someone there with him—always. West, being the oldest of the gang sometimes felt as if he should protect his friends—always the leader, always taking charge. He felt Jason, who was the youngest, was his responsibility sometimes.

He ran inside to get his suitcase from the conveyor belt, grunting with effort, and almost dying as a suitcase flattened his foot.

"Oh my God I'm so sorry," came a voice. A girl.

West looked up, dizzy with pain. It was a tall, athletic looking girl with long, shiny brown hair and an expression full of anxiety on her face. Her forehead was furrowed with lines of distress, and with a small whine, she managed to haul her suitcase off West's foot.

"Sorry," she muttered, managing to escape before he could say anything else.

West decided just to ignore it, hauled his suitcase up, and limped towards a man holding a sign that read, "Los Angeles Camp for Performing and Visual Arts."

The girl was in front of him, and when she saw him her cheeks flushed a violent shade of dark pink. The man asked her for her name and what she would be doing.

"Brenna Porter. Visual art."

The man, a tall warty one with a beard, raised one of his eyebrows as West straggled along, limping, noticing the orange juice on his crotch where Jason had spilled it, and asked him what his name was once "Sarah Kaplan, Singer," had gone. (Sarah was a dirty blonde haired girl, and she immediately got together with the girls that were gossiping about something or other).

"And you are?"

"Weston McArthur. Singer," he managed to groan. He noticed that that Brenna was hiding behind the large group of girls talking excitedly. She saw her looking at him, and lowered her eyes, her face still flushed.

So far, the jacket hadn't brought him too much luck. Maybe he had to wear it instead.

xxx

Jason tried to smile at Weston when he left, but he couldn't help it. He was nervous—even scared. He knew it hurt West when he, Jason that is, was hurt. West had an overprotective nature, and always wanted everything to be ok. If it wasn't, he blamed himself.

He reached under the chair in front of him and grabbed his backpack, his hand trembling.

Stop it, he told himself. You're going to be alright.

He walked slowly off the plane, smiling slightly at the flight attendants who wished him a "Good Day," down a couple of elevators, and towards the conveyor belt, ignoring all the yearning looks and smiles and desperate glances of the girls.

Everywhere there were girls. Tall girls, short girls, thin girls, fat girls. And they always wanted to know him. He was sick of it.

How would they know who he actually was? Jason pulled up the hood of his brand-less sweatshirt; maybe they'd ignore him more if they couldn't see his face as well.

No. It didn't work. A blonde girl brushed up next to him and smiled. "Do I know you?"

Jason grimaced. "No, I don't think you do."

Ignoring her, he pushed ahead, and managed to pull his suitcase—a dark black one—off the conveyor belt. Pulling it, he went up to a slim lady who held a sign reading, "Los Angeles Skating Camp."

"I'm Jason Escalante," he said.

She studied him for a second or two, her eyes drifting over his body, and Jason winced in discomfort. Then, she simply put a check on her clipboard, and pointed out a bus waiting outside.

Jason pulled his stuff outside, handed his suitcase to a man who loaded it on his bus, noticing that the man had a lot of pimples. Almost involuntarily, he reached up and brushed his hand over his forehead. Flawless white skin, not marked by anything. Then, his face getting hot, he stumbled up the bus steps.

He was aware of what seemed like hundreds of eyes on him—longing ones of girls, and jealous ones of guys. Trying to shake off the feeling as though he was doing something embarrassing, he sat down hard in an empty seat. The girl in the seat across from him leaned forward.

Her hair was a light shade of orange, and freckles covered her face. "Hi. I'm Cassie, or you can call me Cazz."

Jason grunted in return. "Jason." He didn't like to talk to people he didn't know. He hated meeting new people—especially girls, since they always seemed to decide right there and then that he should be their future boyfriend. Boys were usually jealous of him, thinking that he was stuck-up or something.

She indicated a tough-looking guy sitting next to her. "This is my boyfriend, Patrick." His hair was the same color as hers, only it covered his eyes, making him look like some sort of sheepdog.

"You can call me Pat," he said, amiably, putting out his hand for Jason to shake.

Jason shook it. And then he turned away, ignoring their attempts to strike up a conversation. He wished they would reach camp soon. When he was skating, he knew who he was.

xxx

Alek scratched his eyebrow ring. And then his chin ring. He seemed to be pretty itchy today. Maybe he was just nervous. Well, this was his first interview—for a job at Dolly's Ice Cream Parlor.

"Alek, honey?" That was his mom, probably lugging around his baby sister, Nikki. "Would you help me in here?"

Alek launched himself off his bed, and then slowly dragging his feet into the kitchen. "What?"

He studied the ground. Marshmallows and Rice Krispies littered the ground. His mom had probably been trying to make Rice Krispies Treats.

"Would you, Alek?" His mom looked at him. Her eyes were tired. Her eyes had been tired a lot, recently.

Alek nodded quietly, pulling out the nifty little vacuum cleaner his dad had bought. ("It's easier to carry around," he had explained, "it's lighter.") He finished, kissed his mom good-bye, and was almost out of the door, when his mom called him back in.

"Take out those piercings," she snapped. "How are you going to get a job looking like your work at Piercing Pagoda?"

He ignored her, and pulled out his earring to please her. But after he slammed his car door shut, he put it back in again, driving to Dolly's Ice Cream Parlor. (He loved driving; it made all the stress go out of the day). He parked his car, narrowly missing the window of a car next to him, closed the door, and stood up, his legs feeling like rubber. Taking a deep breath, he walked inside. The man, whom Alek had heard was named Gary Smith, indicated a chair.

"Now, why do you want to work here?" he said, spraying spit all over Alek's face.

Alek pulled out one finger, and wiped off the glob of saliva. This was going to be a long day.