Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst. Douglas Adams created the Hitchhiker's Guide series; it is quite brilliant. Puccini wrote La Boheme. Keep the Home Fires Burning is from Oh, What a Lovely War. I have no claim to any of these things.

ROGER

Hard to believe we made it eight weeks into school without a heavy, soaking rain, but here it is, pounding us inside. I run to catch Mark and Collins as they head into Jones's first period. "Hey, it's Yellow Duck," I say, giving Mark a shove. He's wearing a yellow plastic raincoat with a yellow plastic rainhat and black galoshes, and actually it's cute, makes him look ten years old, but he only mumbles and blushes when I shove him.

We're late, all of us, but Jones just looks, sighs, and says, "Should I bother today?"

I glance at the class and see what she means. Most students are already horsing around. In the 'smart seats', up in the front of the class, Jennifer is entranced by an oversized pen filled with glitter. Yvonne and Rose are having a private conversation rather loudly about bras:

"I hate when you stand up and they aren't, like… in their cups."

Rose shrugs. "I wouldn't know. I've only ever worn a sports bra," she says. "But, I mean, there's not much there…"

"Guys!" Jones calls, eyes wide in disbelief. "You need to be, like, socialized! In healthy doses until you can normal!" This does no good. Walter, Nick and Matthew are harmonizing Wookie grunts, Jennifer is spinning the novelty pen, and Yvonne and Rose are passing notes, as Rose, who volunteers in a veterinary clinic and animal shelter, explains about socializing and castrating animals. History class is, without a doubt, the most lively. "Okay, Davis, Collins, Mark, get in here already, stop… dribbling on my papers."

Jones tried valiantly, ranting about this being an AP class and no one would believe this if she told them. There is a common misconception that gifted students are well-behaved, do their homework, learn the material and pass tests. It's just not true. Being smart doesn't make us different from normal teenagers. It's the fact that we are different. We're freaks and damn proud of it.

"How did your parents react to the sock puppets?" Mark asks glumly. He's a glum boy is our Mark, and sometimes I think he just needs a hug. But then, I can't just hug him. It--life--doesn't work that way. That would be, well, faggy, and while I wouldn't mind, Mark might.

I shrug. "Haven't seen them. Oh, by the way, thanks for your piss."

He blushes and mumbles. It seems everything I do makes Mark blush and mumble. "What does that mean?" Collins asks. "Did he… he took the urine test for you!" he says a little too loudly, pleased with himself for deducing this. "There's gotta be some law against that."

"There's laws against everything."

"Yes, Roger," Collins says, laughing and rolling his eyes, thoroughly mocking me, "that's right. Stick it to the man. 'Cause you're a real rock'n'roller."

I wince. "What the hell is a rock'n'roller? And fuck you, you've never heard me play."

None of the teachers have control that day, not one of them, except for the drama teacher, Trask, who tells us we will be performing today. "So," he asks, gazing across the auditorium at our class, "who's ready? It's okay, it doesn't have to be perfect, but if you want a passing grade you gotta do something. No one?" he asks, scanning the class sadly.

My hand shoots up. There are a few things people don't know about me, a few things they never believe when they hear. One is that I, Roger Michael Davis, am a bootlick. "We're ready, Trask! Me and Mark and Collins. But, uh, one of us is playing a girl."

Trask laughed and nodded. "Okay, that's fine. Which one?"

I shrug. Mark drops his head. "Well," I tell Trask, "I have the highest voice, but, uh, Mark is the prettiest."

That gets a laugh; normally I would grin, but Mark sinks down in his chair and says, "Oh, G-d." He is trying desperately to disappear. I leap up and say, "Never mind, never mind, I'll be Mimi." I want to ask Collins and Mark, So which of you is going to be my boyfriend, but Mark is so humiliated already. I just peel off my jacket--it's hot under those lights!--offer my hand to Collins and say, "Come on, Rodolfo."

He sighs and takes my hand.

The stage opens blank, so I run on and shout out to Trask that we're doing the 'verismo' pieces from La Boheme, Act 3; Collins will be playing Rodolfo, Mark is Marcello, and I am the beautiful Mimi. At this point I do a little curtsy, and the class laughs.

In The Roger Davis Guide to Being Bad, there is a chapter concerning allies. It says they must be earned and not by falsity, either, but by truth, for allies are necessary. A bad boy must be charming, the worse the boy the greater the charm. For me, this means that through humor, honesty and avid participation I earn a grudging affection from some of my teachers: Jones, Trask, Feyderstein in math. In English, Townsend is torn. I write brilliant essays, essays that demand A's, but I write them in twenty minutes and spend the remainder of the class reading or doodling or scribbling in my notebook. These are allies.

Principal Thomas has been an ally since the day I was brought into his office for suspected drug possession. I insisted that my constitutional rights were being violated and furthermore that I was being profiled based on my pronounced style and that, friends, is called prejudice. Thomas says hello when he sees me around campus, asks me how I'm doing.

Throughout the entire scene, I never interact with Collins, but I do impersonate him, confiding in Marcello, "He shouts at me all the time: 'You're not for me. Find another. You're not for me.'" As I perform this piece, shouting and pointing at the wings and jumping up and down, Mark shrinks away. At the end of the speech I mutter, "Sorry, Mark. Just playing."

Which is why, at the scene's conclusion as we stand under bright spotlights to take criticism, Trask says, "Davis--great. I love it." I positively glow. "Just a couple things--I missed your line after 'Tell me what to do, Marcello,' and can you make your voice a little higher? Like a girl's?"

"Uh… can't we just make Mimi a boy?" I ask. "We can name her… uh… Mimo?"

Trask laughs. "How about Michael?" he asks. "And yes, that's fine. Michael and Rodolfo." He makes a note in his notebook. That's the thing about our school, it's so liberal. Scarsdale as a community is fairly right-wing, but it seems all the liberals are employed by the school. I find this completely fascinating. The place they have chosen to congregate is the place in which they will have the most impact, the greatest influence on the youth of Scarsdale. We are becoming liberal.

Mark's note is: "You, too, definite personality--all of you guys are great. But it's not the right personality. Marcello isn't afraid of Michael or Rodolfo, he's trying to help. Remember, Davis isn't going to hurt you, he's your friend."

At which point I sling an arm around Mark's shoulders, and he blushes and ducks away. "Hey, that goes for you, too, Davis," Trask says. "You're not strong, you're a meek little girl. When Rodolfo is onstage and you're hiding, be frightened, not fascinated. And Thomas… Thomas. The first part is good, but when you talk about losing Mimi--Michael, you need to be less cocky. Don't play it funny, you're terrified. She's dying. You're going to suffer."

"You sound like an abusive parent," someone in the class calls.

Trask turns and, laughing, says, "You know what, I do, don't I? Okay, look." This is to the three of us. "I like this. I want you to do the entire act, okay? That's your final. You guys and, uh, Rose. Okay? Can you guys work with her as your Musetta? And Davis and Collins, you're not afraid that this is, like, gay?"

"No," Collins and I chorus.

We look to Mark, who as Marcello has every right to ask that Musetta not be played by the girl who gave our history class a 20-minute lecture on canine castration and a 10-minute lecture on the Bubonic Plague. But he just shrugs and says, "That's okay."

The bell rings, and despite the various bright signs throughout the school announcing that the bell does not dismiss us, the teacher does, most of the class grabs bags and heads out the door. Collins and Mark head down the stairs off the stage; I take a running leap, nearly crash to my knees upon hitting the floor and sprint up the aisle to grab my bag.

"Hey." As I'm heading out of the auditorium, Collins rests his hand on my elbow. It's amazing how that tiny gesture freezes me, but it's a strange thing, the warmth of his skin. Briefly I wonder what Collins' skin feels like, as the warmth I enjoy is filtered by my wool sweater, but to answer this question I would have to take off the sweater and… I don't show my arms in public. Call it prudence, if you feel kind. And that's not something you say to someone. Would you touch my arm, please? Honestly. "Would you wait for me?" Collins asks.

"Yeah." Of course I will. And here's the thing that bothers me: if he asked me that in public, maybe even just in front of Mark, I wouldn't've said yes. I would've made a joke about homosexuality and Collins being the love of my life. I'm a faker, I can't help it. I hate it, but I am. Luckily Collins asks me in private, so instead of joking I recline against a row of folding chairs. When Mark passes, I reach out and ruffle his hair. "Have a nice weekend, Markie."

He blushes. "You, too."

Collins slings his bookbag over his shoulder and returns. We walk out of school and towards Saint Augustine's, where I'll pick up my sister. "So, what's going on?" I ask.

"I met your mom last week," he announces.

The way Collins says this, he seems to think the words have deep meaning. He met my mother. I don't mind. A lot of people know my mom. She's a great person. She used to bake for elementary school bake sales and help plan carnivals and things. Just about anyone who went to Saint Augustine's in the past two decades knows my mother, albeit probably through his mother. "Uh-huh," I say.

"She seemed… nice… but… is she okay?"

My skin turns cold. "What do you mean?"

Collins takes a deep breath. "Look, all I'm saying is your mom's really out of it, and you're always coming to school with these bruises--"

I stop. We're only two blocks from Saint Augustine's, and I cannot let him carry on with this, especially not in front of Sarah. "What are you implying, Tom?" I ask.

"Just that maybe something isn't right."

"Stop it!" Before I know what I'm doing, I've shoved him. It doesn't faze him in the least: he's probably four inches bigger than me and is built like a bear, whereas I am built like a girl. But the point is across, and now that I've crossed that line there's no going back. "Stop… stop not saying things! What is it, Thomas? What do you think?" I demand.

"I think your father beats you," he says. It stops my heart to hear. Suddenly my jacket is soaking wet, my hair, all clinging, and I can't breathe. "I think he hits you, Roger, and he hits her, too, and I think she's either in deep denial or using pills or both."

For a long time, all I can do is stare. We're standing here in the pouring rain, just staring, watching one another, and I'm the one who backs down, shaking my head. "You don't know what you're talking about," I say.

"Then tell me."

"I'll tell you this," I say, "don't ever talk about my family again. Okay? Ever."

Collins shakes his head. "You can't threaten me, Roger," he says. "It won't work. I'm not afraid of you."

"Then what's it going to take?" I ask. "How can I convince you that you're just a boy who doesn't like having to adjust to life in the suburbs? You're looking for drama because you're from Los Angeles where there are whores and junkies on every corner, and Scarsdale is boring, and you're just using me to try to spice up your existence!"

"The truth," he says. "Just tell me the truth, Roger."

"The truth is, my dad works. A lot, like all the time, and so does my mom. Hell, he's not home often enough to beat me, and he certainly wouldn't beat her!"

Where does anyone get ideas like that? I'm fuming even after I walk away. Who says that sort of thing about someone's family? It's not just rude, it's offensive. I am not being abused. Possibly emotionally neglected, but that's my own fault for being so standoffish and difficult to be around. But abused? Absolutely not. My parents love me.

---

The phone rings. "Hello?"

Officially, my sister Marcy is in charge. After Peter, she's the oldest in the family; I don't know much about her. I don't know how old she is. I don't know if she enjoys her secretarial position. I don't know what she likes to wear, eat, or if she has hobbies. What I do know is that she isn't watching me and Sarah, she's screwing her boyfriend.

"Roger? Where's your sister? Put Marcy on."

"Uhh…" I glance at the stairs. Is it worth telling him what Marcy's up to? "She's in the shower." Why make things more unpleasant?

"Okay," Dad says. "Well, when she gets out, tell her that your mother is going to work late tonight, so I'll be home around eight."

"Okay."

I know I won't tell Marcy. She's usually asleep by eight o'clock; hoping she won't deviate from her pattern, I just make sure that I have Sarah fed by seven, after which I wash the dishes. It's pretty miserable to be dragged out of bed at midnight to wash the dishes from dinner, doubly miserable from a good dream and triply miserable if the dishes have already been washed, just not very thoroughly. The absolute worst is being woken from a wet dream. My parents are Catholics, but they're kind of Catholic Lite-- until they catch me touching myself. Then they're hardcore Catholic.

My parents are pretty anal about dishes and that stuff. Responsibility's a big issue, which I guess makes sense. After all, their second kid dropped out of high school and is currently down in the basement with her boyfriend, hopefully using a condom. So, I settle in to wash the dishes: roll up my sleeves, then lift Sarah onto the counter. She knows the routine, and grabs a much-loved and thoroughly abused book from behind the toaster.

"Chapter nine," she reads. "'A computer chattered to itself in alarm as it noticed an airlock open and close itself for no apparent reason…'" I gave her The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy about a week ago, and she loves it. Every night while I wash the dishes, Sarah sits on the counter and reads a chapter out loud. The obscurity is ideal for her age; reading anything is ideal for any age. As for me, I get the story. "Roger," she asks, "what's as-fix-i-a-tion?"

"Asphyxiation," I tell her. "It means not being able to breathe because there's no oxygen."

"Asphyxiation," she says. "'A team of seven three-foot-high market analysts fell out of it and died, partly of asphyxiation, partly of surprise.' Roger?"

"Hm?" I focus more on the plate I'm scrubbing than on her.

She chews her lip for a moment. "Daddy's a market analyst."

I laugh. "Daddy's a systems analyst, it's totally different." Not, of course, that it would make a complete difference in our lives if he wasn't around anymore. I told Collins the truth, my father loves his job far more than he loves his family. "Keep reading."

She finishes Chapter Eleven at half-past seven, around the time I finish the dishes. "Okay," I decree. "Bedtime. Come on."

"No!" Sarah whines. "Not yet!" Sarah and I look nothing alike at first glance, except of course for having curly hair somewhere between brown and blond. People see her brown eyes and her smile, and me, green-eyed and scowling, and wonder how we could possibly be related. But any picture of us sleeping shows the similarities.

"Yes." She's got my stubbornness, too. Because this is an acquired trait, I take credit for it. I dry my hands on my jeans and lift Sarah off the counter. "It's half-seven."

She wraps her arms around my neck. "I'm not tired," she says. "I wanna stay with you."

"Uh… no. I'm doing Calc. You won't like it." I'm already on the stairs, carrying my sister, who seems to think she can burrow into my shoulder.

"I'll like it," she promises. "I like math. I do good at fractions. Don't I?"

"Yeah." We reached the second story. There are three bedrooms in the house, my parents' room, my room, and Sarah's room. Marcy lives in the basement and supposedly keeps the house clean, cooks and minds us for her room and board. Bullshit, any of it. I set Sarah down on her bed. "Let go." She does. "Okay?"

She sighs and stares at me, imparting the knowledge that no, this is not okay. And I know it's not. It's not fair. Mom went back to work shortly before conceiving my sister, so though I grew up able to run to my mother with skinned knees and nightmares, all Sarah's ever had is me, and I let her down fairly often enough, too busy being angry, self-involved.

I do not get high around Sarah. I don't. I'm a worthless peon, maybe, gone beyond caring, beyond anyone caring. My life is fairly useless. Her isn't.

I sighed. "Okay. So what can I do to make this okay?"

"A song."

There's one I've never heard before. It's always a hug or a song. The material consumerism of America has fully bypassed this kid. Sad, really, because consumerism is the culture of America. Sarah, therefor, has no culture, which one might argue gives her the chance to be completely unique. "Which song?"

"One of yours."

"Uh…" My songs tend to be less than completely appropriate for someone her age. "How about something else?"

She pouts. "'Home Fires'," she says, when I won't relent.

"Okay. Get in bed." As she does, I shut off the lights. Sarah says my name furiously; I open the door to admit the light. "I know, I know." I kneel and plug in her nightlight. The room is green now, which sends shivers down my spine but seems to comfort her. "Okay?"

"Yeah."

Some of the lyrics of 'Keep the Home Fires Burning' are less than appropriate in theme for someone Sarah's age, but I doubt she understands what the words mean as I croon the advice, "'Although your heart is breaking, make it sing this cheery song…'"

She hardly seems to care for the words, though. By the time I've finished the song, she has her eyes closed and her breathing has steadied. It's barely seven-forty, but Sarah, I know, will be asleep in no time.

I kiss her forehead. "Je t'aime, baby."

She yawns. "Je t'aime, Roger."

I may not be a good son, or a good friend, as Collins' accusation today suggests, but at least I can feel like a good brother.

---

Late that night, I'm sitting up in bed trying to write a song, but the words won't come. I'm distracted by everything. It's raining, thunder and lightning pounding and flashing in rapid succession. I never can remember which comes first, but it's fun to sit here and watch the lightning through the window. I have the curtains drawn open. Usually this inspires me, it matches my internal turmoil/anger.

There are two perfect times for me to write: moments of perfect balance, in which the weather is as angry or happy as I am and I do not decide on the words, they are simply there; or when I'm feeling so much I can't stand it, and the process is not writing as much as osmosis. I don't understand it. It's not a process I control. I know this, though: it's not something I can stop. I have to write, and sing, and play guitar. Without self-expression… well, there's not much point, is there?

A particularly loud growl of thunder shudders the house. I raise my eyes. The lights flicker, and I consider leaving the room now. Sarah hates the dark, and if the lights go out it's me she'll be looking for. That's the trouble with kids. You can't just hug them once in a while. It's not enough to walk them home from school and listen to them complain about the penguins and give them books to read. It's a constant job. It means holding them and singing to them through sickness, nightmares, whatever causes tears.

I should be used to this. I'm not, but I should be. If I was used to it, I wouldn't have gone to sleep when the lights flickered. I would have gone to Sarah's room. And when, later, the lights went out, I would have already been there instead of stumbling out of bed and down the hall, by which point my father has reached Sarah's room.

"What's wrong?" I hear him ask. "Calm down! What's wrong?"

I get into the room, Sarah's screaming as loudly as she possibly can and she's crying, completely hysterical. Dad has her by the shoulders, probably fairly frightened himself, but he's only scaring her more. I see all this in a lightning flash, then bite my lip, push forward and shove Dad away. "Stop it!" I snap. "You're scaring her!" And without a further word I kneel on the bed. Sarah has pressed herself against the far wall. "Hey, Sair… you okay? Sarah, come on, it's me, it's Roger. Come on."

She jumps into my arms and whimpers my name. "Hey," I tell her. "Hey, shh…" because she's crying. "Shh, it's okay. Sarah, it's okay, it's okay, shh." I hold her, my arms wrapping her tightly, her face pressed against my chest. The important thing is for Sarah to feel safe. It's not the same darkness if it's obscurity.

And most disturbing is that as she clings to me, she sobs, "I could see them, I could see them, Roger, I could see them."

TO BE CONTINUED

Yeah, the length of this one... it just got away on me. Heh. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! And reviews are always appreciated (hint, hint).