Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.

COLLINS

"Say something happens, something… something horrible. Something despicable. And you don't know it's going to happen, you don't even see it happen, but you know when it happens. And you don't stop it."

This inarticulate question I posed to my father on Sunday evening, two days after Roger's place, when I listened and did nothing. Dad and I were in the kitchen; he was cooking and I was setting the table when I looked up and, seemingly randomly, posed my confused inquiry.

"How do you know this happened?" Dad asked. I always appreciated that he never treated my concerns as meaningless. In Los Angeles, when I dated my first boyfriend (Joshua, a nice enough boy), Dad was there talking me through every worry: asking him out, what did this gesture mean, was I really in love, were we right for each other? Not once did Dad treat this as a teenage crush. He counseled me as though through the real thing. He always did that.

But now, I had no answer for him. What I had done… For two nights I had barely slept, listening to those noises in my memory and seeing Roger's face as he asked me to leave. He had looked at the floor as a purple stain grew on his forehead, and I doubt he knew he was crying. I remember perfectly his expression four months ago as he insisted, furious, the there was nothing amiss in his home.

I knew otherwise, had heard it clearly. Yet throughout his ordeal, I did nothing. Even now I knew not why. In those moments, listening, I knew what was happening. I knew it was wrong. Why did I not act? Why did I not plan in those months I spent worrying? I looked for signs of the truth, but never considered what I would do upon having it confirmed.

Coward.

"I… it's a hypothetical," I lied. I had finished setting the table. I unearthed the milk from the refrigerator, drank from the carton then grabbed a glass. Disease terrifies me. In others, I have no difficulty. Volunteering at the hospital never taxed me: death is a fact and I accept it. In my teenage selfishness, I cannot accept my own death. Well, perhaps death, the finale, but what precedes that terrifies me. I never want to feel my body break down. One of the worst is osteoperosis. I never want to feel my bones dissolve.

"We were discussing it in history class and I wondered what you thought," I reiterated.

Suddenly, I felt ill. 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! Could it be that Roger was correct? Was I only looking for drama? Had I found this by mere coincidence, or befriended him from some strange sense for it?

"Okay." Dad obviously did not believe my lie. "Well, say you know beyond doubt that this is happening, you should try to stop it."

Of course. He was facing away from me, occupied with a rather sharp knife that he did not want to take his eyes off for a second, but I felt judgment nevertheless. "What if you can't?"

"Try."

"What if…" I conjured a lump of spit from my throat to ease the dryness in my mouth, then swallowed, feeling little better. "What if you're scared? If you do nothing because you're scared to make it worse, or for yourself?"

"That's cowardice." Dad never treated me like a child. He never disregarded my concerns as teenage silliness. That's a two-edged sword, and the edge that rarely cut so deep was his blunt honesty. Dad momentarily turned to face me. "Thomas, I can help you much better if you'll tell me what's going on."

"It's a hypothetical."

"Uh-huh. Come sit down."

We sat at the table; I began eating almost immediately. I have manners. If I was at a friend's house or out in public, or even around Mom, I was very polite. I only took after the chef, didn't eat until he or she had taken the first bite, put my napkin on my lap, all that stuff. Dad never cared. 'I know you can do it,' he would say, 'and in the hypothetical existence where your growth spurts stop, maybe I'll expect you to.' This was not one of those instances.

Besides, pizza--even homemade pizza--decries affectation. It's a messy food that smears oil and tomato sauce across a person's face. Pizza needs to be enjoyed, in the same way ice cream cones and cheeseburgers in paper wrappers need to be enjoyed. Eating it neatly is doing a disservice to the pizza, and to the self. I once explained this to my mother. She rolled her eyes and said, "Be a lawyer, Thomas. You can B.S. your way through anything."

"Dad, what I was saying earlier?"

He nodded.

"What if… say it's someone you know. And say he wouldn't want you to interfere."

"If a friend does something horrible?" Dad asked.

"No! No, he…" I sighed. There was no polite way to say this, no euphemism. "Something horrible" was slightly prettier than "beat the crap out of him", but it rang ill nonetheless. "If something horrible is done to him," I said, resigned, knowing what Dad would say and knowing he was right.

"There is no excuse for doing nothing," he said, "if something is done to someone you care about, and you do nothing."

I stopped eating. The food tasted like ash. "What if it's not nothing?" I asked. "What if it's just, afterwards, you're there when he needs you and…"

There was no purpose in continuing. Dad was right. There was no excuse, no explanation for what I had done. "I know you wanted me to ease your conscience. I'm sorry, Thomas."

"It's a hypothetical," I said.

"Okay. Something's in your eye?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

Dad guessed, "How's Mark?" If he had ever met Roger, he would have known. Dad had been concerned for Mark since meeting him, insistent that something was not right with him--I was relieved to hear it. Dad saw what I saw. If only he had seen sooner. If only he had seen Roger

"It's not Mark."

"For what it's worth, Tom, I don't think there is any crime for which there is no redemption." Dad has no religion. I never asked if he believed in G-d: somehow, the question seemed irrelevant. He spoke to me of what I came to see as a moral equilibrium, the art of damage and reparation. It was a strange thing. The damage was necessary prior to reparation. There was no accumulation of goodness.

So everything I had tried to do right by Roger, was not undone. It did not factor into this equation of my cowardice. Nevertheless, Dad's words comforted me. They offered hope. "Thanks," I said.

"It will be difficult."

"I'll be okay." I believed that. I had harmed Roger by inaction. Surely action would be better. Action, once begun, would be easier, would be momentum. All it took was that one step.

Sometimes Dad sees more than I let show. "And your friend?" he asked.

And Roger? Would he be okay? Would he be okay, when his father beats him and his mother ignores him and his best friend is afraid he's going crazy? What was Roger's life? Caring for his sister? Playing his guitar? And the boy didn't care about himself. That was the worst part. He thought things about himself that are common to think of one's enemies.

"Christ… bug in my eye."

"Tom. Tell me his name."

I wanted to. I wanted to give Dad the responsibility. He would know what to do, and he had the presence of mind to do it. "I… can't." I could not be a child, hiding behind Mother's apron--or Dad's, in this instance. This was my problem, my friend's problem, and I needed to solve it without drawing in outside forces.

"Then, Tom, you have to do the right thing. For yourself as much as for him."

I hated when he was so right. I didn't want to think about it just then. I wanted to ignore it. That luxury was afforded me as it never could be afforded to Roger. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss.

---

That morning, I dragged out the UC Santa Cruz sweater I had not worn since moving to New York. It was dark blue, fuzzy on the inside and on the outside emblazoned with a creeping banana slug, the Santa Cruz mascot. Something about the sweater or maybe the college seemed to underline my principles that day, the importance of acceptance and lack of competition. Of all the UCs, Santa Cruz had the reputation of being the most laid-back.

I remembered my visit to UCSC. It was a nice place: the campus was up on a hill, a grass green setting, overlooking the sea. It was impossibly perfect. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine being a student there. My college letters would be coming soon, and wouldn't UCSC be a nice place to spend four years?

Damn. Yes, college letters would arrive soon. That meant it was time to tell my parents the truth. No. I pushed that to the back of my mind. Roger's issue was more urgent. Mine could wait.

I had no intention of calling in the cavalry. I did not know what I meant to do, exactly, but I was certain of the first step: Roger's cooperation. The entire story had yet to be revealed. Perhaps Mr. Davis had a drinking problem. Perhaps a drug problem. If the man is ill, he needs rehabilitation.

A part of me wanted him to be ill. That at least made sense. He had no control, had no idea, did not know that he was destroying one of the most incredible people-- Half through with that thought, I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Furious as I wanted to be, at that moment it would do me no good.

I was too busy worrying to be furious, anyway. Mark and I were in English class, second period, and we had yet to see any sign of Roger. I tossed a note onto his desk. Mark-- do you know Roger's dad? --Tom I was only ever "Tom" to him when we passed notes.

Tom-- yeah, what about him? --Mark

Is he nice?

He's a parent. I don't really get parents.

I had nothing against parents. Actually, I thought my father was one of the most incredible people in the world, still do. In that respect I was quite the freak. My peers seemed to consider their parents of a different species entirely. Mark always expected his parents to be angry, and as for Roger… Is he nice to Roger?

Mark paused a long time before responding with a single word: Don't.

Don't what?

Don't do that.

Don't do what?

Leave it alone, Collins.

Leave what alone?

You know.

Do you?

Yeah, I know.

That was no great surprise. Mark and Roger were close, much closer and with a much stronger history than the three of us. I thought then with a sinking feeling that Mark and Roger were close because they had been through tough situations together. My first tough situation with Roger, and I disappointed him.

How long?

Have I known? About 3 years, I think, since 8th grade.

Three years? For three years, Mark had known and done nothing? I did not say this: it was the last thing Mark needed. He was stressed, too. His family wasn't perfect--no family is. As I began to think on it, I realized how lucky I was. Mark was no longer allowed out without a chaperone. Roger's father beat him. Me? I loved my parents and they loved me. They treated me well. They were fair.

At break that day, I called my dad from the pay phones at school. He was at work, but between classes, so he took the call. "Dad, it's me--nothing's wrong, uh, before you ask. I'm just calling to tell you… I'm calling to say that I love you and I think you've done a really stellar job as a parent."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just needed you to know that. Okay?"

"All right."

By third period, not only had there been no sign of Roger, Mark was missing, too. I did not go to fourth. Instead, I searched the campus. I sought Mark and Roger, and this more than anything made me realize how little I knew them. I was not searching for Mark and Roger. I was searching the campus. I had no idea where they were.

I found them behind the art building. Roger leaned against the wall, his head bowed. Mark held a chemically sanitized napkin against Roger's arm. He was muttering quietly.

"Guys?" I asked.

Roger looked up at me, then quickly looked down again. Mark sighed. "Maybe you should go," he said. Part of me agreed with him. Maybe I should go, maybe I should make my apology when Roger is more ready to hear it. It could be a simple pattern of speech. I would say I was sorry for doing nothing, Roger would probably say he forgave me. But would we be friends again? Probably not.

When I joined them behind the building, Mark glared. "Roger--"

"Don't," he interrupted. "Just… please. Just leave me alone right now." He drew his arm back from Mark, who looked stricken at the request.

The napkin over Roger's arm slipped. The burn underneath was angry, fresh, a perfect round circle in his flesh. "Rog, we're not leaving you alone," I said. "Not while you're in danger."

"I'm not in any danger. Please."

I did not believe him. I knew what that burn was. It came from a cigarette, and Mark never smoked. I knew Roger had burned himself and, having seen the scars and scabs on his arms, I knew that he did more. I knew he did it often.

"You're a danger to yourself," I told him. Before Roger had a chance to reply, we heard the voice of an administrator. We crouched behind the Dumpsters until he had gone past. By that time Roger had pulled himself together. "Come on," I said. "Let's get out of here."

We walked for a while, not saying a word. Mark flinched every time a car passed. "We'll get caught," he worried. "We'll get caught and my parents are going to kill me. This is a really bad idea. We shouldn't do this. We'll be in trouble. It's going to rain."

Mark was right about one thing: it began to rain. "Come on," I said. I was not completely certain what I was doing. I had skipped school before. In junior high my friends and I would skip out early and spend hours in a comic book store, fancying ourselves thoroughly mature and roguish. By high school I had stopped reading comics, but continued to skip out on occasion, when the stress was too high or something had upset a friend or it was simply too perfect a day to be cooped up in school. We would lie on the grass in the park or sometimes take an entire day, ride out to the boardwalk and bike or blade down to the Santa Monica pier. It was a lot of fun, a lot of roller coasters and henna tattoos.

Mark and Roger had a different opinion of ditching. Mark was terrified. He knew it was wrong, but he did it anyway. I, being a teenager, had a healthy disrespect for authority, but had I seen purpose to the rule I would have encouraged Mark to head back. Instead I led him and Roger into the theater.

"Three for 'Sword in the Stone, please." I swapped cash for tickets and popcorn. We were the only people there, and we were not truly watching the cartoon. It was preceded by a kids' thing about Winnie the Pooh giving a birthday party for Eeyore, and I doubt any of us cared what happened in the end. It was nice to be out, though, just having a good time. Roger decided to toss pieces of popcorn in the air and try to catch them in his mouth. When Mark protested, Roger tried tossing pieces of popcorn into Mark's mouth.

Luckily the rain had let up, so we walked back to school after the film. By the time we arrived it was only five minutes until school let out. "Let's go," I said.

Mark shook his head. "If I'm home early, my parents will know I skipped."

"You're home at the same time every day?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Pretty much."

"What do you do?" I wondered.

Again Mark shrugged. "I do homework and read and help with stuff around the house."

I shook my head. No wonder Mark was so glum. He had no hobbies and no freedom to develop them. I had met his sister only a few times, but in that moment I hated her. Because of Cindy, because she was irresponsible and now talking about dropping out, Mark's life was miserable. I supposed his parents only wanted what was best for him, which to them meant a college education, but they had drastically overlooked the importance of his happiness.

I tugged at the sleeves of my Santa Cruz banana slug sweater. "You can come over some time," I told Mark. "If you need to get out, just come and crash."

"I can't," Mark said. "I'm not allowed to go anywhere without an adult. But thanks."

That just went to show what his parents knew. I was a latchkey kid, and waiting with my fingers crossed for college letters. "Well, take this, anyway." I gave him my Communist Manifesto. "At least it's something worth reading."

I felt better until laying down that night. I had yet to adjust to the cold of New York, so instead of sleeping beneath my quilt I used a heavy flannel sleeping bag. Before, I had needed it only on camping trips, when we went to the High Sierras, and whether it was truth of memory I always smelled pine needles and woodsmoke in the flannel. In New York, my mother tsked disapproval. "We can get you a warmer quilt, Thomas…"

I shook my head. "Actually, I like this."

"Okay. But if you change your mind, let me know."

That night, I was glad for the weight of the sleeping bag. It turned quickly leaden with my sleep, pressing me down, throwing my mind from this world into one of dreams. I welcomed the cast, eager to escape my final thought before falling: it was the knowledge that though I felt better about Roger's situation, nothing had changed. I had forgiven myself, and I had not earned that forgiveness.

I resolved to do better and dreamt of pulling the sword from the stone, then being knighted by Tigger who dubbed me "Sir See-Oh-Double luh-ins". I should have laughed, but didn't, because after the knighting ceremony I found Mark in a penguin tuxedo and Roger in chainmail, and I asked them if they had seen my lover but they only asked what she looked like. A frog jumped out of my throat and I couldn't speak.

By the time my alarm went off, I remembered nothing.

To be continued!

Hopefully soon, sorry this one took so long. Reviews would be loved!