She imagined a sweaty, red-faced boy pacing up and down the tennis court, hitting ball after ball; the projectiles firing back, missing him by centimeters each time they returned to where they came. His arm ached, and his legs were sore, but he couldn't stop the vicious cycle of serving, hitting, pacing — repeat.

Mercedes wondered how long it must take for someone like Sebastian to get worn out. She knew she wouldn't last more than ten minutes out on a tennis court, less if the sun was shining, but Sebastian was tall and fit, almost no fat clung to his tone, slender physique. She hadn't paid much attention to him, not close attention, in years. She imagined that he must've looked like a model in the summer— Mercedes couldn't believe how few imperfections the boy had. Even the very clear personality dilemma she'd found him in was attractive in a way. While it humanized him, she understood it still made him into a place she could not reach. Wealth, as she knew it, afforded people the right to be confused or indignant or upset— they were allowed to retreat into solace and melancholy for weeks and return renewed and changed. As for everyone else, they had to work or go to school or find some other way to continue suffering - living- and sweeping it under the rug. Mercedes couldn't even imagine having a mid-life crisis. For Christ's sake: there were dishes to be washed.

Even in the middle of his storm, Sebastian was a thing to be envied. If only to touch his garment, Mercedes convinced herself.

She thought about calling a few times in the afternoon, but decided against it, choosing a new excuse each time. He had told her not to call, but she remembered the solemn look in his eye and had chosen, even then, to still attempt to reach out. Mercedes beat herself up for dealing out chances, but that was just who she was, and it was who she would, probably, always be. She thought about how her mother had reminded her not to be 'outshone' during the school year, and in attempting to reconcile those words with her unwillingness to truly change, Mercedes convinced herself that she was interceding on behalf of the boy. And, truly, she did believe it. If Sebastian Smythe had to stoop to her level to find a confidant, then, by God, the boy needed a confidant. Mercy, generosity and benevolence were not the issue, however. Assuming that she was at a level to be stooped down to was, but even she couldn't address all the things about herself that needed to change.

The first reason she chose not to call was so that she could make dinner, and then because she assumed her mother would be home shortly. After receiving a call from the latter confirming that she would be working a double shift, Mercedes began to look for a new excuse to not dial the Smythe residence. She took a long, hot shower and listened to From the Bottom Up, a CD from Brownstone. When the CD finally ended and she could hear the soft, buzzing noise of the disk spinning endlessly from her speaker, Mercedes got out of the shower and dried herself off in the mirror. The sun had set, and the house was dark except the fluorescent light over the stove and the warm bulb in the bathroom. Wrapped in a towel, she moved from room to room, lighting candles and allowing herself to dry. The home was quickly enveloped in the smell of vanilla, as she made sure all of the doors were locked, all the windows were shut and all of the curtains were pulled. Mercedes put all of the food she had made into containers, leaving one on the stove for her mother to eat when she got home. She loaded the rest into her refrigerator before cleaning away the bathroom and retreating to her room to put on pajamas. She donned a black, slip dress and let her curls break away from the loose bun on her head. She'd moisturized her brown, coily hair before the shower: a routine that had been implemented only recently. She was usually extremely tired after taking a shower and had fallen asleep on dry, brittle hair one too many times. Mercedes had worn a sleek bun for two weeks straight during the first month of school, because she couldn't get her sleep schedule completely together. Luckily, all one had to do was throw on a pair of hoops, and the look seemed entirely intentional.

Sliding on a pair of red house slippers, Mercedes ambled around the home, looking for any chore that had gone missed. When there was no procrastinating left to be done, and her backpack for school the next day was completely packed (and meticulously so), she dared to look at the clock above the stove. The neon numbers read 8:14 P.M., which meant she had managed to spend five hours walking home from school, doing homework, making dinner, cleaning the house and taking a shower. She would've patted herself on the back for time management had the same skill not afforded her plenty of time to do the thing she was avoiding. Mercedes had sincerely hoped that singing the entire length of From the Bottom Up would have sent her well over the 'acceptable' time for making a house call.

Mercedes trudged to her room, refusing to pick her feet up from the carpet before plopping on her bed and rummaging through her bedside dresser for the small slip of paper that had Sebastian's number on it. Eyeing the crinkled scrap of notebook, she saw that she must have absent-mindedly scrawled a heart beside the final digit of the number when they had spoken on the phone the first time. She winced with clarity, folding the heart underneath the paper as she dialed the ten digits onto her bedroom phone. Her heart sunk as the call went through, and she was startled by how quickly the call was received. After the first ring, she heard silence on the other side of the line and waited a few seconds before speaking.

After ten seconds, but what felt like longer, she heard a strained, if not irritated, "Hello."

"Hi,' she responded, cooly. "I know you told me not to call, but you were upset… you looked upset,' she paused. "Just: not happy. I wanted to talk to you, I just— my attendance has always been perfect. They would know something was up if I just didn't show up to fourth period."

Mercedes registered a sigh from Sebastian's end of the phone. He spoke: "Okay."

Biting the inside of her jaw, Mercedes twirled the cord of the phone around her fingers, racking her brain for what to say. "So, what was it you wanted to talk about? I'm all ears now."

"I said not to worry about it,' Sebastian responded, rushing to end the phone call. Mercedes felt no ambiguity about Sebastian's irritation and couldn't decide why he idled between overtly jovial and dangerously bitter so often. There was no telling with him. She felt her cheeks begin to redden, anger building up high in her chest before she gave a heavy sigh. If they were together in person, she knew she would have given him her two cents, but they were just on the phone, and he could (and would) hang up easily. Thinking for a few more seconds, she remembered that there was the real possibility that they could be together in person.

"You definitely don't have to, but my mom is working until the morning, if you want to stop by for awhile."

Sebastian was silent for a while before she heard an indecisive groan form over the line. "You want me to come over to talk…?"

She remembered quickly how things usually went with Sebastian. Mercedes decided to play nice for a few more minutes before giving up entirely. She yawned, "Yes. Nothing funny, which you should know by now."

"I'm learning quickly that there is nothing to laugh about between us,' he responded. "I definitely told you not to call."

"I know you didn't mean it,' she responded empathetically.

Sebastian sucked his teeth. "Telling me that I don't mean what I say seems like a good way of excusing yourself to do whatever whenever."

Mercedes gave a genuine gasp before laughing in disbelief. "You're a jerk."

"And an asshole, and a bad person, and a douchebag and an entitled prick. You're not saying anything I haven't heard, Mercedes. You're just another person in a long line of people who have grievances against me. Are we done?"

Before she could stop herself, Mercedes had a hand on her hip and a pursed lip. She slid to the side of her bed, as she spoke excitedly: "You know what? That's rich coming from you— doing 'whatever whenever'. Each time you talk to me, you don't give me any respect. You just… talk to me however, and then come back and apologize. I don't even get why you want to talk to me, because it's obvious you don't actually respect me or want to be around me. You introduce me to your rude behind friends, then ignore me for a month, and then expect me to jeopardize important stuff, just so I can make you feel something about yourself every few weeks. You are so… psychotic."

Mercedes heard him breathe loudly. "Psychotic… Gotta add that to the ever-growing list."

"Sebastian,' she sighed. "Just leave me alone. Seriously."

Hanging up the phone, Mercedes shook her head feverishly before letting go of an exasperated groan. She stood up from her bed and walked to her vanity. Looking herself over, she walked away after a few seconds, retreating to the living room to put on a CD, flooding the house with soft R&B. It was something she was only able to do when her mother was away at work at night; she had been caught playing music loudly during the day before just as her mother was returning from work. Mercedes had gotten a long rant about the dangers of being unable to hear possible intruders before her mother had threatened to sell the entire system. Mercedes never made the mistake again.

She grabbed an ice cream sandwich from the freezer, glancing over one of her mother's bottles of alcohol before deciding against it. She wanted to get the phone call off and out of her mind, but she had never gotten drunk and had no intentions of doing it alone on a Wednesday night the first time she had the honor. Instead, Mercedes devoured the ice cream, drank a glass of water and returned the CD to its case before beginning the succession of blowing out candles on the way to her bedroom. As she entered her room, she pulled her hair into a loose bun and removed her house slippers. Walking along the perimeter of the room, Mercedes blew out the remaining candles. The only light still burning in the home was above the stove— a soft, rhythmic hum shifting through the house. She got into the bed, still warm from where she had sat before and had barely pulled her comforter to her neck before she heard a few sharp knocks on the front door. Her heart sunk in fear before she guessed who it probably was. Nearly jumping out of bed, she put her house slippers back on, grabbed a robe and released her hair from its bun. Taking small, undetectable steps down the hallway, she peered through the eyehole to see Sebastian's silhouette backlit from the street lights. She sighed.

Opening the door, she watched Sebastian turn around slowly, his hands in his pockets and a visible frown on his face. He looked her up and down before staring blankly into the empty, dark house.

"Doing 'whatever whenever' just like I said,' she began, pulling the robe around her and looking around Sebastian's surroundings.

"You just called me psychotic, so I don't know how this,' he motioned between himself and Mercedes. "Isn't completely on par with your expectations of me."

"Why do you feel the need to always be three confusing steps ahead of everyone?"

Sebastian sighed, annoyed. He looked around the dark street and shuffled uncomfortably. It, visibly, wasn't his side of town. "Are you going to let me in?"

Backing away from the door, she gave the boy entrance into the house. Turning on a lamp in the living room, she sat down on the recliner parallel from the couch Sebastian had chosen. He looked tired, his hair was pushed behind his ears, and his eyes were heavy. He was, however, completely dressed, as if ready to go into town or back to school. Mercedes retreated into herself, pulling her nightgown down every few seconds.

She watched Sebastian clench his jaw and rub a hand over his face, thinking. He was quick on his toes, but she could tell when he needed time to think about what he wanted to say. He was a direct speaker and an intentional one. When he was being witty, charismatic or indifferent, he could speak quickly and unleash a diatribe with no former practice, but to her, it seemed as if any admittance of emotion or attachment was met with gritted teeth.

"Do you feel disrespected by me?' he finally asked, looking up at her, his head half-buried in his hand.

"Yes,' Mercedes responded, feeling no need to expound.

"You don't take everything into account."

Rolling her eyes, Mercedes gave a dramatic and verbal pout. "What am I not seeing, Sebastian?"

He cut his eyes at her. "The fact that I'm risking becoming a social pariah by even being seen with you. I dealt with all the shit they attempted to give me that night at the football game, and when we got back into my car, you just.. didn't acknowledge that that was a big deal. I know you're not oblivious— and, like you've said, I've been honest with you,' he hesitated, before using his hands to emphasize his words. "I don't want another relationship in my life that makes me feel just as shitty as all of the rest. Pretending that we're the same type of people or that we know anything about each other is obviously not working. If you feel disrespected by me, I'm sorry, but I feel the same way. I'm just not going to sit here and tally mine up."

"I get that you're attempting to apologize, but, somehow… I don't feel better,' Mercedes said. She wasn't upset, but she was confused about what she thought Sebastian thought he was fixing. "I didn't ask to be your charity case, I didn't ask to get sat next to you at the school assembly."

"And yet,' Sebastian said quickly, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. "I want to be a good friend to you, in fact: I will be a better friend to you than you could ever be to me. Just like,' he thought, and his hand rose to massage his temple. "Don't fight me on everything, and don't act like things aren't the way they are. And stop throwing stuff back into my face, because that's the type of thing that will make me be completely done with you."

"Sorry you don't have other friends that are honest with you or friends that you don't feel like you can be honest with, but I don't see anything I've said to you as being something I threw back into your face."

"Every time I talk to you, it's like you're trying to get this… identity crisis in me to materialize."

"Sebastian, each time I talk to you, there is some identity crisis materializing."

Scrunching his nose in frustration, Sebastian scratched his jaw. "Alright,' he said in surrender.

Mercedes sighed, "I just feel like you keep putting me into situations where I have to, like, preach to you, and I don't want to do that. I want to be your friend, I don't want you to feel like you can't talk to me without me being all self-righteous."

He nodded. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. I like you, Sebastian. I like hanging out with you. I guess now I know you feel the same way. I want to be friends. Whenever we're actually laughing about stuff, it's fun. You're fun to be around, Sebastian. You just make it so difficult sometimes."

Sebastian gave a soft, downtrodden smile. "I know… Maybe we should just agree not to confide in each other about certain things."

"I don't think that's the solution… Maybe, just… What if we do that thing Catholics do… when they tell the priest all of the sinning they've been doing and the priest tells God?"

Sebastian, a hardly-practicing Catholic, looked at Mercedes in utter shock as she butchered the sacrament. "Confession?"

"Bingo! — Maybe it'll just be like confession between us. If you tell me something, I won't judge you. I won't even respond if you don't want me to— it'll go to me, and then to God, because you need some prayer in your life… I mean that non-judgmentally. We all need prayer. You, especially,' she rambled, but when she looked at Sebastian, he had a wide, appreciative smile on his face.

"That works. Since you've offered, I invite you to never give me any type of criticism or reproach as I unload on you, not that either would ever be deserved,' Sebastian responded, lifting his head and scooting forward on the couch.

Mercedes chuckled, "Oh, boy. Here we go."

They spoke for a time, Mercedes refusing to implore further about the topic that had been weighing so heavily on Sebastian earlier in the day. She had a feeling he wouldn't tell her then anyway, and she remembered the point of confession was for the confessor to do the confessing— not for the priest to ask questions while wearing lingerie at his home.

Eventually, before it was too late, Mercedes stood, gave a soft yawn and stretched. "Are you hungry, by the way?"

Pausing, Sebastian considered. "You cooked?"

Mercedes gave an affirming nod, motioning the boy to the kitchen with a tilt of her head. Sebastian stood, wiping his hands on his pants and followed Mercedes into the kitchen as she prepared a plate.

"It's been awhile since I've had a home cooked meal. It isn't really my mom's thing."

Mercedes gave an incredulous glance, "You guys go out to dinner every night?"

Sebastian yawned, leaning against the kitchen table as Mercedes placed a plate in the microwave to reheat. "We go out a lot. There's food in our house… I've been eating a lot of fast food lately. During school, it's the best option… being fast and all."

"Yeah,' Mercedes nodded, giggling at the add-on. "I got that part. I don't even know the last time I had McDonalds… this summer, probably."

"You're joking."

Mercedes shook her head, crossing her arms and watching the time on the microwave decrease patiently.

"I'm pretty sure I had a Big Mac for breakfast,' Sebastian nodded, reminiscently.

"Ah, makes sense,' Mercedes began. "No wonder you were having such a bad day when I saw you earlier."