based on That Was Then, This Is Now by SE Hinton. years after bryon sees mark for the last time, deja vu has it in for him. times may have changed, but not so much that stories like his don't happen any more. alex and randy know there's a world out there, but they just can't find it. enter kayla, a rebel without a cause. they're all but ready to fight the biased society they live in, but when randy lets a secret slip alex's life threatens to implode. can bryon come to terms with is own mistakes in time to help?

a/n: mark doesn't appear in person, although bryon does think about him a lot. This is very much a work in progress. I wanted to give some background before I brought in the plot, so the prologue is pretty long. I don't have a beta, just myself, and I tend to have a lot of extra, unnecessary stuff. Please tell me if I need to trim it down! r&r, ill give you a cookie –grins-

&&&&

A twilight-esque darkness hovered over everything. Images swam in and out of focus, voices drifted, colors blurred. My arm hurt, and the side of my face felt bruised and swollen.

I felt strangely numb, too exhausted to feel any real pain. My arms felt heavy, like bags of sand, and I sunk my head into my hands, my elbows propped up on the table. I drowsily wondered if this was what it felt like to run through a meat grinder, and my thoughts drifted in nonsensical circles. Voices floated to my ears, and I heard bits of rushed, brief conversation. I struggled to open my eyes, to resist the unnatural calm setting in, the haze filling my mind; I heard a fist pound the wall, and my eyes flashed open

I regretted it instantly; the yellow artificial light stung like acid and memories came swirling like a riptide into my head. I was getting a migraine.

"He's coming 'round."

the second my eyes opened, I closed them again. Jay had is nose right up to mine and the look on his face didn't bode well for my future.

"Kid, you all right?"

I tuned out the voice, hearing nothing but the exhausting pounding of my head. Someone shook me.

"more trouble than he's worth—"

"—you don't mean that." Someone sighed wearily.

"how would you know?"

"'cause I do. You know it too."

"when I get through with that—"

"leave the kid be, 's not his fault…

&&&&

The red haze in my mind was clearing; I was aware of the cars backfiring in the street and the ticking of a clock, of a TV in another room, of brief snips of conversation…something triggered my memory; I tried to lift my head, but a soreness in my neck made me yelp.

I felt a friendly pat on the back and heard a familiar voice say sagely, "that is one impressive bruise, ya know. Looks like you been hit with a sledgehammer."

I struggled to keep my eyes open; the light overhead made me squint. "'s what it feels like, too," I muttered thickly, the quip costing me a stabbing pain in the side of my head. I recognized the voice as matt's—matt philips—and besides, only he would have a joke about this. He has a joke for everything. He could take the most obvious fact and make it seem hilarious, could make anyone crack a smile. He could also smooth talk himself out of anything.

"you were out cold," jay stated unnecessarily.
"if you hadn't noticed," matt added.

"I think I did," I muttered.

"good. I as getting worried," he smirked.

"everything alright?" I asked, trying to sit up and failing. I heard a "hmph," and then realized I'd made a mistake.

"alright? Is everything all right?" jay spluttered with disbelief, and I kicked myself mentally. I'd just given him a perfect opening to start in on why I can't ever do anything right, and was I in for it this time. I was right.

"what did you do this time, alex? Out this late, at this time, by yourself—where were you? Do you ever use a bit of common sense?" jay's voice was even and admonishing, and I felt a surge of resentment. He's my older brother, eighteen--going on nineteen--but i figured I'm just another nuisance. He was always on my back, pointing out things I'd done wrong. I didn't bother to try to see it from jay's point of view. It seems like he's always seeing what I didn't do, instead of what I did. It's always, Alex, next time use your brain, for crying out loud, or Alex, you should know better—

He doesn't really care about me, or anyone for that matter, I thought. Except maybe matt. Everyone loves matt.

"I didn't think…" I started, afraid to meet his eyes.

"That's the problem! You never think—not at home or outside or anywhere it counts! I just didn't think, it's all I ever hear from you," he continued, and I shrunk back. What's worse, he was telling the truth. I don't think. But still, sometimes I just wanted him to see the things that I did, not the things I didn't do. The way he kept on, I felt like a complete idiot, who could never get anything done.

Just then matt spoke up. "c'mon, let's hear him out. There's got to be a reason for this. Even alex isn't that dumb, jay," he said smoothly. I knew he was giving me a chance. I felt a sudden rush of gratitude towards matt. He didn't think I was a kid. Not like jay, who treated me like I was five instead of thirteen. I also knew he was practically telling jay to shut up, although he would never say it like that. Not to jay. I don't know how they get along--they've been friends for as long as I can remember; then again, matt can get along with anyone.

My head was starting to hurt again, pounding sickeningly like someone was playing the bongos. I felt real bad for putting matt in such a tight spot, and I couldn't stand jay treating me like some dumb idiot. So I told them everything I could remember

&&&&

After school I figured I'd walk downtown a bit, having nothing better to do—it was a Wednesday for crying out loud. So I walked around, stopped at the arcade, did some stuff. It was getting dark, then, so I started on the way back home. At some corner there was a kid getting shoved around, short and slight with a disheveled mop of brown hair, wearing an old blue sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. I couldn't see his face, but he was shrinking back from two husky guys who looked like bulldozers, and backed into the side of a brownstone.

Like I said, sometimes I just don't think. I didn't think of what situation the kid might've been in, who he was, why he was there or what he'd done to get two guys like that against him. All I knew was that although my part of town is pretty decent, there are no social classes or gangs or major violence, and compared to some places I've heard about this is Mayberry, a couple of drunk kids weren't above beating you to a pulp if you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And that kid was definitely in for it.

I didn't exactly have any great plan for fending the drunkards off, but I ran in anyway, tried to help the kid. Not my best idea, but anyways.

The light from the streetlamps was making me skittish, flitting purple-blue shadows across the ground, and I suddenly wished I'd brought a jacket. The two guys didn't see me and I figured the odds were about as even as they'd get; I'm no prize quarterback and the kid was shaking, but we had the element of surprise. I tackled the first guy I saw, a shaggy looking thug in ripped jeans. I twisted his arm behind his back and pushed him to the ground, but there was such a strong odor of booze around him that I half hoped I would suffocate before I got my face smashed in, because suddenly I realized there was a very good chance of that happening. Delayed reactions.

The other thug turned, and everything was so fast I'm still not quite sure how it happened. in a moment one of the guys had me pinned against the wall, while the other slugged me across the face. I caught a glimpse of the kid ducking out of the way out of the corner of my eye, as a red haze filled my mind and I almost blacked out from the pain.

&&&&

i had just lay there for a few hours until I realized I couldn't stay out all night, then dragged myself up to my feet and began walking back home. Running through it over and over in my head. Remembering the fleeting glimpse of blue vanishing behind the corner: those thugs just wanted someone to beat up, they didn't care who it was. That kid knew it. He'd cut and run. I'd collapsed into a chair by the kitchen table and put my head in my hands, not even bothering to try to get to my bed. So until jay walked in with matt after spending the night out, probably at the bowling alley or the arcade, I'd just sat there trying to piece together everything in my mind.

&&&&

When I was through repeating what'd happened, I waited. I expected jay to explode, or maybe matt to wisecrack, or something…but things just stretched out into a strange silence. It wasn't icy or awkward, but tense; and afraid as I was of getting on the wrong side of jay, I was simply too bleak and tired to care.

The ticking clock echoed so loudly that it was nearly deafening.

"d'you know what time it is?" jay asked tersely, after a long pause.

I grunted drowsily

"half past two. In the morning."

I realized belatedly my curfew was eleven on account of it being a schoolnight. The quiet was deafening, and I heard a roaring in my ears. I felt dizzy.

"take a few aspirins and get to bed. Go."

I got.

&&&&

That night I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling. My room is pretty small; my bed is up against the wall opposite the door, in the left corner, there's a closet on the right next to my radio which is lying on the floor, and to the left of my bed is the folding table I use as a desk, with my backpack underneath it. I could hardly get to sleep because I wanted to so bad. I wished I could just black out and wake up the next morning, but I was too preoccupied to even relax.

I kept thinking of that kid in the blue shirt. He'd cut and run on me, by all rights I could hate him. But he didn't ask someone he didn't know to jump into the middle of stuff. It was his fight, I guessed, but he hadn't looked in a position to throw away some backup. Come to think about it, I could almost see why he'd done it. Almost. I was too tired and obstinate to try to see things from anyone's side but my own.

I kept replaying the words jay had said, trying to find in them some comfort; trying to pretend that he'd been so worried about me that he'd couldn't express his relief, that it was his way of telling me, Thank god you're okay, kid, I was worried sick.

But every way I looked at it, it seemed his words had been just that—words. Take a few aspirins and get to bed. Nothing more, nothing less. He doesn't care, I told myself. And I don't care either. I don't care, I don't, I don't. And I wish I could bash in that kid's brains in, he cut and run on me, bastard. I lie to myself all the time, but I never believe me.

&&&&

Usually I have to be dragged out of bed by my hair, but I woke up early for some reason, long before the harsh blare of my alarm clock jolted me out of bed. I checked my reflection in the mirror, and saw that my right cheek was covered in a swollen greenish purple bruise. Great, I thought. Just what I needed.

I was in the kitchen eating lucky charms when I heard jay coming down the stairs. I knew it was jay and not dad because jay doesn't step down stairs, he sort of pounds down them like an elephant. Jay is usually gone by the time I'm up—he dropped out of high school in his senior year, and got a job busing at a diner called Docks. He got promoted to manning the cash register, too, so he brings home pretty decent pay what with tips ad stuff.

Jay had already walked into the kitchen, opened the cabinet, grabbed some oreos and turned before he realized I was up, and did a bit of a double take.

"you're up."

"I know."

Jay paused, and I realized suddenly how stilted our conversation was. Things never used to be like that.

"couldn't sleep," I said unnecessarily, not wanting jay to think I was blowing him off; I felt guilt about having felt so mad at him yesterday, although I didn't feel any more sympathetic. jay nodded.

"you sure you're alright? I've got to go, but that bruise doesn't look too good," he said from the doorway, looking over his shoulder.

"I'll be fine," I assured him, but just to get him to leave more than anything, because already I was feeling the onset of a headache.

So Jay left.

&&&&

I finished my lucky charms quietly, eating all the cereal pieces first until all only the marshmallows were left. Then I crunched them up. The house was still, and I realized dad had already left for work. I thought with a pang that things just weren't fair, although I wasn't sure what exactly wasn't fair. Last year, our mom went into depression and couldn't hold down her job—that was when jay dropped out. Dad works more than he used to, so me and jay don't see him too often.

I know some guys in school whose parents could care less what they did, and they can walk in the house, nobody says anything, walk out of the house, nobody cares. I knew how lucky I was. But things used to be so different, when jay used to laugh and joke as much as matt, and dad had taken us to ball games and on weekends we'd toss a football around. That was before dad's eyes got that worn down flat look. Before jay just grew up overnight.

I shook my head to no one in particular and slipped on my sneakers, then swung my backpack over my shoulder and left for school, closing the door quietly for no reason at all.

&&&&

I live in a decent neighborhood, which basically consists of middle class people where the parents both work and have fair paying jobs, and whose kids get okay grades. A suburban pocket of normalcy in the middle of a city, basically.

Anyone in a twenty mile radius was zoned to my school, and because that essentially covered every shade of grey that differentiated social classes, my school was a melting pot. Whether it's better that way or not, I don't know. It's just the way things are.

I got a lot of rib for looking like a prize fighter, because I don't have much of a tough guy rep. I shrugged most of it off, and just sleepwalked through most of my classes. I get really good grades and I'm in one of the more advanced classes, but it's not such a big deal to me. I just understand the stuff they teach better than other kids, I guess, because I don't do any more studying or work. For the most part I coast through school, biding my time waiting for the bell to ring.

When school let out I went over to the luncheonette. I don't eat lunch at school so I usually stop by for soda and a snack. Every now and then I bump into someone I know, and that day I bumped into Randy Matheson. I don't have too many buddies; it's not that I don't get along with people, but there's a difference between being friendly and being friends. I'm on good terms with most of the kids in my school, and we joke and say hi to eachother in the hallways and go down to the arcade on weekends, but we're not really good friends.

But randy, he wasn't like anyone I knew. He had these wide grey eyes and brown hair so dark it looked black that stuck out in tufts at the back in a disheveled way, like he never brushed it. He was disarmingly honest, and always had this intent, trusting expression on his face.

He got laughed at a lot, and people made him out to be gullible. But the truth was, he saw more than most people did, and he understood what was going on better than anybody. The difference was that it really didn't matter to him; like if he knew something was going to happen sooner or later, he didn't try to stop it from happening, whether he wanted it to happen or not.

I sat down on a barstool next to him and ordered a root beer, propping my elbows up on the counter.

"Anything new?"

"Nope," randy sighed, "things are pretty dull." I knew what he meant. Around here there isn't much to do, unless you're into some school program or team sport. Sometimes I felt like I could be anything I wanted, actually go somewhere, be someone; but then I'd look around and go back to feeling like a middle class person who'll just graduate and get an average job and live an obscure life that didn't really mean anything.

"I'm really itching for something to do," I said, which was the truth. This whole…place really gets to me, this endless rat race, and I found myself wondering what the point to it all was, every now and a while.

"funny, isn't it, how these are s'posed to be the best years of your life? Carefree and youthful, so that when you're old you can look back on it and think to yourself, 'remember when..?' about all the dumb stuff you did.

A real riot, I thought to myself. To randy, I just said, "it ain't funny. It sucks," even though I knew what he meant. Randy just took a gulp of coke and looked at me. I thought of some of the stuff my social studies teacher had told us once, about how people used to be real religious because their life was so horrible that the only thing they thought of was dying and going to heaven. Or how people used to join the army just because their life was dull and they wanted a change, not even out of patriotism. Sounded pretty stupid to me.

"I know. But think about it—what is there to do? Sure, there' a mall and a movie theater and places to go hang, people play sports and watch Tv and whatever, but what is there to really do?" he had a point. Most kids I knew went to school for kicks just to hang out, went home and fought with their parents or watched the tube or hung around making a nuisance of themselves. "I'm just sick of it all. There's no point.

"and that's not even it. It's like when you're a kid you have all the answers. Not even that, it's just…you just roll with the punches, you don't need questions so you've got all the answers you need. I don't know." Randy looked more confused than I'd ever seen him.

"you're just down, is all," I told him, figuring it was one of those days. Who doesn't feel like the world and their life and everything else is pointless once in a while? It was just your point of view. If you were upset, it was because there was no point in being happy. If you were happy, it was because there was no point in being upset. Things just were.

"I guess," randy said, downing the last of his soda and staring off at the wall.

"look, I got to go," I told him, getting up. He nodded.

"sure, see you round."

&&&&

I'd spent the rest of the day doing nothing, really, but it was late so I headed home.

It was getting chilly, and I started walking faster. I'm a fast walker, even though I can't run too good. My feet slapped against the sidewalk, and the cool air rushed around me like I was a sail cutting through the wind. The sun sets early around this time of year, and its dark out by six thirty. It must have been a quarter to, because the sky, which had been a clear, pale ice blue all day, was deepening to a grayish navy, almost purple at the edges.

I was too preoccupied to appreciate the delicate shading of the sky as the sun set, though, because my mind was spinning. I thought about what randy had said, how when you're a kid you have all the answers you need. I remember when I was a little kid, my world was nothing but school, home, and hanging out downtown, walking through the streets and stopping by the bowling alley and the arcade. It never really, truly hit me until years later that there was a world out there, a big, massive world that stretched farther then my block. Sure, you learn the continents and the oceans and the famous explorers, but the whole idea of there being miles and miles of world out there never really sunk in.

Now I knew, of course. But even knowing there was a world out there meant nothing, because I still couldn't imagine it. I looked out the back door and saw houses. Buildings, brownstones, asphalt streets and pavement. City. Streetlamps with broken bulbs and brick walls obliterated behind swirls of graffiti. That was the world I knew; even though I knew the rest of the world wasn't like that, if not shopping centers and gas station and intersections, then what? What else was there?

I turned left at the corner onto the dead end street our house is at. Our street isn't like the new developments where every house is a carbon copy, the houses nothing but boxes, or one of those apartment complexes. It's not like the older parts of town with the Victorian style houses with stained glass and stone walls, either. It's a little dead end byway that nobody ever comes on, with mismatched houses that used to be little single story bungalows, with rooms added on here and there.

The light was on; I strolled through the door and collapsed into the armchair. Jay was sprawled across the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table, and matt was cross legged on the floor shuffling a deck of cards.

"Hey, kiddo," matt called over, grinning wolfishly. I grinned back.

"Where's the soda?" someone called from the kitchen, and I recognized the voice as Tim's. Tim Douglas was a good pal to matt and jay, but I didn't think he cared much for me. Being twenty going on twenty one, he treated me like a thorn in the side, and talking to him when he was mad was like catching a knife by the blade—you were either very brave or very dumb, because he was something fierce when he wanted to be. As far as I could tell, it was only because I was jay's kid brother and matt's friend that Tim put up with me.

"check on top of the cabinet," jay yelled back, flipping through channels on the TV like pages in a magazine, too fast to really see them.

Sure enough, Tim walked into the den with three six packs of coke slung under his arm. His face was too sharp to be handsome, with a nose that jutted out and high, slanted cheekbones, but there was something in it you couldn't really put your finger on that made him almost as good looking as matt.

"hey," he said, nodding in my direction, "you know how to play rummy, right?"

"Yeah, why?" I asked, seeing matt give a lopsided grin and jay roll his eyes.

"I need you to explain to matt that rummy has nothing to do with rum, and that he can't make up his own rules because there're enough already—"

"I was just trying to make it more interesting—" matt said in defense of himself, trying and failing to sound guileless and innocent. Tim continued as if he'd never been interrupted, looking at the ceiling.

"and that if we wanted matt to enlighten us on his fascinating version of the game, we would've checked into the insane asylum first."

I laughed, and matt flung the cards at tim, who had seated himself on the floor, leaning his back against the couch. Jay snorted and flung a pillow at matt, who tripped, landing flat on his face at my feet. Matt propped himself up on his elbows and grinned crookedly.

"Oh, hello alex! Fancy meeting you here."

We all burst out laughing.

Once matt was up and had started collecting the rest of the cards, Tim grabbed out a few sodas and threw a couple to me and jay. As matt bent over to pick up a card on the floor, jay shook his can of coke and opened it so it exploded on matt's head.

"damn popinjay—" matt muttered, cuffing jay good naturedly on the side of the head. he followed with some selective adjectives, but you could tell he wasn't mad by the crazy grin on his face. Matt was the only one who could get away with pulling jay's leg like that, and I didn't envy him for it; I wouldn't have the guts to say half the stuff matt did.

"go dry off and let's play cards, sometime this year, alright? My soda's going flat," Tim said evenly.

I grabbed a handful of card that'd been caught in the exploding coke crossfire, and wiped them dry on my jeans.

"That was one of your less common types of ammo," I commented, "exploding soda over someone's head. good in a pinch."

Matt came back in, rubbing his face with a towel. "I'm not the only creative one here, you know."

Tim ended up dealing the cards, and we played a good few games of rummy, until jay sent me off to bed at eleven thirty. It was still a school night. lying in bed I heard snips of conversations that drifted down the hall, sarcastic quips and laughs and a good natured punch here or there lulling me to sleep.

&&&&

I tapped my fingers on the desk impatiently, waiting and wishing for the bell to ring and school t be over. The kid in front of me was tracing the Adidas logo on his sneaker with his pen, around and around, the blue outline getting darker as it bled into the leather.

All year we reviewed for the state tests, and now that they were over classes slacked off a bit. And since the curriculum had been changed three times in the last three years, most of our teachers didn't know what to teach us, weren't sure what we did or didn't know. Right now they were teaching stuff I did, so I was bored out of my mind; especially now because English was my best class.

The minutes dragged by.

"I'm giving you your vacation homework early, so there should be no excuses," Ms. Levine was saying, although most of the class was packing their books away and didn't notice. "you are to pick a conflict—man versus society, for example—and describe one way that conflict occurs today. That's all for now, then we'll incorporate it into—" but the bell rang, and the class rushed out.

"I'll give you the rest tomorrow," Ms. Levine said above the noise, as everyone herded into the hallways.

&&&&

I'd forgotten we had spring break soon, which is something I would do. No matter how hard I tried I was as scatterbrained as ever, and a favorite tease of matt's was that I'd lose my head if I had one. Which was the truth, because if I did have one, I'd lose it for sure, regardless of how tight it was screwed on.

Book smarts just don't leave room for common sense, jay says, which was a shame. If I had to choose I'd pick common sense, because book smarts are just common sense in fancy words. You'd think I had common sense, for all that, but it's just not as common as most people think.

I kept my eyes peeled—who came up with that phrase?—for any conflict worth mentioning during school, and afterwards at the luncheonette. For lack of something to do, I walked to the drugstore and perused the magazines. It couldn't hurt, I figured, since there could be an article in there that might prove useful. I still felt like a complete idiot. No normal teenager stands in the drugstore reading the paper, unless it's comics or skin mags.

In the end I gave up, because there didn't seem to be an awful lot of conflict around here. Not any I could write about, anyways. All newspapers print is horror stories, all that gore and violence people read because they figure at least someone's life sucks more than theirs. But those were problems out of your hands, the types of things you couldn't plan for if you marked it on your calendar. In the end if you had a problem either you ould live with it or you couldn't. you don't whine if things don't go your way—that's life; a few try and fail to make a difference, but most never try at all.

I wondered about that. I like to believe everything is going to be fine, that things'l work themselves out. But I'm realistic enough to know they usually won't. the chances of your average joe being a catalyst for some major event is pretty slim, and if you step back and look at things, finding yourself in there is like those Where's Waldo? books, everything is just so big and you're just so small.

Everyone insisted on keeping up the pretense that we can all be somebody, go somewhere, that the future is one limitless horizon of possibility. For some kids, it is. And you know what, most of the kids in my school could go somewhere in life, if they were given half the chance. But that's the catch—chances aren't just handed out to people, given on whims. It's why they're called chances.

I thought about jay dropping out of school, giving up his chances for college, dad working overtime because of mom not being able to hold down a job. Tim had a pretty rough home life, too, I knew from matt—he'd been illegitimate, but his parents had stayed together until he was ten. Then his dad had gone from one girlfriend to the next like a suit of clothes, started getting into fights with his mom. When they'd separated he'd had to spend weekends with his father, which was tough, but matt wouldn't tell me anything other than that. Matt probably had the more average family, with two honest middle class working parents who cared where he went and what he did.

There was a gray drizzle outside, but it was growing harder and rivers of water were gushing down the sides of the street next to the curb. I stomped in a puddle, watching as people rushed down the sidewalks with hoods pulled up or pocketbooks held over their head. cars dashed by, slick from rain, and the window displays of shops sported glassy polka dots.

The air turned chilly, and I wanted to get home before the drizzle became a downpour. Walking past the playground of the elementary school, the swings sat idle, hanging like stopped pendulums, the merry-go-round collecting water. It was almost lonely, and I hurried past.