I didn't head back home after I got my car. I took myself up on my offer and went to a diner for some food and coffee. I hated coffee, but it would help my headache, I figured. I actually quite liked diners like these, and I wondered if that was where Dad stopped for breakfast everyday. He worked so early that we never saw him at home for it.

I had no desire to go back home. I could sneak in quietly and avoid everyone; it was a weekend so Dad would probably still be asleep, only to leave and "catch up" on office work, whatever still needed to get done, but my mother would still be there, and I was probably in for an unnecessary earful. I could hang out at the diner, then cruise around town for a bit. Eventually, I'd make it to Jane's.


Trent let me in the house, which surprised me. I had arrived at Jane's around 11, and Trent never woke up until around dinnertime.

"Hey, Tom." Trent sounded tired, although it was difficult to tell since he always sounded the same.

"Hey, Trent. Jane around?" I asked.

"Somewhere." He replied. "Go ahead and look for her. I think she was supposed to take me to practice today."

"Practice?"

"Yeah, we have a gig on Saturday, so we want to go over some new songs for it."

"Trent, today is Saturday." I informed him. It took a second for that fact to register in Trent's mind, but he finally let out an expletive.

"I'll go find Jane now." I headed up to her room and knocked on her door. No answer, but the door was open so I peeked inside. Jane was nowhere to be found. So I walked around the house, checking various rooms for her. The entire house was covered in various pieces of Jane's, most of them half-complete. Easels with paintings in every room, sculptures on all the counters. I think I saw a woodwork sculpture in the bathroom, although I tried not to consider that one too heavily.

I eventually discovered Jane in the backyard, painting in the family gazebo. I remember she had told me a story about it and her brother Wind, but I couldn't remember the details.

"Hey there." She smiled. Jane looked tired, had she been there all night working?

"Working hard." I chuckled. "I got the grand tour while I looked for you. I wish Trent had told me you were in the back."

"It's before noon, I'm surprised he answered the door. Was he clothed?"

"Partially." I teased. "So, impressive work from what I saw. I particularly like the silver haired woman in the painting in the living room."

"Ah, yes, the one covered in blood holding a baby. I got the idea from that one after I flipped on the TV and somehow it got on the news." Jane chuckled.

"We always knew the world's madness would be your muse. At least you know your voice."

"Well, I'm going to need more critiques then that. I'm not going to screw up at BFAC so I need to get as good as I possibly can." Jane noted. I knew that, once October rolled around, Jane would bring very little of this to the college. But this wasn't about bringing pieces, this was about technique, form, and style. I remember when she sold recreations and some pretentious snot told her she had some lousy brushwork. It bugged her for the longest time.

"Jane Lane, is that ambition I see in your eyes?" I teased her a little, smiling at her effort.

"You know how much of a prima donna I can be. Come on!" Jane dragged me back into the house.

I always knew that Jane devoted all of her effort into her art, as much as she didn't concentrate on anything else. But this was surreal. Jane led me into rooms that I normally wouldn't go into, like her sister Penny's room. She showed me works she hated, works she loved, the completed and the barely started, and everything in between. Paintings, sculptures, no type of project was overlooked. She asked me hard questions about brushwork and texture, things I knew nothing about, but commented on anyway. She wasn't asking me to be her sounding board; she asked me because she wanted to know.

"Jane, you're really getting into this." I was very impressed with her. We ended up in her room, and I was considering a painting she had made about what appeared to be a flood.

"I've always been into art." She replied in her brief demeanor. "You know that."

"I mean really getting into this. I've never seen you so driven. Usually your art just came at whim."

"It still does." Jane agreed. "But ever since I'm going to college I've been trying to find a way to impress my critics as well as work I can be proud of. I've been doing every medium and type of style I can think of."

"Well, the fact that you can transition so easily into one era is impressive. I really like this, Jane, I love that you want this so much." I was proud of her. I knew how much staying true to her muse was important to her, and the fact that Jane was willing to work so hard to keep it was inspiring.

"It's all thanks to Daria. And you." Jane admitted.

"I know, the letter. Don't worry, I'm over it." I stated. Jane said nothing more on the topic, but she looked at me as strangely as Daria did. Was it truly so odd? I didn't see how it could be with Jane. She had forgiven Daria and me, after all.

"How was the party last night?" Jane asked. I blushed to the tips of my ears.

"Ah, crap. Daria mentioned it."

"She called me after she brought you home." Jane did not laugh, which surprised me. My stupid blunders often made her laugh.

"Go ahead, get your snipes in." I invited her to attack me, but she didn't.

"Relax, Tom, I remember a few times when I had too much. Let's just say an artist friend showed me her busy hands." I stared at Jane.

"There are so many ways that I could take that."

"Not a word." Jane pressed a finger to her lips. "So I'm not going to yell at you. But seriously, Tom, what was up with that? You were always the responsible one, never going to do that crap Elsie did." Jane was asking me a serious question, which rarely happened.

"I just messed up." I blew off her concerns and answered briefly. "I had a fight with my mother about Bromwell and their admission standards, Quinn told me about a party, and one thing led to the stupid conclusion."

"You're still hung up on that?" Jane asked.

"It's easy for you to say that." I retorted, becoming forceful but not angry. "Your family didn't go to college."

"Yeah, I guess I really don't." Jane replied, her tone softening.

"I wish Mom had just admitted that. Maybe I wouldn't have snapped at her." I thought.

"Tom, take a look at a few of my roughs." Jane returned my thoughts to art, but seemed to ask me more seriously then she did for her other works.

"Rough sketches? You don't do many of those."

"I do when I'm deciding to make it paint or charcoal. Come on, look at this pad." Jane handed me one of her sketch pads. She had dozens upon dozens of them, but only three people had ever seen them: Trent, Daria, and me, in that order. And none of us had seem them all.

"You've been doing a lot of portraits lately." I noticed as I flipped. Most of them were not of people I knew, probably people in Jane's head. Her gift with imagination was truly legendary, to create a face from nothing.


I considered each of her sketches, offering comments when appropriate, but I didn't pause until I reached near the end. Staring back at me was my own face. Jane had used colored pencils on this one. Her sense of color was always great. My portrait's eyes matched my own green eyes, my skin was the right pale peach color, a muddy brown mop topped my head. It was an accurate picture of me, that's for sure.

"Am I commenting on your color sense, or the handsomeness of your model?" I teased. "Either way, well done." I looked back at the sketch, and found it drawing me in even more.

"I've seen this face." I noted, my voice becoming softer as I traced my portrait's lips with my finger. Pursed into a frown. I noticed that the skin around my cheeks sagged; my eyes were at a downward tilt, looking at the ground. My portrait was a face of abject despair, someone defeated and broken.

"I see it when I look in the mirror." I didn't normally think this when I looked in the mirror, but looking at my face now, I could recognize it. I could see the empty despair in those eyes, and knew it was mine.

"I drew this after we met at the pizza place. What's up with you, Tom?" Jane asked seriously. "I mean really. I haven't seen you this depressed since you and Daria broke up." I didn't answer her for an extended moment, transfixed by my portrait.

"A complete and total lack of confidence." I said silently.

"In what?" Jane asked, and I realized I had spoken my thoughts aloud.

"Crap." I thought. There was no weaseling, no deflections, no lies that could get out of this one. Unlike my family, Jane gave a damn. Jane gave a damn about the substance and not the appearance. She knew when there was something wrong, and she was not going to let me get away. So, I told Jane the truth. She already knew about Bromwell, so I told her about the fight with my Mom, and how much it really bothered me that she didn't understand. I told her about Daria, about all the fights we had. I told her how my thoughts on tutoring Quinn, the darker thoughts I had shared with no one. And I told her of how listless life had become, how it was painful just to do the basic chores of eating, dressing, and sleeping. Jane sat there, listening intently, not even drawing. I could read nothing in her face. Was she confused, or did she want to not give herself away. I was scared.

"Wow, Tom, I had no idea you were so screwed up." Jane noted, her brow furrowing in concern.

"I wasn't. I only got like this this summer. I hate it." I felt very small, sitting on Jane's bed. My eyes about to water, my knees pressed to my chest almost as if in defense. Jane offered no advice, perhaps she had none. I wanted to look at more of her art, something, anything, to get my thoughts someplace else. But Jane was distracted, she could no longer speak about it. I excused myself.


I went back home, as much as I didn't want to. After making it to my room without being accosted, I called up Quinn.

"Tom!" Quinn seemed a bit elated to hear from me.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Fine. How are you?" She reversed.

"Listen, I called to apologize for last night." I returned. "I didn't mean to leave you like that." Quinn didn't answer at first.

"Quinn?" I probed.

"I'm sorry." Quinn said. "I should have mentioned Lindy liked to drink and we shouldn't have let her..."

"Quinn." I cut her off as she started to trail off. "It's not your fault, it's mine. I knew I shouldn't have, but then I did. Don't think this was your fault." Quinn was silent for a moment.

"Tom, I know you might get mad if I ask you this but I just wanted to ask if there was some kind of problem." Quinn talked fast, as she did whenever she was nervous.

"Problem?"

"The only person I've ever seen drink like that is my father and that's when my Mom is talking to my Aunt Rita and I don't want to go into that but I should say that those two do nothing but fight since Rita never has a job and I'm worried it's something like that because my father can't stand being around them when they fight so he drinks and then he starts talking..." Quinn started babbling, although I was able to sort through her words.

"Listen, Quinn." I cut her off again. "I don't drink. Normally. If you're unsure, ask Daria or Jane. But I still feel like a big screw-up for leaving you like that. I owe you for that, and again for taking care of me."

"That was more Daria." Quinn admitted. "I didn't know what to do." Daria had told me she planned on leaving me at Lindy's. So which was the lie?

"Well, I already spoke to her about it." I told her. I'd figure it out later "I'll see you next Monday for our lessons, okay."

"Yeah, okay." Quinn sounded sad as I hung up the phone.


My sleep last night was not restful, so I had taken a nap and when I awoke, it was late afternoon. I still felt a little groggy, but I was well enough to get some water without the house spinning.

"Where is everyone?" I thought. There was loud music coming from Elsie's room, but Mom and Dad were both gone. Was there some country club event? I remember joking about Jane about skipping out on the event, but I didn't actually know of one.

"I guess it's just as well." I thought. Mom was angry with me, she had the right to be. She would have told my father, as she did whenever I crossed the line, and then he'd lecture me. Possibly. He'd pretend to notice and say things that made absolutely no sense, things he would know if he ever gave the slightest sort of effort. Then I'd give some generic answer and he'd forget about it within a couple of days.

"God, what is wrong with all of them." I was trying to think of their problems, so I wouldn't have to deal with what I started thinking at Jane's house. Elsie's loud music was starting to grate me. Normally I would have just gone back to my room and shut the door, but I had no inclination of doing so. Perhaps it was the remnants of the hangover, perhaps it was my lack of patience, perhaps it was just boredom, but I knocked on her door.

"Turn that crap down, Elsie." I shouted through the door. The volume did not adjust. I was surprised. Normally, Elsie would have raised it just to be a bitch.

"Elsie!" I shouted. "I'm in no mood. Turn that crap off!" I pounded on the door again, and it opened. I pushed my way in, in no mood to be polite with her.

Elsie's room was white and frilly, with lots of pillows. I don't remember the last time I had been in it. Elsie wasn't initially visible, so I went over to her stereo and shut the power off. I paused for a second, and didn't hear her protest.

"Where the hell are you?" I growled to myself. Then I saw her on the bed, completely sound asleep.

"Rude bitch." I thought. I just thought to leave, but I stopped. Something seemed weird. Probably because Elsie lie on top of the blankets. Wearing her shoes. I moved in for a closer look. Elsie herself was quiet, I could only hear her slight breathing. But I looked on the bedside table next to her. I saw two orange cylindrical bottles.

"Prescription bottles." I noticed. "Elsie doesn't have any of those." I took a look at one of the bottles. Diazepam. I knew what that was, a tranquilizer. Elsie was never prescribed those, and the name on the bottle was not hers, it wasn't even one I recognized.

I knew that I would never become a doctor, but I knew what this meant: Time to call 911. After giving the information, I walked back into Elsie's room. Now that I studied her closer, I noticed the track marks in her arm. Did she do both the drugs and the pills at the same time, or was that just wear and tear from her previous uses? I had no idea. I wasn't angry with Elsie at all. Instead, I felt a strange combination of pity and contempt. Elsie was truly pathetic. To have all the gifts she had been given and she wasted them on cheap thrills, on cocaine, on drugs. An overdose, I figured, was what had happened here. Whether it was pills, drugs, or both I couldn't tell, I'd leave that for the doctors to determine. I wondered if it was wrong not to feel a panicky concern for Elsie? I did want Elsie to pull through this, but what would she have to look forward to? Her parents and brother to criticize her for her dumb moves, her every move planned out? Detox and rehab?

I smiled. All things she deserved for her dumb moves.

"And what of your dumb moves, Tom? Will Elsie's blunder screw your life up? Will you no longer be able to enjoy these things because they'll be watching you, afraid of losing you like Elsie?" My thoughts wandered. I reasoned that I would not call my parents; I had no idea what to tell them anyway.

The paramedics came, and I gave them all the information that I knew. When they asked me if I wanted to come with them, I refused, and gave them my parents' numbers. I knew I would probably catch hell for staying home instead, but the sight of Elsie was the last thing I needed to see right now.