A/N: Revised and Reposted with permission.

Chapter 2

"Gah!" I exclaimed, furiously erasing a word. "Roger, help me."

"I'm not qualified to help you in that way Mark." Roger smirked. "I'm not a psychiatrist."

"That's not what I need help with-"

"I think it is." Roger interrupted, laughing.

"Shut up. Help me find a rhyme for flower." I replied. We're sitting in our homeroom English class where we first met, a month ago. This unit is poetry, the first was Shakespeare, and I wonder if you can see how those relate.

Anyway, I was fine in the Shakespeare unit we got to act a little, and I'm good at reading and writing scripts so it was easy for me to follow, poetry however, I can't write. And Roger is amazing, he says poems are just songs without music, but I can't write songs, so I don't know how that helps me.

"You're writing a poem about flowers?" Roger asks from his new seat beside mine. "Isn't that a little… gay?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm straight." I tell him, glaring slightly.

"Really?" he asked curiously, "I had you pegged as bi… not that I would've cared, but

anyway…"

"Are you gonna help me or not Rog?" I question.

"Sure. Even though your poem will make everyone think you're gay, and flowers are so

cliché," he answered.

"Everyone already thinks I'm gay, the poem's not gonna make much of a difference." I told him, "Rhymes?"

"Hmmm… flower rhymes with hour, tower, power, sour…" Roger paused and grinned, "Shower."

"Thanks." I said, and scribbled down the next line of my poem.

"Let me see." Roger demanded, and I tried to pull the paper away, but Roger was faster and he grabbed the paper from my hands.

"Fuck Mark, this is awful." He began to read it aloud, "Like sunshine opens a flower, day is my finest hour. That doesn't even make sense, how can day be your finest hour? Now is my finest hour would work better."

I smiled, glad to know Roger was helping me, evn though he insulted me every chance he got. "Sorry, I guess rock stars are just better students then I am." I haven't seen Roger write a single thing down since this unit started a week ago, but he's getting 100% so far.

I know because, this is how it works, we have half an hour each period from Monday to Wednesday, and an hour on Thursday to work and a poem. On Friday we present them.

Today was Monday, on Friday, I had written a poem about a fire, with help from Roger, and scraped an 80, Roger had gone up completely unprepared, or so I thought. He said an incredible poem, with Miss H giving him a standing ovation and much applause at the end, and 100.

"Not better students," Roger argued, "Just better at writing tuneless songs. What's the point of a tuneless song anyway?"

"So… sing your poem Roger." I suggested. For all the fuss the rock star wannabe made, he never seemed to be able to sing in public, or maybe he just didn't want to.

"This isn't the kind of audience I want." Roger explained, "I need an audience who doesn't give a shit about this place."

"Then how come I haven't heard you play?" I asked, slightly sullenly, Roger had seen some of my photographs. I had never seen him play his guitar, and had only caught him singing once, under his breath. Roger tilted his head slightly.

"You want to hear a song?" Roger asked incredulously.

"Yeah, you've seen my photographs." I explained.

"But you're photos are amazing! My songs are… mediocre." Roger clarified.

"Rog, if your songs are anything like the poem you said on Friday, then you're amazing at what you do." I encouraged him.

"Fine." He stated, "You want to hear me play, you come over today after school, and I'll play for you."

I laughed, "My mother will never let that happen, not without meeting you first. And once she sees you, I'm pretty sure I'll be banned from talking to you ever again."

"Well, I could meet your Mom." Roger said, completely oblivious to anything other then the first sentence.

"Do you even listen to me?" I questioned.

"Sometimes, bits and pieces get through." He replied.

"Right, well, I suppose you can come and meet my mother today, but you'll have to be the perfect gentlemen, and I'll make up some story about your clothes." I give in.

"What's wrong with my clothes?" Roger inquired, hurt.

"My mom's not into rock stars." I explained again. "Whatever… want to see a new photograph?"

"Sure." Roger agreed, sensing I wanted to change to subject. I pulled out a photo album. I flipped through the mostly black and white pictures to the last page, where a potted flower sits in all its glory. The sun had been setting at the time, so the plant and pot cast a long shadow, the plants head wilted slightly. Roger stared for a moment then opened his mouth and closed it… and opened it again.

"Spit it out." I said frustrated.

"It's… great." Roger said after another moment or two. "That's what your poem is about?"

I nodded, glad he understood now.

I led Roger into my house, whispering rules, "Wipe your feet, take your shoes off, hang up that coat, hide it behind mine please, my mom will freak if she sees that here. Okay, ready to meet my mom?"

"Mark, Mark are you home?" a slightly nasally voice asked.

"Hi Mom," I call, "In the foyer! I have a friend here, I want you to meet him."

My mother walked into the foyer and grinned, "Oh! Marky! You made a friend!"

I blushed furiously, as my mom called me Marky. "Mom, this is Roger."

"Roger Davis, pleased to meet you Mrs. Cohen," Roger said politely and extending his hand, as my eyes nearly shot out of my head. I had never heard Roger speak to anyone like that.

My mother shook Roger's hand, "Roger, dear, you can call my Cynthia, if you would like. It's so nice for my Marky to have a friend… you know he's never really had one before… now that I think about it, except maybe Nanette Himmelfarb… you know her dear, the rabbi's daughter?"

"Mom!" I complained.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Cohen, but I'm not Jewish." Roger informed my mother.

"Oh, well, that's alright dear… you two go enjoy yourselves." She said and turned around walking back into the kitchen.

"Mom, can you wait a second?" I asked, half nervous, half laughing.

She faced me again, "Yes, Marky?"

"Is it alright if I go to Roger's house for a few hours?" I questioned hopefully.

"Of course dear, but you'll have to be back before dinner, and you know that's at 7 sharp." She responded.

"Mrs. Cohen, if you don't mind Mark could eat dinner at my house, my mom has already invited him to stay, so it won't be any trouble at all." Roger tried.

"Sorry dear, but Mr. Cohen thinks dinner should be a family affair. Be careful Marky and home by 6:45 so you'll have time to wash up dear!" My mom said, embarrassing me more then I ever thought she could.

"Yes mom!" I called on my way out the door behind Roger.

"C'mon Marky, my house is just 'round this corner Marky!" Roger laughed, he'd been calling me Marky since we left my house, and I didn't think he'd ever stop.

"Shut up, I still can't believe she liked you, she only seemed disappointed that you weren't Jewish Rog." I said, amazed.

"I didn't even know you were Jewish!" Roger cried.

"I'm not." I muttered, "My family is. Though I did mention it to you the day we met."

Roger ignored that, instead he chose to say"Aw, Marky is afraid to tell his family he doesn't want to be a Jewish boy anymore."

"Technically, Jewish man, I had my Bar Mitzvah over a year ago." I replied.

"Technically, schechnically." Roger answered. "Here's my house."

"You only live five minutes away?" I asked.

"Yup," Roger said cheerfully, as we enter the house and I follow him down the hallway.

"I didn't know until today though. It's fuckin' awesome."

"It is pretty awesome."

"C'mon Marky, say fuckin' awesome."

"Alright Rog, it is fuckin' awesome." I said, laughing as the unfamiliar swear word leaves my mouth. "Now do I get to hear you're song?"

"I just need to tune my guitar Marky!"

"Rog?"

"Mmm?" he responded halfheartedly concentrating on the acoustic he has across his lap.

"Stop calling me Marky."

He glanced up at me, an evil glint in his green eyes, "Never Marky."

R&R