A/N: Revised and reposted with permission.

Chapter 4

"You know, Marky, the point of dodge ball is to dodge said ball." Roger told me, smirking, while he leaned casually against the wall.

"Shut up," I muttered, holding the icepack to my head, sitting in the nurse's office.

"No." Roger replied, sticking his tongue out at me.

"Real mature…" I groaned, pressing the ice pack closer to the bruise on my temple.

"Roger?"

"Mhm?"

"Why am I such a klutz?" I asked, biting my lip, because no matter how much Roger says he didn't throw the ball that hard, it still fucking hurt, and I refused to cry.

"Marky, I don't have the answer to these challenging questions." Roger answered, coming to sit beside me. "You're gonna be fine."

"Yeah, well, it still hurts." I complained, "And it's your fault."

"I disagree." Roger said, and I raised my eyebrow, "You see, this is what happened,"

Roger paused to take a deep breath, "We were in gym, playing our once-a-month game of dodge ball, and unfortunately we were put on opposite sides of the team, so I couldn't protect you-"

"I don't need protection!" I argued, and Roger hushed me pointing to the ice pack.

"Anyway, then I threw a ball at this guy, right, and I aimed for his shoulder and my aim was perfect, I might add. Then you walked in front of said guy, and see, he was a little taller then you, so, your head was at shoulder his shoulder level." Roger paused again, "Then you kinda fell. Then the teacher said I had to take you here, because I hit you… even though you really just got in the way of my shot."

I raised my eyebrow again at Roger's explanation, "So, that's your story huh?"

"Yup, that way I don't have to say I'm sorry." Roger grinned, and I grinned back, knowing in fact, that that was his apology.

The nurse came out then, and said I could head home, as long as I had someone to walk with. I nodded and pointed to Roger, and she smiled and said I was lucky to have such a good friend. I snorted and Roger glared, and shoved me.

Roger and I stood and headed out the front doors of school, after stopping at our lockers to get our coats. It had snowed for the first time last night, and the ground was covered in a thick white blanket. I zipped up tightly and gripped the handrail heading down the stairs that led out of our school.

My mom was waiting for me at the door, "Oh, hello Roger dear," she said without giving him a second glance, then ran and hugged me tightly, "Marky, your school called and said you hurt yourself, are you alright?"

I pushed her off, shaking my head, unsure how she could be so upset over my klutziness, but ignore my father's actions, "I'm fine Mom, and 'sides Roger hit me with the ball."

"Yup," Roger agreed cheerfully, "I did, don't worry, he's fine, it's just a small dent Mrs. Cohen." He joked.

My mom observed me for a moment longer then invited Roger inside, with words that shocked me, "Would you like to stay for dinner Roger?"

I gaped at my mom and started, "But Dad…"

"Your father is out of town until Monday," My mother said, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"I'd love to stay for dinner, Mrs. Cohen." Roger replied, the unusual polite tone in his voice. "I'd have to call my mother first though." And I swore he cast a spell, because my mother giggled and cooed about what a sweet boy Roger was and I wanted to show her the detention slip Roger had in his pocket for skipping history.

As my mum, Roger and I sat at the table for dinner (Cindy was at her "friends" house, my mum thought Tanya's, I knew Andrew's her boyfriend's), my mother announced suddenly, "Marky, dear, the Johnson's are coming over to spend Hanukkah with us, and they're bringing their daughter, Maureen, with them."

I choked on my food, and Roger watched me, biting back a laugh, "You okay?" he managed to say, and I nodded, after sipping some water.

"Yeah, fine, when will they be here Mom?" I asked, already dreading the arrival of the crazy-daughter, Maureen.

"They'll be here this weekend; you know Hanukkah starts the next weekend, Marky." My mother said sternly.

"Yeah, I know," I replied sulkily.

"You get to miss school?" Roger asked eyes wide.

"Yeah…" I nodded.

"Well, he can't go to school when we're celebrating a very important holiday at home, can he Roger?" My mother said, stabbing at a carrot with a bit more force then necessary, "Hanukkah is traditionally celebrated during the night, of course, but during the day, I'll need Marky's help with the cleaning and the cooking, it's just too big a job for me all by myself."

"Mark should not go to school, with all the work to be done. You'll need his help Ma'am." Roger said, looking at me enviously. The rest of dinner was finished in silence.

My mother had invited Roger to sleepover, since my father was not going to be back for awhile. So, after dinner we had run to Roger's house grabbed his stuff, he kissed his mother on the cheek while I waved and smiled at her, and then we rushed back to my house.

Now, we're sitting in my room, and Roger is still looking at me enviously. "What?" I said, irritated, and pulling at the loose threads on my quilt.

"You get 3 weeks of holidays." Roger complained grumpily.

I snorted and flopped onto my back on my bed unceremoniously, "Yeah, but it's not really a holiday, if I'm doing all that cooking and cleaning. Plus, after Maureen visits I'll need the two weeks to recover!"

"Who is Maureen, and what's so bad about her anyway?" Roger questioned suddenly, moving to sit on the edge of my bed. "I mean, your parents are letting a girl stay at your house, a girl whose the same age as you, I'd kill to be you man."

"Roger, not if you knew Maureen, you wouldn't." I replied, and grabbing my camera from the bedside table to snap a picture of the quizzical, look on Roger's face.

"Ah!" Roger grumbled, shutting his eyes after the flash, "Dude, not cool… but what did she do to you?"

"Ugh… it was my Bar Mitzvah." I cringed at the memory.

"Bar Mitzvah?" Roger echoed, reminding me, once again, that he was not Jewish.

"Yeah, it happens when you're thirteen, it the passageway to manhood, you read from this huge Hebrew book - actually it's a scroll called the Torah - and everyone celebrates." I explained briefly.

"Wait, so, you're a man?" Roger laughed at that idea, clutching his sides.

"Yeah, I guess. But Maureen's family is friends with mine, so she's been at every important celebration; I was at her Bat Mitzvah, which was exactly one month before mine, so she rubbed it in my face. Then she came to my Bar Mitzvah, and well I loved the hall, so I had been taking pictures of the room, and the guests, and everything I could… when suddenly she grabbed my camera out of my hands, and started taking pictures of me." I paused, getting angry as I relived the memory.

"What's so bad about that?" Roger questioned, "I take your camera at least once a week, and snap a photo of you…"

"Roger… she dropped it." I told him, quietly.

"Oh… it broke…" Roger stated, grinning, "Why is that so bad?"

"Imagine someone breaking your most prized possession… your guitar!" I explained, half-angry. "Someone you didn't want touching it, coming up, ripping it from your arms and then smashing it against a wall."

I snapped another few pictures as I watched Roger imagine this, thoughts and emotions dancing across his face. Roger was often the subject of my photos, simply because we spent so much time together.

"Now, I see what you're talking about…" Roger finally spoke.

The next week, a day before the Johnson's were to arrive, Roger and I sat in his room. He had my newest photo album spread open in front of him as he sat cross-legged on the floor. I leaned against his bed, shuffling sheets of loose-leaf paper with lyrics scribbled across them. I had learned to read Roger's chicken scratch, and he was now careful not to touch the actual photos, and get fingerprints on them. The cost of a bond of more then a year of friendship, though I considered him more of a brother then a friend now, even after such a short time.

"Mark, your photos kick ass," Roger said suddenly, stopping on a page of my favorites. "Though I'm a little freaked out that I didn't notice you taking most of these…"

I shrugged, "People always look better, when they're not posing for the camera."

"I guess…" Roger trailed off, and crinkled his brow, pointing carefully at a picture I had taken not too long ago, "Why did you take this?"

The photo was of Roger himself, sitting on his bed, guitar being strummed, eyes closed. And though there was no sound, and Roger's mouth was only slightly open, you could tell that he was singing. His spiked hair, perfect, his head tilted to the left a bit. "You looked…" I struggled to find the word, "Like you belonged behind your guitar, like it didn't matter that we're in this…"

"Hellhole," Roger supplied.

"Exactly," I answered, "You looked liked you didn't care, and the music was your getaway."

"It is…" Roger mumbled so quietly, that I doubt he meant for me to hear.

"Marky!" My mother called from the floor below, "the Johnson's are here, come downstairs!"

I rolled my eyes and muttered, "Just great, excellent present."

I made my way down the stairs, and stood beside my mother on the porch as the Johnson's came out. Mrs. Johnson had straight dark hair, was petite, with dark eyes, she held a basket of food as she walked up our driveway. Mr. Johnson was tall, and broad shouldered, with receding red curls, and grey eyes, he held three suitcases. Finally, Maureen exited their van, and she was stunning, still annoying, but stunning. She had reddish-brown curls that fell down her back, and chocolate brown eyes. She had a bag slung over her right shoulder, and stood with a hunched posture, crossed arms, and a full-lipped pout. Clearly she was just as unhappy to be here as I am. We all stumbled through greetings and entered the house, where the adults (including Cindy, now that she was over 18, though my parents watered down her alcohol) went into the living room to have a drink and Maureen and I were banished to the second floor.

I mumbled a short, quiet "hi…" to her, then, walked into my room and shut the door.

Two seconds later, Maureen opened the door and sat down on the floor. "Hey!" I exclaimed, "The door was closed." I mumbled afterwards.

"And now it's open." She stated calmly, "So, wanna blow this place? As long as were back by dinner, no one's even going to notice."

I thought about it for a moment, we would be in so much trouble, if we got caught. But I could be at Roger's right now, accomplishing more then I was sitting here and arguing with Maureen. "How're we gonna get out the front door without them noticing?" I questioned.

"We're not going to use the front door." Maureen said, and she tiptoed quietly downstairs and back up, clutching our coats in her small hands, "We're going out the window." She announced as she returned.

"We're what?" I asked incredulously.

"We're going out the window," she repeated, slowly, calmly. "It's not that hard, watch."

With that said, she pushed my window open, slid out of it, and crawled gracefully to the drain pipe, and from there she slid down. I watched in awe, wishing I had had my camera at that moment. I grabbed it off the nightstand, placed it in my bag and swung it over my shoulder, then I took a deep breath and step gingerly out of the window, following

Maureen Johnson for the first, but definitely not last time of my life.

R&R