A/N: So I think there's going to be just a couple more chapters after this one, depending on how things work out. I'm not sure how I want the last chapter to happen just yet.

"Marco!"

I jumped, spinning around on the spot to see who had called my name. My stomach gave a little lurch of its own when I saw that it was my boyfriend, looking stricken as he came toward me. I had been searching for him myself, but I couldn't honestly say that I was glad to see him. Now I was going to have to explain the whole "Get Back At Patricia" plan to him, a conversation I was not looking forward to. To be on the safe side, I glanced around me to make sure no one was within hearing distance from us. As it was time for lunch, and everyone was therefore either in the kitchen getting their food or outside eating it, we were gratefully alone.

For a split second, I thought Dylan had already heard about my kiss with Paige earlier. He crossed the room in three short strides, and grabbed my arms roughly, looking desperate.

"Dylan, what—?"

"Marco, you've got to help me," he whispered urgently, his eyes wide. I was pretty sure Dylan would be demanding an explanation rather than help if this was about the kiss, so I decided that it must be something else he was freaking out about.

"What? Dylan, let go," I said irritably, pulling out of his grasp. There must be some sort of Michalchuk gene that ensures that each of them will be exasperatingly dramatic about everything. "Look, I need to talk to you about something..."

"Talk later. Help now," he whined.

"It's important," I said firmly. I took a deep breath, and plunged in. "Look, there's this thing between Paige and Patricia..."

Dylan held up a hand. "If this is about the whole 'get-back-at-Patricia-by-making-her-jealous-by-you-kissing-Paige' thing, I know all about it."

I raised my eyebrows, a weight lifting off my shoulders. "You do? How?"

"Alex told me."

Thank you, Alex, I thought, glad my friend thought to have my back in this particular matter. "So, you're okay with it?"

Dylan nodded, a hint of his usual smirk playing on his lips. "As long you stay gay—and mine—we're good."

I grinned. "Well, considering I've been gay for nineteen years, I don't think that's going to change anytime soon. So, what's this horrible problem you have?" I asked curiously.

His expression changed from amused to panic-stricken at the speed of light. "It's my Uncle Ray. He's been—Marco, he's been giving me 'The Talk'," Dylan explained.

I stared at him uncomprehendingly. "The talk?" I repeated.

"You know...the talk," said Dylan again, as though it were obvious. At my continually blank expression, he went on.

"He saw me and Alex coming out of the bathroom together after she took me in there to tell me about you and Paige...he thinks we were...you know...using it for pretty much the same reason you and I were using the upstairs bathroom earlier. And possibly more."

My eyes widened to twice their usual size. "What? Are you serious?"

Looking miserable, Dylan nodded again. "It's torture! It's like...every sex ed video you ever saw, and more," he shuddered. "I just got away. I managed to distract him with a strawberry pastry."

Now I consider myself a very sympathetic person. My mother has always said that I have been that way since day one. That I cared more than most people did. But now, with my boyfriend obviously having gone through one of the most traumatic experiences of his life, I did the only thing I could possibly do in a situation like this.

I laughed my freaking head off.

Dylan glared at me. "Oh, shut the hell up, already," he snapped at me. I was leaning on the wall for support by now, weak in the knees, and his anger only caused me to laugh harder, so that I had to sink into the nearest chair to avoid actually falling over.

Finally having enough, boiling over with misery and frustration, Dylan reached over to me and—

"Ow!" My hand immediately went to my stinging forehead. "I can't believe you flicked me!" I cried, indignant.

"I can't believe you're laughing!"

"It's funny!"

"So was flicking you," he said reasonably.

"Okay, I'll stop. Jerk. You didn't have to flick me. You know if I get a bruise there, that could be considered domestic abuse," I pointed out huffily. Okay, so maybe I had my dramatic side as well.

"Divorce me."

"Shut up."

"Fine. I'm sorry I flicked you. Now will you help me?" Dylan pleaded.

At the reminder of Dylan's "problem," my lips began to twitch again in amusement, and he shot me a warning look. I sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know... just make it stop, please. If I hear one more word out of his mouth about condoms, or... or satisfying your partner's needs... I swear to God I'm going to hurl."

I stifled another giggle, and tried to appear understanding. "Well, I have no complaints, as far as the 'satisfying your partner's needs' thing goes..."

"Good to know, but still not helping."

I shrugged, choking back more laughter. "Just try and avoid him," I suggested.

"But he won't leave me the hell alone!" Dylan said shrilly. "He keeps giving me that look, and calling me 'young man' and 'son.' 'Son, when I was your age...' 'It is the responsibility of a young man like yourself...' I can't listen to anymore! I'm half tempted to tell him I'm gay just to shock him into silence."

"Don't do that," I advised him. "Paige'll kill you if Patricia finds out I'm not really her boyfriend."

"Speaking of Paige and Patricia..."

"What?" I followed Dylan's gaze to the aforementioned Michalchuk women, the latter of which was pulling a tall, sandy haired guy along by the hand. "Oh, no," I groaned. "Hide me, Dyl."

Dylan glanced back at the small group approaching us. "I would, but I got to go, um...be anywhere but here."

I glared at him as he sped off in the opposite direction. I couldn't really blame him for not wanting to stick around for the show, but still...it was his damn fault I was here in the first place.

"Baby!" Paige squealed, throwing her arms around my neck as soon as she was close enough. She gave me a great big smack on the lips, and stamped on my toe as my cue to wrap her in a reciprocative hug.

"Hey, honey," I said, forcing a smile.

"Marco, sweetie, this is Anthony Goldman." Paige said, gesturing behind her at the guy Patricia was dragging along. Sandy hair and dark eyes. Sharply angled face. A little bit of stubble. Dressed in black. Exactly the kind of 'on edge' look I would have figured Patricia would go for.

"My boyfriend," interjected Patricia, her smile as fake as the kind doll's mouths were painted into. "He's graduating from university this year. Top of his class."

Anthony gave her a cool look, as though that were all news to him. "Yeah," he said dimly.

"So, what do you major in, Anthony?" Paige asked curiously.

"Um..." he glanced at Patricia. "Psychology."

There was something in his dull monotone of a voice that made me highly doubt that Anthony even knew how to spell psychology, let alone study it.

"So, what exactly are you studying now?" Paige continued.

"Uh...you know...the human mind and...stuff it does, and...stuff." Anthony shook his shaggy hair out of his eyes. I glanced at Paige, my eyebrows raised and my mouth half open. She had a similar look on her own face, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing...was this guy for real?

There was an awkward silence as we all tried to think of something intelligent to say. Or, in Anthony's case, just something to say in general.

However, we were spared the trouble.

"Hey, kids, come on in the living room!" Paige's aunt...frizzy-haired Aunt Charlotte... burst into the room, her face sweaty and pink and her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to catch her breath. "Come on!" she said again insistently, bounding off back the way she had come.

"Is she—always like that?" I asked hesitantly. The last time I had seen someone bursting with such unlimited energy was at my five-year-old cousin's birthday party after all the kids had eaten the cake and were racing around on a seemingly endless sugar high.

"Always," replied Paige and Patricia together.

"She has more energy in her little finger than an entire lightening bolt," Patricia added, rolling her eyes.

"Come on...lets go see what she wants," said Paige, taking my hand and pulling me along. My mouth dropped open at the sight in the living room.

Music was blaring from the old record player in the corner. It seemed Paige and Dylan's grandma had kept a lot of her stone age sound equipment around. A stack of records was perched on the edge of a nearby table, teetering dangerously as the Michalchuk family danced around it.

No, seriously, they were dancing. Not just any dance, either. They had a conga line winding around the length of the room, around the couches and chairs and tables...laughing and just generally acting like...well, like Michalchuks. A few stragglers were perched haphazardly on the arms of the sofas and armchairs, sipping sodas or finishing off their food, or else standing in corners, attempting conversation over the pounding music. The rest were clumsily falling over each other in laughter as they danced the conga around the living room.

"You know, when you said there was dancing at these things...this isn't exactly what I had in mind," I said into Paige's ear.

She grimaced, offering me a pained sort of half-smile. "Yeah, every so often someone'll get really drunk and start one of these. And the rest of them are either drunk enough or weird enough to go along with it."

"Ah." My eyes followed the line of dancing people warily. "You're family is insane." I said decidedly.

"I'm aware."

I looked over at Paige again. Her eyes were narrowed as Patricia pulled Mr. Einstein himself out to join the conga line; the former of which not-so-subtly glanced back at us.

"Come on, Marco. We're dancing," said Paige quickly grabbing my wrist again. Having no choice but to follow her, I quickly got into the swing of things as the family continued to dance their way around the living room, eagerly accepting the new arrivals. My hands rested on Paige's hips in front of me. I scanned the crowd again. No sign of Dylan or Alex.

"Marco," Paige hissed. "Kiss me."

I looked over at Patricia and Anthony for a moment, who had stopped dancing and were locked in a passionate lip-lock. I braced myself, then leaned forward and pressed my lips against Paige's as she turned to kiss me over her shoulder, the line of dancing Michalchuks going right past us as we paused. I tried my best to imagine that it was my boyfriend's lips pressed against my own, but I just couldn't manage it. Their kissing styles were too different, for one. Dylan's was typically more tender, sometimes rough but still sweet, whereas Paige's was rather domineering, rather like the woman herself. Not to mention that everything about Dylan's lips and body felt entirely different, naturally, than his sister's.

We broke apart for air, and I relished the break. Passionately (though albeit reluctantly) kissing my boyfriend's sister, my best friend in the world, a girl, really had not been on my to-do list for today. Or any day. Speaking of lists, I was busy making a mental one in my head as I leaned down to kiss her again.

List of things to pick up from store:

-Milk

-Soap

-Shaving cream

-Pack of #2 pencils

-A case of amnesia.

Yes, that last one would do nicely. I was going to need it if I was ever going to erase this horrifying memory from my mind, which I was already sure was going to haunt me until my dying day.

Okay, so I'm being slightly dramatic. But to my defense, I've hung out with Queen Dramatica herself for five years, it was bound to rub off on me eventually.

"Let's get back to dancing, sweet pea," Paige cooed, yanking me back into the conga line. I'm pretty sure a 'Happy Birthday' streamer flew past our heads as we rejoined the line. All Michalchuks should be locked in mental institutions.

And speaking of people who needed to be locked in mental institutions...

I jumped when I felt a pair of hands squeeze my sides playfully before starting to massage gentle circles into my skin. I broke the kiss with Paige and threw a quick glance over my shoulder.

My heart sank when I realized who was standing behind me, now teasingly toying with the hem of my jeans, fingers tickling my sides.

"Paige," I muttered into my friend's ear. "Patricia's behind me."

"Hmm?" she said absently, now concentrating solely on maneuvering around the coffee table.

"Patricia. Is. Behind me," I repeated, my eyes going wide when I felt a body press itself a little closer to my back.

I'm pretty sure Paige saw red right then. She grabbed my neck roughly, forcing my lips down to meet hers. I wiggled a little, trying to lighten the slightly painful grip on my sides. The hands were crawling slowly upward, spidery fingers working over the fabric of my shirt. They had reached the top of my stomach again before Paige suddenly halted in her tracks. Unprepared for the sudden stop, our lips were torn apart as I ran right into her, nearly falling over my own feet as I struggled to regain my balance. Then I felt something hard collide with the back of my head, and heard a wail of pain.

Everyone in the room turned around to look. Patricia was cupping a bloody lip, staring up at everyone with teary blue eyes. Simultaneous, slightly panicky voices filled the air at the sight of the blood, all asking in some variation for an explanation or assurance that Patricia was okay.

"I'm fine," she insisted, wiping at her now trembling lip, blue eyes threatening to overflow. "I'll be right back." With a final glance my way, Patricia turned and hurried out of the room, still clutching her bleeding lip.

My conscience, meanwhile, was in the middle of a fierce debate with the rest of me. On one hand, I had less than zero desire to go and see if Patricia was okay. Frankly, the idea of being alone with her again terrified me. But at the same time, it was kind of my head that she'd hit with her face. Conscience claiming the battle, I turned to follow her, but Paige's hand caught mine.

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

"I'm just going to make sure she's okay. She hit my head," I shrugged. "It's the decent thing to do."

Paige sighed in exasperation, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. "You and your damn conscience, Del Rossi."

"You and your damn cousin, Michalchuk," I replied, and resigning myself to the task at hand, strode out of the room after Patricia.