Okay, I struggled with this chapter a bit, because I'm much better at having ideas than I am at writing them, and also, I don't like writing sad people. I just wanted to move on to the comforting. It is coming! Anyway, this is shorter than the last, and probably worse. Oops. Also, I think I forgot to mention this last chapter, but I, like, don't own The Fosters or anything.

Mariana ran upstairs, ignoring Jesús and her mums. She burst into her room, thankful Callie wasn't there, slammed the door, and began to sob. Holding her tears back while getting interrogated by her mums hadn't been easy, and she felt fit to burst. She hadn't even thought about the consequences of missing school; saying goodbye to Lexi was so much more important than a stupid chemistry class. She curled up on her bed, clutching a pillow to her chest, and shook, her breath coming in short gasps. Luckily, no one was around to hear, since everyone else was downstairs, out of the house, or, in the case of Jesús, preoccupied with their own feelings.

Jesús ran into his own bedroom, also mercifully empty, and grabbed a book off his shelf and chucked it angrily to the floor. He hated crying and being sad, and usually avoided serious emotions entirely with wisecracks and anger. Today was no exception. He grabbed a notebook off his desk and ripped it forcefully before dropping the torn object to the ground as well. His teeth ground together and he looked down at his hands, clenched into fists unconsciously. Jesús took a deep breath and, without thinking, pulled his fist up and drove it into the wall next to his desk. His hand bounced off the plaster, leaving a small dent but fortunately not breaking the wall, and the pain brought him back into his body.

"Shit," he mumbled, grabbing his knucles with his other hand and biting his bottom lip. He noticed the shreds of paper all over his floor and set about picking them up, his hand and eyes smarting. "I'm not going to cry," he told himself. "I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry." Despite his mantra, his eyes continued to prickle. "I'M NOT GOING TO CRY," he shouted, grabbing another book and hurling it at the ground. He fell onto his back in bed, running his hands through his hair, and stared at his ceiling.

In the kitchen, the thuds from Jesús' room did not go unnoticed by his mothers.

"Wonder what's going on up there," Stef commented idly, as a muffled shout echoed downstairs, followed by another thump.

"I only hear Jesús' voice, so I doubt he and Mariana are fighting." Lena scrambled the greens absentmindedly. "You want to check on them?"

"The sounds have stopped," Stef observed. "Maybe we should just let them be. They both seemed pretty upset when they got home, especially Mariana."

"Yeah, I wonder what that was about. I figured we would talk to them about skipping after dinner. Mariana looked ready to burst into tears when they got home."

"I know, and Jesús was clearly having feelings too. I guess we can handle them later."

"I'm ready to set the table," Jude interrupted, his tiny voice having gained some confidence over the weeks in the Adams Foster household.

"Wonderful," Stef said with a smile. "There's just the five of us tonight. Brandon's at his dad's."

"Okay," Jude said simply, getting out the plates. No one mentioned Callie's conspicuous absence.

"Jesús! Mariana! Dinner!" Stef shouted up the stairs. Upon hearing no response, she gave Lena a quizzical look and climbed the stairs. She knocked on Mariana's door. "Mariana? Dinner's ready."

"Coming," Mariana called thickly.

"You okay, baby?" Stef asked, concerned. She could hear the tears in her daughter's voice.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Mariana said with a sniff. "I just need to wash up and I'll be right down."

Stef shrugged, not buying the story but figuring there was no use in pushing her. "Alright, love, hurry up." She moved along the hall and knocked on Jesús' door. "Jesús? Dinner time." She was met with silence, and she knocked again. "Jesús? Can I come in?" Upon hearing no response, she opened his door slowly. She scanned the room for her son and found him lying on his back in bed, eyes closed. He looked exhausted, and she hated to wake him up, but she knew her son would never pass up food. She shook his shoulder gently. "Jesús, love, it's dinnertime." He started awake.

"Sorry, I'll be right down," he said, running a hand over his face and sitting up.

"You okay, bud?" His mum laid a hand on his shoulder, which he twitched off.

"Fine," he said, a hint of his former anger creeping into his tone.

Stef let it go. "Alright. Wash up and come down for dinner, please."