Christian and I had been friends since he first moved in during the fourth grade. But we had never really hung out just the two of us. So when he showed up on my doorstep alone, I was slightly more than confused.

"Hey, Sophia. How's it going?" Christian asked, hands shoved deep into his sweatshirt pockets and a rather nervous look on his face.

I leaned against the open doorway and crossed my arms over my chest. Looking down at him expectantly, I answered, "Oh you know. It's definitely been better."

He sighed and shuffled his feet on the step, "Yeah."

I watched him squirm for a moment, waiting for him to explain his solo appearance without having to ask him outright what the hell he was doing there.

After the awkward silence had surpassed the two minute mark, I cleared my throat and shifted against the door frame.

"So what's up, Christian?"

He looked up at me from his previous engagement with his untied shoelaces and reached up to scratch apprehensively at the back of his head, "Well, I mean, I was just thinking . . . we never really spend any time together. Just you and me, ya know?" He paused and I squinted my eyes at him thoughtfully. He coughed once into his fist and continued, "And you were talking about that show over in Albany . . . I thought maybe we could check it out."

I studied him boldly, he averted his eyes for a while, tugging at his slightly curly brown hair and shuffling his sneakers around in the few leaves that scattered my front porch. He seemed unsure of his invitation, but at the same time, I could tell that he was sincere.

He knew. Maybe not everything. But he knew enough to feel obligated to try and make up for Percy.

Finally I uncrossed my arms and stepped down onto the porch, bringing myself to his level, "Just you and me?"

"Yeah."

I waited again, expecting him to say something else. To apologize for the incident of which he had no fault. It was obvious to him by my hesitation that I knew he knew something. And as much as I liked Christian, I couldn't help but feel like I was the guest of honor at the pity party of the year.

I tucked my hair behind my ear and looked suspiciously at the fish shaped mailbox across the street, "You're not just asking because you feel sorry for me, are you?"

Christian's head shot up and he shook his head fervently, "No, Sophia, it's not like that." He sighed and met my eyes straight on, "I sympathize. But it's not like that."

I didn't need to study him anymore. By his response, he had given away that he did, in fact know at least the standard high school speech outline of what had happened at the dance. And his eagerness involved in convincing me that he was trying to help but not trying to pity, proved that exact thing.

I gave him a grateful and friendly smile, ". . .good. . .alright, just let me get my coat."

We had been driving for about twenty minutes before there was a substantial break in the steady flow of variety style music blaring from the radio with the sole purpose of keeping awkward conversation at bay. I took this opportunity, and in so doing a resolve shaking risk, to ask Christian the question that had been plaguing me since the doorbell rang that morning.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He appeared to be ultra-concentrated on the highway ahead of us, his hands clenched firmly around the steering wheel. I waited for him to merge into the other lane before tapping my fingernails subtly on the dashboard and speaking.

"So . . . how much do you know?" I asked softly.

Christian kept his eyes on the road as he responded, "About what?"

Normally, I would praise his profound driving skills, but I was blatantly aware that it was a farce because he was uncomfortable with the dialogue beleaguered turn the silence had taken.

I groaned involuntarily, "You know what."

Christian still didn't answer.

"Come on, Christian"

He stayed quiet for a few more minutes. Buying some time by pretending, once again, to be consumed by the prospect of our indefinite safety. But before I could press on him my insistence once again, he let out a long sigh and answered.

"Alright. . .well, not much." He paused to glide sideways onto the exit ramp, "Like, Percy only told me that he fucked up pretty damn royally and that, ya know, he didn't blame you if you never spoke to him again."

I turned my head to look at him, "You mean he never told you what happened?"

Christian shook his head, "No. And you don't have to now." He shot me a glance, "Unless you wanna. . .unload or something."

I sat back slowly in my seat, taking in carefully the fact that Percy hadn't exposed either of us for the stupid cowards we were. I reached up and rubbed my forehead, sliding down further into the seat.

"Because I'm here, Soph."

I looked back up at Christian. My friend. Who wanted nothing more than to alleviate some of the strain of feelings more intense than plutonic for a person I didn't know how to forgive.

I smiled at him and reached for the stereo. I pressed the button to switch the station, settling on a scratchy sounding live and unplugged version of Black Sabbath's Crazy Train.

As the instrumental started and a thirty-something year ago audience began to scream, I reached sideways and patted Christian's arm, "Thanks, Christian. I really appreciate that."

The show was fantastic. Or as fantastic as it could be, given my sullen state of being. A rambunctious assortment of local punk bands, some much less in tune than the others, had done their best to entertain and distract me. And I, in turn, had done my best to accommodate their attempts by nodding my head approvingly and smiling back shyly when the singer of one band crouched down on the stage to caress my cheek and wink in a way that told me he was bigger and more fancied than I had originally anticipated.

And Christian, with his unwavering determination, kept my hand occupied by a constant supply of ill-gotten, unreasonably priced beer. I drank it greedily, taking full advantage of the fake I.D. his cousin had given him for his eighteenth birthday, as well as the unadulterated attention of aforementioned throaty-voiced singer as he spasmed around the stage, crooning and screaming into his microphone.

Halfway through the fourth band's set, Christian disappeared to the back to use the payphone. I was left, crammed into a corner against the sharp edge of the stage, the remaining three swallows of my fifth beer clutched loosely in my hand. I stared up at the band, taking in their morose lack-of-love song through fuzzy hearing and even fuzzier vision when a hand came down on my bare shoulder and a husky voice whispered directly into my ear.

"You look really hot in the mosh-pit. But I bet you'd look even hotter backstage."

I turned around slowly, a difficult task amongst the sticky mass of bodies surrounding me. The throaty singer from that first band stood behind me, practically up against me, his dark hair matted with sweat and his shockingly light blue eyes twinkling with post-show orgasmia.

I let out an amused laugh, "I look hot because I'm sweating like a fucking pig in here."

His already mischievous, cheeky smile twisted upward, revealing absurdly white teeth for someone who was supposed to be such an extreme level of hardcore.

"Let's get some air then." And he slipped his arm around my waist, tugging me toward the back of the crowd. I followed, unsure whether or not this situation was something one would take as a sign to palm their pocket stun gun or rape whistle. Being as buzzed as I was, it didn't matter in the least. He was gorgeous. And I figured I could use a certain amount of testosterone in my life that didn't emit from an overly-concerned male friend.

When we finally reached the door, the singer shoved it open, immediately relieving me of my heatstroke with a gust of autumn air. The street was virtually deserted, except for a few fellow victims of the heat wave inside, or members of Smoker's Anonymous who paid for the show but spent the majority of it just outside the door, puffing away and chatting about who had the more severe, emo look; Davey Havoc, or Will Francis.

I leaned carefully against the wall of the club, letting the freezing brick lower the temperature of my skin and drain some of the alcohol induced redness from my face.

"What's your name, baby?"

I tried to focus my eyes on the man before me. He placed one hand casually on my hip, using the other as support against the wall behind my head.

"Sophia Rose." I giggled, "But my friends call me Sophia."

"Sophia." He mused, leaning just a little bit closer to my face. Not close enough to look suspicious, but close enough to let me know he was interested, "It's cute. My name's Derek."

I nodded as I sipped at the beer still held in my hand, "Cool. Just Derek"

"Just Derek."

Again, I nodded and let out a drunken giggle. The giggle only got louder when I noticed the tickle of fingers crawling up my thigh, inching their way under the hem of my skirt.

"Ya know what, Sophia?" Derek whispered, having leant even closer some time during the straying of his hand.

"What, Derek?" I asked, slurring slightly. He only smiled more at my apparent lacking of objection as his hand found its way onto the curve of my butt.

He bent his head to press a kiss to the bend between my neck and shoulder, making me let out a squeal of surprise when his hand closed tightly around the soft flesh of my right buttock.

"You have a really great ass." He hissed into my ear.

I fought the urge to relax against the wall and let him continue his rapid exploration of the contents of my skirt, and pushed at his chest. He stepped back a centimeter as I adjusted my skirt, but tried to close the gap again by aiming his mouth at my own.

"Derek" I objected, reaching up to block his mouth with my hand. He grabbed that hand and re-directed it toward his crotch.

"Don't play." He laughed, "I saw the way you smiled at me during the show."

I frowned and struggled to free my hand from his grip, "I was being nice." I argued, "And I've been drinking."

"So?" Derek pressed, using his other hand to tug my hips against his, trapping my hand between us.

"So," I said, raising my voice, "Back off."

Finally Derek stopped pretending I was into this and shoved me back against the wall roughly, the bottle in my hand slipping and nearly crashing to the ground. I managed to catch it by the very end of the neck and brought it up in a lame attempt to bash him on the head with it.

Unfortunately, and probably because I was slowed by intoxication and he wasn't, Derek caught my wrist before the bottle could be brought down on his crown, the last bits of liquid spilling out onto his sleek, black hair.

As I would later recollect, he seemed more upset about this than the essential cock-blockage.

So he slammed me, once again, against the wall and forced his hand under the front of my skirt. I had a quick, fleeting, angry feeling concerning the uncaring nature of the other stragglers on the sidewalk in front of the building.

Then I heard my name being shouted from somewhere further away than I had expected.

"Christian!" I screamed back before Derek got his hand clamped down over my mouth.

I bit into the rough, calloused flesh and was rewarded with a painful backhanded slap to the face. Despite the alcohol swimming through my veins, a horrifying surge of panic ripped its way through me into the pit of my stomach, and I had a vague, blurry vision of my own funeral. All of my friends dressed somberly in black; Alex with his hair tucked under the only remotely dark colored trucker hat I had ever spotted in his room, Marissa sobbing into Christian's shoulder, and Percy. Percy was the clearest of all. His face blank and his demeanor eerily calm. But the turmoil inside bubbling up, so close to boiling over that at the utterance of my name he tears the entire funeral parlor to pieces, screaming about how I would have wanted it outside anyway.

Then a strange thing happened, I was released, and fell, gasping softly, to the ground. I looked up to see Christian shoving Derek toward the vast opening of an alley I hadn't even comprehended entering. Once Derek was out of sight, leaving behind the echo of some really nasty curse words and the sting on my left cheek, Christian ran a hand agitatedly through his hair and turned around reluctantly to crouch in front of me.

"Jesus Christ, Soph what the hell did you think you were doing coming out here with that guy?"

I shook my head sadly, the severity of the rapidly fleeting situation finally seeping into my tired brain. I felt awful. There are no words to describe what I felt at that exact moment. It was the lowest moment of my life, made impressively lower when I leaned sideways to throw up on the fragments of broken glass from dropping the bottle. Another action I couldn't seem to remember taking.

Christian took me home immediately. The drive felt longer the second time through. And quieter. But the silence was welcome. My head throbbed and my throat ached. My stomach flipped and flopped, bringing a grimace to my face at every non-smooth movement of the vehicle.

More than once Christian made a move to pull over onto the side of the highway.

When we finally reached my house, I hesitated before leaving the warmth and safety of Christian's car. He waited patiently for whatever I happened to be waiting for, his hands resting on the wheel and his eyes trained politely on the neighbor's picket fence.

"Can this stay between us, Christian?" I asked timidly.

He turned to look at me, concern and sympathy written all over his face. I almost threw up again, seeing the first lines pity form at the corners of his mouth and under his searching eyes.

I had nearly given up and resigned myself to the unavoidable hounding and practical baby-sitting I would have to endure from Marissa and Alex, when Christian nodded.

"Yeah, Sophia. It can be our secret. Besides, I don't need Marissa knowing I sucker-punched some dude in the back of the head. She'd shit Frisbees."

I managed a weak but grateful smile and started to get out of the car. Christian reached over and grabbed my arm. I shifted to face him, exhaustion taking over my body like the worst of flus.

"It'll be okay, Soph." He whispered, "I swear."

And whether it was the last remaining after-effect of the beer, or the foggy surrealism of being attacked in a dark alley, I found myself believing him completely.