Last chapter, Mich stood up to Esme and changed the school. This chapter, there's sneaking around, music, and something shocking that will be continued in the next chapter. Read on and please review :)

When your day is long
And the night, the night is yours alone
When you're sure you've had enough
Of this life, well hang on

Don't let yourself go
'Cause everybody cries
And everybody hurts sometimes

Sometimes everything is wrong
Now it's time to sing along
When your day is night alone
If you feel like letting go
If you think you've had too much
Of this life, well hang on

Everybody hurts
Take comfort in your friends
Everybody hurts
Don't throw your hand, oh no.

'Everybody Hurts'- R.E.M.

Facing down Esme made me feel empowered, freer than I had been in a long time. The biggest bully in Park Ridge was no longer so fearsome or so big anymore. Something had started, a new way of doing things, a new age if you will. A safer, happier age of high school. Too bad not everyone was around the first few days to enjoy it.

Yep, Quasi was way for the rest of the week. Again.

School just wasn't the same without him. I mean I was happy enough, seeing the watchful teachers in the hallways and joyful students who didn't have to worry about being beaten up and anti-bullying posters plastered all over the walls. And I could hang out with my friends with a clear conscience, knowing that I wasn't putting them in danger. And people noticed me, nodded at me in passing and looked at me and, to my annoyance, they still whispered about me. Like what I had done was any secret. There were also whispers of the Gang splitting up, Esme and Phoebus in particular, which were all steadfastly denied. The said couple were rarely seen together anymore, and whenever Esme saw me she would give me a murderous glare, like it was my fault. Which it probably was. I had no doubt that she was going to try to get me back sometime, which would be a little difficult now under the circumstances. I swear, if looks could kill... Not that I cared. School wasn't scary anymore, and I should've been thankful for that.

But I still missed his quiet company Even if we still hardly spoke when we hung out, it was nice to just sit and think with someone, to feel like you could protect them from anything. I had laughed at the 'knight in shining armor' thing, but that's kinda what I felt like. A clumsy, distracted, nerdy, knight in shining armor. And though it wouldn't have hurt anyone for Quasi to stand up for himself from time to time, I liked being all tough and protective. It made me feel needed, like I had a job to do.

I was starting to wonder about his strange absences from school. He seemed to be sick an awful lot, although there was never any sign of it when he was at school. It was always two or three days, he never looked any different afterwards (although he seemed even more withdrawn when he came back, if that was possible) and when I came around with his homework, I was never allowed to see him. I was a little suspicious, but what of, I wasn't sure yet. It was strange, anyway. But then, Quasimodo himself was still much of a mystery to me. So that Friday, I decided to try something a little different. Activate stealth mode...

We pulled up in Notre-Dame Court as usual, mum leaving the engine running and pulling out a book to drown out the sounds of arguing coming from the back seat (we had picked everyone up at the same time and they weren't taking kindly to being thrown together in a confined space), and I jumped the fence and tiptoed to the front door. But this time, instead of knocking, I mimed it, then pretended to have a conversation with someone on the other side. It was all silent, of course, and just for show. To anyone watching (read: mum) it had to look like I was being directed around the back.

I stepped away from the door and started walking around the side of the house, choosing my steps carefully. The general dishevelment of the front yard continued around the side, with over grown grass and miscellaneous items littering the ground and who-knew-what creatures dwelt under the mess. I identified old shoes, more glass bottles, rubbish and random, rusty metal parts mixed in with everything else, and I hoped with some trepidation that I wouldn't step on anything sharp. I didn't think my beat-up, imitation-converse shoes could hold up very well if I stood on a nail.

The wall I followed had windows, but most of them were covered by curtains or boarded up. Cobwebs were strung from them to the overgrown shrubs on the fence, and I had to grab a stick and hold it in front of my head so that they wouldn't catch in my hair. The whole place was a wreck, and I hoped with all my heart that it looked better inside that it did outside. What a place to live in...

I was trying to navigate around a mound of broken bricks and glass and avoid a huge web with a protective golden orb spider in the middle when I heard the music.

It was coming from the corner window, the one that wasn't covered by anything and was slightly open. Just a slow strumming, obviously a guitar. Who could resist investigating? I mean, really? Open window, music, and me already exploring and looking for answers... I glanced behind me and figured if I went all the way to the window I would still be in sight of the car. You may think it's a strange thing to worry about, but I knew mum would freak if she couldn't see me. It's not like she knew the people here. Anything could happen to me. So I had to be careful.

Down went the spider, it's home ruined and wrapped around my stick, and when I was sure it wasn't going to come after me I picked my way through the mess to the open window and peered in.

The tiny room was immaculate. There was nothing on the walls or floor, the books stacked neatly on the little desk in the corner of the room, the bed positioned under the window, bedspread grey and boring-looking to match the equally grey and boring-looking carpet. Quasimodo sat on the bed with his back to me, plucking at the strings of his guitar. I didn't recognize the song, but it was melodic and pretty and soothing and I found myself leaning against the house, staring into space, listening to the song instead of doing what I came here to do. The book in my arms suddenly reminded me that I couldn't stay for long.

He stopped playing then and sighed, leaning on the guitar like he had the weight of the world on his twisted shoulders (for all I knew, maybe he did) and I figured that maybe now was the time to make my presence known.

I swear he jumped ten feet in the air when I cleared my throat.

"What the...?" He grabbed the guitar before it slid off the bed and put it down where it couldn't fall and stared at me, his eyes bugging out of his head. I waved, smiling sheepishly, a little amused at his reaction.

"Hey, Kaz."

He looked around rapidly as if he expected someone to walk in on us at any moment, his expression almost terrified. "W-w-what are you d-doing here? H-how...?"

I held up the books, confused and not at all amused anymore. Why on earth would he be scared of me being there? "Homework."

"B-but..."

"But why would I come to your bedroom window instead of going to the front door like usual?"

He nodded.

I shrugged. "I wanted to see if you were ok. You dad won't let me see you, and I heard your playing- which is very good, by the way- and I'm a naturally curious person, so here I am."

"B-b-but you can't b-be here, my f-father might find you and then you'd be in t-trouble-"

"But I am here. Don't worry, no-one will find out and I can't stay long, anyway." I looked at my watch, then at the waiting car where mum was still peacefully reading, and figured I had a little time. "Right now I'm more interested in your music. Who taught you to play like that?"

He blinked, torn between wanting me to leave and talking about what was obviously his passion. "N-no-one taught me, I just learned."

"Can you teach me?" was my next question.

"Teach you?"

"Well, the online tutorials aren't doing it for me and I don't have the time or money for lessons, and you already know guitar, and we spend a good amount of time together, so..."

"I-I suppose I could..." He hesitated and glanced at the door. "You shouldn't be here, he might hear you..."

I nodded and passed the books through the window. "You're dad really doesn't like visitors, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Alright, I'm going." I stepped away, then came back again. "Promise you'll help me?"

He nodded quickly. "I promise. Now, go, please."

"Alright, I'm going. Bring your guitar on Monday, ok?" I left for real this time, not waiting to hear his answer. I somehow knew without a doubt that he would do exactly what I asked. He gave me the impression that would do anything for his friends- heck, he'd probably stand on his head if I asked him to. Such a devoted friends could easily be taken advantage of... not that I would, but others wouldn't be so kind. For instance, that business with Esme. Whoever asked him to do that must've been close to him. I shook my head as I jumped the fence- an easy task by now- and headed for the car. It wasn't my business to speculate about that- Quasimodo obviously didn't want anyone to know, so I would try to honor his wishes... what was that? I turned as a flash of yellow caught my eye. I hadn't noticed it before, either because I was so intent on snooping around or because the branches of the shrub next to the fence had been covering it, but my climbing had disturbed the shrub and now it was visible- a little yellow sign, about the size of an A5 piece of paper, with the shape of an eye in the center. A silent protest against Vietnamese and Cambodian farming. Not many suburban houses cared about that, since it was only the people of Greenbank and Munruben who thought they were affected by it. Those with the sign where often prejudiced against the farmers themselves and very dogmatic in their views, prone to disrespectful, racist comments and actions. And I hated prejudice, hated it with a passion, so those who supported it were not very high in my esteem.

But that was alright. I didn't like Officer Frollo very much to start with, so this didn't change my views of him in the slightest. It only made me pity Quasi even more that he had to live with a rude, racist person like that. My only worry was that he might share those views. If he did, I might have to reeducate him...

Mum rolled down her window then and asked me why I was just standing there in the middle of the street, so I got in the car, looking forward to Monday.

Quasimodo was as good as his word, and on Monday he came to school with his guitar. I brought mine as well and stored them both in the art-room, and when lunchtime rolled around we were ready for jamming.

Or learning, anyway.

"So, what exactly do you want me to teach you?" Quasi asked, carefully taking his guitar out of it's case. It was a beautiful instrument, reddish-brown and engraved with flowing patterns and symbols, and from the scuffs and marks etched into it I could see that it was old and had been well loved in it's time. And it was no less loved now than it was then, as I saw from the gentle, almost reverent way he held it. It made me a bit conscious of my own guitar, which was just a cheap knock-off from Aldi and wasn't even tuned properly despite being practically new. But right now I didn't really care what it looked like, as long as we could make music.

"Well, I know a few chords and a bit of rhythm, but it's more banging on the thing than strumming it. I just need someone tune it and then I want to learn some easy songs. Think you can help?"

"I can try." I handed over my guitar and he started to tune it, strumming on the strings and twiddling the knobs until it sounded just right. When he was done, he handed it back. "Here. It's tuned now. D-do you have a song you want to learn?"

"Not exactly, but I know there's a website with a list of easy songs. Let me just find it..." I opened my laptop and booted it up while Quasi started to strum absentmindedly on his guitar while he waited. As I searched, I started to sing under my breath, humming the bits I didn't know and swaying a little to the tune in my head, something I did a lot when doing something that didn't require a lot of thought. It was a few moments before I realised that Quasi had stopped playing and was staring at me. "What?"

"I know that song," he murmured.

"I heard it on the radio this morning. Can you play it?"

He nodded and found his place on the guitar, and plucked out the first few chords. With a nod from me, he continued on.

"Huh…" I smiled and started to sway again as he played out a very good cover of 'Everybody Hurts'. A little halting and hesitant, I admit, but it was clear that he knew the song well, even humming the melody as he played. I closed my eyes when he reached the chorus and sang along softly. "Everybody hurts, sometimes… everybody cries. And sometimes, everybody hurts… sometimes, everybody cries…"

The music stopped, and I opened my eyes to find him staring at me again. Shifting self-consciously, I looked down at my guitar and tapped my fingers on the wood, embarrassed. "What?"

"N-nothing, you just-" he shook his head and cleared his throat, looking away before I had a chance to see if his eyes really were misty or if it was just the light. "Nothing."

"Ok." We sat in silence for a few seconds before I spoke again. "So, are you going to teach me to play that song? You seem to know it pretty well."

"I can do that." He moved his chair a bit closer and showed me the first chord on his guitar. "You put your fingers here, like this, and pluck the strings like this…" He demonstrated and then watched as I tried to copy him. "Good, but you need to bend your fingers like this. And don't push too hard, you'll hurt your hand. Play it again. Good. Now the next chord it like this…"

We continued like this for a while, him showing me the notes, me trying to copy and eventually writing them all down with little diagrams to help me remember where to put my fingers. By the time the bell went, I could play the first two line of the song and my fingers were raw. Despite the pain, I was satisfied with his method of teaching and could tell he didn't mind the activity at all. I knew then that this would become a regular thing, and I was right.

Almost every day we played together, learning bits of the song, playing them over and over and slowly working my fingers to the bone. It was fun, making music and having something of substance to do. The girls joined us sometimes, just to sit and listen to our jam sessions, but they generally did their own things at lunch, and I hadn't heard any more ridiculous teasing… yet. It would come. I still caught a few exchanged glances now and then- they just couldn't help themselves. Come a sleepover with too much junk food and a good game of truth or dare, I knew they wouldn't be able to shut up about it. So I treasured the peace I had while I had it.

In regards to the bullying, there were obviously no confrontation, but I heard about tricks and pranks being played on a lot of people that weren't able to be tracked to their sources. Most were innocent enough and no-one was ever hurt, but then there were the hate notes. They began piling up at alarming frequency in the first few days, and not only Quasi and other misfits were getting them but now I was too. They were mostly full of bad poetry and disgusting language, and after a while I stopped reading them altogether. I wouldn't let Quasi read them either. He didn't need any more of that kind of thing to drag him down. So I grabbed them as soon as I saw them and scrunched them up in front of everyone, refusing to be subject to people who thrived on others' pain. I wanted to show that no matter what others tried to do to us, we would not be intimidated or brought down.

One Tuesday I heard whispers that Esme would be looking for us after school- trust her to find out that day I had to hang around and take advantage of it. So that day we agreed to split up and take two different routes to our usual spot, and whoever she followed would lead her a merry dance around the grounds, where hopefully she would encounter a teacher and get in trouble. It was a touch-and-go plan, one that would most likely fail. But we decided to try it anyway.

It just so happened that she ended up following me. I saw her that afternoon, keeping her distance but most definitely following me, and I lead her on a great chase through the school, always managing to stay ahead but in sight. For a while I stayed away from places where I knew the teachers were, wanted to draw it out for as long as possible, (this was something I had always enjoyed; I loved the thrill of being chased and the danger of being caught, and I had spent most of fifth grade taunting and being chased by one particular girl who had always hated me. Strange pastime, I know, but it was fun.) but eventually I came to the hallway that lead to our meeting spot. Now I slowed down, for there was a particular teacher in one of the classrooms around here who hated loud noises with a passion, and I need my plan to work. I was puffing now, my chest tight and painful with lack of exercise, but the 'thump thump' of Esme's shoes behind me spurred me on. I sped past the teacher's door, yelling at the top of my lungs, then put on a burst of speed and reached the side door just as the cranky teacher came out to see what was going on. A hand grabbed mine and whisked me through and I slammed the door and fell against it, breathless and laughing as Quasi and I listened to the musical sound of Esme getting in trouble for running around in the corridors like a little kid. For a while, we reveled in the fact that our plan had worked and we had made it. Then we high-fived and sat down to practice some more.

I still wondered about his bruises. In my spare moments I kept thinking back to the day I helped him, hidden in the staff toilets as I took off his jacket and stared at his arms, all sore and bruised and usually hidden away. I hadn't said a word about it, just went on with what I was doing because I didn't want to make things worse, but it had been gnawing away at me ever since. Where did they come from? When had they happened? Who had done it? They were just more questions to add to the list of things I didn't know about him, this mystery that was Quasimodo.

One lunch, we were eating and doing our thing, me working on my essay on Ancient Egypt-the same one I wrote every few years when the subject came around, and which I didn't even need to go to class for anymore- and him tuning my guitar again, when he got up to put his rubbish in the bin and tripped on my computer cord on the way back. He went down hard on the side of the desk, the cord wrapped around his feet and half ripped out of the wall, and I jumped up, eyes wide, as he met the floor with a great 'thump'.

"Holy crap, are you ok?" I scrambled over and untangled the cord, then dropped down beside him. He was lying on his side, obviously in a lot of pain but not making any noise, but when I came over he sat up quickly and squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'm fine," he lied with gritted teeth, holding his side and trying to breathe normally. I frowned at the obvious fib, wondering what his problem was. It wasn't like I would think any less of him for admitting he was hurt.

"Liar. I know it feels to bang your hip on something. Feels like you've been shot. You don't have to be brave all the time, you know." I reached for the bottom of his jacket, intending to take a look to make sure it wasn't serious, but to my surprise, he grabbed my hand and shifted out of my reach, like he didn't want me to touch him. "I just wanna look, Quasi. To make sure you really are ok."

"I'm fine," he said again, not looking at me. "I-I am."

I sighed. Why did he have to be difficult? "Well I just wanna make sure. I know a bit about injuries, living in a large family with little kids who climb everywhere. I promise I won't hurt you."

Just like before, he took his time to think about it before deciding to let me do what I needed to do. It was like he was deciding whether to trust me or not. I suppose, from what he'd told me, he had never really had anyone he could trust before; he had never had a real friend. But all the same, why would he be so shy when it came to me look at his skin? What was I going to do, laugh at his hump?

At length, he nodded to me and shifted back, and I grasped the bottom of his jacket and shirt and started to pull it up. "I don't know what's you're scared of. I'm not going to make fun of you or anything. You should know by now that I don't really care what you-" I stopped and gasped as the skin became visible, horror filling me when I saw exactly what he hadn't wanted me to see- the dark bruising the covered the area. "What the-" I lifted the material further and folded it back to expose his whole back, including his hump. The bruises went all the way up, over the twisted spine and the ugly protrusion that sat behind his shoulder like an old, lumpy gnome. I gazed upon the angry patches of reddish-purple and older smudges of yellow and brown and felt tears of sympathy fill my eyes as I imagined how much pain this was causing him. And then they turned to tears of anger when I realised that someone had to have done this. Someone was hurting my friend.

I reached out touched the vivid skin, trailing my fingertips lightly over the colours and lumps and bumps that made up his back, and felt him shiver under my touch. "What happened to you?" I whispered hoarsely, shocked at the sight in front of me. It reminded me of a child's painting, all splashes and splotches of colour on a flesh canvas. Only this was in no way pretty or creative. Try 'upsetting' instead.

"It's n-n-not w-what… I-I-I m-mean… I-I-I have…" Quasi stammered, then took a deep breath and tried again. "I-I have a skin c-condition. I b-bruise easily."

"I'll say. But how-"

"I'm v-very clumsy. I'm always f-falling over."

I raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "On your back?"

"Y-yes. M-m-my arms, too. You've seen them."

"Yeah, but…" I shook my head, not quite able to believe that this could be the result of clumsiness. I might've been overreacting, but to me it just wasn't plausible. "Is... is someone hurting you? Bullies after school maybe, or something like that?"

His eyes widened, fearful. "No!"

"Are you sure?" I pressed. I knew I was asking some risky questions, but I needed to know. I also wanted to ask how life was like at home, but I was afraid to. I couldn't be that specific- I just had to let him confide in me. "You know you can tell me anything, so be honest. Is someone being violent with you?"

"No!" he repeated vehemently, shaking his head quickly. "N-nothing's happening, n-nothing's wrong. I'm just clumsy, th-that's all, I swear."

"Ok." I didn't completely believe him. Of course I didn't. But he wasn't going to tell me anything, so I just had to accept his explanation. And maybe he was 'just clumsy' and I was freaking out too much. No matter how bad it looked, it was entirely possible that I was just paranoid. We were friends, after all, and friends told each other the truth. He had told me about Esme, hadn't he? He knew he could tell me if something was happening. Maybe everything was alright after all.

I examined his back a moment longer, tracing the outline of his crooked spine and protruding hump in strange fascination before pulling his jacket back down and moving away. I wanted to make light of the situation, maybe joke around and say that I'd never complain about scoliosis again, but I all I said was: "It doesn't look serious. You'll be fine."

"Thanks." He returned to his chair, and as I picked up my guitar it occurred to me that he never would've let me see his back if he didn't trust me. That had to mean something. I had to try to believe him, at least.

We picked up our guitars started to play, making the most of the time we had left to practice again.

So, stuff happened. Lots of stuff. And even more stuff is coming in the future, so look out for that. Hope you liked :)