-Of Arguments and Acquaintances-

"If you study to remember, you'll forget; but if you study to understand, you'll remember."

(year: 1995)

From the bathroom came thef sound of running water. It had been on for a couple of minutes already, which made the father-of-three somewhat concerned. Knocking lightly, he said, "Car-Car? Is that you in there?"

Over the sound the six-year-old called, "Yeah, Daddy, I'm in here!" After a couple of seconds of relative quiet with only the background noise of the sink, Carmen shut off the water and hopped off of the toilet. Swinging the door open, she said, "Come in, Daddy." When he entered, he found the sink filled to the brim with bubbly soap water. Before he could question this, Carmen explained, "I'm just giving Pug a bath." Leaning in as if to divulge a secret, she whispered to her dad, "Pug smells yucky."

Nervously, her father peered into the sink but could see nothing through the thickness of bubbles. "Uh… Pug's not… uh… in there right now, is he?"

"Not yet," Carmen replied, oblivious to her daddy's sigh of relief. From beside the toilet seat, the girl lifted a small, shelled creature that squirmed in her grasp as if knowing the fate that lay in store. Four thick, stubby feet and a stout head flailed back and forth. Revealing two missing teeth in her bright smile, Carmen held the frantic turtle over the sink, loosening her fingers to drop him inside.

"Wait, Carmen, honey," her father said quickly, stepping forward and securing his hands around the unfortunate reptile. "Sweetheart, I don't think he wants to go into that bath."

"Well, of course not," Carmen countered matter-of-factly, "I never want to go in the tub neither, but you 'n Mommy make me 'cuz you say I stink."

Uncertain of how to explain the difference, her father spluttered, "Well, yes, but you see… Pug is different." As he spoke, the man began to pry his daughter's fingers off her pet. "Animals… well, they don't… they aren't lucky like you and I are; they don't get to have things like baths. They have to clean themselves—see?" Carefully extricating Pug from Carmen's fingers, he placed him on the toilet seat. Moving around the crestfallen six-year-old, he opened the plug and allowed the soapy water to drain.

Once Pug was relatively safe from an untimely demise, the man placed a hand on his little girl's shoulder. "Come on, Car-Car," he said with an easy smile, "Let's go put Pug back in his cage. It's almost time for lunch." As she secured her turtle firmly in her arms, he guided her out of the bathroom while proclaiming light-heartedly, "Mommy's making macaroni."

As they returned Pug to his box, container, Carmen wistfully sighed, "I wish I were a turtle."

(Friday, October 4, 2019)

When Chris started freshman year back in September, he chose his classes based on one factor: his best friend, Dwight Ryder. Since second grade – when Dwight moved from South Jersey – the two had hit it off spectacularly. Due to the two completely opposing personalities, their instant friendship had surprised both Chris's parents and Dwight's mom. Where Chris was a bundle of energy waiting to explode, Dwight interacted shyly with others. For the boy's first few months at a new school, Chris had been his voice. As Dwight grew more comfortable in his new home, he began to join in eagerly to the odd games Chris conjured with his imagination.

In third grade they made a blood pact (drawing matching "tattoos" in Washable marker rather than blood, lest their parents find out) to always stick together. "Like crazy glue," Dwight had suggested. With a snicker Chris had corrected, "No, like snot." Thought Dwight had pulled a face at the time, he soon found himself repeating the sentiment to his mom, squaring his shoulders in pride.

From there the two had gotten progressively closer until they spent nearly every waking moment in each other's company. Each had begun to exemplify the other's traits. To his mother's pleased amazement, Dwight became a bit louder and more playful—something she never thought she would see, especially after their difficult move to San Francisco. Chris – to everyone's utter shock – became more soft-spoke. At first people (teachers and parents alike) had not believed the change. When they began to notice his growing ability to sit still in class, no one could wrap his mind around the phenomenon. Many attributed it to illness, but Chris seemed otherwise healthy.

To be perfectly honest Piper always knew it would happen in time. With demons dropping in every other week or so, keeping his innocence pure bordered on impossible. Even so, she had expected the change to come later on in his life. Wyatt still had not quite matured to that extent yet. When at first these new traits had emerged, the mother worried that the constant demons had finally gotten to her little boy. Gradually, though, she became accustomed to this newfound addition to his personality.

Once, she asked the child what made him so quiet. Bemused, he replied, "I'm not being quiet, Mommy. I'm just not being loud." She had laughed then because he was right; now he was normal if ever she dared to place such a word on someone with the surname Halliwell.

Nearly six years later, their pact to stick together reigned as potently as ever. It was solely for this reason that the two chose to take almost all the same classes and wrote up the same schedules in all but one period. While Dwight took 'home economics' ("An easy A," the freshmen had been informed by older grades), Chris instead used those same periods to volunteer at the library. No one had been more surprised than Dwight, except perhaps Piper and Leo themselves. As far as they knew, the boy had a severe aversion to texts of any sort. In fact, the only person to understand Chris's logic was Wyatt, his brother.

Where there were books, computers were rarely far behind; with computers came internet access. During that period he and the other volunteer – Casey Spick – were given relatively simple jobs: when books were returned, they had to replace them on their proper shelves. If someone came in search of a particular tome, they would check it out or – if necessary – help find whatever was needed.

Chris and Casey worked out an understanding of sorts. In the beginning of the year, having completely opposing hobbies, they did not quite get along. Casey's love of books had persuaded her to volunteer at the library. For Chris his only motivation was the realization that if he needed to glean information on a demon, he could do so during school hours and not just at home. At first Chris's lack of what she called "dedication" irritated Casey to no end. Finally, after nearly a month spent working together, the two fell into some sort of routine.

Often immersed in a book or else scribbling away in a thin, crisp notebook, Casey sometimes found it difficult to redirect her attention to the front desk. At the same time, she could not for the life of her seem to figure out how to work a computer. On the other hand, Chris could not be bothered to re-shelve books… not to mention even if he would, he had no idea where each belonged. So they created a system that worked for both of them: Chris would sit at the desk by the door. If people needed books, he would punch the respective titles into the computer to locate them. When returned, he also checked them back in. The checked-in books would then be left in a little milk crate beside the front desk. From there Casey would take them and return them to their proper shelves.

After coming up with this solution, the two became much more amiable towards one another. And – dare Chris think it? – nearly friendly.

Currently, however, Casey seemed to have forgotten their mutual companionship (since "friendship" was probably too strong a word) in favor of shooting Chris frequent and hateful glares. In Chris's opinion they were completely uncalled for, but apparently she did not share the sentiment.

"A year, Halliwell," she snapped, hidden somewhere between shelves. From his seat behind the desk, the boy tapped his foot almost nervously (though he would never admit to being intimidated). When she used his last name, she meant business, and if Chris Halliwell knew anything it was not to underestimate an irritated female. "It will take me the rest of the frickin' year to fix what you managed to ruin in just a few short days! All my careful organizing, and it's all down the drain just because some ignorant, idiotic—"

"Come on," Chris protested feebly. "I tried. Isn't it the thought that counts… or something like that?"

Poking her head out, she leveled him with another withering glare and snarled, "Not here it doesn't. How did you manage to practically rearrange every single shelf while I was sick?" As she ranted on, she glided through the aisles; turning over books that had been put away upside down, removing texts from incorrect shelves—in short, cleaning up after the mess her bungling partner had made of her precious library.

Crossly, Chris muttered, "Don't you think you're overreacting a bit?"

From somewhere between aisles he heard her affronted, "No I do not."

"Look, I'm sorry," Chris sighed, unable to think of what else might appease the irate freshman other than profuse apologies. Lazily, he rested his chin on his left fist. Green eyes stared intently at the computer screen before his face. His right hand moved the mouse across the screen to click a link that caught his eye. With the volume on mute, the computer's announcement of the title when unheard. He didn't need it, though. In big, bold letters at the top of the screen were the words Abuse in the State of California. Focused now, his eyes moved down the page, searching for a subtitle that would aid in his research. The boy ignored his partner's continued grumble; he could not redeem himself in her eyes anyway so why bother wasting his own time in such an endeavor? He figured he might as well work on something useful.

Behavioral Problems in Abused Children. He stopped scrolling. For the first time in Chris Halliwell's life, he paid attention to what he read. Though boring, the teen pressed himself forward with the thought of Jake; he had to get through to this kid. Somehow.

"…ssible behavioral problems may include any of the following traits: many times, the child refrains from complaining because there is instilled in this child that complaint will bring punishment; he or she will be blamed. The child is most often reluctant to tell about the abuse done in the home because he or she feels an emotional connection to the abuser, especially if the abuser is a parent and/or older sibling."

He read on about possible nightmares, depression, and bedwetting in sexually abused children; but Chris was fairly sure Jake's mom was not messing with him in that sort of way. Even to think about it made him nauseated. As far as he knew, Jake had none of those characteristics anyway. The "headaches and stomachaches with no apparent medical cause" sounded exactly what Jake had pulled the other day… but Chris had a feeling that was a lie and not an actual symptom.

Just another way for Jake to protect his mom, Chris thought in disgust.

"…child may display inconsistent behaviors in an attempt to adapt to an uncertain environment," Chris continued, eyes moving slowly down the screen. "The following are four typical categories of behavior under which an abused child falls: 1. aggressive 2. passive 3. adaptive 4. lack of development."

Since Chris could not picture Jake as an aggressive child, he skipped number one and moved on to the second: "An overly compliant child may refrain from crying in and out of the abuser's presence. He or she displays a constant, overall sad demeanor and possesses copious amounts of self control.f

"A child abused in any form is more prone to ailments such as asthma, high blood pressure, ulcers, etc. He or she may develop an inability to trust others, may feel isolated from his or her friends, which results in low self esteem, depression, and later on in life difficulties with intimate relationships."

Well, there it was, written right there in black and white. Closing his eyes, Chris picturing Jake the first time they had met: curled up on the floor, fear dancing in his eyes. He could trust no one—not his mother, certainly, but also not the person who claimed to be his angel. Without thinking, Chris had intruded on this boy's relatively consistent lifestyle. Up until then Jake had known what to expect in his life and how to deal with it. Now, all of a sudden, Chris entered into the picture—an actual angel just for Jake. But how could a broken child trust this complete stranger?

After a moment, the teen managed to force open his eyes once again and start the next paragraph, which spoke of the mental and emotional health of a child in an abusive home.

"Symptoms may include posttraumatic stress disorder, panic disorder, dissociative diso—"

"Hey, Chris," a familiar voice called. Jerking back, the teen looked away from the computer screen and up at the source of the noise. From behind the bookshelf, Caseyf's head poked out to scowl at the intruder.

"Keep it down," she snapped crossly, "this is a library!"

"Sorry," Dwight chuckled. Lowering his voice dramatically, he asked Chris in a purposely loud stage-whisper, "What's up?" Peeking around the desk, he caught a glimpse of the computer screen before Chris minimized the site. The school's logo appeared in its place. "Whachya reading?" he wondered curiously.

Casually, Chris shrugged. "Nothing interesting," he replied, waving away the subject, and then continued before Dwight could get suspicious. "What are you doing here? Don't you have biology now?"

With a shrug Dwight remarked, "I told Mr. Garcia I forgot my textbook in the library."

When Chris laughed outright, Casey stormed toward them, eyes alight. Hurriedly, the witch waved his companion off, promising not to raise the volume again. Once she retreated back to her bookshelves, he felt safe enough to return to their conversation. Still, he kept his voice lowered; he got the strange impression she was watching him from behind the bookshelves. "You know," he commented, "eventually the teachers will all figure out the only difference in our schedule and realize where we go when we leave those classes."

"But until then…" Dwight laughed, raising an eyebrow. Unceremoniously, he flopped down on the empty stool beside his best friend. "Guess what. Mom's not home tonight."

"No?" Chris said, mildly surprised. "Why not?"

Scrunching his nose, Dwight admitted, "She's going out on another date." With a shudder, he quickly added, "But that's not the point. The point is that she won't be home… which means I get the whole house to myself." Smirking, he amended, "Actually we get it to ourselves. You're coming, of course."

"Man, I can't," Chris groaned, closing his eyes and softly banging his head against the desk. "I'm already behind in my work since… recently. If I don't catch up, Mom'll kill me for sure."

Eyes wide, Dwight burst out, "Chris, come on, do you realize what kind of opportunity this is? You live with four other people; you never get the house to yourself!" His voice sounded strained as he attempted to properly emphasize his point while still keeping his voice to a consistent whisper.

"I know," Chris sighed, "don't remind me." When Dwight opened his mouth to argue, the witch quickly said, "Look, you know how much I want to, but my mom would completely freak on me."

"Tell her we're studying," Dwight protested in a strangled sort of cough. Here he sat extending to Chris the enticing offer of temporary freedom. The possibility that Chris would turn it down had not even entered his mind for a fraction of a second.

"Right," Chris snorted, "because she'll totally believe that."

For a moment, to Casey Spick's enormous relief, silence reigned. At length, Dwight carefully lifted himself off of the stool. Standing rigidly, he shot his friend a bewildered look of disbelief. In a quiet voice he said, "Oh. Okay, fine. Sorry I bothered."

Stunned, Chris could only watch as Dwight turned on his heel and stormed away. Behind him, the library door slammed shut; this time, thankfully, Casey chose to ignore it, which gave Chris the opportunity to think about what had just transpired. For as long as the boys had known each other, Dwight never bat an eyelash when Chris had to cancel at the very last minute. He took it in stride, accepted the excuses Chris created without further questioning. What happened all of a sudden to change Dwight's mind? Had he finally reached his limit?

There's nothing you can do about it now, Chris told himself firmly. A small part of him argued that he could chase after Dwight and try to rectify the situation, but his more rational side overruled that. Running out of the library now, when Dwight would not want to speak with him, would help nobody. Afterwards, he promised himself. I'll set everything straight once this class ends.

But when, half an hour later, the witch trekked to history class, he could not find Dwight anywhere. Slouched in the last row in the classroom, he waited for his best friend to enter the room; Dwight never showed. When the bell finally rang, Ms. Gowell closed the door, heedless of her missing student.

Taking attendance, she paused at his name, frowning and glancing around the room. "Mr. Ryder?" she called, brow furrowing.

Without hesitation, Chris said, "His mom picked him up for a dentist appointment." When one of the duo went missing, the other always covered; that was how it worked. Even if, as today, the two were at odds with each other, they continued the tradition. Chris would not let Dwight get detention just because he was upset (especially since this whole thing was sort of his own fault to begin with).

Though Ms. Gowell frowned suspiciously, she marked such by his name and called the four remaining names on the list. Putting it away, she picked up her chalk. "Okay. We left off last class talking about…"

For the rest of the day, Chris saw neither hide nor hair of Dwight. To an extent this was a relief. He was not really sure how he would explain away his lie to Ms. Gowell if Dwight returned. Still, by the end of the day, Chris was determined to find and apologize to his long-time companion.

When the witchlighter stepped into the brisk afternoon air, his brother caught sight of him almost immediately. Joining the freshman, he quipped, "What, no detention?"

"Shut up, Wy," Chris muttered, distracted.

"Oh, sorry," Wyatt smirked, "I meant"—his fingers sarcastically quoted the words—"study hall."

"Shut up," Chris grunted again and then headed off in the opposite direction.

For a moment Wyatt just stared after him in confusion. At length, he called across the yard, "Chris! You're going the wrong way!" as if his brother had not noticed.

Over his shoulder Chris responded, "Just tell Mom I'll be home in a few minutes! I have to do something quick first."

Rolling his eyes, Wyatt muttered, "She's going to ground you for eternity when you don't show up." With an indifferent shrug (after all, it was not his freedom on the line here), he trotted toward their hidden spot and orbed home.

Meanwhile, Chris scanned the yard with a careful eye. As hard as he tried, he could not find his best friend. He supposed that should not have surprised him. If Dwight did not intend to go to any more classes, why would he have stuck around in school?

Sighing in defeat, the teenager headed back in the direction of the building. He would check around inside; if he still could not find Dwight there, he would call it quits and orb home before Piper blew a gasket.

As he trudged back towards the school building, a voice by his left ear softly called his name. Whirling around, he came face to face with the boy for whom he had been searching. An apology ready on his lips, he opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, though, Dwight cut him off.

"I'm sorry," he said first. Stunned to silence for the second time that day, Chris's mouth parted in surprise. Since he did not speak, Dwight continued, "It's not your fault that you're behind… Well, that part kinda is but that doesn't mean I have a right to be pissed that you're trying to catch up, even if you're ditching me to do it."

Blinking, Chris tried to force words to the forefront of his mind. At length he managed a lame, "It was my fault, not yours."

Arms crossed, Dwight smirked, "I know." Growing serious, he added, "But that doesn't mean I wasn't a total jerk about it all."

"When… I mean what made you decide this?" Chris asked, bewildered.

Dwight shrugged. "I was upset—so I crashed in the gym. Gave me time to think a bit. Realized you were more right than I was. Or less wrong at least."

"Right," Chris smiled, "thanks."

Suddenly, Dwight shoved him away. "What are you waiting for? Get a move on already. You need to go home and get to work." Chuckling, he turned to walk away. Over his shoulder, he turned to say, "See you tomorrow, Chris."

Nodding, Chris started to walk away, relieved—but then stopped. When he turned back around, Dwight was still watching him. "By the way," the witch called breezily, a smirk dancing in his eyes, "how was that dentist appointment?"

"Dentist—?" Realization dawning over Dwight's face, the teen smiled his gratitude, understanding what his friend meant by the question. "Thanks, Chris."

Chris nodded to him and then headed towards the back of the building so he could orb. As he began to disappear, he smiled, satisfied. Life was finally doing something right for him.

After stopping by to let his mom know he had not died, he orbed to a place that was fast becoming familiar. This time Jake's mother had not yet come home. Though relieved at this news, the teen wondered with sick dread where she had spent the day and how much it would cost Jake when she finally returned.

"Fridays are Stock-Up Day," explained Jake calmly, albeit somewhat warily as well. "She's gonna come home soon. Just went for some groceries."

Examining the boy's untidy hair and superhero pajamas, Chris observed, "I guess you stayed home from school again today."

Fearful, timid eyes shot up to Chris's to determine his thoughts on the subject. "Y-yeah…"

Hurriedly, Chris assured, "I'm not mad. Hey, everyone's entitled to his secrets, right?" Kneeling beside Jake, he placed his hands on either side of the boy's neck. Though Jake tensed, Chris did not yet release him. This was much too important. The teen recalled what he had read that morning. He pictured Jake as that little boy—scared, mistrustful, shy; a boy who thought he deserved what torture his mother doled out upon him. "Listen to me, Jake. I know it's difficult to trust people after everything you've been through." Involuntarily, Jake flinched as if embarrassed by the way Chris refused to dance around the facts. "But," Chris continued, "I won't leave you."

When Jake looked ill at the very thought of Chris staying, the teen persisted, "I'm not telling you that you have to trust me. In time, I hope the trust will come, but I can't force something like that on you."

To Jake's credit, he attempted a weak smile.

"I just… I want you to know that, okay. Whether you can trust me or not, I will be here for you. Maybe one day, you'll be able to call out to me. If you ever need me—whatever the reason, Jake." Eyes serious, he stared at the boy, whose own eyes remained purposefully glued to the tile floor of the kitchen. "Jake," Chris persisted, "look at me, please."

Reluctantly, a pair of brown orbs inched up to meet his own.

Releasing Jake's shoulders, Chris repeated, "Whatever the reason, Jake. All you ever have to do is call my name; I'll hear it in the sky and come find you."

Though Jake feared speaking, his curiosity overcame his trepidation. Softly, he asked, "It's that easy?"

Hearing the question, the whitelighter broke into a smile. "That easy," he concurred with a half-laugh. "All you have to do is call my—"

Suddenly, both froze as they heard the front door's lock click. Although Chris wanted desperately to stay and protect his charge, Jake's expression silently implored that the angel leave. Lips pressed tightly together, he blinked wide, nervous eyes in the teen's direction. With a hushed promise to watch over him (which, though Jake refused to admit, was just a drop comforting), Chris orbed.

Eyes round and large, Jake watched the dancing lights float towards the ceiling and up to Heaven. Wow, he thought breathlessly. No matter how long the angel decided to stick around, Jake didn't think he would ever grow accustomed to that strange and unearthly mode of transportation.

He heard the front door swing open, jolting him back to reality.

"Jake!" Mommy's voice called. "Come help bring in these packages!"

Immediately, Jake scurried to do as he was told. He left his room behind but the angel's words rebounded within his mind like a distant echo, forever heard.

The information in this chapter was from the following websites:

theawarenesscenter . org
psychologytoday . com
casadelosninos . org
childwelfare . gov

Replies to anonymous reviews:

pinkphoenix1985 - Well, I'm glad you didn't stop reading, then. Those random tidbits will come up a few more times, but they will explain themselves eventually. They have not yet, but eventually Jordan, Michael, and Carmen will meet Chris. They will become relevant to the story. We will see a bit of Jake's school life, yes, but not an inordinate amount. A few times, maybe.

Sarah James - Oh, Chris isn't one to rebel, really. He likes to think of himself that way, but he loves his parents too much to full-out hurt them. If you want to see a rebellious Chris, though, you should check out some of what as written. (Can't help but advocate for her.) She is an excellent writer and loves to take Chris's dark side and run with it. When Chris does rebel, he is doing it for the Greater Good. Like, break the rules to do what is right. That is the Chris we will get to know here.

Bahzad - Yeah, I had fun writing that first scene, especially beginning in such a way that might scare the readers into thinking we had just jumped into an action-packed, violent scene... but then giving way to a much calmer view.

Firepony16 - Gambatte kudasai (Good luck). I hope you get that laptop of yours.