A/N: Warning this chapter contains verbal, domestic spouse, and child abuse.

Allison gazes at her made-up face in the mirror, a soft smile forming as she washes the makeup away. Despite being invited to another girls' night, she declines, opting instead for some time alone to reflect. Processing the pain of being ignored by her parents seemed daunting at first, but somehow, she has managed it; her emotional state is stabilizing. Seeing the world through her friends' eyes and being welcomed into their world has given her a purpose that once seemed unattainable.

As she washes the dishes, she reminds herself that this will be her last Saturday in detention. She can't wait to make another breakthrough with whoever is thrown in detention with her, Andy, and Bender. She wonders who will be the next unsuspecting motley crew.

Still restless, she decides to clean the house. There is a calmness to cleaning, feeling the furniture glide over the wooden floor and the soft sound of the broom as it sweeps. As the house gets cleaner, it feels lighter and brighter, becoming a place that invites deep breaths and slows down thoughts as if one had just awoken. As she makes her way to the basement, she fancies the idea of having the group over after work on Sunday night. She knows Andy and Brian are still grounded, so it would be unlikely they could make it. But she is certain John and the girls would be able to stay for a while, even on a school night.

While dusting a cupboard full of junk, she discovers an old photo album, and something unexplainable compels her to open it. The photo album contains pictures of her grandmother, Abigale. Allison is amazed at how much she resembles her; she even likes to dress in all black. With each turn of the page, she realizes that the pictures span decades. Allison recalls the goofy "tidy time" song... all these years later, it becomes the silent theme song of her actions. After a while of reminiscing, she gets up, happily placing the book down in the middle of the coffee table next to the faux flowers, and continues to clean while humming the 'tidy time' song. It is late when the phone rings. Not expecting a call, she dashes up the stairs before the answering machine catches it.

"So, what's next on tonight's agenda?" Angela asked, popping a piece of popcorn into her mouth.

Claire smirked. "Maybe some gossip? Or are we diving straight into sex talk?"

"Sex gossip?" Angela checked her nails and then reached for the popcorn. "Count me in."

"Alright," Claire giggled. "Shoot."

Angela pondered for a moment. "Do you think Andy and Alli have done it yet?"

"Oh, no doubt," Claire said with a mischievous grin. "Did you see the way she kissed him in the library? Tongue for days. They've definitely done it!" They both burst into laughter.

"Oh, speaking of romances…" Angela rummaged in her bag and pulled out a bright yellow paperback.

"Sweet Valley High?" Claire rolled her eyes, unable to hide her smile.

"It's my guide on how to date a guy like John. I'm just California dreamin' for summer to come already." Angela slid the book across the bed.

"Have you asked your parents about Carmel yet?"

Angela shook her head. "Not yet. I haven't even gotten the nerve to introduce John to them. Have you asked Bri?"

Claire shook her head firmly, shaking off the fear that held her back. "I'm done letting fear control me," she declared, sealing her resolve with a pinky swear. "The moment we see the guys, we invite them to meet our folks and join us!" She squeezed Angela's pinky firmly, imagining herself on a beach in a chic pink bikini, sipping a cocktail while her Brainiac lovingly applied sunscreen on her backside.

Locked in their pinky promise, Angela chuckled. "Deal. I'll pull an Allison and slip my tongue down John's throat and tell him what time dinner is at the Williams' house."

They both dissolved into laughter again, but as it quieted down, Angela sighed.

"You know, what you said to that bitch Kristy today was epic," Angela remarked, a hint of seriousness creeping into her voice.

"People like her need to learn that skin color doesn't make anyone better than others. It's what's inside that counts."

"Thanks for having my back, Claire-Bear." Angela's eyes sparkled with gratitude as she leaned back, sipping her peach schnapps.

"Ang, if it weren't for you, I'd still be stuck with our old crowd, putting up with their crap. You gave me a voice and the courage to stand up for myself. You've been my rock all these years, even when I was being stubborn. Thank you."

Claire and Angela continued discussing their dreams of making a difference, their hearts set on careers helping those in need. With their families' support and determination, they believed they could overcome any barriers society threw their way.

Brian was head over heels for Claire, but when it came to matters of romance, he was about as clueless as a goldfish in a fruit bowl. In a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between his dreams and his lack of experience, he took to studying sex ed books in the library during his free periods. Too embarrassed to check them out, he channeled his inner Allison and sneakily borrowed "Changing Bodies, Changing Lives" and "The Joy of Sex". He pored over them like they were ancient scrolls, reading each twice before sneaking them back onto the shelves.

Listening to Andy and Bender swap stories about conquests made Brian feel like a preschooler at a philosophy convention. Bender, ever the dubious mentor, even supplied him with a stash of condoms, which Brian wasn't sure he'd ever get to use.

The saving grace? Claire was just as inexperienced. No benchmarks to measure up to, no pressure to perform like a romance novel hero. At least, that's what Brian hoped as he daydreamed about their first time, a goofy grin spreading across his face.

"BRIAN!" His mother's voice pierced his reverie, followed by her barging in without so much as a courtesy knock.

Brian leaped up from his bed, heart racing. Lately, since that first detention, his parents had turned into a broken record of disappointment. Even his normally bratty sister had started offering him sympathetic glances.

But today was different. His mother's face was lit up like a neon sign at a carnival. "We've got some incredible news!"

Brian braced himself, expecting the worst, but then she delivered it: "You've been accepted to the University of Illinois!"

Brian managed a smile, pretending to be surprised for their sake. He knew his 4.4 GPA practically guaranteed his acceptance. But what excited him more was telling Claire. She'd be impressed, especially since she valued brains over brawn—just like him.

"Wow, that's amazing!" He hugged his mom and high-fived his dad, already thinking about calling Claire to brag. "Can Claire pick me up for work tomorrow?"

The excitement drained from his parents' faces like water down a drain. "Dear, you won't have time for girls," his mom said, the word 'girls' dripping with disdain.

"Yeah, and no need to work either, son," his dad chimed in. "You've got a full ride and grant money."

Brian rolled his eyes. "I'm saving up for a car, and Claire's not just any girl. She's my girl."

His mom raised an eyebrow, oozing disapproval. Sometimes, Brian thought his parents just didn't get it.

Logically, Andy knew he had no business pining like this. But logic had always been more Brian's department, not his. Andy had always felt like he was out of control of his actions like he was just steering his body in the direction it had to go, for the team, for his parents, for his reputation. He knew now that he had chosen to put his dad's expectations and the team's wants before his sense of empathy. He knew that he had chosen to mistreat people for the sake of his image. And he knew that he had to do better. There was no way he could've walked out of that library on Saturday and not known that. Or if he had somehow managed to let that message fly over his head, he was dumber than Bender thought he was.

When Andy gets home, he stops in the kitchen to grab a sandwich before escaping to his room. He likes his room, even though it's small and he has a shared bathroom with his brother. It's comfortable, even though he doesn't keep a lot of things in here. He thought about how he used to spend his Saturday nights. Back when he used to go to parties every weekend, he would hook up with one of Claire's old friends, Samantha. They didn't get very far into a relationship, especially when he realized she had feelings for him and he didn't have feelings for her. He had a crush on Claire for a while, but that ended when he met the girl sleeping next to him in detention.

His peace doesn't last long. About five minutes after he finishes his sandwich and lies down, his father bursts into his room without knocking. Before Andy can say anything, his dad rushes to his bedside and towers over him. "Where have you been?"

Andy is shocked almost silent, but he manages to choke a few words out. "At Justin's, I told Mom," It wasn't a complete lie; he ran into Justin at the arcade while hanging with Bri and Bender.

"You upset her, rushing out like that after the last meet of the season," his dad says. Andy doesn't know how true that is, especially since his mom seemed perfectly fine with it the day before. It's not beneath his dad to play mind games with him, but there's usually some sort of obvious end he's trying to gain.

"I'm sorry," Andy says, deciding against arguing with him.

His dad shakes his head and kicks the edge of the bed. "Get up. We're going to go over your mistakes from yesterday."

"Dad," Andy says, pushing himself up onto his elbows. "I won yesterday."

In response, his dad reaches down and grips his arm, yanking him up to stand. His dad is only a couple of inches taller than him, but Andy feels small standing next to him. "You got lucky. You were sloppy, and you may not be so fortunate next time."

"Next time?" Andy asks, his voice caught in his throat. "That was the last meet."

His dad narrows his eyes, and Andy fidgets in his grip. "The last meet of high school, but not ever." His finger points directly into his face. "You have to be prepared for next season."

He doesn't quite know what comes over him, a subtle curl of his lip accompanied by a disdainful glare. "What if there is no next season?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" His old man's shoulders take on a predatory bow. The scorn turned his eyes in silent judgment.

"What if," Andy's voice quivers, "I don't wrestle when I get to college? What if I quit?" His gaze hardens, the spark of aversion flickering within it.

Suddenly, his father hauls off and slaps him. "Andrew Michael Clark cut the bullshit," he screams.

"I quit – I hate wrestling, and I'm not doing it after I graduate." he sneered, his face stung, but what hurt the most was his heart.

Still enraged, his father, curled in a fist. When he raises his hand, Andy raises his arms to cover his face and defend himself.

"Randal- Stop!" At the sound of his mom's voice, Andy's dad drops his arm and spins around.

"Amy," he says, calming his voice. "This doesn't concern you."

"I'll be damned if it doesn't," her big blue eyes narrow into a sharp, critical gaze, "Randal, go take a walk."

He looks like he's about to protest, clenching his fists at his sides, and brushes past her out the door. Mother and son stand in place, not moving until the front door slams shut. Andy sighs and sinks back onto his bed. He's rubbing his hand over his stinging face when his mom comes and sits next to him. He's a little shaken up if he's being honest. His father is a well-established prick, but he's never hit him or even come close. But Andy has never stood up to him either.

His mom rubs his shoulder lightly, dragging her thumb back and forth. She has always been the one who comforts him and his brother after fights with their father. As he tilts his head to look at her now, he wonders how she puts up with it all.

"Do you want to tell me what that was all about?" she asks softly, and he leans his head against her shoulder.

He shrugs one shoulder, seeming not to have the energy for both. "I don't want to wrestle anymore." If she's at all surprised by his admission, she doesn't show it. Instead, she brushes her hand against his cheek.

"What about your scholarship? We can't afford to send you off without it." She rocks gently back and forth, unaware she's doing it.

He smiles softly when he hears her words. That's his mother: practical yet caring. "I was thinking I could try community college for a year or two before going off to college. Find out what I want to do and stay close. I want to stay here now."

"I want to meet the reason you want to stay; do you think we can arrange that?" Amy Clark smiles at her son.

Andy gives a deep sigh of contentment. "Her name is Allison Reynolds, and I'd like it if you met her."

There have been so many girls…Girls at school, before, during, and after detention, of course. Dozens of nameless girls at parties, many of them who remain faceless in his mind now. He even developed a crush on Claire for a day, and that came to an abrupt end the following Sunday when Angela looked his way… Never, ever, has he felt like this. It defies all logic. When she looks at him with her stunning deep-set amber gaze, it's so easy to sink into the depths. She always calls him John. With everyone else, it's Bender or JB, or Johnny, Johnny-boy, pretty boy, punk, bum, dopehead, hey asshole— a million things he's been called, but John isn't one of them. It twists his heart, and it makes him wonder...

He hears his parents arguing. It's bad because he can hear it through the shut door and the Walkman he has playing on full blast. He wants to ignore it. How dare he call his mother that name… While she makes excuses and cleans up after him, Bender smashes the ratty pillow over his ears, wishing it would block out the sound and make it go away. There were nights he'd lay in bed listening to the sound of fighting. His mother would shout, his father would begin laying into her, and the screaming would start. She cried he seethed, and John pushed his face into the long toy snake his five-year-old body was wrapped around. John is not a baby anymore, and he'll be damned if he sits in his room and allows that pathetic excuse of a man to hit his worn-down mother. He rips the Walkman off his head and prepares; he quickly packs his bag and throws it out his bedroom window.

John stepped out of his room, steeling himself for what he was about to face. The hallway seemed longer than usual, the walls closing in on him as he approached the living room. The voices grew louder, more menacing. His mother's sobs cut through him, fueling his resolve. He burst into the room, a fierce expression on his young face.

"Stop it!" Bender bursts out; before him, is a horrid scene. The living room is destroyed, the wobbly coffee table that held the TV is tilted, the legs broken, and the TV is on the ground. His drunken father grips his mother by the neck, fist airborne, her tormented face red and swollen from tears and punches.

"What the fuck did you say?!" The burly drunk man lets go of his crying wife and quickly approaches his son, fist and a crazed look in his eyes. John doesn't back down like he usually does. His father peers at him, the son and father face to face.

"Stop hitting my mom!" John bellows ferociously. His face turns crimson, veins pulsating with pent-up fury as he clenches his fists, his knuckles white with the intensity of his rage.

His father punches him, knocking the air out of his chest. "You stupid disrespectful—" He hits him again, and even as blood trickles down his brow, John grits his teeth, determination shining in his eyes. His drive is unwavering; he fights on, refusing to yield.

"No!" John can hear his mother screaming. In a whirlwind of rage, John unleashes a series of brutal blows. They land hard, fueled by the fury that has been simmering within him for years. "Please Johnny—Stop!" In a final effort, his mother swings wildly, her movements born of sheer desperation. "Damn it, Johnny!" she screams with exasperation. And to John's shock, his mother is yelling at him, cursing at him, hitting him. "What did you do!?"

"What did I do!?" John yells back, the rush of adrenaline making it hard to think.

"No, Johnny, just leave!" Her voice rises hysterically.

"I planned on it," John retorts coldly, his tone disapproving. For the first time, his father groans on the dirty carpet in pain instead of him. "You should leave too."

His mother cries hysterically, peering at her abusive husband who needs medical attention. John goes to his room and packs more things; tonight he's going to flee the violence for good. Thank God his cousin Jake finally paid him the seventy dollars he owed him for working his ass off at the tire shop—his bike is finally fixed. He grabs his helmet and his coat and leaves. With the little he owns, he packs the saddlebags and takes the cold ride to Uncle Buck's.

The knock at the door comes late at night, a hesitant, almost timid sound that pulls Uncle Buck from his thoughts. When he opens it, the sight before him strikes like a blow to the chest. His nephew stands there, a bruised eye swollen shut, and a fresh cut on his lip, still bleeding. Buck's jaw tightens, a mixture of rage and helplessness churning within him.

He wants to cry, but he won't allow himself to. Instead, his eyes harden, and his lips press into a firm line. His broad shoulders tense, and he clenches his fists by his sides, the only outward sign of the storm inside. Without a word, he steps aside, letting the boy in. The silence is thick, filled with unspoken anger and sorrow.

Buck guides his nephew to the couch, his movements gentle despite the strength in his hands. He fetches a damp cloth and some antiseptic, his actions deliberate, and controlled. As he dabs at the cut on the boy's lip, he keeps his eyes focused on the task, avoiding the boy's gaze to maintain his composure.

He wants to say something, anything, about his brother's unforgivable actions, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he pats his nephew's shoulder with rough tenderness, a silent promise of protection and support. Though his eyes never shed a tear, they speak volumes of the unspoken vows and the quiet strength he will muster to keep the boy safe from further harm.

"You can stay here as long as you need," Buck says, blinking several times, hoping to clear the tears before his nephew sees them. John knows he must look like shit if Buck is reacting this way.

"Thank you, I think I have a place to go, so I'll just be here for tonight," John says, looking at his battered face in the mirror. He squeezes his eyes, trying to force the tears from their edges so he can be done with them.

"We have a couple of jobs opening up at the hardware store; we've expanded the paint department and the gardening center, we could use the help." No matter how hard he tries, he can't maintain eye contact. He can't talk about it either; he never talks about it. Buck hopes that his nephew's actions will give his sister-in-law the strength to leave her troubled marriage with his abusive brother.

"I'll put in my application tomorrow," Bender says, the corner of his lips pulled down, shaking as he tries to stop the overwhelming emotion. Staying here is not an option; this is his hardworking uncle's quiet zone, away from screaming kids and customers. John Bender will be no one's burden. When his uncle goes upstairs and the house becomes quiet, John picks up the phone and dials.

"Hey Ally-cat…" Bender says, clearing his throat.

"JB?" Allison says eagerly. He imagines she is surprised by the late-night call. He is relieved she is still awake to answer.

"Hey, can you do your old partner in crime a favor?" He swallows the lump in his throat.

"Bender, are you okay?" Allison's concern is evident in her voice.

"I – I need to stay at your place for a while," Bender's throat clenches, and uncertainty trembles in his jaw.

"Of course, come over in the morning before my shift so I can show you around and introduce you to Miss T."

He lets out a deep sigh of relief. "Misty?" Bender wonders if there's some reclusive family member in the Reynolds house. "Not Misty, Miss T," Allison spells it out for clarification.

Bender realizes she's talking about the cat, and a weary smile emerges. "Cool, I'll be at your house bright and early." John doesn't like to talk about the pain; he's glad Allison seems to understand that, unlike others in their little gang of misfits who couldn't keep a thought to themselves if they tried.

"Okay," Allison says.

"Thanks, Alli."