He made his way into the living room, once his mother spotted him, she asked him, "Lance, Honey. How did the concert go?"

"Fine," he answered, without stopping, and began climbing the stairs.

 "Why don't you stay down here, and talk awhile?" His mother called after him.

 But, Lance ignored this, went to his room, shutting and locking the door.

"I'm beginning to worry about him," Mrs. Bass said to her husband.

"Do you think it's just stress? He has a lot of it right now."

"He's been thinking of Allison a lot, lately."

"Allison? Gates?" Mr. Bass asked.

"Yes. The last time we talked it was about her. Now, he just won't talk at all. Not of her. Not of work.  Nothing."

The front door closed, and Allison and Katherine left the kitchen to the living room.

"Hey, Daddy!" Allison said, welcoming her father home from work with a hug.

"Hey, Sweetheart," he said, returning the warm embrace.

"Mom and I made dinner."

"Really?"

"Salad, spaghetti, French bread, and a cake for desert," Katherine told her husband.

"Sounds good," he said, stepping out of his daughter's arms, and kissing his wife's cheek. "I think it's time to eat, then."

The three walked into the dining room where they sat. The family joined hands, bowed their heads, and Michael said a prayer:
 "Heavenly Father, thank you for this day. And, this food before us. Help those less fortunate than we. And, thank you, most of all, Father, for allowing our family to be whole again. Amen."

"Amen," Allison and Katherine chorused him, as they began to eat.
 

The Next Day...

Allison awoke early, anxious to meet her psychologist and friend, Nimet, at the airport, later in the morning. She had great news to tell her.

Allison ran into the living room, where her mother was up, watching the six o'clock morning news.

"Good-morning, Mom!" Allison cried, happily.

Katherine turned around in the arm chair, and smiled. "You're up awfully early this morning, aren't you?"

Allison walked over to the couch, and sat down. "It's six o'clock here, it's seven o'clock there. I have about three hours until Nimet comes! Then, and an extremely long wait until I see Lance again!"

Katherine laughed, "Someone's excited!"

Allison jumped off the couch and began singing, "I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it...", as she made her way to the shower.

Lance was looking out the plane window. Why didn't Joey want the window seat? Why did he make me get this seat? I don't want to be looking down.

Lance's father had just finished the tree house. And, both, Lance and Allison, were anxious to climb the wooden ladder into the tree.

They raced from the back door to the tree. Lance beat Allison there, but even at age three he was a gentlemen, and allowed Allison to climb up first.

Allison was halfway up when she cried looking down, "I'm scared! It's so high!"

"Don't look down, just look up," Lance told her.

"But, what if I fall?"

"You won't fall. I promise. Trust me."

"I hope you're right," she mumbled, and continued climbing.

Just don't look down, Lance. Just look up. He told himself.

Joey looked over at Lance. He noticed the far off look on his face.

"Lance?"

Silence.

Not the silent crap again! Where does that kid go to, that he can't hear his name being called? "Lance?" Joey asked a little louder.

"Hmm?"

"What's the matter? You looked kind of distant."

"Nothing. Just thinking," he answered, not turning his head from the window.

"What about?"

"Nothing," Lance stated, standing from his seat, and walking up a few seats, leaving his group mates in the back.

JC looked across the aisle at Joey. In a hushed tone Joey stated, "We have to find out what's wrong, and help him."

"What time is it?" Allison asked her mother, running into the living room.

"It's only eight o'clock," her mother answered.

Allison had been asking that question every seven minutes. "Urgh! The plane doesn't land until nine! Mom, I'm going to die waiting!"

Katherine laughed at her daughter, good naturedly. "Why don't you try to occupy yourself?" Her mother suggested.

"With what?"

Katherine looked at her daughter, and said, "Follow me." She lead Allison into the study. "With that." She pointed to the mahogany colored piano in the middle of the room. "You always used to play."

"But, I burned the piano. We didn't have one when I left."

"We got one. It was going to be a surprise for you. It arrived four days after you left. They only time either your father or I touch it, is when it's time to dust it."

Allison felt tears stinging her eyes. "Why? Why would you want to surprise me with something so great, after I destroyed everything you and Daddy worked so hard for?"

Mrs. Gates looked at her daughter as tears fell from both of their eyes. "Because, when you were making music, you were happy. We wanted you happy, Allison."
 

Lance sat in her coach seat on the plane. She didn't know that in first class sat the love of her life and his friends. She didn't know JC, Joey, Chris, and Justin were trying to think of a way to help their bass voice, their friend.

She knew, of course, that the group had to fly to Michigan the same day as she, but didn't realize that they had taken the same flight-only in the front of the plane. A little, red curtain seperating them.

She sat in her seat, trying to figure out why Allison had called, and asked her to come. She gave no reason, just that she had needed Nimet to come. And it had to be today.

"Headphones?" The stewardess asked.

"Umm, no thanks, Nimet answered politely. The last thing I need right now is a distraction, when I'm trying to think.

Music?

 JC.

Music.

Joey.

Music.

Chris.

Music.

Justin.

*NSync.

Music.

Lance.

Music.

Lance.

Why would Lance be acting as strange as JC says he is? What could be causing this? Stress? Music?

Allison.

I never fully understood Allison's connection between happiness and music. Sure, music is fun. It brings happiness. But, it shouldn't be happiness. She had to have music to be happy..

Music. Lance. JC said Lance was saying Allison.

Music. Allison. She talked about James.

James. James. She was in love with James. Is in love with James.

Lance. Allison. James. Music. Is there a connection?

Allison? Allison? It couldn't be the same Allison, could it? Nimet thought.

No. She quickly dismissed the idea. It couldn't possibly. Allison Gates doesn't fit. She didn't know anyone named Lance.

Allison. Music. James? Music was Allison's happiness. James was...  is her love. Both, her passion. Lance doesn't fit here either! Nimet was boggled, but refused to give up. She had to find the connection she knew was hidden there.

As the plane drew closer to Michigan, Lance's memories resurfaced. And, no matter how much he tried, he couldn't stop them from invading his head.

"Why are we here, Allison?" Twelve year-old Lance asked.

"Because, I want to look at something," Allison, twelve, answered, climbing off her bike.

She had managed to talk Lance into riding the four miles from their homes to the cemetery. Both, exhausted from the pedaling, somehow, managed to climb the steep, grassy hill-just beyond the black, iron gate.   From the top of the hill, they could see the hundreds of rows of jagged, old, and new headstones. Some pearly, some wooden, some just simple
concrete slabs in the earth. Some with lambs, hearts, doves, and angels engraved in them. Some with small, metal frames with lost and left behind pictures of children, mounted upon them. Some headstones with flowers, flags, small toys, and letters beside them. But, all bringing the same feeling.  The feeling of death. All saying the same thing: a loved one had died. The name. The date of birth. The date of death. It was all the same.

Although it was a warm, sunny, summer afternoon, Lance shivered. His bones chilled as he looked at Allison's face, which wore a smile.

 "Allison?" He asked.

She looked over at him, the smile larger now. "See this?" She gestured her hand to the graveyard.

Lance closed his eyes and swallowed before speaking, "Yes."

Allison turned her attention back to the field of death. "This," she nodded. "This will be my home soon."

Lance closed his eyes, which were being threatened by the welling of salty tears.

"Allison?" He asked the window that he was looking out of. "Allison?" He asked the blue sky decorated by the white, cotton puffed clouds. "I love you." Tears began to fall. He couldn't hold them back any longer. "God, let her be alive," he prayed. "Let her have finally found happiness and strength to live."

Unknowingly to Lance, his four group mates, his four worried friends behind him, had heard the confession to a girl that went unknown to them. Yet, the name, Allison, ringing familiar in their ears. Oblivious to Lance's knowledge they had heard him begging with the Lord to allow her to be happy. To be living.

 And, the four shared solemn glances.
 

"Do you want me to go with you?" Katherine asked her daughter, who was putting on her coat, getting ready to venture to the airport.

"Would you mind?" Allison asked her. "I don't know if I remember how to get there."

The plane was to land in forty minutes. It was a thirty minute drive there.

"I don't mind at all," her mother answered, slipping her coat on, and grabbing her purse off the end table.

"Thanks. Here," Allison said, handing her mother the keys. "You drive."
 

"Look, Mom!" A young girl across the aisle squealed, while reading a teenybopper magazine.

Nimet  guessed she was no older than twelve.

"What, Lynn?" The mother impatiently asked.

"It's a picture of James Lance Bass! I'm going to marry him, Mom!"

The mother, frustrated, turned her head. "James Lance Bass. *NSync. Don't you ever get tired of them? All I ever hear is James Lance Bass, this! James Lance Bass , that!"

"I'm sorry," the girl apologized, realizing she had been shrieking with every picture she saw of him during the flight.  "I'm happy you're letting me go to the concert."

The mother turned back to her daughter, smiling, "You really like this group, don't you. And, that Bass guy, don't you?"

James? James Lance Bass? His first  name is James? After all this time, and I never knew that?

James Lance Bass? The Mississippi Albino? James Lance Bass, originally from Michigan? Is it possible?  Nimet thought.

" What was he like?" The psychologist asked her patient. The young seventeen year old girl, that she had managed to befriend.

"When we were younger, we shared a love for music. He was my only friend. He cared a lot. And, I cared for him, too. It's just that, I didn't  care for myself, and I put him through hell. We were both going to make it big in the music industry." She smiled at the thought of him. "But, after I burned my house. his parents moved James down south. So, I left my home in Michigan to look for him.

"Only, I couldn't find him until I got help. He had seen me depressed and unhappy for so long. I-" She paused before continuing, "I wanted him to see a new me. An improved me."

 "Did you love him?"

 "Yes."

Allison. James. Music.  James Lance?
 

"Talking about rehearsals, when Lance finally responded to you, what was he like?"

"When he responded, he still didn't realize where he was. Or who we were. He kept saying Allison..."
 

Allison. James. Music. Lance. James Lance. Allison. Michigan. Music. The connection.

Nimet  moved her arm to take her light, jacket off of her. Doing so, she dropped her purse, the contents falling to the floor.  "Crap." She bent down to pick the contents up, a folded paper caught her eyes. She unfolded the paper, seeing Allison's neat, left-handed manuscript.

It was a poem. A poem that she, Nimet, had talked Allison into writing. At a time when Allison was falling again. Falling hard, and ready to give up.

Stephanie received the phone call, it was two o'clock in the morning.  Groggily she answered, "Hello?"

"Met," came a hoarse voice, muffled by the tears. "Met, please.  Help me."

Instantly, Nimet sat up in her tangled mass of bedding, and turned on the bedside lamp. "Allison? Allison, what's the matter?"

"I'm holding a bottle," she cried.

Nimet could hear the distress in her voice, the need for help, the want for help. "A bottle of what, Allison?"

"Nimet, I'm holding a bottle. Please, stop me."

"Allison, you're holding a bottle of what?" Nimet asked louder, more firmly. Demanding.

"Sleeping pills." Allison grasped for air, not because she had been taking the pills, but because the sobs were taking so much out of her. "Please, help me. I don't want to do this," she begged.

"Allison, you don't have to. Don't do anything you don't want to do."

"I don't know. I don't know if I can stop myself! I-I. It's just been so hard today! I can't-I can't do anything right! I need to take them, but I don't want to. Please, help me!"

 "Allison, put the pills down. Flush them down the toilet," Stephanie demanded, softly. She could hear the flushing as the pills went down. "Now, tell me about today."

 Allison had told her of the hard day she had. The music she played on the piano, she just couldn't hit all the right keys.  The dance steps she was learning, the turns were always over-rotated. She looked in the mirror, she saw the hideous figure of the 'Hunchback', in her own eyes, and topping all things off, she was stood-up on a date.

"Allison, listen to me. Okay?"

"Uh-huh."

"I want you to write something. A poem, a story, a journal entry. It doesn't matter. Just write something, write what you're feeling. It will help you a lot. You'll get all of your frustrations out on the paper. And, I want you to write two copies. One for me, and one for you to keep. Can you do that for me? And, give it to me when you come see me in my office tomorrow?"

"Yes," Allison sniffled

"Good. Now, I want you to start writing."
 

 She looked at the words and read, silently:

Allison walked into the office, bags under eyes from the fatigue she had been experiencing lately. Her clothes hanging loose over her thin figure. Her long, brown hair, a tangle mass, from lack of brushing due to the depression she was feeling. Tired. Aching. Alone.

She walked into the office, and sat in one of the shiny, slick, brown leather armchairs in front of the desk of her psychologist.  Her legs tucked underneath her, sighing deeply, she handed the paper to Nimet. Resting her head against the back of the chair, her hair flowing over the edge. "That's it. That's how I felt. I did what you told me to do."

"And?" Nimet questioned.

Bringing her head from the back of the chair, her eyes meeting that of her psychologist, her friend, her newly found confidant. "And, what?"

"Did it help you any? Did you feel the urge to have to take the pills?"

"It helped. A lot."

"Really? Then, why are you looking the way you are? Why are the bags under you eyes bigger, darker? Why are you eyes red and bloodshot? Why is your hair a tangle mass, as if never seen by a comb, by-by a hairbrush? Why are your clothes unmatched, and four times too big? If it helped, why are you like you are?" Nimet challenged her.

"I-I don't know."

"Why did you set fire to your home when you were fifteen? Why did you runaway after your release from the hospital? Why are you here, in Florida, now suddenly seeking help, when you wouldn't allow your parents to get you any? Why are you so ready to give up on your life?"

 "I-I don't know."

"Allison, there has to be a reason. There has to be an answer somewhere. Shall I read this?" She asked, waving the folded piece of notebook paper in her hand, in front of Allison.

She shrugged, "You told me to write it. A copy for you. A copy for me. Read it."

Nimet  unfolded the paper, her eyes moving rhythmically across the handwritten lines, the stanzas. As she finished, she looked up, seeing Allison looking down at her hands, picking at her nails. "This is how you were feeling?"

Allison lifted her head, her eyes again meeting the young woman's in front of her. She didn't have to say a word. Nimet knew the answer.

"Allison-"

"I know. The poetry sucks. But, you told me to write what I felt at the time, and that's it."

"Why didn't you tell me before, that you were hurting-like this?"

Allison shrugged, "I never knew how to put it into words."

Why would Allison need me up there? What could possibly be wrong? She was doing so well. Nimet thought, refolding the paper, and putting it back in her purse.

"Please make sure your seat belts are safely secured, and your seats are in their upright positions. We are now landing in Detroit, Michigan," the stewardess announced over the intercom. "We hope you enjoyed your flight with Delta Airlines."