I didn’t like being around him anymore.

It struck me the next morning as I drowsily prepared for school, and I felt that ache in my chest when I wondered if Roger would be in school. I was so emotionally drained from the events of the past few days—and of the previous night—that I wasn’t sure I had the mettle to be strong for him if he needed me again. Not today, anyway, not after my much needed and much desired sleep was stolen by hideous dreams that woke me every few hours. I needed to relax, too; I needed to recharge and be taken care of. I was afraid to see Roger, lest he was still depressed and would bring my mood down, too.

You selfish bastard, I told the obnoxious reflection in the mirror.

I was Roger’s best friend. This was what I was for; this was my responsibility. I loved him, with all my heart I did, but if I really meant it, this was what I needed to do for him.

I wanted to be strong for him—I wanted to want to be strong for him.

And I hated myself for thinking all this.

He was still depressed, though. In school he moped and stared blearily into space, and he didn’t smile for a week. It annoyed me, because, like most people, I didn’t want to be around someone with such contagious low spirits. But his father had just died! Was I expecting him to be perky and upbeat after losing half his family?

So I smiled for him, and I hugged him, and I let him talk about whatever he needed to, and I’d support him as much as I physically could. I’d be a good friend. And at the end of the day I’d be burning to go home and hide in my room and pray he didn’t call me. It was lonely, so unbelievably lonely, because I only had one friend, and that one friend was little more than a red-eyed, gray-faced phantom of his old self. I missed him, even though he was still there when I looked for him at school, still alive at the other end of the telephone. Somewhat, anyway.

This went on for weeks.

“I never see my mom anymore,” his phantom told me one day as he wafted slowly down the hallway, dark eyes on the floor, whole body colorless, and I followed at his side, feeling flushed and gaudy in contrast. “She had to take an extra shift to support us, so now she’s only home late at night or in the morning, and then she’s always tired or busy.”

I’m lonely, he was saying, basically. He wasn’t used to coming home to an empty house. And his house was so lonely the walls were shrinking, suffocating the remaining space.

“If you ever get lonely, you can come to my house,” I said, because it was what I was supposed to say.

He grinned, slightly. “Can I come over today?”

Of course he could.

No one was home at my house, as my father was working, and my mother had taken Harry for a checkup. We sprawled our books across the table and set about homework. I began working, struggling through my advanced math, and Roger leaned over a blank notebook page, the side of his face resting against his fist, and stared out the window, thus getting nothing accomplished. At least that hadn’t changed.

“You’re always daydreaming nowadays,” I remarked lightly, to break the silence.

“I must look like you, then,” he replied, and I couldn’t think of anything to respond with.

He let out a sigh and collapsed on the table with his head in his arms, rolling his neck around. “I’m so tired,” he murmured.

“Aren’t we all?” I agreed.

“I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in weeks. I’m always so tired, even though it seems that all I ever do anymore is sleep—or try to.” He rubbed his neck. “I’m achy, too, all over.”

“Maybe you’re coming down with something,” I offered.

“Maybe,” he muttered.

I set down my mechanical pencil. “You know, I think we should do something. Homework can wait.”

I waited for him to ask what I had to suggest. He didn’t.

“Why don’t we go play soccer, kick the ball around the driveway a little bit? We always used to—“

“I hate soccer,” he declared, his voice low and gravelly.

I stopped mid-sentence, bewildered. “Since when?!”

“I’ve always hated it. I only played because my dad wanted me to.”

“Come on, Roger, that’s not true and you know it!”

“What’s the point of chasing a stupid ball around a field?”

“But you’re so good at it!” I argued, flustered by this new revelation.

“No I’m not,” he mumbled, just to be contrary.

“You’re just saying this because you’re in a bad mood. You’ve always loved soccer! And you know you’re good!”

His head was still in his arms, on the table. “Whatever.”

I stood up and slammed my palms against the table. “For God’s sake, why don’t you just cheer up?! Lately you’ve just been so damn…” And I trailed off, a fist clenching my stomach. I shouldn’t have said that. Stupid, I thought, stupid, insensitive bastard, stupid, stupid.

He lifted his head out of his arms so that I could see his eyes. “So damn what?” he asked sharply, not glaring but almost.

I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. “You’ve just seemed so down. I-I’m sorry, I understand why you’d be upset, really. I’m sorry I snapped.”

His eyes flicked downwards, his gaze softening, and I gained more courage. “I know you’re…going through a lot now, but… It’s going to get better. Everything heals with time. It will get better, believe me. I just… I just hate seeing you so unhappy all the time, okay?”

“You’re right,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t make you so upset. I must be really be getting on your nerves. Sorry. I shouldn’t burden you with all my whining.”

I bristled uncomfortably. Damn, now he felt guilty, which hadn’t been my intent at all.

“N-no, I-I want you to be able to talk to me, I just…” I stopped. I was only going to make things worse at this rate. “Let’s just go outside, okay? It’s not that cold today.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, starting to get up.

“Let me just go throw a sweater on,” I said, and hurried upstairs to my room. I found a sweater on the floor, decided it wasn’t too dirty, and pulled it on. I came downstairs quietly, fixing my collar, and walked in on a scene that I knew instantly to be incorrect.

“What are you doing?” I snapped. Roger had the refrigerator door open, and he was leaning into it, having just found what he was looking for.

—A can of beer, that was.

And his backpack was open at his feet.

He gaped, mouth open and eyes wide, like a dog caught eating human food off the table. His jaw bobbed, but he was caught in the act and he knew it, and there was nothing he could say.

“How could you?” I hissed, scowling darkly, feeling my fists tense.

He closed the refrigerator door—keeping the can enclosed in his fingers. “Look, Arik, I just wanted one—“

I stepped over and kicked his bag over. Roger cringed at the sound of two tinny clangs as two more cans fell out and rolled across the floor.

“I know you’re dyslexic, but I always thought you could at least count, “I snapped nastily, fuming.

“Arik, I—“

“Roger, how could you?!” I screeched, interrupting him. “You’d freaking steal from your best friend?! You would actually steal beer from ME?!”

Roger’s eyes bounced around the room but avoided mine as one avoids staring into the sun. “Arik, I just wanted a drink—my mom locked up the only alcohol in the house, and I can’t get it anywhere—Arik, I really need this, please!”

“Unbelievable,” I breathed, shaking my head. “You’re not supposed to be drinking at all! You know you’re not supposed to! You’re eighteen; you’re too young! And that’s besides the fact that you were stealing from me! I can’t believe you would betray my trust like that! I can’t believe it! And Roger, that’s my dad’s liquor! What if he found out it was missing, huh? Who do you think would get in trouble? Do you even care?”

He rubbed his forehead, still not looking at me. “Just calm down. It’s not that big a deal.”

“It is too a big deal! YOU’RE A FRIGGIN’ THIEF!”

“It was just three beers!”

“What else have you stolen from me over the years, huh?”

Roger looked like he’d been slapped. “Arik, I have never, ever stolen anything from you.”

“I would never have believed you would, until now. I always thought I could trust you. I never thought beer would be more important to you than my trust.”

“For God’s sake, Arik!” he yelled, and he thrust the can at me. “Here, fine, take it!” He picked up the other two cans and shoved them into my arms. “You don’t need to be such a bitch about it!”

“I’m not being a bitch, damn you!” I barked back, setting the cans on the counter. He glared heatedly down at me with black eyes, color in his face again for the first time in ages.

“You don’t understand!” he hollered. “I need this, dammit! I NEED THIS!”

I watched his flushed crimson face and his eyes, smoldering darkly, and I gasped, “You’re an alcoholic!”

He recoiled back, black eyes wide. “What?!” he shrieked.

“You’re an alcoholic!” I screamed. “You care more about beer than you do me or your family or rules—all you care about is beer!”

“SHUT UP!” he screeched. “I AM NOT AN ALCOHOLIC!”

“Why won’t you just admit you have a problem?!”

“I DON’T HAVE A FREAKING PROBLEM!”

“You know, I would have thought that after a drunk kid killed your dad maybe you’d open your eyes—!”

WHAM—his hands seized my collarbone and slammed me against the wall, knocking the breath from my lungs and lifting me off my feet.

“Don’t you DARE say ANYTHING about my dad—DON’T YOU DARE! You have no idea about anything, you don’t know ANYTHING!”

My upper chest burned where he was clenching me. I grabbed his arms, digging my nails into his wrists and trying to wrench the crushing grip off me—he was hurting me, it hurt, it hurt!

“LET GO OF ME!” I screamed. “You bastard, STOP IT!”

“Take back what you said!” he hollered at me.

I dug my nails in harder. “I WON’T! You’re an alcoholic and you know it!”

He pulled me away from the wall, his fists biting the flesh around my collarbone, and smashed my back against it again. Pain exploded down my spine and across my shoulders. My vision spun, and I choked—I kicked my knee out wildly and struck him in the gut. He recoiled back with a yelp, releasing his talon-like grip, and I collapsed to the floor.

“Is this what it does to you?!” I cried from the ground, throat raw, face hot, head spinning and pounding. “It turns you into a freaking monster! It makes you a freaking abusive MONSTER!”

He was shaking visibly from head to toe and breathing fast, scarlet from ear to ear.

I rubbed my throbbing chest. “I can’t believe you would do that to me,” I said softly, my voice cracking.

He screamed, a loud, agonized, furious yowl. He spun on his heel and stomped to the table, gathering his books and throwing them into his bag.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” I demanded, slowly pulling myself to my feet and leaning on the counter for support.

“ANYWHERE YOU’RE NOT!” he screamed, swinging the bag violently onto his back. “YOU FUCKING BITCH! WHY DON’T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE—WHY DON’T YOU JUST FUCKING DIE—I HATE YOU, I FUCKING HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!”

“YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARD!” I roared back, my voice hoarse and sandpapery, my head pulsating with pain. “YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARD!”

He seized a glass cup off the table and threw it at me—I ducked, and it shattered over my head. “GO TO HELL!” he barked, and stormed out, slamming the front door behind him.

And I screamed, “YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARD, YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARD!” until I choked on my own breath, and I collapsed beneath the counter into the sea of shattered glass—and I screamed more as sharp shards sliced into my arms—I screamed and tore at my hair with bloodied nails, screaming and screaming—and crying so hard I feared I would choke to death on my own sobs.

Chapter Twenty-four...