It could have been any other summer--one when I was much more mature and capable, or one when I was too young to understand--that it happened. Things started out harmlessly enough: a job at Central Market, a new car, a new live-in. But somehow it ended up here.

I shouldn't be surprised.

Things always wind up this way. You end up rocking back and forth on your bed, biting your lip, waiting on whatever hell of a life you've created to incinerate you right there. But it doesn't. No, life is more vindictive than to employ death: its tortuous and agonizing drawls into what could have and what should have been comprise so much of our time here--so much of our minutes are wasted on the static aftertaste of moments that have passed us by--it's no wonder we fall asleep all the time. No matter. Nobody has to know about the quiet parts of our lives. Mostly, people don't anyway: our lives being so boring even we can't stay awake for their entirety.

I look down at my trembling hand and clench it into a fist so hard my short fingernails dig into my skin. It doesn't seem to help the shaking, and the shadows from my quivering body only grow more intense and wild with the prolonged displacement of mind from body. For a moment, I think I can actually feel the electricity shooting through axon hillocks and into their terminals, causing a spontaneous overflow of calcium and potassium and the rapid-fire movements of actin and myosin filaments, all leading to this explosion of slow-motion locomotion. This is the punishment, the penalty, for the living: you feel everything.

All this integration of organ and body, nerve and brain, bone and muscle--it all commands its own destruction.

I try to take deep breaths, bring gravity back into my system's orbit before things break apart. I reach for the nightstand and the open bottle of Xanax--the common cure for every pain--and pop a tab into my throat. Almost instantly I start to relax, falling back against the bed, and even though I know that pills don't work this fast, I don't question it. Most pain is psychological anyway. Society has developed such that it shelters us from major calamities and inclement weather and conditions. What little extremities we do suffer we suffer in the company of pharmaceuticals; some might say it's unhealthy.

Some say living with ghosts drives you to the grave.

It's morning. The soft gust of a summer storm is already whistling through my cracked window, and it disarms me, makes me reconsider my naked body. Would I, too, one day be so porous as to let the wind seep through my bones? I quickly dress, hitting my head on the door on the way out. In the hallway, there's a picture of us from many years ago--a snapshot of smiling people. The only reason any of us would be smiling at once is because we didn't really know each other. Most happiness is predicated off of lies, near as I can tell.

"Honey, are you awake?"

I swallow and continue walking down the hall to the kitchen. Mother is making pancakes, as usual. We have yet to figure out why she feels the compulsive need to make these every Saturday since nobody likes them, but we don't question it, either.

"I'm here," I call back. My voice is rougher than I'd expected, and so I imagine I sound like I've been crying all night.

"I read in this article that if you take some throat lozenges before you go down on people, it helps with the soreness in the morning."

Kill me. Please.

"Your father and I have tried it, you know--" why is she yelling this to me? does she really think I, or anyone, wants to know? "--and it's worked miracles for us."

I walk into the blinding foyer that connects dining room, kitchen and living room in one gigantic mess of white walls and white tile and white carpet. They have pulled the curtains back across the floor-to-ceiling windows, so that what was already white is now radiating outward like a blinding ball of energy.

"God...did you guys get Einstein to decorate?" I rub my eyes, allowing my pupils to adjust to the stark contrast from bedroom to kitchen.

"You know who we hired, silly," she calls from the grill.

I sit down at the table and slouch back against the seat. The glass of orange juice seems to lift off the table for a moment before coming back down. I feel like I might be sick, febrile, and, for a moment, my vision seems to swim up to my eyelids.

"What's wrong with you?" Jeffrey, my younger brother, barks out. He's only thirteen, but he probably knows more about love and sex than I do, or ever will. He's sitting in his usual black robe and skulking. I half-smile at him as a sign of concession, that we shouldn't pursue this path of conversation. He just stares at me like I'm a freak.

"Hey, boys! It's a great morning to be alive, ain't it!" Father's hand crashes down against my shoulder and almost knocks me off of the chair. His grin is either a sign that he got laid last night or that he got his prescription refilled. "This morning when your mother and I woke up--" oh God, here it comes "--I decided we should have a family picnic in the park." He thwaps the newspaper against the table and grins down at us.

Yes. He is his own Prozac nation.

My little brother's skulk has turned into immediate disgust and contempt. "Uh, no. Can't." He looks to me severely, expecting me to back him up.

"Yeah..." I say slowly, glancing to my work vest on its hanger. "I can't today, either. I have work and...some stuff." The truth is I'd be happy if I never went to work again, but every time something like this happens, it makes me glad I have a job.

"Besides," Jeffrey says, shrugging as if he were dismissing the notion once and for all, "parks are full of losers and gang-rapists."

"Jeffrey!" Mother hisses. "Language!" Something passes between her and Father that I'm not sure I want to understand. She sets the pancakes down on the table and seats herself. After years of cooking these disgusting blobs of flour and starch on Saturday, she can't quite resist the urge to burn or undercook them. Since I am the first brave soul to pick one up and set it on my plate, I get to make the deciding call--and the winner is: toasty! Sizzled to tooth-cracking perfection.

Slowly, pancakes abandon the serving plate and suffer the hesitant clink of fork and knife. I look out the window as I slowly chew. There's an art to eating burnt pancakes that most are unaware of: you begin by dousing it in syrup, then you let it sit in your mouth for a little while, slowly grinding it between your teeth until its soft enough to actually eat. It's not exactly a pleasant or filling breakfast, but it's also the only one I get.

"So...what's 'some stuff'?"

I cough a little on a crispy part as it scratches the backside of my throat before I realize Mother is talking to me. "Um..." I say, glancing from her to Jeffrey. "Just...you know. Stuff."

"Oh?" Father arches his eyebrows at me in the creepiest fashion I think I've ever seen. I watch in a stupefied horror as he glances back down to the pancake on his plate where his knife has become lodged in the gristle of black dough.

"Well," Jeffrey says, and I can tell from his inflection that this is not going to be good, "nothing like a little morning wood for breakfast."

I choke on my orange juice.

Mother scowls at him, shaking her head, and then looks up at Father with a smile pulling on her cheeks. I know this smile: the one that precedes whatever outlandish comment is about to come. In preparation, I put the orange juice down. "Boys...your father and I are going to be meeting somebody today."

"Good for you," Jeffrey mutters, tinking his fork against the ceramic plate.

Mother acts like no one has said anything. "She's going to help us...get our groove back." Mother says this in an alarmingly low-keyed, sultry voice.

Jeffrey drops his fork. It hits the plate and the table before taking a fantastic tumble to the ground. I imagine that fork is me: I can feel the air rushing by me as I twirl towards the floor. Everything is happening so fast it's like time has been suspended and only I am allowed to move in this new, gelatinous world. And then I hit the ground.

Clink.

Jeffrey pushes himself away from the table and stands up. "You guys are sick." He starts walking to the staircase.

"Jeffrey!" Father booms, standing up as well. "Get back here--right now!"

He pauses and stares back at Father. For his part, I know Jeffrey is waiting on Father to break eye contact, but he doesn't do it this time. "Fine..." he sighs, dragging his feet across the tile back to the table.

"Besides," Mother clears her throat and pushes her plate away from her, "it's nothing you haven't done already."

"Mom!" Jeffrey cries out. "That was different!"

I can't stop the biggest, stupidest grin from forming on my face. Two months ago, Mother came home and, without knocking, went into Jeff's room and found him, a girl, and a guy making out on his bed.

"Oh yeah?" Father challenges. "How? How is it any different, mister?"

Jeffrey shakes his head and furrows his brow. "We aren't married!"

"Jeffrey!" Mother hisses. She does this every time anyone mentions her and Father are married. It's like some kind of revolting secret she has to keep well-hidden and without mention.

"He's got a point," I say slowly, quietly, "and...I think it's great. You two need something, right? So you went and found it. Good for you."

Jeffrey rolls his eyes. "Thank you, honey." Mother puts her hand on my shoulder lightly. She's confused by this act of affection, though, and quickly pulls it back into her lap, regaining her composure. "And what about you? Who are you seeing?"

I scratch my head and shrug. "I'm...not."

"Oh, come now," Mother says playfully. Father picks up the newspaper and starts idly flipping through it. "Your voice didn't get that way by itself!"

"No...but it doesn't mean I went down on someone." I shrug. "Maybe I have laryngitis."

Mother bats at my shoulder and smiles serenely. "Don't be silly, sweetie. We don't live near Mexicans."

I'm not sure how that affects anything, but I nod anyway.

"Maybe you should try what Jeffrey does? Hm?"

I blink. "Uh..."

"Communal love is much healthier and keeps you happier longer."

Jeffrey scoffs, "Yeah, that's why everyone here is so fucked up."

Mother's throat tightens, but she continues looking at me, eyes large, pleading for acquiescence. "What's it called? Bisexuality?" She glances to Jeff. "Is that what you call it?"

Jeffrey rolls his eyes. "God, mom! Bisexuality is such a disgusting word. It's

bisensual. I'm a bisensual!"

"Uh-huh." Mother deadpans at him.

"How many times have I told you this!" Jeffrey stands back up and storms over to the stairs. "Nobody listens to me in this house!"

Mother waits until he's vanished from view before continuing. That's what she does: she thinks if you've left her sight, you're all better. "So why not give it a shot?"

I swallow. "Because...I'm not attracted to guys?"

"Oh!" she laughs, "you don't have to be attracted to them. Lord knows I'm not attracted to your father! And look at us! We've made it together eighteen years!"

Yeah, and you're both miserable, both wishing you weren't here. I force myself to smile up at her and nod. "Okay. I'll try it."

Her face brightens instantaneously. "Well, when I was your age--I used to experiment all the times with my girlfriends!" She's too perky about this. "So let's see...you're going to need some condoms, then, and--oh, Carl? what kind of lube do you think he should use? I think you'd--"

"Uh...mom," I hold up my hand, glancing to my watch. "I need to go to work. I don't want to be late."

"Oh--do you want me to take you?" she asks.

I stand up and grab my work vest. "Uh..." I'm trying to think of a way out of this situation. "No, maybe...maybe Monday you can take me, okay? I need some fresh air." She looks hurt as she slouches back in her chair and sighs. "Oh..." I glance over my shoulder. "I think you have, um...I think maybe your mascara is a bit off..."

"What!" she yelps, jumping out of her seat. "Oh my God, Carl! Why didn't you tell me?"

Father stands up and walks over to me, ignoring Mother's questioning, and wraps his arm around my shoulders as I straighten the vest. I freeze in place, wondering what's going to come next. Suddenly, his stubble hits my face and he kisses me on the cheek. "We love ya, kiddo!" With his hand gripping my shoulder, he turns me around and faces me to the door. "Knock 'em dead," he shouts, hitting my ass with his newspaper.

Mother smiles apologetically at me from over the counter. "Have a good day."

"I'll try."

The walk to work is unfailingly without incident. Jill--our neighbor's hypochondriac daughter who walks the block every day--walked with me until the Montrose intersection. She said her grandparents were coming into town this weekend, and I told her that was great but she said not really. Ever since I can remember, Jill has always had an amazing proclivity for leading you up to think something is great and then throw it in the trash.

The sliding doors acknowledge my presence and open, and immediately I'm overwhelmed by a fruity, flowery fragrance Central Market seems to emanate. The hard concrete floors, shiny metal piping and abundant quantities make it seem, on first glance, like a warehouse. And then you notice the apples are shipped from probably every apple-growing country in the world, and any fruit or vegetable on display can be juiced by the quart, liter or gallon; meat from every animal that can be legally cooked in the States is available, and combined with anything you could possibly want; an incredible wine selection that would put Hefner's cellar to shame; eighty-nine breads baked at least once every other day; and only organic foodstuffs, overpriced bottled water and no-fat chips on the shelves. And if that's not enough, you can go to the second floor and learn how to prepare gourmet meals by some of the world's leading culinary experts--all of whom claim to have, at one point or another, served at the White House. All of this, of course, comes with its price.

"Hey there!" Callie says from my right. "Aren't you late?"

I shrug and try to pretend like she isn't there.

"So..." she says, walking into my direct field of vision. "Ready to grind some nuts?"

I swallow before responding, shrugging. "I'm supposed to work the fruits and vegetables today." I hate the fruits and vegetables.

"Oh boy," she rolls her eyes and glances down at my waist before looking over to the barista stand."But it's gonna be so lonely without you," she whines, "serving all those arrogant, uptight assholes." Callie harbors a weird animosity to anyone who shops here on a regular basis.

I smile and look over her shoulder at an early customer. He's picking up different grapes and examining them as though his eyes were a microscope. "Aw, don't lose hope. You should fit right in." I never know exactly what to say to her, if I should be meaner or just let it go.

"Jerk." She punches my arm a little harder than I think could reasonably expected for the workplace and storms off.

"Don't mention it!" I laugh back sadly and trudge over to the elderly gentleman fondling the grapes. "Sir, can I help you?"

He turns his head around as though God has just spoken to him.

"Sir?"

"There you are!" He motions to the grapes. "Which of these have E. Coli?"

"Um...what?" I look at all the grapes. It's a mountain of the little guys, and this man wants me to determine which have E. Coli. "I'm pretty sure none of them do."

"Now now," he laughs, smiling at me, "I know your plan--get rid of the old farts before they become a burden. Just tell me which ones don't have E. Coli so I can see my grandkids tonight."

"Sir," I say, putting my hands on my hips, "none of these have E. Coli. If we knew they had E. Coli it would be illegal for us to sell them. Besides," I shrugged, picking up a bundle, "even if they did have E. Coli you'd live through the night."

"Sure I would." I look at his eyes for some glimmer of hope, some playfulness, but I don't see it. I think he might be serious about the E. Coli. "What's the difference in the red and white ones?"

I notice his hands are shaking. "White grapes evolved from red grapes. They don't have anthrocyanin in them."

He nods. "I'll take 'em."

"Okay..." I put a bundle of grapes in a plastic bag and weigh it for him. "There you go."

"No E. Coli?"

"No, sir," I grin. I wander away from the fruits and vegetables for a few minutes and follow a guy I've seen here before. He's in his mid-thirties, probably just graduated medical school and shops here to impress his friends who put so much value on where you buy your food products it's like a cult. He walks slowly into the wine section, carefully examining each of his options before pulling bottles down and more carefully reading their label before returning them. He does this several times to give the distinct impression that he's looking for something other than an excuse to get drunk, just in case someone is watching.

He does the same thing at the breads, the cheeses, and the fish. In the end, he leaves with a bag of bread he could have bought at a gas station for thirty cents less, a ten dollar gallon of milk, and a case of Perrier. I feel sorry for him, but I also realize it's because I feel sorry for myself. His shopping habits are like my life habits: sample everything, choose nothing. Pretend like there's someone in your life who might really care that instead of buying the whole wheat organic bread you picked up the low-fat white bread, even though you know it's totally going to add carbs to your already restricted diet.

"Hey!" Justin shouts at me. He's the sixteen year old store manager who took calculus with me this year. "Get back to the fruits and vegetables."

"Aye aye, cap'n." I turn away and march back to my station. I know this pisses him off, but at the same time I can't resist the temptation. He gives me warning glares to indicate that this morning his mom forgot to give him as much milk in his cereal as he usually likes. I begin reordering some of the bananas when he flies by me in a panicked stupor. I snicker when I hear him begin stuttering, but then look up and realize all of my coworkers have abandoned the scene.

The most heinous voice imaginable, every syllable dripping with elitist wealth, calls out to me. "You." I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up in fear.

"Nick."

I set the bananas down and slowly turn around, and there she is: Ms. Carlyle. She is robed in a black gown with a matching black hat, and I figure either she's come from a funeral or Hogwarts, though at the moment it's hard to tell which (no pun intended).

"Come here," Justin waves. "This is Ms. Carlyle. She needs you to help her get stuff."

She doesn't look like she should need help getting anything. "Okay...is there anything in particular?"

"No," Justin shakes his head. "Just everything."

Justin's body tells me not to ask, but his eyes begging me to take her away. She is obviously checking me out from her horn-rimmed glasses, but I pretend not to notice.

"Thanks," he mutters before vanishing.

"So..." she says, looking around. "Servant boy, I need some cranberries."

"Um...excuse me?"

"Cranberries," she said louder as if I were deaf.

"I heard the cranberries. What I--"

"Well?" She did not look happy. "Go get them before I call the manager."

I furrow my brow and take a breath before walking over to the cranberries and putting them in a plastic container. I weigh it and walk back over to her. "Um...where's your buggy?"

"Buggy?" she asks.

"Yeah. I'm not carrying this around the store."

"Then it would be advisable either you sprout some more arms or go get a cart." She's clever, this one. I traipse to the entrance and take one of the carts from Pedro and return to Ms. Carlyle, who has not moved. Instead, she seems to have perched in her spot, surveying all the people in the store and deeming those worthy of life and those not.

"Servant boy, I need some cheese."

I am not one of the ones deserving life. "We have hundreds of cheeses. Which one do you want?"

"I don't know. Why don't you go bring me a few back and we'll see."

"That could take all day."

She shrugs, unflinching. "Good thing you're paid by the hour."

Taking a long, deep breath, I walk over to the cheeses. It crosses my mind that I could quit this job right now. I don't really need it. I'm just doing it to spite my parents who don't even realize I'm spiting them, but, nonetheless, I pick up four blocks of cheese and walk back to her, but she isn't there anymore. The cart with her cranberries, however, is. This isn't the first time I've had to cater to customers, but usually they're the ones in wheelchairs or with canes--not perfectly healthy people, and none of them have called me servant boy.

"Servant boy!" It makes my blood boil as I push her cart towards her. "I think I want this butter." She puts her fingernail on the box she wants.

I shrug. "Okay." She watches me curiously as I watch her.

"Well?"

"Well?" I ask. "What do you mean?"

"Aren't you going to get it?"

No. I want to say no. "But you just touched it..."

"Yes, which I only had to do because it took you so long with finding the right cheeses to test."

My mouth drops in a full-on gape at this lady's audacity.

"Nice granny, Nick," Callie shouts as she walks by.

A smile slowly creeps across Ms. Carlyle's face as she glances from me to Callie and I feel immediately nauseated. I snatch the butter from its place and drop it in the basket, hoping to move on faster than slower.

"I think I need some champagne...." She moves to the winery, movements delicate as butterfly wings. "Which would you suggest?"

I scratch my head and stare up at the overwhelming amount of possible combinations and choices. "I dunno. I can't drink yet."

She looks at me again, this time a hint of curiosity in her eyes. "Servant boy, get me that one up there."

"Yes massah." I pull up my jeans which feel as if they're about to slide off my hips and stand on my tiptoes to reach the top shelf. The bottle is just out of reach, so my hand flails about up top until it has jiggled the champagne close enough for grabbing. I almost drop it on my head in the process of handing it to her, but she barely looks at it; instead staring at me.

"So, serv--"

"Okay. Stop. I'm not your servant boy, okay?" I don't know what came over me suddenly, but if I heard her call me her servant boy one more time I think I might have stabbed her right there, on spot. She probably wouldn't even bleed.

"What would you suggest I use to stimulate healthy intercourse with a colleague?"

Forget the anger. Bile suddenly rides its way up my throat as she looks down at me. "Come...again?"

"You know, discussion, intercourse, rapport. Which do you think would help?"

"I don't think any of these will help you. Come on. Let's go." I put my hand on the small of her back and guide her to the cashiers.

"Well, you're a pushy little thing, aren't you?" She straightens out her coat as though my fingerprints have somehow left indelible ink stains that will forever devalue her existence. Maybe she's right to do it; maybe I do leave terrible stains on everything I touch. If that's the case, though, at least I can rest easy knowing I touched her. As soon as I turn around she snaps, "Servant boy! I need you to take these out to my car, too."

"Yeah?" I ask. "And do you need me to ride home with you and unload them?"

Ms. Carlyle winks at the cashier. "He's a feisty one. I like him."

I roll my eyes and stumble towards her. She leads me outside to her brand new Mercedes, where she has me shove her groceries all the way to the back of the trunk. It's an uncomfortable procedure for anyone who's tried to do it: you have to bend across the bumper and duck inside the trunk, then pray to God you don't hit your head on the roof while moving things around. "There." I say, backing away from her. "All set."

She smiles. "How much are you?"

"Um..." I blink. "What?"

"How much to call you Servant Boy?"

"I'm not on sale."

She nods and pulls out her checkbook anyway. "Everyone has a price, dear." Watching her fill out the check is like watching a bad movie: you know it's going to end badly but somehow you can't quite pull yourself away until it's too late.

"Don't you...believe in treating people fairly?" I'm not sure why I ask this question. It has nothing to do with the current situation, but I'm at a loss for words and somehow this feels right.

She hums a tune as she tears out the check and glances back up at me. "I don't believe in balances. I do, however, believe in critical mass. Everyone has a point of no return, and you, dear, are no exception. So--how much?"

"I'm not doing this..." I mutter and turn around, shoving my hands into my pockets and walking away.

"Don't turn your back on me!"

"I put your damned groceries in the car; now leave me alone." I kick a loose rock across the gravel and close my eyes. She's still talking, but it's pretty easy to block her out with all the noises out here. Sometimes I think things turn out okay when I come to work; sometimes I think I've gone from the frying pan into the fire.

I could be anywhere right now. I could hitchhike, probably get raped and stabbed, or worse; I could ask a friend for a lift. I could be dead. And I suppose that's why I'm really here, feet dangling from the ledge of a condemned bridge: I could be dead. There's something comforting in the thought. I know most people, like Jill, are so scared of death they get locked up by it. Just the thought of losing somebody or yourself forever--they find it overwhelming.

I pick up a stray pebble and toss it into the running water. I can't even hear the splash it makes going in for all the noise of the turbulence--is that just a coincidence, or a sign from God? I can't decide, so I blink up and see the black blanket enveloping this city, this space, this time. I don't think I mean a thing to it, to anyone. Not really. It wouldn't even hear me if I ripped right through it's fabric.

But that's okay. I'm content to sit here and consider alternate dimensions:

worlds where things are different, people stay the same but their circumstances

change. I wonder if I would even recognize myself if one day I tumbled into one, like some kind of hellish Alice in Wonderland gone awry, and that's what overwhelms me. As long as I'm dead, I'm always going to be the same person. Once you die, you're immortalized, canonized against the backdrop of the world you're born into. But meeting myself in a new environment? What would we talk about, myself and I? The weather? the water? our family life? What if I was actually happy in one of those dimensions? Wouldn't that mean I failed in this life to create anything positive or worth remembering about myself? I think that would be worse than death.

I don't feel it tonight--the suction force of life pulling me into the riptide below. In fact, I've never felt it, but I'm pretty sure one day I will. At least I hope so. It'd be nice to finally have something worth dying for. I push myself up off the ledge and walk back to solid ground. It's unexciting, but at least I know it, and that's gotta count for something, right? And that's not to say just because I know it it's unexciting. I think if I lived on bridges all my life I'd know them but they'd still be exciting: you never know when the one you're on is going to finally snap, how much pressure it can take before it buckles under the weight of your guilt.

The slow return to the house, as usual, is filled with relief and regret. Relief at being somewhere I know; regret I'm still there. I climb the stairs to the front door and pull the key out of my pocket. As I insert it into the door handle, the door pushes open. I hesitate, look over my shoulder, and step inside.

"Hey, uh, Mom?" I shout. "I'm home." There isn't a response. I close the door and lock it. "Mom?" I jog up the stairs of our totally silent home, and then I see it: their bedroom door ajar, a dim light on and shadows pacing the room. I freeze in motion and slowly, quietly drop back to the first floor. I walk down the hall and notice something wrong: it's the smell. Not that I'm a rabbit or anything, but I know scents. This one isn't mine.

I see a shadow in my room and pause. I don't have a weapon, but at least if I die it'll be because I was protecting my family. "Um, excuse me?" I step into the doorway and see a young guy standing in my room. "Who are you?"

He stares at me, wide-eyed. "I'm...your father told me--"

"I asked who you are."

"Oh..." He sticks his hand out tentatively, afraid I might hack it off with a knife. I might. "I'm Dylan Trousdale."

I stare at his hand like he has leprosy. "So...?"

"Er...well..." he drops his composure for a second, "your father hasn't mentioned me."

I scoff. "Oh God...you're not the live-in, are you?"

"What?' He looks around as if there might be someone else I'm talking to. "Yeah, I'm the live-in. Why?"

"Just....you." I motion across his entire body as though it were something like misplaced luggage. "Why are you in my room?"

He looks uncomfortable, shifting back and forth on his feet under my stare. "I didn't...realize this was your room. They told me to come down here an--"

"Wait. They told you to come down here, to my room?"

"Uhm, well, yeah, but I was goi--"

I ignored him and walked out into the foyer. "MOM! MOM!"

Mother finally shows up at the balcony and looks down at me, exasperated. "What now, baby?"

"Why did you send this man to my room?" I grab Dylan's shoulder and pull him into her view. "Is this Father's live-in?"

"Yes, dear." She turns and quickly disappears from sight, then comes back. "He's the live-in. Honey, can we talk about this later--your father didn't take his meds and now he's--"

"Why's he in my room?"

"Because that's where he's staying." Mother says this as though it's a self-evident truth, emphasizing every word until it almost breaks beneath her fake dentures.

As she turns and walks away I yell out. "Why can't he stay with Jeffrey?"

I hear her sigh, think, and then respond, "Because Jeffrey has friends."

Dylan looks at me and shrugs helplessly. I brush past him, making sure my shoulder hits him, hard. I don't have a thing against the live-ins, but I do when they're live-in in my room. They're supposed to subsist in the guest house outside. I open the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of water.

I hear Mother step off the staircase and adjust her heels. I walk over to the counter and watch her force herself to smile at Dylan. I lean over and watch her carefully. "Why isn't he staying in the guest house?"

"Because the guest house is unlivable with the asbestos. Your father and I don't want anybody living in it until it's cleaned out."

I exhale through my nose. "So what--what are you?" I nod at Dylan.

He glances from me to Mother, surveying the appropriateness of a response. "Me? I'm a grad student in literature and psychology."

I nod, laughing incredulously. "Great! Just what we need: another wanna-be psychologist in the house."

Mother rolls her eyes. "Honey, don't be so rash about it. It's not like you couldn't use a good psychologist anyway." She winks at Dylan, and then it dawns me.

"You set me up," I stutter. "This morning--you kept asking because you were trying to figure out where he could stay. You used me to--"

"And!" she interrupted, shaking her head self-righteously, "you agreed. I've lived with you long enough, baby, to know what you need. Even you said it might be good for you to experience life on the wild--"

"No! You don't know the first thing about what's good for me! You just want what's good for you!" I break eye contact with her.

She finally nods. "Maybe so, but I've watched your grow up all your life, and I know when you need things."

"No, Mother, you don't! The observer contaminates what he's observing! Just stop trying to be my friend, okay? I don't need you to figure out what I want." I turn on Dylan. "And you stop it too. I can feel what you're doing. You think I'm a paranoid, delusional freak. Well stop making wild assumptions about me, okay? You don't know me."

There's a moment of silence before Dylan finally speaks. "I'm not making any assumptions you're not already making about yourself."

I don't know how to respond to this: what it means, exactly, I don't know. I close my eyes and wish, for just a second, that I'd jumped tonight.

"I don't see what the big deal is," Mother says. "It's just a bedroom." She shrugs and begins studying her nails.

"It's my bedroom!" I cry. "It's mine! You can't just put people in there with me whenever you want to!"

Dylan finally steps forward and places his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. "If it's...really this much of a problem, I can just go."

"Nonsense," Father says from the top of the staircase.

"Oh God..." Mother mutters just loud enough that everyone can hear her.

"You'll stay." He drops down the first step and pauses. "What're you all hot and bothered by anyway, Nick? Afraid Dylan'll catch you masturbating?"

Mother presses her eyes shut and shakes her head in embarrassment. I stand speechless.

"Hey, hey!" he says to her, trying to get her attention. "Remember the first time we walked in on him? He'd found that old magazine under our bed--"

"Oh my God," I moan. "Fine. He can stay. Whatever." I storm back to my room and stop just inside it. There's my bed, with my covers and my pictures on the night stand. My clothes are in the closet. My sneakers are in the corner. My books are on the shelves. And then in the middle of the room, in the middle of me, on my carpet, is his bag full of...him. How could they let him invade my private space like this without telling me?

"You put a lot of value on this room..." he says from behind me. I take a few breaths before responding.

"Yes, I do. It was pretty much the only thing that belonged to me."

He paused. "Do you always quote Heisenberger at your parents?"

"Do you always try to buddy up with the people you move in with before asking them?"

I can feel him staring at my back. Refusing to make eye contact, I walk to the closet and reach up to the top shelf and pull down a dusty, folded up sleeping bag. "I'm going to sleep." I unroll it on the floor against the wall opposite the bed. I slip into it and make sure I'm still facing the wall.

"Do you want me to turn off the--"

"Don't talk to me." I bury my face in the bag.

Chapter 2