I keep picking on the crumbs of the burnt toast I subjected myself to. Not that my mom refused to cook breakfast for her only son, or some melodramatic shit of that sort. It's just that cooking for myself was my sole tactic to get out of the family meeting scheduled at our breakfast table.

But my parents decided to outdo my wits by coming up with a new concept altogether– the weekend brunch. So, here we are,  gathered at the table after all, discussing all things shady and a very much visible copy of the suicide note found in Kylie's locker. That's what happens when your father fails to maintain a healthy work-life balance.

No matter how many times he gloats of protecting his son and his son's friends; we all know that deep down this is nothing but a fortune he has been handed by the authorities of Arlington, in exchange of keeping their prestigious identity safe and sound. Well, maybe they should have spent all that money on fixing the students lockers instead.

Though, who am I to talk about how precaution is better than cure? If I hadn't participated in that one night stand with Emma, all of this could have been easily avoided. Now that I know the harsh truth, there is nothing I can do about it. I can try and be a hero and reveal everything that she said, only to risk getting all of us behind the bars. Or I can purchase a discounted pair of binoculars from eBay and go out on a hunt for Kylie. But that would imply breaking my promise to Emma.

And from whatever she's narrated to me, I wouldn't want to be the smart ass going against her. Believe it or not, I spent that night tossing and turning as a horrid screenplay of that journal entry played in my head on a loop. The girl who brought literal chills to my body with her touch, has now become the reason for the shivers in my spine every time I see her.

"George, you have been sitting with that toast for twenty minutes now," my father looks at me with defeated eyes and just a hint of embarrassment. I have grown so habitual to this disappointment, I am afraid I won't be able to survive without it.

"Kell... we agreed to deal with this calmly," my mother has her ever bright smile on, but it fails to hide a similar crestfallen expression on her wrinkled face.

"Look... we know that this note is nothing but pure rubbish. That's why I have been working relentless night shifts to gather some proof or evidence in your favour, and possibly avoid a police statement on your college records," dad continues blabbing while I help myself with some butter to make my stone cold toast edible.

"I can only help you if you show some maturity and stop this classic teenage behaviour of keeping things from your parents." His usually stoic face does a whole routine of frowns and anger and disgust, making it all the more difficult to keep a straight face. "And it would be great if you cut ties with those troubled friends of yours, especially that girl who got out of rehabilitation," he finally gathers my attention with a new rant on the block.

"That girl has a name. At least that's what I learnt from all the times someone's addressed her as Mia. And secondly, every fucking student in Arlington is more or less troubled. My friends don't belong to some unearthly category." I shove the toast in my mouth, grinding the rest of the frustration on its hard surface.

"Watch your language, George!" my mother reprimands me, before apologising to Jesus for the sin I just committed. I am glad she doesn't know of the others, or else the rest years of her life would be spent in the confines of the church.

"I don't know why I even expect much from you, but that's what we need to do as parents. So, do all of us a favour and keep away from anything or anyone who can potentially be a cause of stress for you." He takes me by surprise with that subtle lack of  self-centre in his words. Someone's making major progress.

"Alright," I agree to the some what reasonable demand put forward on this table, laden with deviled eggs and turkey stew. So much for trying to get their hands off of a possible death.

"I think I am done," I take the half eaten toast to the sink and rush over to the bathroom to brush this obnoxious taste of pure bitterness off my tongue. I am sure that Archie would love to try this monstrosity with his black espresso.

When I found out that he gave statements against each one of us, I contemplated on talking to him about why he did it, or if something had forced him to do so. But when I saw him meeting up with the sports director of the university, I decided to maintain my distance from him. It would kill me if his chances at playing pro are wrecked because of his association with me... I know what that feeling of rejection does to you.

I almost slip back to the memory of that incident, when my ever growing trail of thoughts is put to an end by the only person who seems to be standing by my side, these days. "Morning Stinson," I recognise the smile creeping over my face as we speak.

"It's technically noon, but whatever. I was wondering if you could come to the Uni and help me out with this campaign I am heading. You might have heard of it, already. It's titled Justice for Kylie Meyers," she proudly states, while I freeze; the phone slipped off to the neck of my t-shirt.

"The idea just sort of came to me when everyone was chattering about it in the class, and I thought... what's the harm? Back in DixonValley high, I used to be at the frontline of all events, and at the end of the day, it is a social deed, right? Now I know that she was your friend and this might stir up unnecessary controversy for you, but if you look at the bright side– this could be your chance to redeem yourself in front of everyone," her cheerful voice rings in my ears like a fire alarm set off in an earthquake.

"Slow down, Stinson! Do you even hear yourself right now? Out of all the people, I had expected you to understand how sensitive this situation is. I am sure that your rumour radar has given you all the deets about the letter, the meetings, the case... then why the fuck are you getting in on this!" I lose my cool as the title of her campaign flashes in front of my eyes.

"I don't get why you are getting all hot and bothered over this innocent campaign? It's not like I am purposely trying to attack you or your friends. This is just to make people a little empathetic about the scandal and to get them off your back for a while." She  almost sounds genuine with the absence of her classic scoff and eye roll.

"Look, if you are so confident about all of this, then I won't stop you. But don't expect for me to come and participate in this little agenda. I am tired enough of hearing all the bizarre theories of what people think might have happened. And I have to inevitably deal with the same shit tomorrow as well." I quietly dread the Monday blues ahead of the day.

"Fine, grumpy pants. Then I guess we aren't meeting up until I am done with this campaign!" She slams her phone; probably for the purposes of inducing drama, and to give a teaser of her fuming anger. Could this day be any more worse?

***

If I had stayed in the house for even a minute more than I did, I am sure my insides would burnout and reduce me to billowing grey smoke, eventually evaporating in the tight air of its surroundings.

It sounds like an exaggeration, but it's the only metaphor I can think of, as I sit by the stands of Watkins Glen International racetrack. This was practically my home on weekends, back when I was a three footer, wearing a orange popsicle hued NASCAR cap, a checked shirt and belted cow boy jeans, shouting and cheering for the racers on the field.

Every time I saw those cars speeding past the burning asphalt tracks, triggering sparks due to the friction between the tires and the pavement, a rush of adrenaline coursed through my entire body, and made the floor beneath my feet as good as a fucking trampoline.

Though, it wasn't only about the crazy blood flow in my veins as I witnessed the racers taking laps across the length of the track. Coming down here, fulfilled my undying fetish for cars and motor vehicles. There is something about watching those polished and engineered beauties– the precision of its matte surface, the revving of the engine, the organic movements of the tires, and the pungent smell of burning rubber taking over the senses... it's just pure gold.

"Hey, George!" Hanson shouted from the empty tracks, signalling for me to come over. He is appointed as a temporary manager to look over the place until this year's Grand Prix festival. I met him in these very stands, when I was seven. We used to debate over Schumacher and Damon Hill for the most, and shared fries and coke for the rest time. None of us knew anything about each other– except for the fact that both of us had Ferrari posters on our bedroom walls. I can bet he still has one.

When I got a call from him after ages, he felt nothing less than a life saviour– giving me a good enough reason to escape the scrutinising gazes of my parents. Plus, sitting here under the warm blanket of the sun, watching cars go by in a loop is probably the best therapy I can reward myself with. Or so I think until my gaze lands on an all too familiar face; a guy holding a royal blue paint bucket and a brush, strapped to a ladder at the far end of the  stadium.

Zack Morreti. But how?

He was a part of the lacrosse team back in the freshman year– one of the best players and the leading captain of the team for over two consecutive years. It didn't look like anyone could break his reign, until he himself took upon the challenge of getting thrown out of the team.

The guy had become a full blown alcoholic in just a month, and had multiple police records against his name. He had stopped coming to most practice sessions, and even if he did– you could smell the rum reeking off his drowsy body.

After a few lost intercollegiate events and championships, he was given some time off by the coach to get into rehab and get back in the game. But he fell off the wagon instead, and did something terrible under the intoxication. His drunk self rammed a bike while speeding on the streets, and he conveniently fled from the sight to leave an injured boy all by himself. The boy wasn't left with any choice, except for the sole option of calling 911.

As you would expect, the injured victim filed a case against Zack, and made him show up to a court trial. That day marked the end of whatever little normalcy his screwed up life was left with. He had lost his place in the team, he had been expelled from the university, and he had a front page article published in the NY times under his name– LOCAL BOY GETS INVOLVED IN A HIT AND RUN CASE.

Though, none of it even compared to the judgement of the court. He was fined with a whopping ten thousand bucks and sentenced to a five year jail time– all because of his futile addiction and his uncanny ability of sucking up to the authorities. No matter how many games he lost, the bastard still wore the tag of captain with such pride and dignity... it was borderline frustrating. The real victims were the players who had the capability of taking the lead of the team, and were still shoved to the sidelines to give spotlight to Zack's drunk ass.

So, one of them decided to take the matter in his own hands. All I needed was a bottle of clear vodka, access to Zack's protein shake tumbler, and some mad brave skills to go ahead and stage an accident involving a drunk driver and his speeding jeep. It was risky; handling an already broken bike on a dark street. But the outcome was better than expected.

I am now the rightful captain to Arlington's lacrosse team, and have led the university to victory in each and every fucking championship in the sophomore year. Lacrosse isn't just a game to me, it is something I survive off of. The four corners of the field mark my territory, and I don't hesitate to mess with anyone who thinks otherwise.

"George!" Hanson shouts yet again, and makes me realise that I  zoned out on the stairs of the stands.

"Coming!" I keep an eye out for Zack while walking down, but he is nowhere to be seen. I might have mistaken someone else for him... it's the only reasonable explanation I can think of at the moment.

"What are your thoughts about this?" Hanson points to a blazing red Ferrari F430. The very model that raced at the FIA GT Championship.

"Holy shit!" I gape at the glimmering surface of the car, reflecting my face like a mirror. Within seconds of looking at it, I begin picturing myself in the driver's seat, speeding through the track like a Formula 1 racer. Just the thought of accelerating this crafted perfection takes me to cloud nine.

"I know, boy," Hanson gasps at the fascinating sight. "Want to take a hand at this?" He holds out the car keys, whilst leaning on its bonnet. The guy looks like a brand ambassador with his tall, dark and well built figure. I would be threatened if I wasn't aware that girls aren't his thing.

"You're kidding, right?" I shrug it off until he legit places the keys in my hand, which shakes like a daruma doll gone haywire. "Are you even permitted to do this?"

"Yeah... I mean, it's an empty track after all. Plus, I have blind faith in your driving skills, I know you won't disappoint me." He  conveniently hangs the sword over my head moves to the stands.

I stare at the silver keys like I did when I first saw Rachel in a bikini in the university pool. She wouldn't want to know this. Once I get in the car I make sure to click a thousand pictures of this once in a lifetime moment. Only if I knew, it really was going to be just that one time.

As I press the accelerator, the car zooms off to a rocky start, but soon glides like butter through the sun stricken tracks. My heart takes a leap every time I complete a lap, and I am sure my expressions resemble the amused version of a Pikachu, if something like that even exists.

Even though I am on a race track, it feels like I am driving by the roads of a ranch– nothing but warm breeze occasionally running past my messy hair, and a dewey after-rainfall scent accompanying the light gusts. An ideal long drive on a weekend.

Unless the calmness in your surroundings is disrupted by a wheezing sound.

I take a brief look in the rear view mirror to find another car gearing up behind mine, and dangerously close if I am to go by the whole 'objects in the mirror are closer than they appear' shit printed on the mirror handles. I shift the gear further to avoid any collision, but it manages to speed up to my side within seconds.

"What the fuck!" I struggle to maintain my grip on the steering, as he steers both of us to the pavement and purposefully collides to jerk off my balance. I try to push past his Challenger, but it only triggers more sparks because of the friction. The driver appears to be on an overdose of meth and ecstasy, judging by his rather amazing 'on the road skills.'

He continues with the competition, until the windows of his car roll down to reveal his face. My eyes almost trip over themselves as I clearly spot his haze filled drunken eyes... and the same arrogant smile pasted on his beaten up face. What the hell is he up to?

Before I can gather the situation, he takes a sharp turn by the side and sends my body flying off the leather seats. I miserably drop to my side, watching the car slide over to the stands like a bowling ball gone out of order.

A crashing sound echoes through my ears and blacks everything out– lifelessness threatening my aching bones. The only assuring part is the loud thumping of my heart, gathering pace with the pain exerting through my body. My head, my arms, my neck, and everything else feels like it has been broken into a thousand pieces and taped back together in a haste.

Except for my legs, which seem like they have been detached from the rest of my crumbling body. I cannot feel anything even close to a sensation below the hem of my jeans– the fabric feeling like it's dangling on two pieces of wood. My eyes are glued shut due to the moisture of the sweat dripping down my head, and partly because I am too afraid to even look.

Blood rushes through my head to induce shock waves as I convulse down to the matted floor of the car. A nauseating feeling cripples in my throat, when I realise I am entirely laying on the weight of my concussed head. Too tired to make an effort to push it back, I let out the blood laced bile on the white sleeve of my shirt, and find comfort in the sour smell overpowering my half drooped down senses.

The dying nerves of my body give an illusion of a gripping coma, until someone slaps my flushed face to make me aware of the chaos around me. I can spot a few hazed faces, but they clear out before I can recognise any of them. Only one of them stays– the one with spiked blue hair and a stitched up scar on his neckline.

Zack.

"How does it feel, Bub?" He laughs at my poor state until his expressions switch over to agony. "Revenge isn't a sweet pill, right? Well, neither was prison," he grabs hold of a patch of hair covering my eyes and forces me to acknowledge his presence.

"You don't even know what I have been through in these past few months... sleeping on stone cold floor, taking a piss in front of a fucking crowd, escaping a hell lot of instances of molestation, balling my eyes out when those cops shoved my ass to mush!" His grip feels like it would rip the amber strands off of my bloody head. "All the suffering because of your well planned stint to kick me off the team." His nostrils flare up along with his raggedy voice.

"Huh?" I am barely able to react to his accusations; my focus set on the numb spreading throughout my body.

"You didn't think I would ever come for you, right? Now you know that your crappy past eventually catches up with your ideal life."

"How did you..." I struggle to push the words out of my dry throat. These exact words were penned down in her suicide note. Zack said the same. Does that mean... he is the one?