She continues to tease with the constant twirling of her light caramel hair around the pencil in her hand, muttering a series of sweet sounding words while she is at it.

Of course it's just my luck that I got an appointment with a recently graduated student, who is more picky about the acid wash of her denim shorts than the quality of the leg rest in her consultation office. Don't even get me started on the way she occasionally giggles at me– mostly every time I pull open a button of my shirt to get some air in this six by six closed casket. I'd absolutely hate to find another therapist to help me get over these creepy stares, I'm bound to face every other week.

When my parents suggested I go see a shrink to cope with all drama happening around my life, I almost laughed in their faces. It's cute how they believe, chit chatting for an hour with some psych major, who wants to earn quick cash to pay off the instalments of her Honda, will help me get over the fact that a whole patch of my life got wiped out just like that. All it took was a slam on the brakes and everything basically went it hell. Not to leave out all the court visits to get that dog back in it's cage. Yet again.

"You know, it would really help if you're more open about your feelings with me," she intently looks at me, batting those fake eyelashes. Too bad, I invented the handbook she is desperately scraping pages off of.

"I'm glad you asked, because I have been particularly struggling in a department since these bad boys gave up," I heave a sigh, playing along as she picquet interest. "Going down during intercourse is becoming a hell of a task for me."

Her mouth hangs open at my statement, washing off the peach liquid she has layered her doughy skin with. She consciously covers the bare skin flashing above the waist line of her jean shorts before returning back to the sticky notes on her clipboard. I bet, hawt is penned down in capital in one of those silly chits of paper.

"So, in all seriousness, how're you coping with this sudden change in your life?"

The therapist handbook's in play I guess. "Well, I'm waking up everyday, eating a three course meal, taking a bath, doing my homework, and catching up on old video tapes of all the championships I have ever played... because that's what I apparently do now," I take another spiteful sip of the caffeinated Kool-Aid sitting in front of me.

It's a shitty filter coffee, you can only find in la casa de therapy.

"George, I get that this isn't something you can deal with overnight, and it is unreal for someone to even expect so. Take your time, and do whatever seems good to you right now. I won't push you to get back to your old routine, but it would only benefit you if you try to reinstate some of those things already," she throws a genuine smile at me, except that the dripping desire is still very much visible.

Anything is better than the classic sympathy nod, though.

"I guess we are done for the day," I don't even bother to take a glance at the antique clock hanging off the pale pink walls, and pull the wheelchair to my side.

"Should I help you?" She immediately gets up from her seat, completely defying the I am as bad as it gets quote printed on her t-shirt.

"Thanks for the offer, but I can manage," I struggle for a minute or so, but end up placing my ass on the chair at the end of the day. And here I was thinking all these years, that doing a three minute plank is a tough job for my body.

"Your parents told me that one of your close friends has recently passed away," she gulps at the end, probably worrying that I might try to attack her with my two wheeled ride. "I'm sorry for your loss. We aren't at a point so as to delve into this, but how have you been handling it?"

Just the mention of it stings. It fucking stinks "You're right, we aren't at that point. Goodbye until next week," I half heartedly wave at her before dragging myself out of the paint scented office. The fumes only worsened the obnoxious aftertaste of all the pills I am forced to shove in my mouth, day and night.

I almost resonate with my horrid fate until my eyes land on someone I have been keeping myself away from, despite the relentless urges flooding almost every vein of my body.

"Stinson."

I don't even realise that I blurted it out loud, cursing myself as she turns behind to look at me. Correction, to frown at me, like every third person does when coming across my poor state. I don't give a flying fuck about any of them, but I do care about how Rachel sees me. The mischievous grin she has on her glossed lips every time we meet, has now been replaced by this frown– and it doesn't suit her at all. To think that I helped her get rid of it once upon a time, and now I am the reason for these wiry lines creased on her forehead.

"George," she attempts to get rid of the shock, nervously tucking her hair behind her ears.

"Hi," I avoid looking at her sage green eyes, which somehow always succeed in overcoming the better judgement of my mind, and make me do things I would most definitely regret in retrospect.

"Greetings can be done later, but firstly what's up with those unbuttoned cuffs," she scoffs and comes forward to grab hold of my arm, buttoning up the cuffs in a haste. "I didn't expect such a fashion faux-pas from you," she takes a few steps behind to approve of the folds of the sleeves of my shirt.

"See, much better."

"Is this the reason why you were frowning at me?"

"Obviously," she shrugs, making it all better within a snap of fingers. "Why are you here, anyway?"

"I heard that the therapist over here is insanely hot, so I decided to take a trip after all," I watch her cheeks go crimson as the words tumble out of my mouth. "Just kidding. I was getting schooled about how I should live my life, in there," I can't help but chuckle as she loses the huffiness, gradually getting back to her calm and collected self.

"Welcome to my world. I know it is frustrating, but take it from a pro– it does get better with repetition," she flips open a compact in her hand, scrunching her nose as she checks for patches of pale on her face. At least, I can rely on her for being a constant in my whirlwind of a life.

"So, where are you headed now?" She asks.

"Nowhere, back to my fortress of solitude," I try to make it sound less sad than it really is.

"I see... then you better change your plans, because there is a great brunch place near Central Park, I have been dying to go to," she dumps the compact in her purse, and simultaneously takes out the keys to her Mercedes.

"I would love to, but I have got to complete these assignments," I give up on the urges, no matter how much it goes against every fibre of my being.

"You better try this excuse on someone naive enough to believe it. I am not taking this shit, Bailey," she begins to push my wheelchair forward before I get another chance to refuse.

To be honest, I did make a crappy excuse.

***

I take my sweet time to get out of the car, partly because the leather of the seats is more comfortable than the mattress of my bed, and partly because I am too habitual to enter into a cafe on the support of my two legs. It might seem old school, but that's how I have come to be.

"George, I don't think this place serves as much of a variety during evenings," she impatiently taps her fingers against the bonnet of the car, toying with her shades between intervals.

"I don't think I can do this," I lean back to observe the crowd in there. One of these people could easily be a friend of a friend, or some long lost contact that gets a chance to gape at everything that's different about me. Not only that, but they won't hesitate to give a run to the rumour mill with their wild speculations about how I ended up in the handicap section of the parking lot.

"Why? You're feeling odd amongst all these dum-dums? She leans on the window beside me.

"Now I definitely am," I put my aviators back on, waiting for her to get the signal.

"Alright," she saunters towards the trunk of the car, leaving me confused. It is only when she comes back to her earlier spot, that I realise how hell bent she is on tagging me along with her.

"You can't own this cardigan, Stinson. No way!" I break out into a full fledged laughter for the first time, since after an eternity almost. I don't intend to mock her, but the bubble gum hue of her sweater is right there in my eyes, begging for me to comment on it. Not to leave out the three dimensional bunny face sticking out in the middle of the cardigan, and it's long ears bending on either sides. If that wasn't enough, the bunny is wearing what seems like a polka dotted sheer nib. You can try, but you cannot ignore when so much is going on in a single piece of cloth itself.

"I bet you are feeling pretty comfortable now, huh?" She folds her arms to her chest, looking more appalled than I have ever witnessed her to be. Meanwhile, I am struggling to keep a straight face.

"I am, but you don't need to do this," I pinch myself to keep from poking anymore fun at this very regular, but extremely pink... pinkish sweater.

"The damage is already done, so you better not flip out on me now," she pulls the door of the car open, shooting daggers at my nervous ass.

"Alright," I make it past the horde of stares and gasps, and mentally applaud myself as I settle in the corner most table of the cafe. I didn't have any reservations as such, but Rachel didn't want to look like a mannequin-on-display in the Walmart's kids section on a Christmas Eve. These aren't her exact words, but I summed it up pretty well.

Although, her sweater almost makes up for a normal sight by the time we order and literally hog on the food on our table. She goes for a chicken salad and a taco infused pita bread, while I spoil myself with a grilled steak and mashed potatoes on the side.

"Aren't you worried about the calories you are gobbling?" She shakes her head, whilst I continue to ram the steak with a fork and knife.

"It's cool to cheat on your diet once in a while. I mean I know that coach would disapprove of this, but..." my voice trails off as I realise the place I was inadvertently heading to, in this sudden haze of normalcy.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to... whoa, take a look at those," her eyes go wide at whatever item of clothing, or rather brand label she has spotted in the vicinity. Still, I take a glance for her sake and come across something so stunning, my mouthful of steak begins to drool over it.

"Excuse me," Rachel calls the waitress close to our side. "Can we have what those people are having?" her exhilarated voice makes the waitress chuckle before she goes over to the pastry counter to assort the tray.

As she brings the cupcake laden tray, both of us brace ourselves to pounce on the little thingies. But the waitress takes a moment to place it on the table, probably aware of our devilish instincts. "Great choice, ma'am, but I would advice you to take some time to relish the distinct flavour crafted into each one of these. Last time, you and your friend were really quick with the caramel mud pie."

The waitress breaks into a brief laughter, while Rachel turns pale inspite of the thousand low hung bulbs around casting light on her face. "Friend, is it?" I unknowingly pick out a lemon cheesecake one out of the tray, that breaks apart my coy smile.

"One of many," she shrugs it off before fidgeting with the chain of the diamond bracelet strung on her tiny wrist.

"Good to know that I am on the list as well."

She doesn't make eye contact, but a chunk of her honey blonde hair falls apart from the conceal of the pins and makes a statement enough on behalf of her shattering self. "What's that supposed to mean? Just because I brought Brandon along earlier, doesn't make it any less special for us."

The first time that she addressed us as 'us.' But I was too focused on something else to let it sink in, "Brandon? You shared a fucking mud pie with that blondie?"

"Do you know him? Even if you do, why does it make a little catching up such a big deal? God, you're acting like we are a couple." She ceases herself, but the words have already made themselves known and exceedingly clear at this point.
"I— I didn't mean to snap, it's just that... let's go someplace else. I heard about this new pizza joint nearby, kind of hep and–"

"I am not coming," I announce with a bitterness laced on my mouth, ever since I forced fed myself that lime cupcake. "I am supposed to meet someone in a bit, so I am good. You are free to leave, though."

She begins to say something but decides to swallow her words instead; a tad bit too late if you ask me."I understand."

A sad smile graces her lips all the while that she picks up her clutch, adjusts the folds of her plaid skirt, and makes her way out of the booth to walk away. I can't help but watch her steps retreat once again— a little shaky this time, as she almost drops her purse and lets a few lipsticks fall out on the floor along with a laminated card. Most of the content of the card is not visible, except for a bold header on top. "Diconval..." I barely get a grasp on it before she picks it up and shoved the card alongside the rest of her cosmetics. This would be thr first time that I have seen her handle her 'basics' as she says, in such a hasty manner.

Then again, I think we have established that I am not aware of every nook and cranny of her life, and that she wants to keep it that way. No problem at all.

Although, I bet that she completely misread when I told her, I was meeting someone else. If I could tell her, I would have done it right away. But this needs to stay in our circle, or else the day when I am cuffed by a real cop won't be very far. Not that it isn't a valid threat now– the police, the fire, the article, the speculations... everything is pointing towards our eventual doom. There's only one way to escape it all– to predict the next move of whoever it is, we are dealing with.

I hope Brian can give me that necessary lead. He is a cousin of one of my lacrosse buddies, and more importantly a sophomore in DixonValley high school. I got in contact with him to request a small favour. Nothing too difficult, just a few bits and pieces of information about his classmates. He was a little sceptical, but the poor guy's more scared of getting a wedgie from his brother, so he agreed anyway. I don't know if he is trustworthy, but even a fabricated piece of gossip can be useful to our sinking ship.

"George?" Someone pats my shoulder, scaring the living day lights out of whatever part's left alive in me. I look behind to find this anxious adolescent, broad frames glasses perched on a freckled nose, dressed in a stripped tee and beige trousers, only missing a white little Snoopy dog to pave his path of becoming the face of a worldwide circulated comic strip.

"Brian?"

"Yup," he plainly answers, still in place like a kid who just got punished to detention. I have a hunch, he will gladly hand over his lunch money along with the information, if I just look him in the eye for more than two seconds. Not that I am thinking of doing it. Not anymore.

"Why don't you sit, Brian?" I guide him towards the now empty seat across mine. "Thanks for coming all the way down here."

"It's fine," he rests his bony arms over the table, looking everywhere but in my direction. "Mike told me, you wanted to know something about my school."

"More precisely, about your classmates. I read in the newspaper that one of your classmates is missing, and that he was diagnosed with a disorder. What exactly happened with him?" I try to be casually about it, because as much as I don't want to, I can spot sweat beads gathering around his greasy hair.

"Kell? I never really talked to him, but the people he hung out with, definitely seemed a little shady," his arms tremble as he narrates it further. "They were often caught with alcohol in the classes, not to mention even a little marijuana at times. Though, none of it was ever treated as a case of serious violation by the authorities. Except for suspending those students for a few days, or maybe giving a week or two of detention, they were always let off the hook. I don't blame the school board entirely, but the drug racket could have been prevented by some vigilance."

I almost doubt my ears when he says it, "Drug racket?"

"Yeah..." he pulls his hands off the table, eyeing the double decker cheese burger on the table next to us. Not with hunger, but with a whole lot of doubtfulness, he is probably too afraid to lay on me. "I should warn you beforehand, this story can be really triggering."

"Thanks, but I'll be fine," I keep myself from chuckling at his apparent warning.

"Alright. So, once Kell and the rest of his gang began to get away with their usual antics, they decided to take it a step further. One of them got his hands on cocaine, and they just took chances getting high in the class. Everyone but the sleepy professor could see the hazardous powder lying open on his desk, while he and his friends took turns dumping it down their nostrils. Despite of the atrociousness of that scene, it was still not as dangerous as what had come out of it. The actual trouble ensued when someone offered to buy a stash from the gang, and later sold that same stash to the next party in line. It hardly took a month for this vicious cycle to engulf a major portion of DixonValley in its clutches. Half of them had turned into addicts, while the other half had become a dealer community. It was utterly surprising that not even a speck of cocaine had come into the sight of an authority figure as yet. Except that when it did, it shook the whole school."

He knocks off a glass of water, whilst trying to get a hold on his trembling hands. The waitress nearby comes rushing over with a cloth to clean the table and to replace the glass with a fresh one. None of us dares to speak for a good whole minute, observing the little incident that just happened.

"What were you taking about?" I murmur, my eyes never leaving the fizzy water in the glass.

"They were at a house party in Manhattan, and everyone had their regular refreshments by their side– varieties of alcohol, packs of cigarettes, joints, pot, crack, meth, and basically anything that gets you to believe that the world is a one big rainbow. Splashes of colour everywhere. At least that's what I have learnt from a documentary on rehabilitation," he decides to act on the need to defend himself for some reason. "By ten in the night, most of them were sprawled out all over the place, getting their hands on whatever was laid out in front of them. Nothing bad happened while there hazy steps were limited to the confines of the house. It all went down when Kell and his gang shifted their party to a club."

"Club?" I blurt out, whilst regretting it at the same time.

"Yes, I think they went to..." He frantically looks for the source of vibration in his clothes, pulling out a flip phone from his trousers at last. "I won't be late, I know it's time," he hangs up and lifts his scared ass from his seat without any warning.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"I have an important lecture to attend to, otherwise I would've told you the rest," he simply states and hangs his duffel bag over his shoulder. "Do you need a ride?"

"You can't just leave me hanging, alright. So you better complete that story, kid, and then go to whatever fucking lecture you want to," I suppress the urge to grab his collar and shove him back to where he was sitting earlier.

"You can't force me to speak anything, that's against the law. Consider it a favour that I disclosed so much without even getting a valid reason from you," he grabs on to the strap of the duffel bag, taking heavy breaths once his outburst is done bursting. "Now, I don't want to be a rude citizen, so I am requesting you to let me drop you at your house."

"You are a rare breed, aren't you?" I follow him to his car across the street, taking accidental kicks at his baggy trousers every once in a while.

I admit that I am not a fan of accelerating through the roads after the incident, but driving at twenty kilometres is downright mocking a four wheeler. I can't even yell at him to overtake that bicycle, or else he might start sobbing right here in the car. These sensitive sixteen year old pricks shouldn't be handed a license in the first place.

"The driver behind us is not respecting the minimum distance rule at all," he gulps at the sight of another car in the rear view mirror. Actually, Charlie Brown might be right after all. The car does seem pretty close to ours.

"Speed up," I clutch on to the handle on the door, whilst trying to keep the flashbacks away. The racetrack, the cars, the constant bumping, the devious smile on Zack's face, and the way he toppled me over to the stands within seconds... everything plays out in front of my eyes while they remain glued to the black Mercedes gearing up behind us. Wait a second.

A sudden hit almost makes the both of us jump out of our seats, and gives me a chance to get a clear look at the blonde in the driver seat. She is wearing a cap to cover her face, but I can very well identify the literal rose coloured shades she is donning. Why is she doing this?

"Lord, help me," Brian pushes the gear, but fails to miss another hit on the trunk of the car. This chase of hit and miss goes on until Brian takes a steep turn at the corner of the street, making the Mercedes crash into the shutter of a scrap shop.

"What the hell did you do?"

"I don't know, I guess I saved our lives," he looks at me with puzzled expressions.

"Stop the fucking car right away," I grab on to the neck of his tee, looking into the fear brimming in his eyes as he slams the brakes. "Now you're going to take a turn and go back to the place that Mercedes crashed, because I fucking love the girl who was driving that car. And, god forbid if I spot something even as little as a scratch on her body, you are going to be DixonValley's next missing kid to make headlines."

Even I'm a little terrified of the venom in my tone, but this one just stares until a vicious grin takes over his dorky face. "I knew something's wrong with you, or else who in their bloody right mind would fall in the traps of Rachel Stinson."

It's my turn to slump back in the leather seats of the Volkswagen. "How do you know who Rachel Stinson is?"

He laughs humourlessly at my queries. "How do I know Rachel Stinson? How would I not know about the girl who is responsible for taking my best friend's life? If it wasn't for her constant bugging to get him to smuggle crack, he would be alive right now. She was the one who wanted a party, who wanted to have fun off of my friend's money, and the one who pissed him off so much that he left for the club all by himself."

"Your friend?" I join the pieces together as he clenches his palm into a fist, making knuckle breaking sounds. "You aren't Brian, are you?"

"Guess what, you solved the mystery after all. I am Kell Rhodes, you dumbass. Everyone thinks I went missing because of my fucking disorder, because that's the label you get when you can't get over losing one of your best friends," he takes a hit at the steering wheel, uttering a bunch of curses at the same time. "I need some air," he gets out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. That escalated real fast.

"George," a panicked voice makes me look over to the window on my side. "You're okay?" She asks, placing a reluctant hand over my jaw.

"Yeah," I nod, even though my mind is rotating in circles right now.

"I'm sorry. I was just trying to protect you."

"I got that," I aimlessly begin running my hands all over my hair as she continues to look at me, the vulnerability of her expressions a warm chaos as if, making me want to hold and kiss all her worries away, yet choking me at the same time. "You didn't hear that," that very concise and loud, profanity punctuated confession of love. "Did you?"

A semblance of a smile creeps over her face, but falters away just as quickly. "No, I did not."