"Hey," Paolo says. He leans a little closer to me I think.

"You guys walking towards New England History?" she says in her ultra-chirpy version of her voice.

I eye her, trying to assess the situation. "Yeah."

"Cool. Paolo, have I told you that I have the worst assignment ever?"

She blabs and blabs and pushes her way next to him so I'm left trailing behind them the whole way, looking at their butts as they walk on. Paolo looks back at me, stops, waiting for me to catch up, but what's the point really? I mean, c'mon. Mini skirt vs. John Wayne. Give me a break.

At home, Mike has left me a note.

Went out with my sister.

It isn't very long. Short, quick, to the point, not like how he talks at all.

I am so happy that he's gone that I do a little two-step line-dancing thing all around the kitchen. I kiss the refrigerator and pretend it's Paolo Mattias. I have obviously completely lost it.

"Settle down," I tell myself like I'm some uppity nervous horse. "Whoa."

A good yank opens the refrigerator door. There's been a Coke heist, again. Some cowardly thief has stolen all the Coke. A good fist slams the fridge door shut and knocks off a couple magnets holding up my eighth-grade report card.

"Damn him," I say and then I head into the family room. Sometimes my mother stores extra Cokes under the bar that we never use. I get on my knees to look for some and there isn't any. One sixteen-ounce bottle of ginger ale, but ginger ale doesn't have caffeine and I need caffeine if I'm going to be able to stay awake and do all my homework. My hands shake because I am already going through withdrawal. Chocolate has caffeine. Maybe I'll have chocolate milk to pep me up.

As I start to stand, I pivot a little bit and look at the ankle-high shelf behind the bar where my stepfather lined up all the bottles of booze he kept for when he and my mother had company. There are ten bottles, at least, maybe fifteen. The summer before eighth grade, Nicole and I tried some. I liked the Scotch the best, because it felt like what alcohol was supposed to feel like, hot and burning. It reminded me of damsels in distress who have just witnessed horrible, terrible, monstrous things in the hot, dusty streets of Durango and need some boosting as the bartender's helper runs to get them some dry tweed clothes.

Nicole's favorite was Bailey's Irish Cream, a girlie drink, like milk and sugar.

When I start to get up, I notice that the bottles don't look the same. Grabbing the first one that I see, Kahlua, I screw the top off of it and look inside. Nothing in it. I grab some Scotch, J&B. Twisting off the top I already know what I'll see when I look inside, but I look anyway. Nothing. Bottle after bottle. Scotch. Vermouth. Vodka. Gin. Tequila. Nothing in any of them. All of them empty. Every single one. Even the brandy.

Fact #1: It's been three years, and they are all gone.

Fact #2: My mom doesn't drink.

Fact #3: Mike does drink.

Fact #4: Mike puts booze in his Coke in the middle of the day.

Fact #5: Mike has only been here three days and there are twelve empty bottles, which would mean he's downing four bottles a day. Can you even survive that?

My hands place all the bottles back where they belong. My hands are shaking. I don't understand what's going on in most of my head. But this tiny little part of my tiny little brain might have something almost figured out and it's pushing my body into action.

Standing up, I stare down at the labels, at the caps. In the little garbage can that's been empty since my stepdad died are plastic seals that Mike O'Donnell must have taken off when he opened untouched bottles. The ginger brandy had never been opened, I remember, and the tequila.

I try asking my mother about the whole Jessica-Brian beating up thing at dinner and she gives me a glare that means stop talking. She doesn't want Mike to hear.

So I lean across my pork chops, which are pale and dry and ugly and try to whisper to her, "What are we going to do about Jessica?"

She hushes me and says in a real loud voice, a fake happy voice, "Mike, sweetie, would you mind getting me some aspirin from the bathroom. I have an awful headache."

He jumps up, his face all concerned. "Of course. How many?"

"Two."

The moment he's gone, she pushes her chest forward and says, "There is nothing going on with Jessica."

My fork clatters to the floor, keeping company with my jaw. "What?"

"There is nothing going on with Jessica."

"He's beating her up!"

"Keep your voice down." She shoves herself up and gets me another fork from the kitchen. "Jessica is not your problem."

"She's my sister."

My mother cuts her meat with quick sharp slashes and whispers, "Not your problem."

"We have to save her." I stab my fork into the mashed potatoes. "Somebody has to save her."

My mother leans back in her chair, closes her eyes. "We can only save ourselves."

After dinner, Mike goes to watch TV and we clear off the table. He doesn't help, of course.

"I'm worried about Jessica," I say, grabbing two glasses.

"I'm sure she's fine." She takes the glasses from me and rinses them. I get some plates, load one on top of the other.

"But what about Brian?"

"She is fine." My mom accentuates each word. I put the plates on the counter. CNN blares in the background. Mike watches TV too loudly. The anchorman drones on about a man shooting up a Best Buy. Mike yells, "Yee-haw." And starts clapping. The pork chop solids up my stomach, weighing me down. What is it about some men? Do they think being stupid is cute?

I imagine going to Jessica's house. There's Brian with his fists, and his mouth, and his twisted face. He's going to hit her and I reach up and grab his arm, just like that.

What would I say?

I'd say, "Think again, partner."

I'd say, "Pick on someone your own size."

But with my mother, tonight, while she washes dishes, all this anger is burning inside me like strong gin. It just sizzles there in my esophagus. How can she pretend like things are fine? How can she pretend that?

"But what about her face?" I put a plate upside down on the counter. "Remember, Mom? Her face?"

My mother shoves her hands into the hot, sudsy sink water. "It was nothing."

She doesn't even look up.

So then I just pull out both barrels, all the big guns. "Don't you think Mike drinks a little too much?"

She throws down her dish rag. It plops into the sink. "What is wrong with you? Do you want everyone to be miserable? You want everybody to be just like you?"

I stand there. I do not stand there. I turn. I walk away.

Pow.

Well, the first week that Mike O'Donnell stays with us stinks. At night there are moans. In the afternoon he is there. Everything is different. It smells like man socks and Wal-Mart cologne. At night my mother talks all prissy and giggles. I don't get to drink straight from the milk jug and I always have to remember to be polite and cover my mouth when I cough all the time, and sometimes I feel a little displaced, like I wonder if this house really is my house or whether or not I've been suddenly hurtled into this parallel universe where I'm actually good at something (acting) and maybe even have a boy who could possibly like me (Paolo Mattias) and where Nicole might not really be my best friend anymore. But mostly it feels as if I've been taken apart molecule by molecule and some of my molecules are lagging behind in my old life, maybe a second out of synch. It's the same way you feel when you have a cold.

Of course in this brave (!) new world, I have this strange man in my house and my mother is getting bootie all the time and taken to batting her eyelashes like some kind of saloon whore. I don't get to sleep much, and when I do I'm stuck dreaming about knife fights and bars and newspaper headlines: One Man Dead.

Each afternoon Mike O'Donnell sits at the kitchen table, a glass of Coke or ginger ale resting on the corner of the newspaper classifieds he's folded out in front of him. A ballpoint pen waits like a weapon in his hand. I go to my room. He goes to the bathroom. He stands outside my door and just breathes.

For a minute I imagine he bursts in, but I'm ready for him. I'm ready for those bloodshot eyes, like a werewolf's at night. I'm ready for those thick-fingered hands. I'm ready for that greedy mean mouth and I pull out a gun, release the safety and ... and ... and ...

And I can't imagine any more.

I've got to tell you, Mr. Wayne, that I do not trust this character. He makes me think of shifty eyes even though his bug out a little. He makes me think of those men standing outside the saloon, leaning against the post acting all casual when you know their gun hands are twitching all over the place. What does he want? Why is he here? Why would he even like my mother? Why doesn't he have a job yet?

I fix a stare on him. I mosey over.

"Any luck?" I say.

And then he shakes his head so sadly it makes me want to hug him, but I don't trust it. It might be a trick to draw me in closer. My uncle did that. He pretended to be sad about my stepdad dying and then what does he do? He tries to get to second base with me even though I'm eleven. He scores a home run with my mother even though she was less than seven days a widow.

So, the week after Mike O'Donnell arrives passes, the weekend comes and goes. Time comes and goes. Sunsets I don't ride off into. There is a math quiz. A surprise. I get a ninety-eight. Two points off because in my hurry to get done and daydream, I put only one line in an equals sign instead of two. Stupid rookie mistake.

I have a new look now. That seems shallow, I know. But I was tired of looking like everyone else. Sasha wears long, swishy skirts and dangly earrings so she looks part gypsy part poet, but that's not me. So, I'm wearing jeans a lot. They ride sort of low, and then I wear one of my stepdad's old button-down shirts that I found in the basement. They're too big, so I tie them at the waist, and then I put in some new holes in his old belt. It's big and brown and thick and good like that, with a big ole silver buckle that has a picture of a boat on it.

Sasha and Olivia really like it, but Nicole rolls her eyes and so does my mom.

"What? Are you trying to be a cowboy now?" Nicole laughs so hard she covers her mouth because her fillings are showing. Fillings, she always says, are unattractive. "Oh my God. You are."

I shrug. I stand tall, but I want to crumple into a ball and roll down the hallway, past all the lockers and the gym and into the street and away, just a lonely tumbleweed. Stand back folks, nothing to see.

"You're turning into such a theater freak," she says, laughing still, doubled over. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry, but you are."

She says that, right? But at lunch one of the boys at the football table keeps staring at me with greedy eyes and everyone knows what that means. Then at play rehearsal Paolo Mattias goes, "I like your jeans."

I put my fingers into my belt loops. "Really?"

"Yeah." He stares at me hard and long and good. "I like your buckle too."

I finger it. I'm figuring that's not all he likes. Then I screw it all up and blurt out, "My dad's not gay, you know."

His eyes go blank and he leans against one of the theater chairs that are bolted to the floor. It squeaks. "It's okay if he is."

"He's not."

"Okay. There's a lot shittier things dads can be than gay. Or a cross-dresser. Is that what he is?"

"Really," I shoot at him.

He staggers from the blow, lifts up his hands to surrender. "You sure you're okay? You're wicked worked up about this."

I am not sure. I am not sure. He wears women's tights. I have no clue, but then I think it's pretty obvious, isn't it? I slam myself down into one of the seats. The whole row rocks.

Paolo sticks one shoulder higher than the other, makes his back go rigid and says, "'Even grown men need understanding'?"

His voice is all low and drawly.

"What?" I fire.

He stands posture-perfect tall, moves his head so that his chin is straighter than ever. "I said, 'Even grown men need understanding'?"

"Are you quoting John Wayne?"

He blushes and his posture goes back to normal. "Yeah. Did I get it wrong?'

"You're quoting John Wayne to me?"

He nods. "It's from Cahill U.S. Marshall."

I shake my head. I don't know what to say. This boy blows me away, and he doesn't even have a gun. Quoting John Wayne.

"I know where it's from," I say, and my voice is soft again. "I just can't believe you know it."

"I thought you liked him."

"I do ... but ..." I eye him something good. "Are you pretending to like him?"

He loses his smile. "No."

I wait. His lip quivers for a second and my finger longs to touch that lip, make it strong again. My stomach twists. Why did I even ask him? I'm such a jerk.

He starts talking again. "It's not like he's my hero or anything. But he's cool."

"Who's your hero?"

His shoulders relax into broadness again. "David Belle."

I can't get a fix on David Belle, and Paolo must notice because he goes, "He founded parkour."

"I'm an ignorant dork obviously," I say, "but parkour ..."

"Parkour is parkour."

"Funny."

"No, that's what they call it because it's so hard to define. It's like a martial arts thing, but instead of fighting, it's running. Like your body gets these super-efficient movements down and then you can just get over any obstacle, jump between buildings." His eyes light up his whole face. His whole face lights up his body. "You can scale walls. It's amazing."