"Maybe."

He walks away, always secretive, always saying as little as possible even when the moment doesn't require it. One of these days I'm going to get his story.

As I head to my first class, I see the walking ruler that resembles Principal Harking.

"Good morning, Chris."

"Hi." Now I'm the one acting like I can't talk and need to run away.

"Everything going okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Glad to hear it. Glad you're staying out of trouble."

"Yeah."

Was I ever in trouble, or did trouble spill over me?

"It can be a long semester," her tight lips say. "One has to pace him or herself. One has to focus on the big picture."

"Okay."

She's blocking my path like a stick of dynamite ready to blow. "Do you see the big picture, Chris?"

I nod, but have no idea what she's talking about. Graduation? College? Career and a family?

"I've seen so many people who are narrow-minded, not understanding the big picture. They see the tip but they don't get underneath to find the depth of life and their situation."

I can't help glancing around. The spectators are there. They always are. A couple girls gawking and a few guys being nosy.

"Don't reach to judgment or conclusions. Just see the big picture and run the race. That's how you succeed."

A motivational speaker Miss Harking is not.

I nod and then nod again to say bye as she walks on.

Why is it that everybody talks in a different language here? Not the Southern accent, though that in itself sometimes makes it hard to understand. I just never seem to be in conversations that I get. Normal conversations. About things like sports and politics and the weather and food. Not heavy, weird warnings. Not eerie foreboding messages that mean absolutely something to everybody else but absolutely nothing to me.

I shake my head and am too tired to come up with a creative curse for this encounter. I head to my next class.

Maybe I'll find the big picture in there. A big fat picture that I can roll up and take back home.

41. Here Comes the Sun.

Oh man.

"I can't tell you what I'm painting," I tell her.

"Why not?"

"Because it's personal. It's private."

"Your painting is private?" she says.

"It is."

"Why?"

"Okay, fine. You want to know what I'm painting? Seriously?"

Kelsey smiles. I've grown to find her clear braces cute just like her smile and just like those pretty blue eyes.

Oh man, come on.

"This is a family portrait. See, there, I told you."

"That bad, huh?" she says, going with my mockery.

"Totally. It's awful. Just dark. That's all I can say."

She doesn't know that there's some truth in my concept, even though the piece in front of me is not a family portrait but rather is supposed to resemble those woods in the picture from Jocelyn's locker. It looks a little more like a canvas that's been blasted by a passing car hitting a puddle of dirty water.

"Maybe I need to introduce you to some more of my family," she says.

Oh man.

Every day, every period I'm next to her, I find myself enjoying this banter. I like to see the smile on her face and love to hear her laugh at something stupid I said. I love the way she's watching for me as I come into class, usually the last one in. It's obvious, and I'm pretty sure she likes me and I know that it's harmless and fun.

But another voice tells me to stop. Immediately. Do not pass Go and do not collect one more dollar.

I need to stop this, all of this.

Because you know what happened last time, don't you?

When the crazy thoughts start going even crazier, I imagine things like Kelsey and me falling madly in love and then Jocelyn coming back, just like it happens in soap operas.

You're not going to fall in love with this girl. She's cute, but that's all. That's it.

I imagine getting close and then having something happen to her.

I imagine that maybe she's getting closer to find out secrets about me and to win me over so she can lie and steal from me. Not that I have any secrets or anything to steal from.

All I know is that this is harmless and safe and fun. It's like waking up in the cold fog every day and then for a single period, I'm allowed to go outside and sit underneath a crystal clear sky and soak up the sun.

Kelsey Page is that sun, and it's not just because of the color of her hair.

That's fine, but don't tell her that, because she'll roll her eyes and surely make a gagging sound.

Every day the sun comes out and shines down, and then I have to leave it and go back into the drab and the murk.

42. Grown-ups.

It's obvious that Mom's been crying.

"What's wrong?" I ask. I've been home a few minutes before seeing her. Before really seeing her.

"Nothing."

"Did something happen at work?" I ask.

She's sitting on the couch across from me. "I didn't go to work today," she says.

I've come to understand that Mom has several looks. The drunk look and then the hungover look. The angry look. The don't-really-care-about-anything-look (which is a lot like the drunk look but more awake).

This is different from all of those.

This is the Dad look.

"Did you talk to him?" I ask.

"What? How did you know?"

"Did he call?"

She shakes her head and closes her eyes.

"Why'd you call him?"

"Because-because he's the only-" She stops herself. "Chris, not now."

I wait for a minute but then decide not to push.

"You want to go out to eat tonight?" she asks.

I shrug.

"Somewhere outside of Solitary."

I nod without hesitation.

Definitely. Like Mexico. Or Alaska.

"Anywhere you'd like to go."

"Why don't you pick," I tell her. "And I'll treat."

"Stop acting like a grown-up."

I want to tell her to stop making me, but I don't. "I've got money to spend," I say instead. "Let me spend it."

"We'll see," she says, standing up.

The thought of my father's face and voice makes me angry. I'm glad he's not here. And come to think of it, I don't want to hear what he had to say. The less I know about him the better.

Mom and I are doing just fine.

Or at least that's sure what I want him to believe.

43. Fight.

It's interesting how life can work sometimes.

How one random comment can be followed by another random comment. How one plus one doesn't always necessarily equal two, but a number far greater.

I'm nearing the open area of the cafeteria when I pass Gus and his boys. I wonder if he even bothers going to class or if he really, truly is just a high school bully cliche.

"Miss your little slut?"

There's no chance that I misheard him. The words cut deep.

I'm carrying a paper bag containing an apple and a sandwich and some chips and a can of generic pop.

It takes me maybe two seconds to turn to my right and raise my hand and ram the bag against Gus's ugly fat pimply face. It lands somewhere between his forehead and his nose. I was going for the nose, but it doesn't matter because it did the trick.

A steady burst of blood splats out on the white floor as Gus goes backward, and I proceed to take the bag again and ram it against the side of his big flabby ear.

Then things get blurry, and I'm being both pounced on and pulled away and yelled at and smothered.

This melee seems to go on a long time, but it's just probably a matter of seconds.