Andrew was already up doing what he does, singing off-key while playing one part of a song over and over on the piano. He calls the parts he plays over and over "phrases," but I don't hear anything like meaning in them or even a complete thought, which I know, from seventh grade English class, a phrase should have. Hearing him and seeing him and not feeling so good about myself anyway, I was mean, which I completely regret. I regret a lot, which maybe is unhealthy. At least he didn't get I was being mean at that point.

"Hey, Andrew," I said. "You're not that great at piano."

He stopped playing and sat up straight.

"Why?"

"I saw a girl play a hell of a lot better than you just this morning."

"How did you see her? She practices in the morning? Did she ask you inside?"

I was confused.

"Um, sort of."

Andrew swiveled around on the bench, eyes wide open.

"Aleah Jennings," he nodded.

"Oh. Aleah Jennings. She's black?"

"Uh huh. She lives in Gus's house. Aleah Jennings, Felton!"

"Yeah."

"She's probably the best sixteen-year-old piano player in the universe. I read her blog."

"Aleah Jennings?"

"She won the Chicago Competition last spring. I watched it on YouTube."

"I heard her."

"She makes meaShe makes me want to be a zookeeper."

"What?"

"She's too good, Felton."

"What?"

"I should be that good."

"You're thirteen. She's older."

"Or an astronaut or a veterinarian. I like animals. I'd be a good veterinarian. I don't like how they smell."

"You're a great piano player, Andrew. You're probably the best thirteen-year-old piano player in the universe."

"Not even close." A look of pure ice fell on Andrew's little kid face, a look of pure unadulterated ambition. "But I'm going to be. I meanaI meanaI can't believe she lives here. I made Jerri call over there yesterday. I made JerriaI invited Aleah Jennings to come over for tea tomorrow. I had to inviteaJerri was mad because she's not feeling herself lately buta"

"Really?" I blushed at the thought. "She's coming here?"

"I hate Aleah Jennings!" Andrew cried. Then his face turned red and his lips trembled. Andrew's whole body trembled. "I hate her! I hate her!" he cried.

Wow. Freak. Out.

I watched him for a moment, observed him. This went through my head: Who carries around a leather pouch full of shiny rocks and crystals?

Me.

Why do I carry around a leather pouch full of shiny rocks and crystals?

Jerri.

Who is crying like an insane baby because there's a good piano player in town?

Andrew.

Whose mother makes him call her Jerri? Whose mother stares at him while he sleeps? Who found his dad hanging like a suit coat in the garage?

Who wouldn't be jumpy in these circumstances?

Maybe no one?

Why do the honkies laugh?

Because you grew up thinking crazy was normal?

Weird, huh? I'd never thought of it before. It never occurred to me that I am not the source of the problem, but maybe I'm, you know, just a branch of a big ugly tree. I mean, Andrew was sincerely flipping out. This is also weird. Watching Andrew freak, I kind of felt better.

"I hate her!" Andrew screamed. He was pounding his fists on the piano bench. I stood back and stared at him, feeling my muscles relax.

Jerri ran in the house.

"What did you do to Andrew? You leave him alone, Felton! Just because you're depressed doesn't give you the right to hurt othera"

"I hate her!" Andrew shouted.

"You hate me?" Jerri cried.

"No! Her!"

"He hates her," I nodded, earnestly.

"Who is her?" Jerri cried.

Just then my cell went off. It chimed and buzzed, and I flinched (because it was the first time it had gone off since Gus left town). I pulled it out of my pocket and looked at the number. It wasn't one I recognized. Because any conversation had to be better than the freak show happening in front of me, I said "Gotta take this one" and then jogged to the bathroom and shut the door. Jerri and Andrew shouted about "her" outside. I answered my phone. It was Cody Frederick.

"Sorry Ken Johnson is such a jerk, Felton," he said.

Let me pause here and state the obvious: At that moment, life was quite confusing. The only person who had been nice to me in several weeks was Cody Frederick. Let me also say this: I am stupid fast. That is a fact. Is there another single positive thing that could've been said about me? I don't really know. Although I wanted to be a comic, no one found me funny, which is a hindrance and thus not positive. Perhaps this: If you like hair, I have a lot of hair, and I was in the process of growing it very fast. So that could've been seen as positive on a very limited basis. Of course, the day before, two very beautiful (and, sorry, very mean) honky girls at the swimming pool had called me fur ball. No. Superior hair growth was not positive. Anything else? Not really. Suddenly, only two things made complete sense: Cody Frederick and my speed.

I took a breath and said easily, "Ken Johnson has always been a jerk, man."

"He used to beat me up at little league practice," Cody said.

"Ass effing hole," I said.

Cody agreed.

While Andrew and Jerri carried on outside the bathroom, Cody and I talked, and he asked me to go to weights with him the next day. I told him I would. We made a plan. And I didn't even feel nervous about it. What did I have to lose? My friends? The stability of my family? I left the bathroom in time to see Jerri and Andrew hugging and sobbing and apologizing to each other.

Then Jerri made breakfast. During breakfast, she stared at me without blinking. Her face was all pale, her eyes watery.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"You remind me ofaYou need to ask for help if you need it, Felton."

"I don't need help, Jerri."

"Your dad committed suicide. I'm sorry," she whispered.

"That was over ten years ago. What's wrong with you?"

"Leave Jerri alone," Andrew said.

"I don't know," Jerri said. "You're right. It's my problem."

"You know, Jerri," I said, "I'm just a small part of a much larger problem." I really had no idea what I was talking about, but right then, something jarred loose.

Jerri stared at me, clenched her jaw a couple of times, and then nodded slowly.

"Right. You're right, Felton."

"I am?" I asked.

"Help me with dishes, Andrew," she said really coldly, standing up.

"Why do I have to? Why doesn't Felton have to?"

"He's going through a timea"a time of growth," Jerri said, weirdly calm.

"Please stop the freak show," I whispered.

"You watch your mouth," Jerri snarled. She glared. She curled her lip. Then she said "Fucker" under her breath.

I think that was the most scared I'd been in my life. At least until a couple of mornings later (and then until the end of July). Well, probably not if I think about it because I've seen some terrible stuff and also the heart attacks, but it was scary.

Andrew stared at me with his mouth open. Jerri stood with her back to the table. I stood up and went downstairs.

CHAPTER 12: MAKING A LIST, CHECKING IT TWICE.

Downstairs in my room, I pulled the leather pouch out of my sock drawer and almost pulled out shiny rocks (semiprecious stones from Brazil) and crystals to try to relax but then caught myself. Don't do that. I jammed the pouch back in with the socks.

Then I found my notebook where I always meant to take notes about life and whatnot, which I'd never done. I wanted to write something about how I wasn't the problem. I wanted to write about Jerri, but I couldn't. The notebook was completely empty. What are you supposed to write in these things? I emailed Gus: there is strong possibility that i'm nuts primarily because my mother and brother have made me nuts, not to speak of my dad, who was also likely nuts (or maybe had been driven nuts by my mom). it's not my fault. do you keep a journal of your thoughts?

Gus responded an hour or so later. Extremely out of character, he wrote like a million words, way too much to read. Clearly, he was bored out of his cabbage. Here is some of what he wrote: i own nothing but my thoughts (and also my pants)ayou ever hear of hugo chavez? he's el presidente and he hates america because we love money and mcdonalds (i want a quarter pounder) and he took away american tv so i cant watch anything i understandai'm writing a book about spies who eat tacos and hide in large house plantsagrandma moans and farts and swears at dad in spaniard HILARIOUSause notebook to write to-do lists. dad does thata None of what Gus said made any sense. Not even my oldest friend made sense? I remember being at his house for dinner with my parents when we were toddlers. (Yeah, his dad and my dad were friendsa"at least colleagues; there were always colleagues around and parties and picnicsa"that's something I remember from when Dad was alive.) I remember Gus had white baby booties with bells on them, and I chased him around because he made a jingle noise, which I liked, and both our dads were totally dying laughing because Gus didn't want to be chased, but I wouldn't stop. Gus's dad said "Chasing booty. Chip off the old block" to my dad. I remember that perfectly. That might be my first memory actually. But even Gus had become incomprehensible.

Well, at least he mentioned I could use my notebook to make a to-do list of my goals and plans, etc. So I did. This is all I wrote. I'm reading the original right now (it seriously took me about three hours): Lift weights with Cody.

Get driver's license.

Consider giving up comedy, as comedy isn't even funny anymore.

Stop talking to Jerri and Andrew.

Then because I was so exhausted from not sleeping the night before and from what Jerri called my "time of growth," I went out and flopped onto the couch, flipped on the TV (truTV, not Comedy Central), and went to sleep. I had no dreams. I slept like a rock all afternoon (while the sound of COPS reruns played in the background), only waking a couple of times before morninga"once to sneak upstairs and jam about a loaf of bread, a pound of cheese, and a banana in my mouth and once when Andrew poked me so he could show me a YouTube video of Aleah bashing a piano keyboard like a goddess. Even from Andrew's laptop, the sound was like that Florida wave crashing on me.

"She's too good," he said. "She's really, really good."

"Uh huh," I agreed, getting goose bumps. (I said uh huha"grunts, not wordsa"so as not to break my plan to not speak to him or Jerri.) "Yes," Andrew whispered.

Before I fell back asleep, I replied to Gus's mammoth email. I wrote: beautiful girl in nightie lives in your house and plays your piano.

I'm very certain that Jerri didn't check on me or watch me sleep.

CHAPTER 13: IT IS 2:35 A.M.

I'm the opposite of how I was that day. I am the opposite of tired. No sleep. No sleep.