I groaned as the unforgiving early morning sunlight lanced across my bed, lasering through my eyelids and directly into my corneas. That third glass of celebration wine was definitely a horrible idea. Actually, the third glass was guilt wine. Only the first was celebration, a year's work, righting a decade of wrongs . The second was for courage as I attached and forwarded the file that would change my family forever. Thus, glass number three, to help me swallow the crushing guilt and remorse of a "job well done".

Apparently the guilt was undeterred by Merlot and hung around to continue the torture, now with surround sound. My mother's voice bounced off the walls, ricochetting around my room as she called from downstairs. "Kathryn, you're going to be late for your first day of school. Get out of bed now!" My hungover mind dimly registered a few facts in a jumbled mass of confusion.

One: I have been out of school for over two decades. In fact, I just received the invite to my 25th high school reunion, as if.

Two: My apartment has no downstairs for my mother to yell from. It also doesn't contain a twin size bedroom suite with puffy eyelet bedding and posters of Keanu Reeves and Reality Bites.

Three: My mother, oh gawd my mother doesn't have the strength to yell at anyone anymore, not while coughing her life away from her hospice bed halfway across the state.

I stumble downstairs where I find her in the kitchen finishing a cup of coffee and a cigarette, looking just like she did in my highschool graduation photos, frosted blonde chignon, coral lips and cheeks,  too-thin but busy. This has to be a dream, so I do something my mother never encouraged in real life. I hug her to me, quick but hard, catching a whiff of her familiar perfume. I drop a kiss on her cheek and while she is still frozen in shock I whisper, "Please mom, stop smoking and go see the doctor."

This dream shows no sign of breaking so I go along with it, dressing in my private school uniform, grabbing my Jansport covered in snarky buttons and head out the front door. I squeal at the sight of my raspberry Geo Metro convertible, my partner in crime throughout highschool and college. I crank up the volume on the local alternative station and screech "You think you're so prettee-ee-ee" along with the lead singer of James.

Arriving at school, I'm amazed by the memories and regrets that bombard me. The smell of cheap paint and floor polish, the rusty gray lockers, the rough spot on the stairs rail that would cut your hand every time. And the faces, teachers that were the bane of my existence, friends that I grew apart from, rivals in petty wars that mean nothing now.

Jenny Hills, my first friend in kindergarten, my first sleepover buddy. At age 8 we dressed as Madonna and Cyndi Lauper for Halloween. In 7th grade we divvied up the New Kids, I took Joey and Jon, no one wanted Danny. By sophomore year, she was on the pom squad and I was playing french horn in band. We waved and hugged at football games through senior year but lost touch during college. She was widowed with a toddler on 09/11, her husband worked in the towers. Now we send cards on birthdays and holidays, her son looks just like his dad. It breaks her heart every day but she said she prefers it broken and full to whole but empty.

Chris Corning, the quarterback jerk who hit me in the face with a bologna sandwich freshman year, never got to play for Duke. He wasn't much of a bully really, more of an occasional drive-by asshole until the winter formal our senior year. We danced to a couple songs, he tossed me some drunken compliments and the photo of our sloppy kiss under the mistletoe ended up in the yearbook. He drove home drunk from a graduation party, killing himself and his best friend.

Luke Simon, my long-time unrequited crush, that one guy that leaves you tongue tied and stupid every time he looks at you.  I was drawn to him, hoarded little details and bits of information and damn near hyperventilated when he dressed out in his ROTC rifle team gear. He came back from Iraq with one leg and demons on his back. I got his APO before he left but never knew how to start and what to say.

Who knows if my letters would have made any difference but I could have tried, should have tried. Tears fill my eyes as I stand in the main hallway, judging myself, feeling the weight of my soul far heavier than the feather it was weighed against. Again and again it rolls over me, like a heavy tide. I let go too easily, let the current sweep me along, away from conflict rather than use any energy to fight for what I want.

Luke gave me a concerned look, probably wondering about the weird chick crying on the first day of school. I shrugged and offered him a watery smile. As I swiped my cheeks and rejoined the river of teenagers streaming into the school, a voice caught my attention.

"Kat! Kat wait up!" I turned at the sound and barely kept myself from bawling again. When my best friend, the sister of my heart joined me, I grabbed her in the biggest, longest hug I could, ignoring the muttered jokes and "lesbo" slurs. Patricia was still her sweet curvy self with a gleam of mischief shining bright in her eyes. Next year she would be gone,    
unable to fight any longer for parents and teachers and cops to believe her, to help her. I would have bled and broken for her but by myself, I wasn't enough and finally I couldn't do anything more but to let her go with my love.

But today I could. I grabbed her again, squeezing her. I've missed her for twenty-five years. We were supposed to share a dorm in college, be each other's maid of honor, and godparents when the babies came along.  But she didn't even get to throw her cap. And it was all his fault. My whole body stiffened and I glanced at Pat, her words coming into focus. "....so sweet and totally fine and I can't believe he wants me." I looked at her, healthy, happy and bubbly over her first real attention from a boy and I did what I should have done the first time, before she tried starving and cutting the pain out. I would not fail her now, not again. I began hunting for the devil.

I didn't see him until lunch. Robert (Rob)  Warren III, standing in line, groping the girl in front of him, while she giggled nervously. He and his father were directly responsible for the worst memories of my life, my best friend's death and my father's financial crimes. It took twenty five years for me to get the evidence I needed and get the authorities to act on it. I began to hope that this day was more than a dream, that it was a second chance, that I could save my friends, heal my mother, keep my father out of jail and brave my future rather than smothering in fear and overcaution. I knew what Rob was selling out of his locker and car. I knew when and where his father would meet with "investors". I knew everything. And I was going to use it.