DARWIN

Friday, March 23, 2018

"Yo, Snowman." Thomas wore a sh*t-eating grin as he leaned around the foamy wall of the cubicle. "How goes it?"

I didn't look away from the plastic Ursaring dummy in the corner, which Don was also contemplating, albeit a little anxiously. Full-body-tackle training again today, this time with a jump added to hit the sternum. Brick the Kecleon stood beside him, licking his eyeballs and giving the Smeargle some friendly encouragement. He looked up when Thomas came in, and went over.

"Hey!" Thomas offered a low-five, and Brick smacked the palm of his hand with his tongue. "How're you doin', pal? Learn anything cool while I've been away?"

The Kecleon nodded enthusiastically before going back over to the dummy. Poking Don aside, he took a combat stance and leapt straight into the air, lashing his tongue around the dummy's neck like a noose and pulling it to the floor. Thomas's eyebrows jumped up.

"Whoa. Hot." He gave a slow clap and glanced at me. "You teach him that?"

I barely managed a nod. I'd looked up some basic Kecleon fighting moves and used them to keep Brick busy during the last two training sessions while I concentrated on Don. According to the Paper Pokédex, Kecleons had very versatile tongues, and sure enough, Brick had picked up both Lick and the Garrote quickly. Unfortunately, I didn't know how effective they would be on someone as resilient as Jamie the Vigoroth.

Why do you give a f*ck? You probably won't be around to his fight at Midterm anyway.

My lungs shrank. Stop. Deep breath.

"So." Thomas slouched over. "What's on the menu for today? Sorry I had to skip the last two sessions. See, I kinda had a—"

"Darwin." Mr. McDaniel's head suddenly popped into the cubical. He oversaw the gym during Training Hall, but really only interfered when it was important. My stomach rolled over as he said, "Mr. Marshall's been asking after you. Wants to know the status of two essays he assigned you? I told him I'd ask."

Prick. I should've known that he would be on my back about those. But it felt ridiculous to be pestered about two assignments I'd gotten just on Monday, especially when the Sergeant knew Midterms were steamrolling our way. Unfortunately, he wasn't the type to let stuff lie – or extend sympathy.

In fact, no Battle Branch staff did; that was probably why it felt like they'd been riding my ass since Principal Reyes had slapped me with academic probation. Marshall had been downright gleeful during Combat II today, going so far as to grin as he'd ordered me out of line and back to the Rose Building at the start of water-type training. Once inside, Mr. Kelley had given me ownership of a rickety old custodial cart, and I'd set to work mopping, sweeping, wiping, and dusting every inch of every classroom. And no, Mr. Kelley, Coach Mack, Mr. Mason, Mr. Andrews, and every other soul in the Rose Building had found no problem in pointing out microscopic specks of dust I'd missed or making me redo a room. If I had a dime for every time I'd heard, "You missed a spot," I could've paid off half of my goddamn fine already.

"Sorry I've...been busy," I told Mr. McDaniel, a little desperately. Busy being in a hole I could barely see out of. "I'm working on them, though. They should be done by next week."

He nodded, gave Thomas a hard look, then disappeared.

"What was that about essays?" Thomas asked, alarmed. "I didn't miss anything, did I? Arceus knows I don't need more work on my plate right now."

"No, they're..." I swallowed the rest; suddenly I was overcome by the violent urge to lash out and break Thomas's teeth. This guy was allowed to stroll into Training Hall late, let someone else train his pointer, abandon his swim buddy, slack off, and otherwise do whatever the hell he wanted... Whereas one mistake landed me on academic probation and janitor duty, and on top of that—

No! You're not thinking about that for the rest of the day, remember? Deep breath—

"Snowman." Thomas tapped my shoulder. "Did you hear me? Those essays—"

I looked up at him, at his stupid, devil-may-care attitude, and came within a nanosecond of throwing a punch. Instead, I tore out of his grip and strode for cubicle door. On the way there, I shoved over a box of sparring gear, sending the contents spilling to the floor—it made a terrific racket. With a squeal, Don and Brick scrambled out of my way.

There was a beat of silence as I left the space behind. Then: "Darwin? What the hell is wrong with you?" Thomas sounded floored.

I ignored him, trying to keep it together as I strode through the foam cubicles Mr. McDaniel had set up inside the gym. Confused students peered out of the private training spaces as I went by, probably wondering about all the noise. I kept my head down as I moved by them, trying not to break into a run. I managed to make it to the bathroom and got into one of the stalls, then stood there for a full minute trying to get the latch into place. I let out a horrible sound when I finally got it locked, and kicked the door with a desolate fury. Then I sat on the toilet, dug my fingers into my hair, and tried not to scream.

I knew I should've stayed home. Why had I even bothered getting out of bed?

Because Mom was there—she hadn't gone to work. Instead, she'd gone to the store and had returned with dozens of boxes. She had spent that morning tearing down our house—my sanctuary—in a quiet rage, throwing things into those boxes, taping them shut, and turning the sort-of order of our home into chaos. When I'd come in, still in pajamas, looking aghast, she hadn't looked at me for the longest.

I'd been the first to speak: "Where?"

I'd feared she wouldn't respond. For a while, she hadn't.

Then: "Petalburg City."

Her anger must have infected me, because I'd wanted to break something. Petalburg City? Why? That was miles away from Rustboro, miles away from school. It was at least an hour-long commute, round-trip, and I know she couldn't manage that along with traveling to and from work. Withdrawal—it was inevitable.

"Mom," I'd said. Begged. Call Ms. Jenkins. Please be a bitch, like you normally are. Please don't give up this easily.

"Go to school," she'd rasped.

So here I was.

And being here was just as horrible as I'd suspected it would be. All day, an intolerable pressure had been building inside my skull, worsening with every class, every reminder of Midterms, every bang of a locker door, every look at Don, poor, weak, oblivious, hopeful, sweet-tempered Don. Just like at the house, each step through RTHS now needled me with regret. Despite the cliques, the assholes, the school workload, the expenses, the overbearing teachers, the rules and expectations... Rustboro Trainer High School was an amazing opportunity that I had constantly taken for granted. A center of training for a diverse array of fields, where you could raise up a well-rounded Pokémon team under the mentorship of seasoned Pokémon trainers. Sometime between the excitement of receiving the acceptance letter and now, I'd forgotten all of that.

Now e were moving to the rural wastes of Petalburg City, and it would all be ripped from me. The fine, the academic probation, the second chance at catching a water-type... None of that would change my academic outlook now that I would be too far away to attend school. It was done. Soon, I'd be cleaning out my locker.

Meanwhile, dickheads like Thomas Ryans-Wade got to stay.

My breath began to hitch. Tears now? I tried to sneer them away, without success – two drops appeared on the pants of my ODU, and I ripped away a strip of toilet paper to clean my eyes. They only came faster. Stop it! I couldn't; I blubbered miserably, heard a prayer circling around in my mind: Please. I don't want to leave. Don't do this to me. I don't know who I prayed to. Arceus? It was clear that Arceus was not interested in my well-being, but rather my torment. If not, he wouldn't have let this happen.

But at this moment, I could not think of a time in my life where I'd been more desperate. So I kept praying. Begging: Give me another chance, please. I'll pay the f*cking fine. I'll scrub the floors, the windows, the toilets. I'll write the papers and let Marshall yell at me to his heart's content. I don't care if I don't have friends, if everybody else picks on me or ignores me... I'll cope. I'll do it all with a smile. And I won't take it for granted again. Please, Lord Arceus. Just one more chance.

He didn't respond, at least not in a way that I could hear. So I cried. I cried and cried and cried and cried.

And when I was finally out of tears, I didn't feel better. Not a bit.

***

By the time I finally crawled out of the bathroom, two class periods had passed. Normally, I would've been horrified at having missed Battle Mechanics and Pre-Calculus. Today I could barely give a f*ck. The radical side of me thought about giving up on the day altogether, gathering my sh*t and going home. But habits died hard—despite feeling like crap, I still cringed at the thought of skipping Basic Drawing.

I headed back to the gym to pick up my stuff first. The cubicles had been put away, and a mixed PE class of Professorship and Contest Branchies was currently going through stretches in preparation for the day's main activity. There were no Pokémon hanging around, so someone must've returned Don to the Depository after I'd fled the place. I left.

I made it to Basic Drawing on time, but regretted no ditching. Everything was white noise—I could barely concentrate on my still life—a box covered in cloth—and my normally-smooth and detailed art came out scratchy and harsh, the shading razor-edged, the line art all planes and angles. Planes and angles. That's what it felt like inside me: a nest of pins and needles, sending pangs reverberating to my extremities every time I thought about what had happened with Ms. Jenkins. By the time class was over, I had a god-awful headache, and my skull felt like it was swelling.

I noticed people watching me and whispering as I headed out the door. I checked the mirror in my locker, and it was obvious that I'd been bawling. I don't give a f*ck.

The dismissal bell rang, and I headed out across the school lawn. By the curb of the pick-up lane, I saw Quincy waiting for me in the shade of a giant bush, ready to escort me home. Home. Another pang, just as painful as the last. Would it still be home when I got back? Or would it be unrecognizable, with all of our things packed into boxes?

"Darwin!"

Thomas. I ignored him, kept walking until I reached Quincy. But he had longer legs than me — in moments, he was at my side. "Slow down," he said. "Can we talk a sec?"

Pressure built up in my skull again. Leave me alone! Would he f*ck off if I screamed that at him? Doubtful — Thomas didn't understand the concept of rejection, and screaming would make things worse. And curiously, at the end of this disgusting day, I felt my self-consciousness draining away. Let him see. Who cares? It wasn't like I would be seeing him or anyone else from RTHS much after this.

"What is it?" I asked, voice like broken glass.

Thomas faltered; for once, he wasn't wearing that stupid grin, and it was a pity I had no energy to enjoy it. He floundered a moment, and with effort, finally closed his mouth. I must've looked pretty bad. "Uh..." Awkwardly, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Mr.... Mr. McDaniel just wanted me to let you know that he returned your Smeargle to the Depository after Training Hall. He says you got a strike for it."

"Whatever." Was that all he had to say? I turned to see Quincy was slithering out from under the bush. He looked Thomas up and down suspiciously before encircling my legs.

"Also," Thomas said. He lifted something into my peripheral vision: a can of ginger ale. "Don't know if anyone's told you, Snowman, but your face is like a stoplight."

F*ck you. The words were at the tip of my tongue, but all that stupid crying had left me severely dehydrated. I took the can. "Thanks," I muttered.

"Who's this?" Thomas knelt in front of Quincy. "Friend of yours?"

"Quincy," I said as I popped open the can.

"Nice to meet ya, gramps." Thomas pointed to himself. "Tom."

Quincy hissed and released my legs, heading towards the sidewalk at the far end of the lawn. Thomas straightened. "You go home this way?"

"Yeah—"

"Huh, me too! Happy coincidence." He trailed after Quincy. "Come on, it's hot—let's get where we're going before you start melting again."

Liar. I'd seen Thomas pile into his stepmother's tank of an SUV in the pick-up line multiple times. Obviously, this chance of pace was because he felt guilty or partly responsible for my bad mood earlier. Good! But him imposing his "comfort" on me? Not good. Not on today of all days, when I really wanted to be left the hell alone.

Stop it. Tiredly, I took a sip of the ginger ale and followed. Who cared about his intentions? It was the most kindness anyone had showed me all day.

We reached the sidewalk and continued to trudge along through the heat. We followed the slope down the hill and into the downtown square, where a washerette stood at one corner, and the Ya-ya EZ Mart the other. Thomas stayed a ways ahead of me, talking on his phone—asking his stepmom to pick him up downtown because he was taking pity on me today? Quincy slithered at my heels, struggling to keep pace with two long-legged young men; I had to stop once or twice to let him catch up.

When we reached the Ya-ya, Thomas paused in front of a rusty wire bench and pointed. "Have a seat, Snowman. You look like you could use another drink."

"What?" Yeah, I was sweating pretty badly, but what was par for the course where I was concerned—what I didn't want was to stay out in the sun any longer than was necessary. "I'm fine. Can we just—"

"Be just a minute." He disappeared inside, and I growled in frustration. But I didn't leave, much as I wanted to—I stood in the shade instead, trying not to give in to the urge to lean against the wall, which was covered in hard gum patties.

After a minute, he emerged, holding two water bottles and two candy bars. "Do you like Snickers?" he asked.

"I'm allergic to peanuts."

He handed me the Crunch bar instead. "Take this then. Rejuvenate."

Slightly annoyed, I unscrewed the cap to the water bottle and took a swig. A minute later, half the bottle was gone. I really was dehydrated. And hungry — the Crunch bar disappeared just as quick. Thomas watched, draining his own water and nodding in approval.

"Not so bad now, eh?" he said. "My ex once told me that chocolate's just the thing to revive you after a good cry."

I stiffened; Quincy, who was piled by my feet, looked up with sudden focus. Cry? His eyes said.

"It wasn't because I skipped out on the last two Training Halls, right?" Thomas mused. "I mean, I knew you'd be pissed, but enough to tear up sh*t? And to skip class? Twice?" Another sip. "Nah, has to be something else. Something bigger. Wanna tell me what it is?"

I stared out into the street, watching a line of traffic move through a light. I wasn't sure how I felt about his question. For certain I didn't appreciate his sense of entitlement. "Just stuff at home," I muttered.

"What kinda stuff?" I pressed my lips together, and he poked my shoulder. "Hey. What kinda stuff?"

Just like that, the pressure was back. "The kinda stuff that isn't your f*cking business," I snapped. "Why are you pretending to care, anyway? We both know you don't."

He looked awed for the second time that day; was it because I'd cursed? Then his face became uncharacteristically hard.

"Care, huh?" he said sourly. "Then I guess I just spent ten dollars on snacks for no goddamn reason. And trekked all the way out here with you for no goddamn reason. And gave you that ginger ale for no goddamn reason."

I swallowed, abruptly guilty. He had gone out of his way to try and make me feel better, which was unlike him. I guess I was just uncomfortable because I didn't know his endgame in all of this. "Just... It's got nothing to do with you," I grumbled. "We...we're moving, and—"

"Moving?" Thomas was astonished. "Seriously? When?"

"As soon as possible." My shoulders felt heavy; I looked at the ground, my headache pounding back to life. "We have to be out by Sunday."

"But you'll still be in town, right?" he said.

"No. Petalburg City."

"Well sh*t. No wonder you were bawling." I glowered at him, but he didn't seem to notice—he stared out into traffic, looking pensive. "Does this mean that you'll be transferring?"

"Probably."

He sighed. "Damn."

"Yeah," I said meanly. "So I guess this means you won't have anyone to get your As or train Brick for you. Poor you."

He pulled an exasperated face. "Why do you and everybody else always think the worst of me? Here I am tryin' to be nice in your time of need, and all you can think about is how I supposedly sucker people."

"You don't?"

"No I don't."

"Why the hell else did you skip out on our last two training sessions?" I snapped.

His mouth tightened. "Not my fault. I had sh*t to work out with Marj. You know what happens to you when you ignore a summons from Marj, Snowman? She nearly beat my ass six ways from Sunday the last time I tried to ghost her."

"I don't care!" I hurled my water bottle into the trash can. "I had enough sh*t on my plate without you dumping your f*cking Kecleon on me. This is why I didn't want to work with you in the first place!"

Thomas opened his mouth, then closed it. "My bad," he said under his breath.

I snorted. That was a hell of a ways from a proper apology.

"Maybe I can make it up to you," he said.

"How?" I said with ugly sarcasm. "I don't think you can magically bring back the time I wasted on Brick."

His mouth worked angrily, but he just said, "Then somethin' else." He cocked his head. "You said you're out by Sunday. Are you guys done packing?"

"No." I was staring at the sluggish traffic again. "This morning, Mom was still—"

He pointed at me. "That. I can help you pack your stuff and take it to your new place."

I hesitated. "I... I don't know if my mom wants any help with that," I said, fumbling a little at this sudden development. She was still in a pissy mood over this move, and I could scarcely imagine Thomas actually at my house. Bad enough he found my f*cking flip phone funny.

Almost as if he'd read my mind, he said, "Did you guys hire a moving service?"

I ground my teeth in response, and he nodded knowingly. "My dad's got an old truck," he said. "Barely uses it anymore, but he lets me drive it on the weekends. The bed's pretty big, can carry a lot of stuff."

"You have your license?"

"I'll have my permit by the end of the summer. As long as I do the speed limit, the cops won't bat an eye."

This all made me highly uncomfortable, especially since I could suddenly see a way it could work. Gas prices were high this year, and Mom would probably be grinding her teeth at the idea of taking multiple trips from here to...wherever we would be staying in Petalburg City. The more stuff we could take in one shot, the better.

Still... I struggled for a response. After a moment, Thomas said, "Great! What's your number, Snowman?"

Defeated, I pulled my phone out of my pocket, then paused. "Can't I just...email you?"

"Nobody checks their email." Without warning, he snatched my phone out of my hand, and shoved his into mine before I could protest. It was a model hot off the line, all screen and barely any substance, and it was already on the "New Contact" page. Reluctantly, I thumbed in my name and number. When I finished, he was still working mine.

"What a pain," he grunted. "Upgrade, Snowman, seriously. This thing's good for calls and nothing else."

Finally, he handed it back, and I said, "I...guess I could talk to my mom about it tonight, and let you know if she's interested."

He snorted. "Just let me know when to show up tomorrow."

***

Saturday, March 24, 2018

Miracle of miracles, Thomas actually did show up the next morning. And on time.

Hopefully, he wouldn't be a bad surprise for Mom — I actually hadn't told her about Thomas's offer last night. After I'd parted ways with him at the Ya-ya, I'd arrived home to what amounted to an interior landfill — sh*t everywhere, blanketing the floor in a chaotic carpet of clothes, dishware, books, furniture, shoes, and toiletries. There were some filled boxes stacked near the door, but it was clear that somewhere in the packing process Mom had had an ugly temper tantrum and had abandoned method for madness. Smoke had filled the place when I'd gotten in, and I'd heard her talking loudly to someone on the phone in her room, so I'd quietly retreated to mine, drained and depressed all over again.

Before I'd gone to bed, though, I'd texted Thomas, giving him my address, a description of the house, and telling him to come sometime between ten and eleven. Clearly, this was too much of a mess for two people to rake through alone.

And lo and behold, when I stepped outside at 10:30, hauling a box I'd filled with my clothes, there was a big red truck idling at the curb. When I set down the box, Thomas piled out, dressed appropriately for the weather in cargo shorts, tennis shoes, and a striped tank. I stood awkwardly on the porch as he approached. "Hi," I said.

"Hi yourself. Nice digs."

Was that a jab? I let it pass. "Uh..." I looked back to the house. "Can I...get you some water?"

He punched me in the arm. "You can tell me where to start. And stop being so stiff. Where's that potty mouth from yesterday?"

I couldn't help it—I'd never had someone from school over to my house before. "Uh, well, we're trying to clean up the inside and stick stuff into boxes..." I paused, realizing. "Oh, do you want to meet my mom first?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

We went inside, and I tried not to cringe with sheer embarrassment at the mess. Arceus, I'd been working my ass off this morning already, but it was still a pigsty inside, and leading Thomas through it made my skin prickle with humiliation. Wouldn't he have a story to tell Patrick and Riley later!

Mom was in the back, cleaning out the bathroom. I poked my head in.

"Mom," I said mildly.

She spared me a glance. She looked bad, like she hadn't been sleeping properly for days. The smoke filling the bathroom only made her eyes appear redder, and her hair was tangled and matted, her clothes rumpled. She looked...honestly, she looked like a druggie searching for a fix, which sent a shiver down my spine.

"What?" she grated.

I cleared my throat and stepped aside so that Thomas could lean into the doorway. I had to hand it to him — however messed up Mom looked, he hid it behind a mega-watt smile. "This is Thomas," I said. "He's from school."

"Yo, Ms. Blakesley," he said.

"He's here to help us pack everything up," I said. "If that's okay...?"

She considered Thomas for a moment, then went back to tossing old toothbrushes, lotion bottles, and unused rolls of toilet paper into the box at her feet. "Living room," she said.

I motioned to Thomas, and we hurried back into the battlefield. I grabbed some unfolded boxes from where they were leaning by the door and quickly put them together. Meanwhile, Thomas peered around the place, pausing to study some photos on the living room mantle that we hadn't put away yet.

"That your dad?" he asked, pointing to one photograph.

I pushed a completed box aside. "Yeah."

"He some kind of scientist? He's got on a lab coat in this pic."

"Was. He's dead."

"Yikes." Thomas stuffed his hands in his pockets. "My bad, Snowman."

I shrugged. "Long time ago." I shoved a box into his hands. "Just put stuff in as best you can. I'll look for some packing tape."

He cracked his knuckles. "Leave it to me, coach."

With that, we set to work, putting as much as we could into each box and sealing them shut with packing tape I found in one of the kitchen drawers. While Thomas packed, I got a garbage bag and continued sifting through our small mountain of belongings, looking for things that we could throw away, to lighten the load.

There was actually a lot: old magazines, unused phone books, movies that you really only watched once, that stupid speaker system that Mom had never gotten around to throwing out, moldy old containers, old clothing that was too small, and a lot of other odds and ends, like pens, notebooks, empty old binders. I filled two whole bags of stuff and hauled them out to the street to be picked up by the garbage truck. By that time, Thomas had packed five boxes and stacked them by the door — I put them outside by the porch, where they were being "guarded" by a dozing, sunbathing Quincy.

A half hour later, we'd boxed away enough stuff that the living room floor was nearly clear again, and I could make it to the hallway without tripping over sh*t. I went to the fridge and offered Thomas some water, but he didn't hear me — he'd put in some wireless headphones and was jamming to something while he laid a pile of old pictures and a checkers set into another box. His stamina was pretty amazing — he hadn't even broken a sweat yet, even in this despicable heat. I, on the other hand, was melting — I left Thomas a water bottle on the floor and retreated to my room, where there was still a fan running.

Most of my junk had been packed away already, but there were still a few things left, like my table lamp, a few more stacks of clothes, my bookbag, and some of my comics, which I was debating whether or not to throw out. There was also a letter sitting on my stripped mattress — the letter from Mr. Reyes, informing Mom that my stupid choices had put us $700 in the hole. After the craziness with Ms. Jenkins, I hadn't found an opening to tell her about it — and might never, considering how harassed she'd looked earlier. I picked it up and studied the letterhead. Was there any point in bothering her with this, now that I would most certainly have to withdraw from RTHS? My stomach pitched; Stop thinking about it!

Knock. I twisted around to see Mom standing at my door, chewing on a cancer stick. "Tell your friend good work," she said. "You've both done handily."

"Thanks." She didn't sound as grouchy as she looked. I studied her face, trying to see past the sleep deprivation. Hesitantly, I said, "He says he can help us take it to the new place too."

"Damn." She mustered a drained half-smile. "I'm gonna have to pay him now, aren't I?"

"No. He's doing me a favor for something I did for him at school."

"Oh?"

I shrugged. "Group work stuff."

"Ah." She knew about my past problems with group work — I'd complained liberally on more than one occasion. "Well, still. We'll have to do something for him. Lunch maybe."

"Okay." I was getting hungry too — all this moving my body around had worked up an appetite. I looked anxiously up at my mom, then down at my fingers. For a moment, the only sound to be heard was Thomas humming to his tunes in the living room. "Are you good?" I asked quietly.

A sigh — Mom took a drag on her cigarette and leaned heavily against the doorway. "I will be. Nothing we can do about it now; it's done, and I'm over it."

"I'm sorry," I said, and for the first time felt true pity for my mother. We'd always hovered below the poverty line, but I hadn't often thought about the toll it all took on her – being a single mother, dealing with a thankless secretarial job, an unsympathetic landlady, and a son who moped around the second things didn't go his way. It was a little embarrassing how I couldn't see things this clearly unless I was in this kind of distress.

Her face twisted at my apology. "It's got nothing to do with you. Things went south between me and Ms. Jenkins a long time ago, you know that. I'm sorry you got dragged into it."

I glanced at Mr. Reyes's letter. Definitely not telling her about it. "It's...fine. I'll deal with it." Maybe this would all be for the best; if anything, the past few days had taught me to count my blessings. It was just hard to see them right now, whatever they were.

Mom followed my gaze. "That from the school?"

I stiffened. "Yeah."

Mom stepped forward and released a cloud of smoke. "Darwin, listen..." Something about her voice changed, drawing my complete attention – her back remained straight and her eyes stony, but she sounded less...armored than she usually did. "This whole move is bullsh*t, and I didn't plan on something this major shaking things up... But I also don't plan on letting you lose your seat at that place. You worked too damn hard to get in, and we're not letting go, even if it means I have to make some sacrifices here or there."

My brows furrowed. Not letting go? Sacrifices? My heart began crashing in my chest. What's she saying? "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I made a decision last night. We're moving to Petalburg City, but not so far in that you're outside Rustboro Trainer High's school district. It'll be a longer commute, but you can commute. You'll have to take the inter-city bus."

"Are you serious?" I gaped at her, hardly daring to believe my ears. All of my terrors and fears from yesterday seemed to grow wings and fly, leaving me light and lightheaded. "I can still go to RTHS?"

Her eyes narrowed, as if my response surprised her. Had she expected me to complain? "It'll be an adjustment... But yes."

I sagged, muscles liquefying. Then I launched myself at Mom, enclosing her in a backbreaking hug. She choked, nearly swallowing her cigarette. "Thank you," I blubbered. I don't know if I spoke to her or Arceus, but one of them had just answered my prayers. The gratitude was so intense I felt close to tears.

"All right, all right, Arceus's sake, calm down." Mom broke my grip on her and held me at arm's length. She smirked. "Are you crying?"

"No. Shut up."

Now she chortled; it was nice to see a smile on her face. "Ha! Remember this moment the next time you're whining about schoolwork."

"I'll never complain about anything school-related again." It was a promise I'd made Arceus in that bathroom stall, and right now I was so high on relief that I was determined to see it through.

"We'll see." She sobered, and scratched a hand through her tangled hair. "I wish I was that excited about where we're going."

"Why? Where is this place? Is it an apartment?"

Her lips pursed. "No." A breath of smoke, then two. Then: "Right now, we can't afford any apartments within the city limits, even if we downsize significantly. That's why..." She paused, seeming to fortify herself. "Get ready for a reunion, because we're moving in with your grandfather until further notice. And we're leaving in a few hours."

(Ver. 3.0)

—

Editing Trivia

Bloated this chapter a little: originally 11 pages, now 12 pages. The extra stuff was compensating for changes made in previous chapters: Mr. Reyes's letter, for example, was originally not addressed in this chapter.

FLOOD Artwork

Heather Blakesley and Quincy.