This took way too long I'm sorry but school is a lot ya know

I had a bit of a panic on Sunday morning when I realized my wallet was missing.

I retraced my steps, I asked people I knew if they'd seen it, and I searched my car and my entire house, but it didn't appear anywhere.

"Get the fuck out of my room," Jacob said the moment I stepped in without knocking.

"Did you take my wallet?" I asked sharply. I wasn't going to beat around the bush -- it wouldn't be the first time Jacob tried to steal money from me.

He screwed up his face. "What? No!"

But I, to be frank, didn't believe him, so I began looking around, opening the nearest drawer. "What the hell are you doing?" he snapped, like it wasn't obvious.

"Looking for my shit," I grumbled back.

I hadn't been inside Jacob's room in ages, but it was exactly how I'd pictured it. Walls covered in rock-album music records and alternative posters, dark clothes and band tees strewn across the floor, action figures and anime characters all over the dresser, and a messy stack of comics next to the bed.

"Well I don't have your shit, so get out!" Jacob hissed, but I ignored him and kept looking, so he sat heavily on his bed with an aggravated huff and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring relentlessly at me as I opened drawers and looked beneath clothing items.

After a thorough inspection of everything I could look at without my brother biting my head off, I left the room empty-handed, slamming the door behind me in frustration. That was the last room in the house I'd left unchecked.

Had I left my wallet at school? Maybe I could go look in the lost and found on Monday -- but no, I'd had it at the game, because I'd lent Bryan some cash for his post-game date with Vanessa (in his dreamy state, he'd forgotten his own wallet). I'd had it at his house last night, too, because we'd made a McDonald's run, and I hadn't been anywhere else since.

I had let someone into my car, though. Into the same passenger seat where I often tossed my wallet if I didn't feel like shoving it in my pocket.

I checked the car again, just to be absolutely sure. There was no wallet.

"That . . . that bastard . . ." I hissed to myself as I stormed back up my driveway. I couldn't believe it.

Except yeah, I could. It wasn't surprising at all. What was surprising was that I'd actually been dumb enough to fall for it. After what we'd done . . . fucking Jamie had seriously stolen my goddamn wallet.

I was bursting with impatience for sixth period on Monday, where I'd hopefully get a chance to . . . well, I wasn't sure what I was going to do. I just knew that there was a lot of money in that wallet, and I'd be damned if I didn't have it back by the end of the day.

The only thing that lessened the blow was my sister's arrival that afternoon for her Thanksgiving Break visit; my own break didn't start until Wednesday, which I thought was just about the dumbest thing on Earth. Despite my agitation and the constant urge I felt to punch someone in the face -- preferably someone with white-blonde hair and a bad attitude -- Stevie managed to put a smile on my face that didn't fade until I was walking through the halls on Monday morning, looking for any sign of Jamie.

None came, however, until sixth period calculus, and I didn't even get to approach Jamie at the beginning of the class, because Mr. Peters called me over to discuss some algorithm or another that he thought I would find incredibly interesting.

The moment class started, Mr. Peters handed out a pop quiz, and I had no choice but to focus for the sake of my grade. I couldn't help but glance every now and then at Jamie, though, each time with narrowed eyes. I half-expected the boy to be asleep, or doodling, or something, but instead he was writing feverishly, as if he wanted to finish the quiz as quickly as possible.

And he did; he was the first one done, and as soon as he'd handed the paper in, he asked if he could use the bathroom. Mr. Peters excused him distractedly -- no doubt still pondering over the algorithm -- and as Jamie walked past my desk to the exit, he looked purposefully at me for a fleeting moment, subtlety nodding toward the door.

I glared after him as he continued out. What did he want? That was a stupid question, really -- he just wanted to hook up again. I considered for a moment being a petty bitch and ignoring him entirely, before realizing that that would be ridiculously stupid; this was a perfect opportunity for me to give Jamie a piece of my mind, whatever the hell that meant.

I rushed through the rest of the quiz, turning it in and asking to spend the remainder of the period in the library since everyone else would continue quizzing. Mr. Peters gave what I took as a nod, though it was more of an unconscious head jerk, and I left the classroom.

I spotted Jamie leaning against a locker several feet away and approached him, eyes narrowed and pointing accusingly. "Some nerve you've got," I growled instantly, "asking me to meet you after you stole my fucking wallet."

Jamie stared at me for a moment, his expression briefly surprised before it grew dry once more. "Ever consider doing theater?" he said. "It's great for dramatics."

"Don't play with me right now!" I raised my voice, taking an intimidating step forward so that I was glowering down at him. "Give. Me. My. Wallet."

"What do you think I'm here to talk to you about?" Jamie snapped, staring right back up at me defiantly. Once again, I was struck by how unnerving those eyes could be. "I didn't steal your wallet."

"Oh, so it just walked out of my pocket into yours, then?" I retorted angrily.

"No, you gave it to me," Jamie said harshly, and I faltered. "When you lent me your hoodie -- your stupid wallet was in the pocket. I didn't notice until I took it off."

Shit.

". . . Oh," I said softly, feeling my cheeks heat up in well-deserved embarrassment. ". . . Can I, uh, have it?"

"I forgot it," Jamie said, his voice laced with annoyance. "But you can drop by after school and grab it and the hoodie if you want. That is, if you're done accusing me of shit I didn't do?"

I scratched the back of my neck sheepishly. "Er -- sorry," I said. "I thought . . ."

"I know what you thought," Jamie snapped. "I know I'm not the best guy around, but I'm no thief, either."

Jamie looked away, and I got the feeling he was genuinely offended. Sounding awkward and a little guilty, I said, "Well I, uh, should get going to the library --"

"No you shouldn't," Jamie interrupted, and I raised my eyebrows in a silent question. "Come on."

He took my wrist and led me off in the direction of the the end of the hall, toward the scantly-used storage closet. I only realized what he was doing when he began to pick the lock the same way he had last time.

"Aren't you kind of pissed at me right now?" I asked as he pulled me inside and closed the door behind us.

Not that I was complaining. Not at all; that familiar excitement was spreading through me again.

"All the better," Jamie muttered, pulling me forward by the lapels of my blazer.

There was another thing we had in common, then.

++++

I found Jamie waiting outside of that same closet after seventh period, looking neutral as ever to see me.

"How long did you say your practice lasts?" he asked.

"Two hours," I told him, and he groaned but didn't say anything else.

We parted ways at the locker rooms, Jamie continuing on to wait in the bleachers as I went inside.

I felt weird practicing in front of Jamie, but every time I glanced over to where he sat, he was staring down at his little book.

The practice was over quickly enough; I didn't hang around in the locker rooms after I'd showered and changed, because I was sure Jamie's impatient ass would have a handful of words for me if I did. I called to him from the bottom of the bleachers, and once we were standing together on the track, we started off toward the parking lot.

"You know, the football thing's pretty hot," Jamie said casually, not even looking at me, as if he was just commenting on the weather. My neck heated up.

So he had been watching.

I had explained to Jamie earlier that I didn't have my car -- Stevie was using it while she was in town. So Jamie would drive us to his house, hence why he waited through the soccer practice.

"Are we the only ones here?" I asked as he pulled into the long driveway of his ridiculously large house. At his nod, I felt my lips quirk up as my mind wandered.

"Don't get too excited," Jamie deadpanned. "We're not doing anything. Not here."

"Why no --"

"Rule number one about coming to my house," Jamie said, and I heard something dark in his voice. "No questions."

His tone told me not to press the subject -- or say anything, really. Feeling suddenly nervous, I followed him into the house.

I looked around as we entered. The place was modern and impeccably tidy, almost as though no one actually lived there, and it was a house being advertised for sale. It didn't look like a very happy, homely place.

I was led past the massive living room and glimmering spiral staircase to a white-painted hall with a series of doors along its far wall. Jamie went to the one furthest to the left; I was expecting to see a bedroom when it opened, but instead I was met by a dark stairwell downward.

I followed silently until I was consumed by darkness and growing exceedingly anxious. I jumped at the sound of a light-switch being flipped, and suddenly, a room came to life.

It was just like a normal bedroom but bigger, and its lack of items to fill the space made it seem larger still. There was a pull-out couch with a blanket draped over it, a dresser, a wardrobe, and a desk; four furniture pieces that didn't at all satisfy the vastness of the basement. For belonging to a guy like Jamie, who seemed to have so much to him, the room was oddly plain. There were no posters on the walls, no decorations. The only thing that gave the place any ounce of personality was a framed photo on the dresser of a younger -- blonde-haired -- Jamie, looking so happy he seemed almost unrecognizable, and a small girl with dark brown hair in pigtails.

Right away, I had a million questions. Why was Jamie sleeping in the basement, when there had to be several bedrooms in a house so big? Why was his room so barren? Who was that little girl?

Jamie seemed to see what I was thinking, because he quickly reminded me of his rule. "No questions."

I nodded numbly, drowning under the weight of question after question appearing in my mind. It took all of my self control not to ask.

Jamie walked over to the pull-out, on top of which I hadn't noticed a folded gray mass. I stayed rooted on the spot, feeling strangely frozen, until he came back over and handed me the hoodie. I took it, noticing that it smelled nice and fresh -- he had washed it for me.

As Jamie left again, this time to his dresser, I decided to pull it on over my t-shirt. When he turned back around, my brown leather wallet in his hand, I put my hands on my hips, struck a pose -- vogue, hire me -- and said, "How do I look?"

I wasn't sure why I did it. I could feel Jamie's stress, and I'd had the natural response to try and make him laugh. But I'd forgotten that this was Jamie, and Jamie didn't laugh.

Except this time, he did laugh, catching me entirely off guard. It was a soft sound, and he seemed to realize after he let it out that it wasn't quite usual for him, because he cut it off quickly and his face became stony again.

"Here," he said and tossed me the wallet; I caught it and shoved it into my pocket.

Finally recovering from my odd discomfort, I stepped further into the room, crossing it to stand before Jamie. I reached forward and tugged gently at the hem of his shirt, urging him forward, but he put his hands on my chest and stubbornly said, "Nope."

"I don't see why not," I huffed. "You said no one's here."

Just then, I heard the loud sound of a car lock horn. Given there was nowhere but the garage near enough for such a sound to be heard from here, I had a feeling we weren't alone anymore. Fucking wonderful timing, really -- like the universe just had to prove me wrong.

As though to confirm my suspicions, it was only a minute or so before I heard footsteps sounding in the hall above us. I felt a ripple of curiosity spread in my chest, but next to me, Jamie had gone rigid.

The footsteps stopped right at the door of the basement, and with a sharp breath, Jamie hissed, "Hide."

Hide? What the hell kind of horror-movie shit was this?

"What?" I demanded. "Why? -- "

"No questions."

Feeding off of Jamie's anxiety, I rushed to duck behind the couch, suddenly feeling tense all over. Then there was a knock on the door -- not a normal knock, but one that followed a cute little tune. Dun dun dun-dun dun, dun dun.

I could just barely see over the arm of the couch. I watched Jamie's entire demeanor, from his expression to his posture, relax as he called out, "Come in." Then he turned to me with a relieved sigh. "You can get up."

So I pushed to my feet just as the door opened and footsteps sounded down the stairs. A moment later a girl who couldn't have been older than seven, with pixie-cut brown hair and a container of what looked like lasagna in her hands, appeared. The girl in the picture.

Jamie met her halfway, and I watched in astonishment as he ruffled her hair affectionately and said, "What's up?"

The little girl beamed. "I brought you this," she said sweetly, holding out the container.

Jamie took it with a smile. "You're an angel," he said, crossing the room to set it onto his desk. His back still turned, he said, "How was your day?"

Jamie couldn't see it because he was facing the other way, but I could have sworn I saw the girl's smile falter, just for a moment. Instead of answering, she turned her gaze to me. "Is this your friend, Jamie?"

He turned around, and I caught his hesitation. Friend wasn't really the right word. But Jamie seemed to decide it would be better to lie than to explain the situation, because he said, "Er, yeah. He's my friend from school. His name's --"

"Liam," I said, holding out a hand.

"Penelope Marie Alexander," she said proudly, happily shaking my hand. "It's nice to meet you."

What a cute kid, I thought. Smiling, I said, "Right back at you."

Jamie was back now, standing next to me and looking at Penelope -- his sister, I guessed -- with an expression so unlike him, I forgot not to stare. Penelope took Jamie's hand and plopped onto the couch, pulling him with her, before turning to me and saying, "Well? Sit down!"

"Hey," Jamie scolded, but his tone wasn't serious. "Don't be bossy." Penelope stuck her tongue at him and turned expectantly back to me; I laughed and sat down nearest to Jamie. He slung an arm around his sister's shoulders, pulling her into his side and kissing the top of her head. Again, I was astounded. "So, Pip, how was school?"

I felt stupid for not making the connection sooner. Penelope was Pip, or Pippy, or Pipsqueak -- the person who'd called Jamie on Friday night; something about ice cream. He'd had the same expression on his face when he spoke to her. I couldn't help but wonder, then, if she was what Jamie had been thinking about as he stood in the rain, looking more relaxed and content than I had ever seen him. Maybe Penelope was his happy place.

For the second time, however, Penelope ignored the question about her day. She didn't answer it, but sent it straight back at Jamie. "How was school for you?"

He shrugged. "Pretty standard. Some idiot accused me of stealing his wallet, but that was it."

I felt myself blush. Penelope raised her eyebrows. "Did you steal it?"

Jamie gaped at her, and I burst into smug laughter. "No, I did not -- come on, Pip!"

Giggling, Penelope said, "I know, I know!" and gave her brother a hug to prove it. "Can we play a game, Jamie?" she asked hopefully.

But Jamie shook his head. "Later, okay? I've got to take this guy home," he nodded toward me. Penelope pouted.

"But what if I can't come down later?" she asked, and I furrowed my eyebrows; what was that supposed to mean? Surely she could come whenever she wanted.

Before I'd had a chance to think better of it, I started saying, "Why wouldn't. . . ?"

My voice died out rather unspectacularly, however, as Jamie shot me a pointed look. No questions.

"We've got to get going, okay?" Jamie said to Penelope, who looked much sadder now that her brother had to leave. As a matter of fact, she looked a bit too sad for someone who was merely saying a short goodbye. Before either Jamie or me knew what was happening, she'd burst into tears.

"What's wrong?" Jamie said instantly, his voice shrouded in alarm.

"M-Mary and -- and Lola," she whimpered, and Jamie's face instantly darkened. He'd obviously heard those names before. "They told Max that I l-like him, and h-he laughed and said that he -- that he'd n-never like a girl like me who l-looks like a b-boy!"

Jamie pulled her into his chest, his expression hot with anger as he rocked her gently and said, "What do I tell you, Lily?"

Lily?

"Those stupid girls are just picking on you because they're insecure," Jamie continued, glaring over her head at the wall. "So they look for someone who's a little different from them to bully into feeling worse than they already do. Their opinions aren't worth sh -- anything, and if that idiot Max wants to fall into their trap and make fun of you for something as insignificant as a haircut, he's not worth your tears. You like the way you look, and I like the way you look, and your friends like the way you look, so forget stupid Max. For a pretty girl like you, there will be tons of other boys; you're too young to worry about them now. Boys don't get smart for another fifteen or so years -- believe me, I would know, I'm still in the dumb-boy phase."

Penelope had been silent until the very end of his rant, where she laughed softly and said, "I don't think you're d-dumb."

"Yeah, well . . . " Jamie smiled down at her fondly, wiping the tears from her cheeks and pushing her hair from her face to kiss her forehead. "Just know your worth, okay? You know what I always tell you; that -- "

"That knowing we're w-worth more than the world portrays is one of the m-most important lessons a girl can learn," Penelope recited with a sniffle. "And that knowing our worth automatically m-makes us smarter than anyone who tries to treat us like we're nothing."

"Exactly," said Jamie. "Which means that you're way smarter than Mary and Lola and Max, so you shouldn't even waste your energy fretting over what they say."

Penelope nodded. "They're stupid," she decided.

"Yes," Jamie chuckled. "Very, very stupid."

Just then, Penelope's name was called from somewhere upstairs by a woman's voice. "Go," Jamie nodded toward the door. "And remember --"

"Make sure she doesn't see me come out," Penelope said. "I'll come back tonight."

"I'll be waiting," Jamie said, his smile reaching his voice. "Do me a favor and get mom to go upstairs so I can get this guy out, okay?"

Penelope nodded dutifully and, with a final hug for her brother and wave to me, she hurried back up the stairs. In a few moments, she was gone.

Jamie seemed to know exactly where my mind was heading, because he said, "No --"

"Questions," I sighed. "I know."

Now more than ever, though, my head was spinning with questions.

It was a few minutes before Jamie seemed to decide it was the right moment to leave. With a strict order to be quiet, he led me up the stairs and out of the basement bedroom, back down the hall, past the staircase, through the living room, and out the front door, making as little noise as possible.

The drive to my house was entirely silent, save for my occasional directions. It was awkward and uncomfortable, and I spent most of it staring blindly at my phone screen to pretend I was doing something.

We were stopped at a light at the intersection nearest my neighborhood. Jamie pulled a box of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket, rolled down the windows, and began to smoke.

I tried my hardest to bite my tongue, knowing that saying something would do more harm than good. But as the light turned green and Jamie stepped on the gas, the smell of smoke irritated me to the point of simply not caring, and before I could stop myself, I said, "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" Jamie's tone was bored, but I heard something else behind it. A warning; he knew where I was going, and was telling me to turn around right now. I should've listened.

"That. Not taking care of yourself. Smoking, everything else. Going out and getting drunk and hooking up with strangers-- "

"Last I remember, you were as fucked up as I was that night," Jamie snapped, and all pretense was gone. He was blatantly telling me to drop it.

"I wanted to try it," I retorted. I knew I was being hypocritical -- I didn't exactly shy away from club and party scenes myself -- but I also knew that there was a difference between us when it came to going out. I did it to have fun. Jamie . . . Jamie wanted a distraction, or to forget something, I was sure of it. That couldn't be healthy or safe. "But how many times have you gone through that process, huh?"

"None of your business," Jamie said tersely, his grip tightening on the wheel.

"And school," I continued. "You're always slacking off even though you're a genius."

"I'm not a genius," Jamie said through gritted teeth.

"Don't think I don't remember," I said. Jamie was a genius. That kind of thing didn't just go away once someone took on a new persona. "You were the kid that teachers loved and guys like me envied."

Jamie's dry laugh made me squirm uneasily. It was somehow the most hostile sound I'd ever heard from him, and it was unsettling enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge. "I didn't think you knew who I was back then."

I shook my head. Jamie may not have been popular, but he'd surely been known. "Everyone knew who you were."

"As if," Jamie scoffed. "I was nobody."

"You were the smartest kid at school," I insisted. "Do you really think nobody noticed that?"

"Nobody showed it. I had one friend." Jamie's voice had become rough and aggravated, bordering on a snarl. "My best and only friend since kindergarten. A girl who killed herself because of how bad your friends bullied her in ninth grade over her weight. You don't even remember her, do you? You have no recollection of poor Rosie Andrews who slit her wrists in the bathroom at the end of Freshman year."

The car approached a stop sign at alarming speed, jerking to a stop at the last second so that I was slung forward, held back only by my seat-belt. But I hardly noticed -- my mind was racing, searching for some remembrance of a girl named Rosie Andrews in Freshman year. I wasn't sure if a memory would have made me feel more or less sick, but when I came up blank, I was met with an uncomfortable wrench in my stomach. "I -- I don't . . ."

"Of course you don't," Jamie said darkly. "After she died, the only people who paid me any mind at school were the guys that jeered at me in the hallways. I guess that hasn't really changed, huh?"

I hadn't known that Jamie got picked on in the hallways. Not now, at least . . . but in middle school, I'd witnessed it a few times. What did they have to say to him now?

It was obvious, and I hated that. Jamie was gay. Some people didn't like that. But the way Jamie was now, I found it hard to imagine anyone messing with him.

"I pay you mind," I protested weakly for lack of anything better to say.

"When there's no one around, sure."

"I don't -- that's not the point," I stammered. "This is my house."

Again, the car lurched to a fast stop that did nothing to help my queasiness. "Yeah, well, your original point was stupid," Jamie said. "Get out."

"No it wasn't," I insisted, ignoring his demand. "I'm serious, why are you screwing yourself over? Don't you want a future?"

"What future?" he snapped angrily, and I knew I'd gone too far. "My shitty job won't pay for college, and my parents sure as hell aren't going to help me out. I can't even afford to leave this goddamn town! There's nothing for me here or anywhere else. Nobody cares if I destroy myself, and at this point, neither do I."

I could tell that Jamie hadn't wanted to reveal so much by the way his lips formed a tight line when he was finished. He was staring directly at me, silently daring me to say something, and even though I knew my next words were probably about to make things much worse, I said them anyways. "What about your sister?"

Jamie's faced darkened. "Get the hell out," he seethed. "Liam, I'm not fucking kidding, get the hell out of my car right now or I swear to god --"

"It's no way to live," I continued to push, knowing that I was treading on cracking ice but unable to find it in me to stop. "What you're doing. It's really bad."

Jamie blew smoke in my face, causing me to scrunch up my nose in disgust. "I don't tell you how to live your life, do I? So get the fuck out of mine."

"Addictions can fuck you up, Jamie," I pressed on. "Really bad."

Another touchy subject. Jamie's voice was dangerously cool as he said, "I'm not addicted to anything. Perks of being numb."

I felt an uncomfortable jerk, almost as if the car had stopped again. But we weren't moving.

I'd heard that before. Numb.

From a person who'd ended up in a rehab facility for two months. Suddenly, I found a familiarity in Jamie's words, and it wasn't a pleasant one. If the circumstances were at all alike, then I knew what was going on, even if the boy sitting square-jawed next to me refused to admit it.

"So if you wanted to stop, you could?"

Jamie shrugged, and I could see how tense he was in his restricted movement. "Maybe. Maybe not. I haven't tried, and I don't plan to."

"You're not numb, Jamie," I said, feeling sick. "You're — you know what you are. There are things you can do to help, people who know --"

That was the final straw. Jamie didn't say a word, but when he looked at me, he hated me. His stare made my words get stuck in my throat. His eyes delivered the same order — get out — but this time, the command was so intense, I didn't disobey.

Every time I edit I notice more and more Jamie/Nate parallels