Marigold Rosenstein could live. Possibly.

        The blonde-haired girl sits near your desk during language, and though you know not to trust humans, she does seem to be of great use. Smart and pretty - although that wouldn't really matter, you didn't want to reproduce or have a beloved - she could definitely help you. Her morals, of course, would get in the way, however - she was kind to others. She didn't see the real threat of humans, coming from a privileged, rich, luxurious family in Albany that was as pale as they were wholeheartedly capitalist. 

        Their supposed "progressiveness" did have limits, however. They did claim to support "coloreds" but never mentioned it when business came into the matter - they were clever. They would lose sales with racists and since they didn't seem to intend on losing any money, they kept silent and ignored anyone who needed their help. Sure, they would give money to the poor people living on the streets - mainly Caucasians - but only when it seemed surprising. They wanted it to seem random, out-of-the-blue, so it was as though it was coming out of the good of their hearts. But, still, if they found a nicely sized group of fellow "progressives", they would tell them how much they wanted equal rights to conquer and swiftly grab hold of the United States with their slim hands of auriferous canary yellow. 

        Marigold herself was a proper girl who preferred to go by the childish name of "Goldie". So, Goldie Rosenstein it was, skipping down the school hallways and complimenting boys and girls alike (not girls that often, though, because it seemed she didn't want to come off as a homosexual). She seemed to think you were at least a little bit odd - hopefully not too odd, because that would destroy your blossoming plan, but she was a very nice girl. 

        "Hey, Calvin?" Marigold (for you're not comfortable with her enough to call her Goldie) asks in a hushed tone, snapping you out of your thoughts. Think of the angel, and the angel calls to you. "I'm having a party tonight."

        It occurs to you that it is a Friday - that meaning it was no longer a school night. It would, of course, make sense to have a party then. "Ah. That's nice."

        Marigold hesitates. "I was wondering if you could come."

        You whip your head towards her, so confused by the question. "Excuse me?"

        "A party at my house," she eyes the teacher carefully as she slips a piece of dyed paper to your desk, "I'd like you to come. If you have friends, you can invite them too."

        You blink. You've never been invited to a party before - it feels like a sick prank. You remind yourself that she probably isn't inviting you because she likes you but rather because she just wants quantity over quality - after all, she did say you could invite friends. You take a look at the paper. The party goes from six in the evening to the start of a new day, which seems atrociously modern for you (times are changing and so are parties, apparently) but you open your mouth to accept her offer anyway. "Oh- ah, thanks. I can ask my ma if I can go."

        "Ask your ma?" Marigold looks confused. "That seems kind of..."

        "Lame," Tony Matchinski, the well-known eavesdropper and greaser, finishes.

        "Oh, hush, Tony, you don't have to be rude," Marigold shushes him before turning back to you, "well, I hope you can come."

        "Rosenstein, Matchinski, Sawyer. We have a problem here?" your teacher Ms. (obviously not married since she's a total party pooper, as your fellow students call her) Musselwhite interjects.

        "No, miss. I was just asking Calvin what page we were on before Tony told me."

        Ms. Musselwhite observed her suspiciously. "Page two-hundred twenty. Ask me the next time you have a question."

        And, with that, class resumed, and you fantasized not about destroying humanity but going to the party so you could gain trust of Marigold. And, well, maybe that did tie in with the "Destroying Humanity™" scheme, but not specifically. 

        Once you get home from school, your first choice is not to ask your mother about the party, but rather talk to Lewis while he's a fish out of water - or, better put, a demon-man not slinking around the office or in his house.

        "Lewis," you say in the most friendly and normal-civilian-like tone you can muster, "fancy seeing you here."

        "Fancy seeing me here?" Lewis asks with the blank expression of hearing his wife say to take things slowly. "I, ah- I live right next to you."

        The afternoon sun filters onto the freshly trimmed American lawn, the birds' chirping not nearly as honeyed perceptible as it is in the morning when the dew hangs languidly on the lush grass. "Oh, well, you know what I mean."

        An awkward silence ensues.

        You, being a boy with less social skills than normal - even for teenagers - decide to say, "I got invited to a party."

        "You did?" Lewis said. "Well. That's good for you." 

        He begins making a move to go inside.

        "Wait!" You call before Lewis even makes it to his garage. "Oh-" you stutter, unsure of what to say to keep his attention. "I know what you are."

        "Pardon me?"

        Oh no. Too fast, too fast, too FAST. You correct yourself as smoothly as you can. "I-I mean - I know who you are."

        "Yes?" Lewis says, his face no longer dull but rather very, very uncomfortable.

        "Lewis. Lewis Hollingsworth." You say, nodding. "That's who you are."

        "Er. Yeah, that's who I am."

        Another terse silence ensues before Lewis finishes the conversation by saying, "I'm going to go inside now."

        He enters his home without sparing you another glance, as unhurried as one can be yet you still knew he was extremely uneasy. "Stupid!" you say, utter self hate in your voice as you bang your head on the wall. You continue doing so for about a good thirty seconds before your mother comes outside. "Calvin?"

        "Ma," you reply, confirming your presence.

        "Why the hell are you banging your head against our damn wall?"

        Not wanting to make your mother think you're still hung up on Lewis being a supernatural creature, your brain scrambles for words. "I got invited to a party."

        Your mother ogles at you intently before you add in, "by a girl."

        "Oh, honey!" your mother rushes over to you. "I was so worried you- you were..."

        "I was what?"

        "Never mind that," your mother says quickly, "never mind that. Oh, you must be so nervous- and you. You smell a bit bad too. Well, come in, come in - your father has some cologne. And- and you have some nice clothes, don't you? That button up faux tuxedo I got for you a while back? Might be a little tight, but some girls like that. Your father has some hair grease, you can use that... Wait. I need to know which girl it is before I get you all dressed up. Who?"

        Your mother rushes you into the home as you say, "Marigold Rosenstein."

        "Oh! Marigold! What a lovely, lovely girl," she says as she guides you to the shower. "I met her once. A nice girl, really. Well, you take a shower, get dressed in that suit, and you'll be all ready for tonight- it's tonight, isn't it?"

        You nod, still not truly distracted from the uncomfortable situation with Lewis. "Oh, yes, that's what I thought. Well. Get in the shower, and I'll guide you through the party process. I know you're worried, but it can't be all that bad, could it?"

        You nod numbly once again as your mother closes the bathroom door.

        "Don't take too long in there, Calvin!"

        Eugene and Lillian had been together for about twenty years, and out of all they decided they wanted their little Calvin Tate Sawyer to be, they probably never wanted you to not know how to socialize with girls.

        You are certain of this as you slink on the nearby walls, adorned with blue and white patterned wallpaper. You sip at your coca cola while trying to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible before you realize that you've already been spotted. "Oh, Calvin!" Marigold says in your direction, her little sheeple of a friend group following her lead. She walks over to you smoothly, smiling brightly. "I'm so glad you could make it. You look really nice. Are you having fun so far?"

        You look around nervously, replying, "ah, I just got here."

        Marigold blinked. "Oh, well, then I'll introduce you to some of my friends! This-" she gestured over to a girl with ginger hair (just like Lewis, you think absentmindedly) and white rimmed glasses, "is Bernadette Sweeney, and this-" she gestures once again to an exceptionally pretty blonde girl, "is Lucy Sherwood. Do you guys wanna say hi?"

        Lucy greets you just like any other, but Bernadette pauses to look you over. "Hey, aren't you the guy Tony was talking about?"

        Marigold swats her with an invitation. "Bernadette, don't-"

        "No," Bernadette interjects before continuing, "Tony's my boyfriend. He said you sit in front of him and you believe in demons and stuff."

        You shift uneasily. "Uh, how did he know that? Not saying it's true, but..."

        Marigold gets progressively more uncomfortable with the conversation while Bernadette maintains an interesting look on her face while saying, "oh, he says he went to primary school with you when you were younger and you talked about all these supernatural creatures. He told me you don't talk much about it anymore, but... is that true? It's understandable because, you know, you were a kid, but..."

        Your left eye twitches, tongue stuttering before you settle on the question, "are you writing a book or something? Why are you asking so many questions?"

        "Uh..." Bernadette looks around awkwardly, "sorry? I'll just..."

        A silence between you all enters the air, thick and sticky with its uncomfortable presence. "Hey, I thought I heard the doorbell ring," Marigold says smoothly, fidgeting with her hands, "you guys want to come see who's here?"

        Lucy gives you a final glance as the group turns away as she tells Marigold, "yeah, of course."

        They leave as quickly as you came. The strangers at the party examine you, some people donning the look of "wow, get a load of this loser" as you wipe sweat off your forehead. You curse silently, walking ungracefully towards the back exit, kicking over a vase when you're out of sight. You storm into the backyard, and, once near a wall, you ram your head into it with as much force as you can muster.

        "Hey, you poorly packaged bad news," a voice says, "jesus, I'm trying to enjoy a smoke. Ram your damn head somewhere else."

        You squint, slowly turning around. A girl with strawberry blonde, wavy hair sits on the curb, cigarette in hand as she gives you a judgmental stare. Her eyes have poorly applied eyeliner on, but in a charming fashion; her red lipstick is slightly smudged. If your mother saw her, delightful as she is, she'd probably say her macquillage was whoreish. 

        You consider lunging at her, but instead sink to the ground, cursing outwardly. 

        The girl grimaces. "Are you going to release all your woes to me like every other dysfunctional boy at every bash I've went to?"

        "What's it matter to you?" you ask, "I just destroyed my chance."

        "Chance to, like..." she trails off. "Get your rocks off?"

        "What?"

        "Uh, never mind," the girl says quickly before exchanging her hand, "I'm Jillian. Jillian Mahoney."

        You look at the hand foreignly, perhaps waiting too long before she - Jillian - waves it around your face. You shake it stiffly as she gives you a bit of a sympathetic grin. "Now, uh... chum. What's your name?"

        "Calvin. Calvin Sawyer," you say numbly. 

        "Oh, you're that... you're that guy," Jillian says, lighting another cigarette, "that guy kinda near the back of the class? Ms. Musselwhite's class?" 

        You take a few seconds to respond. "Yeah, that's me." 

        "Okay, Calvin. You look interesting, so I'm actually going to let you release all your woes onto me. I may or may not mock you. Now, what's wrong, chump?"

        You give Jillian a look. She gives you a look back before you say, "I don't talk about my feelings."

        "Oh?" Jillian says, tone changing to borderline mocking just as she had hinted before, "you a big daddy now? An emotionless killing machine who doesn't actually kill people but just his own grades and success?"

        "Pardon me?"

        "Yeah, seemed like it," Jillian scoffed. "What brought you to this party?"

        "An invitation."

        "Smartass," Jillian says before muttering, "yeah, that's kind of the same with me. Yeah, Marigold gives me this kinda look and she's like, 'hey, I don't like you but I need this party to feel big to successfully validate my status as pretty blonde popular girl, so come along now.' So that happened, and, uh, I'm here now. Looking like a loser in the backyard smoking a cig."

        A minute passes. "You not going to say anything back?"

        "Ah," you begin, "that's nice."

        Jillian stares at you. "Now I see why you were banging your head against the wall."

        "What?"

        "You can't talk with girls," Jillian tells you.

        "I can't talk with anyone, so don't go thinking that makes you special."

        "Jesus," Jillian says, standing up and dusting off her pants. "You're lucky you're entertaining to watch and hear. Otherwise people would've beaten you up."

        Your mind flashes quickly. Eight years old, getting cornered in an alleyway by teenage boys. Twelve years old, punched in the face by Guy Westbrook after making a remark that was taken as an insult. Fourteen years old, pushed into a locker and given a black eye by Jerome Shepherd because you dared to breathe near him.

        You remember their names, and so does Karma. 

        "Yeah, you're getting that weird look in your eye which either indicates you're going to try assaulting me or destroy everything like a really angry hairless cat. I'm leaving now." Jillian says, "uh, I'll see you in class, Calvin."

        Jillian leaves, and now the only thing to keep you company is the buzz of music softening through the layers of the wall and the night sky.

        Out of all the people you expected to bump into at the corner store, you did not expect it to be Jillian Mahoney.

        Considering your uncomfortably bad luck, you'd assume it would be Marigold and one of her pathetic little friends - maybe they'd give you a shared glance, an ugly little petty teenage girl one, eyes flashing and mouths letting obnoxious hushed giggles crawl out and onto the floor, right in your path. It certainly wasn't Marigold or Bernadette or Lucy, but Jillian and Marigold and Co. shared one similar trait - bravery. Bravery to step on your toes and get on your nerves.

        You had noticed the top of Jillian's head in a different aisle. You ignore it at first, desperate to get out of that stupid Albany 7-11, but the strawberry blonde recognizes you. She tiptoes around the aisle, hiding a blue box behind her back, peering over at you. "Oh, Calvin?"

        You squint, clenching your teeth and turning her way. The bag over your shoulder contains your Brownie 127 camera, photos of Lewis doing daily tasks, and a small amount of cash you were using to buy some snacks to bribe Lewis into talking with you. You never seemed to get far without anything; however, perhaps using a treat you could groom him into a sense of security and unknowingly convince him to share things that he normally wouldn't let slip.

        "What do you want?" you snap.

        "Jesus," Jillian says, holding her hands over her head in a mocking surrender. "Calm down. Do you live near here?"

        "What's it to you?" 

        "...I just was wondering because I've never seen you here before. Plus, it's a Sunday. Shouldn't you be at church?"

        You swallow tensely. "Yes, I do live near here. And I don't go to church."

        Jillian snorted. "Yeah, you don't seem like the type."

        You nod.

        "That's a lot of candy bars. You got a girlfriend?"

        "No," you say tersely, "it's for my neighbor."

        "...You got a boyfriend?"

        "No."

        By this time, you had attracted the retail clerk. You knew him since you were a young child - his name was Charles Ritchie, but his friends called him Charlie. He was a serious man - you could respect him for that. He donned a big long beard an unfashionable beer belly; he had a hearty laugh when he seldom laughed and had ginger hair and fading freckles. He eyed you and the girl curiously, and you looked at him briefly.

        "Uh... Alright," Jillian says, moving around you and grabbing a Bit-O-Honey candy bar. "Well, uh, Calvin, I'm just going to go now."

        You narrow your eyes, staring at her vehemently with annoyance. She widens her eyes as she looks down the aisle in her contemptible, ridiculing way with a taunting, uncomfortable smile. She brushes pass you with a bit of trouble, considering you were far taller (yet far lankier) than she. You step away, eyes still on her, before turning to the retail clerk and bringing your candy bars to the counter.

        "That's a lot of candy," Charles says, ringing it up. "I never thought of you as a sugar type, Calvin."

        "I'm not," you say crisply.

        "...Okay," Charles says as you pay.

        Once you're done with the transaction, you're beating your feet out of there. The brisk, sweet April air brushes against your face. Children and their parents from church walk around the sidewalks, talking about insignificant small talk like the weather and what they were going to do when they got home. You walk past them posthaste - earning a "watch where you're walking, young man!" from an elderly man - as you head towards your home. It's when you're halfway there that you realize you just passed Lewis.

        Lewis went to church?

        "Lewis?" you ask uncertainly, pausing your walking, only faced with the back of him. He turns around sharply, ginger hair all groomed up, and looks at you curiously. "Calvin?" he confirms. 

        "Lewis," you say, fishing around in your bag, opening it up. You retrieved the candy bars. "I got these for you."

        Lewis blinks. "Ah... thank you?"

        You look around hesitantly. "How are you?"

        "I'm good," he says, looking around hesitantly also. "I just got back from church."

        You stare. "You go to church?"

        "Yes," he said unconfidently. 

        You lock eyes with each other for a few moments before Lewis looks away. "Well, Calvin, I'm going to go to a cafe. That's where I was headed."

        Your eyes flicker. Why wasn't it working? You reach out your arm, trying to grab his arm, only to trip. Your bag falls onto the floor, contents scattering, and- and-

        The pictures of Lewis all fell out.

        By this time, you'd caught everyone's attention. Lewis pales when he sees all the photographs, the countless photographs. People notice that it's all of him, too. Cliche gasps filter through the air, sharp and humiliating. Your hand is scraped, but it doesn't hurt - for the first time in years, you feel your heart tug - not out of anger, but out of fear and something you have not felt for a long time.

        "I-I," you stutter, grabbing at all the photographs with your raw hands and putting them back in the bag. Lewis watches you intently, face still sickly white. He backs away, arms outstretched to his sides. Everyone's still staring, and you know it's dead silent, but you still hear murmurs of "freak" and "looney case". You feel like- like you cannot breathe. All this work... all this work for your plan... And now it's ruined. Absolutely ruined.

        Lewis does not wait a moment longer to turn around and hastily walk away. You hoist yourself up to your feet as the crowd hurriedly walks away, probably not wanting to be around a possibly insane, stalker teenage boy. You shake, you shake, and you shake. Your lip quivers. Your fingers tremble. Your legs shiver, and the spring breeze is no longer welcoming, but rather foreign and hostile.

        You'd done intensive research on demons - how they reacted to being watched if you had not proved yourself worthy. And you may have possibly just put a target on your back.

        It is Monday, and you are not a happy schoolboy.

        You refused to eat the night before; you spent your night chewing your nails, looking worriedly outside in a desperate attempt to catch Lewis and telepathically communicate to him that you are - not that you're sorry, because that simply wouldn't do. Just say... something that would make it better, ease the burn or wound or whatever happened to metaphorically be on Lewis's skinny, lank body.

        Your mother makes your favorite meal (Chicken a la King with peas, respectively) - tries cheering you up, tries talking to you and figure out what has happened in Little Calvin Sawyer's Miraculous '50s Life this time. But you will not talk to her. Not yet. Not after Little Calvin Sawyer's Miraculous '50s Unfortunate Event That Could Lead To Death Or Permanent Injury. 

        You're as bitter as the wine your mother let you try when you were a child when you go to school. Everyone is irritating you more than often; you glower in your seat all through Ms. Musselwhite's class, hearing Marigold's giggles and feeling the gazes on your back as you hunch down over your notes.

        Now, presently, Jillian Mahoney is trying to talk to you and you've decided that she is an awfully persistent teenage girl.

        "Hey, Calvin," she says as she plops down next to you leisurely. You poke at your school lunch - cheese meatloaf, if the mess of artificial protein could even be considered that - uncomfortably. You give her a look that was looked like so many different emotions it was free to interpret.

        Jillian gives you a similar look. "Alright."

        You prod into your meal a little more while Jillian watches you intently with brown eyes. "What even is that?"

        "Cheese meatloaf," you say absentmindedly. 

        Jillian looked around, lowering her voice so the school lunch employees couldn't hear. "It doesn't look like it."

        "I don't know why you're being all quiet about it," you reply, "everyone's thinking the same thing."

        Jillian snorted.

        A moment passes; Jillian adjusts her position, the wind blows slowly, the typical Albany weather and setting. For a minute, you feel at peace - even with your shaking legs and the annoying chatter of your classmates.

        Of course, that is only for a minute. It is as temporary as humanity.

        "Calvin Sawyer," Vincent Rush says, "how are you doing?"

        Jillian scoffs, looking in the other direction and pretending Vincent didn't exist. You look him up and down. "I'm doing fine."

        Vincent's friend - or goonie, if that was a more accurate term - Roy Kepley chuckled, looking over at friend-goonie-man number two, Jimmie Coogan. "Well, that's great. We heard a ton of things about you yesterday."

        You look around. "Ah."

        Roy snickers, and Jimmie follows his lead like a mindless sheep. Jimmie says, "you're a psycho."

        "Pardon me?"

        Roy jabs Jimmie in the arm playfully while Vincent elaborates. "Oh, well, that whole thing at the party - snapping out at my good friend Tony's girlfriend, Bernadette? That wasn't very nice. You see, I was wondering why you just couldn't talk to and respect all these nice girls, you know. Everyone's been wondering that since you came to the school. Then, Lucy Sherwood tells me a fun story about Sunday."

        Sunday.

        You blanch.

        "She got a picture of it," Vincent says like he's talking about the weather, pulling a photo out of his pocket. "You were talking to that redhead and all these photos of him just- you know, just spilled out. And me and Roy and Jimmie and all these friends talk about it-" he waves the photo of the incident in your face, "-and we're pretty sure that you're just a pansy. Is that right, Calvin?"

        You look around nervously - most of the people in the cafeteria are watching you, observing you. In the crowd, you can easily spot Marigold and Co., not pointing or doing anything you can see, but staring. A giggle is heard from the crowd.

        "Don't have anything to say?" Vincent asks with faux curiosity. "Well, I guess you're just going to get tossed into a-"

        "Stop it," Jillian said, yet even with her interjection, her tone seemed to show that she didn't really care.

`        Vincent acted like he didn't hear her. The lunch ladies obviously don't seem to have a problem with this - in fact, they're watching, as if they were fifteen years old again instead of nearing their approaching deathbed. "How long have you been doing this, Calvin? Is it because your daddy didn't love you? What made you so-"

        You get up, pushing in your chair. You're thin and you're, well, you're small - but it didn't matter that. What it mattered was that people learned their place. All your life, you'd been taunted, bullied, hurt - pushed down to the ground like you were an insect bothering someone just by existing. Your father had taught you how to protect yourself once, and you sure as hell didn't remember the proper way to do it, but you knew how to make it hurt.

        You rear your arm back, and you punch.

        You have always been a logical boy, but maybe with your paranoia, your intelligence and ability to be rational was diminishing until it would never be seen again.

        That is how the punch was put into motion, after all - a foolish act birthed out of your own anger at how things always seemed to go the wrong way. You didn't feel bad about injuring the boy - well, most certainly not. You didn't really have personal feelings about remorse or any of that - those were pitiful and insignificant. But, well, you were now in a vulnerable position for Lewis to enforce that you were mortal since you were suspended for school and now in your home for a good week.

        And, to make matters better, Jillian decided to visit you which you- well, you don't know how to react to.

        Your ma is angry with you, but she's not home with you, which means her anger doesn't exist for the current moment. You hear the doorbell ring primly. You don't answer it. You hear three solid knocks on the door. You don't answer it. You hear, "Calvin, open the door!" and you realize it's Jillian.

        You open the door, peeking out because- because. Well, what if Lewis is a transforming shapeshifting demon and is trying to trick you and lure you into a false sense of security? Jillian didn't- she shouldn't know your address, but Lewis did.

        "What are you acting so secretive for?" she asks, expression blank. "Get out here."

        You blink, a moment passing before you respond with a firm, "no."

        "What?" Jillian asks. "Are you scared I, like... have Vincent by my side and I'm getting him to try beating you up?"

        "No."

        "Then... get... outside."

        You look around the house, deciding that dying by Transforming Shapeshifting Demon Lewis™ outside isn't different than getting killed by Transforming Shapeshifting Demon Lewis™ in any other way. He could come into your house and kill you. He could come into school and kill you. He could be about to kill you right now. What's the difference? In all situations, you die. 

        Jillian scoffs when you're outside, seeing what you're wearing. "That's what you wear on a day out? I thought you'd, like, go all out or something. Wear a goddamn... I don't know, a Satanic robe. Something like that."

        You look down at your argyle vest over your sweater and simple, plain pants before looking back up. "What do you want?"

        "I wanted to tell you what you did to Vincent was awesome," Jillian says.

        You don't respond.

        Jillian pushes you out of the way, getting into your home. You splutter, trying to form words in your shock, but you realized she probably just didn't have any manners rather than her trying to kill you. Unless Lewis was watching, he wouldn't have known about the punch, so it is safe - most likely.

        "You know, Vincent's always been a bird dog - stealing everyone's girl, all that? He says bogus every time of the day everywhere. So much it would probably, like... get into his underwear or something- that didn't make sense. Oh, yeah, and he bashed ears too. Anyway," Jillian flopped onto the couch, grabbing one of the rejected bags of Ruffles chips you had been snacking on earlier, "what the hell was Vincent going on about?"

        You don't sit down, your jaw tightening. "None of your business."

        Jillian rolls her head around, looking at you with one of her signature expressions that could be deciphered many ways which you do not want to think about. "What?" you ask.

        "You know I'll find out the details sooner or later. It's just your choice if you tell me or not."

        You actually don't know that like Jillian says you do - you've never really seen her do it. It isn't that valuable of a threat, honestly; you resist the urge to lean up against the old rickety bookshelf. You aren't being casual here. It's too dangerous to let your guard down. "It's nothing."

        "He was saying you had pictures of this guy. A ton of them," Jillian says, her tone turning to more mocking and that makes you think well, that's more like her. She didn't come here out of concern - she just came to ridicule you and get the ugly details. 

        "I did," you say crisply.

        "Why?"

        You have a filter, of course - you want to say he's a demon, he's a demon, and he's going to kill me but Jillian would- you don't know how she'd react if you told her that. You settle for, "he's interesting. That's all."

        "So interesting that you stalk him obsessively?" Jillian asks, throwing some chips into her mouth.

        "Yes."

        Jillian turns around and stares at you.

        "You're really weird," she says before grabbing the remote.

        You walk towards her briskly, trying to grab the device out of her hands. She's too quick, however - she raises it out of your reach, which isn't that far considering she's smaller than you, just- it's just far away. She raises an eyebrow.

        It's irritating.

        "This is my house," you say, "give me the remote."

        "This isn't just your house," Jillian replies petulantly, "it's your parents' too. But the moment I step into it, it's welcome to me. I'm a guest. Didn't your ma ever lecture you about manners?"

        "You don't deserve manners right now," you tell her. "Give me. The remote."

        Jillian looks you in the eye, remote still raised, and clicks a button, turning it on.

        You squint, deciding it's not worth it to fight - God knows what would happen if you fought so much you attracted Lewis's attention - and plop down beside her. Arms crossed, you stare broodingly at the TV.

        "Oh, I Love Lucy," Jillian says with her remote still in the air, "I hate this show."

        "Then change the channel."

        "No," Jillian replies curtly, "I like pretending all the guys in there are philosophers and that everything they say is a statement about the world. It's better that way."

        Silence ensues besides the dim buzz of the speaking on the television.

        You stay this way for a while and it's almost therapeutic to focus on the show (you never watched television much; you found it unimportant) and not worry about Lewis for once in your life. Every second of the days you've spent since Sunday have been in fear, in worry, in terror... And even with Jillian's presence, you relax.

        But it may have been foolish to let your guard down.

        There is absolutely no need for you to step foot out of your house. 

        There is no valid reason for you to open the damn door and take a big leap outside, or maybe just run outside, or do a sprint (sprinting and running are different words in terms of activity), or even just skip outside like a white five-year-old joyful schoolboy on the television. "Calvin, what's wrong with you?" your mother asks.

        "I have polio," you tell her.

        Your mother takes that seriously.

        "Absolutely nothing is wrong with this boy," Doctor Jenkins, who you have known since you were a young lad, says. "Calvin. There's nothing wrong with you."

        Jenkins is supposedly a very nice man, according to the people who visit him -- like Aunt Lydia, who you probably couldn't trust, and Louise Vauqelin (an old lady who, though amiable and hospitable, you could not care less about and would not help across the street) and that-- that one little ankle-biter in elementary school who called you Big Daddy without fully realizing that isn't always an issue. So, there is a fair amount of people who like Jenkins, but something-- something's wrong about this man. You're used to people not liking you, but with the pure calculation you can see in Jenkins's posture and eyes and expression, you feel-- you don't feel uneasy or scared, not even uncomfortable-- you don't... You don't feel anything at all. You just-- don't like it all, of course. 

        "Yes, there is," you tell him petulantly.

        "I have ran tests," Jenkins says slowly as if you're a child he's giving instructions to.

        "Foolish tests then, I'd assume." 

        Jenkins opens his mouth to say something but then chooses to scoff and turns around to your mother. 

        "He could be suffering from..." Jenkins squints his beady eyes at you before saying in a lowered voice (that he did just to seem polite but he did seem to want Calvin to hear), "a mental illness."

        Your mother looks alarmed -- wholeheartedly alarmed, genuinely alarmed, concerned in a way you've never seen before. It's not obvious signs of fear -- just things you've observed from other people -- but her posture tenses, she swallows with what you suppose would be a dry throat, she grips one hand in the other, her face tightens up, and she inhales a small, rigid breath. "What could it be?"

        "Well, I'm no psychiatrist, of course," Jenkins waves his hands dismissively, grabbing papers that don't even seem relevant to medication or the overall career of a doctor and straightening them up before he sets them on his desk. "Of course-- of course, in the world today, hospitals... they don't treat anyone who functions-- functions well in society. Would you say Calvin does?"

        Lillian looks conflicted, like she didn't know whether to tell the truth -- and who knows what her idea of truth would be -- and takes another swallow, aging hands fidgeting in her lap, seeming like she was considering an act of absolute treachery.

        "You're nervous," Jenkins says.

        "Probably because you're not the doctor you say you are," you say, not entirely knowing what you meant by that, but just wanting to offend him.

        "Excuse me, Calvin?" 

        You give a smile, some unknown fear of anxiety settling in your stomach as you place your hands in your lap and look at him.

        "Not a doctor," you say as collectedly as possible with as little shaking as possible, "not a doctor."

        One singular grey eyebrow was raised as Jenkins observes you critically. "I think it's best that you go outside, Calvin. To preserve confidentiality."

        "It's not confidentiality if she's going to be saying true things that I know about myself."

        "Just-- just go out, honey," Lillian says.

        Looking at your mother incredulously, you start with, "you can't--"

        Jenkins gives you a curt little smile, outstretching his hands to the door as some extravagant way of saying "get the hell away" without sounding unprofessional. "The waiting room's much more comfortable than here, Calvin."

`        You want to give Jenkins a nasty little look, you want to do something-- something that is brave, something that is you, that is you, that is you-- but you can't. You're stuck in place, staring at the two for-- for some reason, some god awful reason as you breathe in, head turning rigidly as you take stiff little steps to the door.

        When you open the door, you slam it shut in a matter of seconds.

        You don't know what to do, for the first time in years.