Sometimes I get confused.

That’s part of the drawback of being psychic. Sometimes I get so unstuck in time, between predictions of the past and memories of the future, that I forget where I am for a minute. If that was all, though, maybe I could live with that.

But that’s not all. I don’t just have visions of my own future, sometimes I see other people’s, too. Sometimes I see other people’s pasts. Sometimes I don’t even know whose future it is that I’m seeing, whether it’s the future or the past, and the memories of my future stay with me.

Raven is the worst at that. Maybe it’s that she kinda looks like me—similar height (once I’ve caught up), similar build. Something in the eyes. But what I end up with is a person I have a hard time distinguishing from myself. Am I in her past, or am I in my future? My past or her future?

This would be harder if we were closer. Between her being in my brother’s band and the crush I sometimes have on the man I know she’s going to end up with, it can be hard to know where she stops and I begin. Keeping her at arm’s length, I think, helps me think of her as a character in a story. Someone I can live vicariously through her. There is more to affinity than intimacy. But leeching off Raven’s life comes with a price.

I started having nightmares shortly after I met Raven. They felt like more. They felt like memories. They felt like a part of me—something that would always drag me down. But I guess most nightmares do.

I noticed the next day how uncomfortable I felt around my father, like I couldn’t trust him—why couldn’t I trust him? (I found out later, of course, there might have been something else).

Then I started to notice that Raven had a certain way of moving—how can I explain how I knew? Maybe I’m just psychic. But by the next time I saw her, I was sure.

Raven had been abused. She didn’t like to make a big deal out of it. Her father was out of the picture—the hazards of driving drunk.

It wasn’t something she dwelt on. She had nightmares, ones that reached out and touched people like me, but other than that, she’d learned to lock all the memories themselves away as long as she was awake and never think about them. That was then, this was her.

She wouldn’t have talked about it—not then. If someone—say, Declan—had asked her about it, she would have found a way to change the subject, or just looked off into the distance until they did. But at the same time, I almost feel like she wore the history of her abuse as a badge of honor. Not like an excuse, not like a get-out-of-jail-free card for bad behavior, but more as a…

Hell, I don’t know. Maybe it was meant to be some kind of excuse, but not towards authorities. Authorities didn’t matter so much to her—she acknowledged them, but didn’t crave their acceptance. It was about her peers. There’s a kind of virtue in suffering, that was what this was. She would always know, in a way, how much better she was than everyone around her—after all, they hadn’t been through what she’d been through. Their lives were only Angst, where hers was real-life trauma.

Or maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe I’m making this all up—like I said, I’ve never really known her. Maybe this is just one more way I’m living vicariously through her, seeing her abuse at the hands of her father with the twisted envy of an angst-ridden brat who’s never known real pain—I mean, seriously, how fucked up is that, though?

But however it was she dealt with it, I know her pain was real—is real—will be real, once it comes to how she deals with love in her later life. How could it not be?

Christina Wang wasn’t good for Raven and she knew it. Some part of her knew it, at least. Christina was intense. “You should wear more eye-makeup,” was the first thing she said to her.

Raven frowned, self-conscious.

“No, no,” said the already-Goth chick. “I don’t mean to be pretty—you’re totally pretty, but that’s kinda the point, you know?”

Raven didn’t know.

“Look, you’re obviously a shy girl, not into the whole attention thing. Right? But you’re also pretty. That’s not a good combo. Guys are gonna look at you. Like, a lot. So you should wear, like, way too much make-up so that they’ll think you’re not pretty.”

She started to say something in response, then stopped.

“What?” Christina urged.

Raven shifted in her seat. “Isn’t make-up supposed to make you pretty?”

Christina sighed. “So much to learn you have.”

It was a couple days before Christina started to make really clear moves. She figured touching Raven’s face probably shouldn’t count as flirting if she was applying make-up, although she’d be lying if she said it didn’t give her a thrill. Something about this girl with her eyes closed—the trust. The loyalty. Loyalty? Was that the right—anyway, it was hot, but it didn’t count.

“You need better bras,” she informed her new protégée and once they were in the fitting room, she took it upon herself to inspect the goods personally. “What?” she said to the shocked look on Raven’s painted face. “We’re all girls here…”

Was she smiling too wide? She was smiling too wild. She was giving away the game. But then Raven was smiling, too.

It was a month before she kissed her. It was Christina’s first kiss (though she pretended it wasn’t) but Raven was so good at it! Lips, tongue, breathing. “Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

Raven shook her head emphatically.

“Are you sure?” Christina smiled and chuckled.

There was that frown again. “Yeah?”

“I want you to be my girlfriend,” Christina told her afterwards. They were both far less naked than they’d seen each other, but she’d still never felt so exposed.

“Oh…” said Raven.

Christina whispered “We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

She could tell something inside Raven struck a chord at that.

“I just really like you,” she added. “And you really like me, too, right? Raven nodded most emphatically, but look down and out.

“Hey.” Christina pushed her hands towards her and her eyes flickered over. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say yes.”

“Yes,” Raven whispered. And for a moment, she was looking in her brand-new girlfriend’s eyes, until she smiled again and looked away.

Declan fell in love with Raven the minute he laid eyes on her.

Actually, scratch that. They were fourteen and he would’ve called it love, but that doesn’t mean I have to.

Raven was everything that Declan thought he wanted in a lover. And lover is the term he used, but only to himself because the world would judge him. Raven was dark—of course—and she was a shy, quiet type, but with an attitude, you know, like an edge. But at the same time, whenever a teacher called on her, she had the most bizarre take on things.

“Who won the battle of Gettysburg?” asked the History teacher.

Raven answered, “The crows.”

There were giggles and snickers about the crazy emo goth chick, but Declan thought she was fabulous. The way she never made eye contact, like she was just above it all, the fact that she was always reading.

It was the mystery of her. How no one could ever possibly get in her head. A “challenge” some might call her, but for Declan she was something more. She had something, he thought. Something that he needed.

“Are you alone for a reason?” he asked when he reached her table with his tray.

“Safe bet,” she snarked.

“Do you want to be alone?”

She shrugged. He sat.

“Mind if I talk at you for a second?”

“Just one?”

“Could go sixy. Could go longer.”

She frowned at him.

“Do you mind, though? I just want to talk at you. You don’t have to listen.”

Some folks talk, some folks listen. Some folks don’t even try to do that. Raven did them one better, tried not to. Just shrugged and went back to her book.

“See, I got this theory,” said Declan, “that you’re good at something, but you don’t want people to know. Or you don’t need them to. I think you can sing.”

This caught her attention.

“And I think if you tried, you could sing pretty well. Well enough to make people notice.”

There was a flicker in her eyes. He could tell he was getting through to her, but he didn’t know yet what that meant. Worst case, he thought, I’m pushing too hard, I’m an asshole. But he found he could live with that, given the stakes.

“But I don’t think you want people to notice,” he said. “You want people to leave you alone, right?”

She looked away and said “I have a girlfriend.”

Quietly, with dignity, Declan’s world shattered. “Oh,” he said. “OK.”

“Just in case you were hitting on me.”

He had been, of course, but in a rather roundabout way. He’d been looking for an excuse to approach her and Angst had provided him that. If it turned out she couldn’t sing and didn’t want to, he could still use that as a jumping-off point. But now that that was off the table, though…

“Would your girlfriend mind if you were in a band?”

There was that frown again. “What kind of band?”

Blake Morrissey was not the only black kid at Trinity High but it sure felt that way sometimes. Especially being the only black kid in the tri-state area (whatever the fuck that meant, but it sure felt like it) who doesn’t listen to rap.

But when they catch him listening to Funkadelic or to Lenny Kravitz or Jimi the hell Hendrix, they screw up their faces and ask him “Boy, why you listening to that white people music?”

He looks at them like Are you kidding me?

“This is Ben Harper,” he’ll say, or whatever, try to turn the tables on them. “You don’t know Ben Harper? Shi-it.”

“Man,” said Mike Cobb one time, “You really oughta get the fuck outta rock, man. I’m telling you.”

“Black people started rock’n’roll music. We founded it, that’s our baby. Then white folks come in, pour bleach on it, give it surgery, some shit, and what? We s’posed to just walk away? That’s our baby, dude! You don’t walk away from no damn baby. Besides, you never heard of Eminem? You ask any white person name five rappers, you know who they say? Every one of them goes for Eminem. Maybe even Vanilla fucking Ice. Probably round off with the Fresh Prince. Yeah, you heard me. But you think they listen to Dr. Dré? Snoop? Biggie? Tupac? Nah, man.”

Mike Cobb crossed his over-sized arms. “Do you?”

It was a sore spot for Blake socially, possibly even more so than the cutesyness of his given name, which far too many people just simplified to “Black”.

It was also what made him nervous when he heard that Angst was forming.

“Black folks got rhythm, right?” he’d said recently, spinning one stick. “So when’s the last time you heard of a black drummer in a rock’n’roll band? Man, they go bitchin’ and bitchin’ and bitchin’, just bitch bitch bitch about ‘can’t find drummers worth a shit’—you hear the shit they talked about Ringo back in the day? Ringo! That ain’t right! It’s a public service, me taking up the drums. Gonna do for drums what Jimi did for gui-tar.”

That wasn’t the real reason he’d taken up drums. He actually had a thing for a girl in the school band, Marjorie, a white girl, nice girl, turned out to be gay, though, long story. But once he was in it, he actually kinda liked it, and once he heard there were freshmen wanting to start a band—

“Hey,” Declan finally approached him. “You’re Blake, right?”

He endeared himself by not pausing over the irony in the name. My brother, later on, was not so gracious.

“You play the drums, right?”

“Who’s askin’?” Though, of course, by then he’d heard some stuff.

“I hear you like Rock, lot of the old stuff?”

“I like Rock’n’Roll,” said Blake. “Don’t know how I feel about the ‘Rock’, though. Seems to me it doesn’t roll much anymore.”

“You down to give it a shove?”

Blake liked the repartee. “What’s in it for me?”

“Right now, not a damn thing other than the music.”

Liked the honesty, too. “I’ll think about it.”

“Take your time.”

But it only took him about five minutes to decide.

Declan never saw himself as a rockstar. I know that seems hard to believe now, but like I said, Declan was a smart kid. Too smart for his own good. Smart enough to realize without needing to really even think about it how long of a shot it’d be to try to get famous.

That being said, he couldn’t tell you what he did want to be when he grew up, short of maybe one of the Ninja Turtles or something. Ghostbuster. Batman. But he always knew it was Tommy who had the chops. Maybe not the abilities—not at first, anyway—and maybe not even the raw talent (after all, again, what are the chances?) but two things Tommy had in abundance were charisma and stamina.

So how the hell did Declan end up with Angst?

“The fuck are you looking at?” Tommy said anytime Declan made eye contact at school.

“Gutter-punk with no talent,” Declan usually shot back, or some variations.

But that day, I don’t know. I guess Declan was starting to feel like nothing ever went his way. Too many teachers he hated. Too many classmates who felt underwhelming.

“Dude!” Jasper would scoff when his new friend started acting this way, like he wasn’t his friend.

“It’s not you,” Declan would insist, “it’s everything.” And with the back of his hand on his forehead, he’d drift the fuck off and away.

So this time facing off to his brother, his family, he found himself thinking of all the things he could possibly say to actually hurt him.

“What am I looking at? I’m looking at the idiot who failed American history twice. I’m looking at a guy who can’t get a girlfriend—at least not one he can respect. I’m looking at a guy who knows he’s not cut out for college, so he’ll probably spend fifty years in a dead-end job working for shit unless he drinks himself to death first, so better hurry up now! The worms are waiting…”

But instead, when his brother came stumbling out of the building to smoke a secret cigarette in the same private alcove where Declan was gathering his thoughts and shot the usual “Fuck you lookin’ at, huh?” all Declan said was “I’m looking at my brother.” And then he stomped away in contempt.

“Can you believe that kid, Toby?” Jasper asked later that day at lunch. “I saw him in the men’s room and I swear dude was, like, watering himself—“

“Hey, do you wanna start a rock band?” Declan said.

“A what?” What my brother thought he’d said isn’t entirely clear.

“A rock band.”

Pause. “Oh!” He starts tapping his utensils on the table like drumsticks. “You mean like a rock… band. Right.”

“Yeah, like a rock band. Like the fucking Beatles. You in?”

“Can I be George? I always liked George. He classy. Underrated.”

“I don’t really care which Beatle you are, long as you commit. You play anything?”

“Oh, yeah, totally.” This was an exaggeration.

“OK, cool.” This was good, seen as how Declan didn’t. “Good. Let’s call ourselves Angst.”

Jasper thought that was cool, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what the word meant.

What is it about Teenagers?

My family was a little different from Declan’s, even though we had the same age gap, twice over, three years between me and my older brother, three more between Jasper and our big sister Aly.

Well, half-sister.

Things hadn’t worked out so well between our dad and Aly’s mom. They didn’t like to talk about it. Now, of course, me being who I am, I know everything, but well… I guess I don’t want to get into it, either. Besides, it’s not really important. Not right now.

It was hard enough for us all to relate to each other when we were little. When Jasper was born, Aly thought he was cramping her style and never wanted anything to do with him. Then when I was born, she thought I’d be her side-kick, six years younger. She liked to help out with me. Or pretend to, anyway. She had trouble focusing and then as I started to become aware, I guess I really never felt all that interested in her and her big-kid stuff. I was the spoiled family baby, but even then, I was off in my own little world, making my own fun.

And now, things are even worse. Now we’re all three teenagers, more or less. Adolescents. Young folk, rather than children. All got minds of our own, as it were.

Gotta hand it to mom. Nancy Llywelyn. Strongest woman I’m ever likely to know. Putting up with us, not breaking down. Especially young as she was—barely twenty-one—expected to take in someone else’s two-year-old with her dad, and then add two more kids?

We just didn’t give her enough credit, you know?

Sure, she didn’t always keep every bit of it together. She’d lose her shit from time to time, like when we’d lose our shit, or when we’d lose her shit. She’d flip out. Break down. But she never fell apart.

Even when Dad left.

And we gotta give her credit for that.

(To Be Continued…)

Tom Murphy and his brother Declan never really did get along.

There was a three year age difference—too much to be close friends, but not enough for Tommy to feel overly protective, always having this little kid in his hair. That was the theory, at least. Really, it was just a personality clash.

Secretly, though, each of them really wanted to be like his brother.

Tommy was cool. When he was younger, that meant he impressed all the other boys, which meant he always had a lot of friends. Having friends meant he got to practice all the social games that make men good at all the things folks like to tell us men should be good at. It made him confident, it made him witty—not in a nineteenth-Century way, but quick, good with a comeback. Good at belittling opponents and friends and even prospective girlfriends.

Declan wasn’t cool—at least, he didn’t think of himself that way. Instead, he was smart—that was his main identifier. He was a thinker. And on top of being a thinker, he had a kindness to him that made him hold back even when he knew exactly which words to use to bring his brother to heel. He wouldn’t say them.

Usually.

But Tommy noticed. He always noticed when his brother said something to him that he didn’t think was true but then later it turned out it was. He’d mock him for being wrong and because he was the older brother, a lot of the time, Declan would believe him, and doubt himself.

When he was younger, at least. Back when he still wanted to believe his brother, to impress him. Back when he thought they could still be friends. But much as Declan distrusted his brother, much as he looked down on him for not being critical enough, he couldn’t help but admire him still—secretly, of course. Tacitly. To admire the way he still managed to bend men and women alike to his will.

(To Be Continued…)

“What do you mean you’ve never heard of the Elk?”

That was the exclamation most freshmen were subject to on their first day at Trinity High School.

They were referring to Kyle’s band. I say Kyle’s band because they kept going back and forth on the name. Kyle wanted to call it “Elk Chords,” for reasons so esoteric he couldn’t even remember them himself five years later. Tommy, though, insisted that “Elk Strings” sounded better; it made more sense and it didn’t confuse people into thinking they were some lady-punk band called “Elle Chords”.

They were the only band at school—in fact, to the people at school it almost seemed sometimes like they were the only game in town. But I don’t care how little competition there is: if a band sucked, it would not have been as successful as the Elk.

Kyle was the genius. I’ve said, he brought us all together.

He laid out the foundation that we built on. He had the idea, he wrote the songs. His voice wasn’t great, but it didn’t have to be, ‘cause he was powerful. Charismatic.

I guess you could say Tommy was the marketing guy. He was down-to-Earth. He cared about what people thought of him, not for the sake of ego, but because he knew that’s the only way to make it in this world.

And then there was Mickey. Ah, Mickey. Why’d it have to be this way? Mickey was on drums not ‘cause he was good at it, but because he liked to hit things. He was more of a glorified fan-boy than anything else, even then, but he kept the beat and they never gave him anything too trying.

My sister was in love with them. That’s what she said, at least. Really, it was Kyle she was in love with. Aly always was a sucker for the silent, brooding type, even if he was an intellectual.

“I don’t like ‘em,” Declan declared when Jasper brought them up.

“What do you mean, you don’t like ‘em? You can’t not like ‘em, they’re Elk Chords.”

“They’re Elk Strings,” said Tommy’s little brother,” and they’re over-rated.”

“Look, I’m not saying they’re Acid Monsoon or anything, but I mean, come on.”

“Are you so hung up on the prospect of live music that you’d listen to meaningless shit like that?”

Now, Jasper really was offended. “It’s not meaningless…”

Declan rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Forget it.”

The truth was, Declan had never really listened to his brother’s band.

He hadn’t been allowed to go to any of their shows (“You’re too young to be out that late, sweetie.”)And when he asked to come to practice, Tommy just looked at him and walked away.

It gave Declan a very ill opinion of his brother and anything associated with him. Once he actually heard the Elk, he enjoyed them, mostly for Kyle’s message, but that was a long way off.

(To Be Continued…)

Declan Murphy didn’t have any real friends when he got to Trinity High. It’s not important why—he knew some of the people, but anyone he’d been close to had moved away or gone to Cliffside or been sent to a boarding school.

His older brother was a Senior—but you know how it is. Seniors don’t talk to Freshmen. Not unless it’s to make fun of their floppy, unkempt hairstyle and purposely ratty clothes. Or, alternatively, if the freshman in question is attractive and of the appropriate gender.

It was raining that first day of school, which only made the unfamiliar faces that much stranger for not being properly seen. It set the tone.

Declan liked the rain, though. Liked it more than people, anyway, and the feeling was mutual.

“Murphy!” the Civics teacher yelled at him. “You Tommy’s brother?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Eyes over here!”

He paid better attention, though, with rain to look at.

After class, my brother Jasper caught up with him. “Hey.”

He’d been running and he was out of shape. Had Declan wondering why he would run. It made his lanky figure ungainly.

“Hey,” said Declan.

“Your name Murphy?”

“It’s Declan,” he said. “Declan Murphy. Tommy’s brother.”

Not that that would mean anything to a fellow freshman.

“I’m Jasper,” said my brother. “My sister’s Aly—I don’t know if you know her. I think I know a Tommy, though.” He did. “My other sister’s Kassandra—you probably wouldn’t know her. She just started at Cliffside Middle.”

“That’s cool,” said Declan, though it really wasn’t and he still wasn’t sure why he was talking to this guy.

“So you know uh,” Jasper stammered, “You ever heard of Murphy’s Law?”

How anyone who bore the brunt of that name could have not heard of Murphy’s Law is beyond me, but my brother was never the sharpest note in the song.

“Yeah,” said Declan.

Jasper nodded sagely, then flashed a rather gap-toothed smile. “Any relation?”

Their friendship would have been aborted in its infancy at this moment if not for a sudden encounter with Otis Ratson.

“Lunch money,” said the bored-sounding blob under the Sports Team-X baseball cap, extending an almost gelatinous hand at them. He looked more like a minimum-wage ticket checker at a movie theater than a thug.

“Are you kidding me?” said Declan.

“Nope,” said Otis, but the vowel sound took up at least three syllables.

“Aw, man,” said my brother, already reaching into his pocket.

But Declan held up his hand. “No, no, hold on,” he said, “Are you collecting for the school? Are you the official lunch-money receiver? If we give you money, will we get our lunch?”

Otis seemed to think on this a moment. “Yeah?”

“How will they know we gave you our money? Do we get, like, a voucher?”

“Could give you a black eye, [if it would] make you feel better.”

It was Otis’s cadence that made it clear several words were missing from his structure.

“So you’ll give us a black eye if we do give you the money?”

Otis was silent.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Declan Murphy.

Otis stood there a moment longer before finally stating “Dammit, Murph, this here’s why nobody likes you.” Then he walked off.

“What the hell was that?” said Jasper.

“I don’t know,” said Declan. “Been dealing with that boy for years, never know what’s going on in his head.”

My brother, who was used to having longer hair, instinctively brushed his hair through it before realizing it was cut very short. “You just made that better,” he said, and harumphed. “So much for Murphy’s Law.”

“Call me an outlaw,” said Declan.

“Man, people are weird.”

And that was the start of a beautiful friendship.

(To Be Continued…)

I liked school, before. It was a place you could visit your friends, right? At the least? It was a place you were doing something, even if you were bored doing it.

What changed?

Somehow, I just didn’t feel welcome. Even before I stumbled into the building, before I met any of my old friends or any of my new friends, I just had this feeling, this queasiness beating like a hammer, coming in waves.

Do you know what I mean?

I’d been friends with Isabella Millar the year before. Now, suddenly, she was one of those doe-eyed blondes who was too good for me. Me with my glasses, my pathetic soggy brunette-ness and my way-too-skinny limbs. From the look on her face the first time we locked eyes that day, I knew she would eat me alive.

I met Lucy that first day, believe it or not. Do you? Believe it? I didn’t think we’d be friends, she seemed too… happy. At the time. For me. Like a cartoon character I’d outgrown.

It was a couple of days before Trevor made his way into my life. I didn’t mind. How could I?

But the next day, when I felt worse, the one who really made a difference was Kayla.

I don’t even know how to talk about her now. She followed me into the bathroom. Figured she knew what was going on. Asked me if I felt all right, needed anything. Midol? Tampon? Chocolate bunny? I could’ve lied, taken the out, given her the brush-off.

Instead I told her, trembling, “I think I can see the future.” And then I told her why.

“That’s weird,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, weird is good,” she assured me. No one had ever said that to me before. “I’m weird, too.”

I didn’t know at the time how true that was. I thought I was stupid.

“You mind if I sit with you?” she asked through the door of the stall.

I didn’t. I was the smartest thing I did in my life.

(To Be Continued…)