The smell of the macaroni did little to mask the fetid, almost fecal, smell of the kitchen. The connecting bathroom smelled like European flowers in comparison. Brian was there, draining the dozen caffeinated beverages he’d drank earlier that day.

Jason had been staring at the roaches for a while. “Dude, your parents have to do something about the roaches. I can see like thirty right now.”

The toilet struggled to flush, and took to gurgling instead. Brian fought the door out of its frame and started looking through the cupboards for dishes. The sink held many, but they were covered with spilled burrito beans, spaghetti sauce, and chocolate pudding. The roaches enjoyed their short lives.

Jason stepped past Brain and looked out the slider window, which lead to a non-existent deck. The hundreds of trees were bare, and a trace of snow was on the backyard. “Where are your parents anyway?”

“Aunt Janine’s.” Brian pulled out a couple plates with only a few unrecognizable stains.

Jason turned to face Brian. “Why?”

“My uncle Roger’s trial is this week, they’re trying to figure out if they have to testify or not.” Brian stared at the faded linoleum, the tiny pits filled with tiny roach appendages and crumbs.

“Oh, right.” Jason looked outside again, spotting a cardinal flapping past.

Brian checked to see if the macaroni had the proper tenderness, strained it, and mixed it with the milk and powdered cheese. Then he piled it on the two plates, and handed one to Jason. Brian said, “Let’s eat downstairs.”

Brian took the stairs first, and slowly stepped, balancing his plate in his hands and his feet on the thin boards pretending to be stairs. On the main floor, the left side of the stairway was open, exposing piles of things: clothes, a bike, a coffee machine, and bread makers. After they both succeeded in surviving the staircase, Brian opened the door to his room, allowing Jason to step in.

Faded and slightly ripped blankets covered the windows, and a space heater offered some resemblance of warmth. A mouse shot under Brian’s king-size bed. Shiela sat on the bed watching TV.

Brian said “Shiela, get out. Now.”

She stuck her tongue out. “Mom said I can watch TV in here if I want.”

Brian was about to retort, when Jason tapped his shoulder. “Is there anything to watch on a freaking Saturday afternoon anyway?”

After letting out a guttural sigh, Brian said “Fine. We’ll watch whatever you’re watching.”

*

The macaroni and cheese grumbled in Jason’s stomach. The TV was shouting something about a robo maid for only ten dollars.

“Do we have any homework due for fifth hour Monday?” Brian asked.

“Biology? No, I don’t think so.”

“Good.”

Jason stepped off the bed. “There’s nothing to do.”

“You could go home.”

Jason flinched. “No. I want to stay here, I just want to do something.”

“Halo?”

“Eh, no, I’m tired of it.”

Shiela perked up. “You could catch Mr. Fuddles.”

Jason turned to Brian. “What?”

“The rat. She calls it Mr. Fuddles” said Brian.

Shiela frowned. “He’s not a rat, he’s a nice cuddly mouse.”

Brian said “Whatever.”

Jason had knelt down next to the bed, and poked his head under the draping covers. “I’m going to need a flashlight.”

“Drawer.” Jason climbed out and went to the computer desk. He opened the drawer, and threw out two dozen instruction manuals before finding the red-tinted metal light.

Shiela was standing on the bed. “Make sure you be nice to Mr. Fuddles. I’m gonna get a cage.” She hopped off the bed and went for the door. “Thank you, Jason.” The door slammed.

Jason was back under the bed, flashlight piercing through the darkness.

Brian stood to his side. “Why are you doing this, man?”

“I’m bored.”

“You know my parents will never let her keep it.”

“I know.”

“Then why get it?”

Brian stood, waiting for an answer, and tapped his fingers lightly against the side of his calves. The TV started playing another Linkin Park music video of questionable construction, but Brian found himself enveloped in the benign visuals.

Jason continued climbing under the bed, flashlight in his left hand, shoving stacks of old magazines featuring impossibly bosomed women out from under the bed. While crawling, his hand pushed into something small and squishy. He ignored it, and continued thrashing around. Then a stiff expression fell over his face, and he stood still, eyes darting back and forth in the faded light, looking for the slightest trace in movement.

The rat crawled out from behind a sweater slashed with dirt, and began wandering towards a shoebox of old baseball cards two feet in front of Jason. He stopped breathing. The rat stopped at the box, just out of reach, and wiggled its nose at the corner. It took a step forward, smelling cheese, and came up to Jason’s face. It pressed its nose against his chin and nibbled at a cheesy smear.

Jason grasped at the rat with his left hand, holding on to it. “Gotcha.”

Brian snapped out of the trance, and spoke to Jason shuffling out from under the bed: “What? No way.”

Jason got out, and stood up, holding the rat in his left hand, its head unable to bite or gnaw. It started to defecate.

Brian said “So now what? We’re just going to put it in whatever crappy cage Shiela finds?”

Jason shook his head, and stared at the rat’s eyes. “Not exactly.” They both heard the snap of the rat’s neck break.

“What the fuck. Why’d you do that?”

“It shit on the floor. Your parents won’t allow you to keep it.”

“We could have put it outside or something.”

“And let it freeze to death after being pampered to high-heaven in this dump? Yeah.”

Shiela opened the door, carrying a corroded fish tank. She gasped. “You found Mr. Fuddles?”

“Yeah.” He threw the rat at her, bouncing it off her flat chest into the fish tank.

Shiela was ecstatic at first, muttering unintelligible baby-talk to her new pet. She set down the fish tank and started to pet the rat, but she started sobbing.

Jason was at the door already. “I’m taking off, see you guys later.” He left the door open.

I looked in the mirror, combing my hair to get it slightly frazzled. I ruffled through the drawer of glasses, finding an appropriate pair. Perfectly circular lenses, slightly grungy, and black framed. I checked my clothes again: slightly baggy long-sleeved plaid shirt mostly tucked into my jeans sans belt. I grabbed the leather suitcase. Should work well enough for a Friday.

On the way out of the apartment, a misplaced foot tapped the stack of pizza boxes, scattering them across the miniature kitchen. A curious ant walked out from under the stove, obviously disturbed by the soft clatters of cardboard. I told myself I’d clean it up later, knowing full-well that ‘later’ was a measurement of days and months. I bid farewell to the always-on television and the hum of electronics, and actually found my hand waving goodbye.

My drive was not long or torturous: living ten miles away from the university has rare advantages. I briefly wondered what would have happened if I had not been expelled, but my mind went numb from the radio’s drone.

As I stepped out of my car, I realized what a day it was. Straggly wisps of clouds were stuck in the blue air above, the wind cooled the sun’s beams with just the right touch of care, and hushed murmurs surrounded a slightly dented car and a very dented man in the road lying perpendicular between me and my destination. I imagined the man thought the white van had a competent and considerate driver who would stop for pedestrians because of the dozen signs saying exactly that. Poor, deluded man: you should never have relied on the good will of others when the others wield five-thousand pounds of metal and faded leather in motion.

I heard the ambulance, billowing softly, audible smoke depressing everything in its range. It let out a whining, dying squeal as it pulled up to the wrecks. I thought about waiting around to see if the man was dead, but I had obligations. I started for the next cross-walk.

I checked the cleanly written note that I transcribed the night before. “Noon – Lower Commons. Jake.” I checked my watch, and saw that I had a good ten minutes. I tried ambling, not walking too fast or too slow to raise any suspicion. Kids were already rollerblading all over the place, and one moron was actually talking on his cell phone as he glided past me. Christ. I wanted to trip him.

*

I found Jake sitting in the corner, as he said he would. He wore an oversized T-Shirt bearing an unrecognizable logo, and must have weighed a good two-twenty. He looked healthy though… probably into football. I sat down after seeing that everybody surrounding the table was involved in their own petty conversations.

“How much?” I asked.

“Two grand.”

Unexpectedly high. I pulled out the note and drew some dollar signs floating about. “Name?”

“Jake Brummit.”

“No, the prof.”

“Uh, Adams. Jonathon?” He fumbled through his backpack, and found the syllabus. “Yeah, Jonathon Adams.”

“Prof’s field of study?”

“Psych, I think.”

“Class and section?”

“Psych one-oh-one, intro to psychology. Uh, section… C.”

“That’s in a lecture-hall, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Ever talk to the prof at all, in class or out of class?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Good, this’ll work. Expected grade?”

He took a sip of his Sprite, and swished it through his teeth before swallowing. “I think I’m getting an F. This semester has been really bad, with my job and,”

“Desired grade?”

“I don’t really care, as long as I pass, so probably a C or something.”

“C it is. Shouldn’t raise any suspicions. You have the half now?”

He pulled a yellow envelope out of the backpack. “Yeah, twenty tens, forty twenties.”

I snatched it and popped it in my suitcase. “Good. Now, who referred you?”

“Emily Ross.”

The name triggered random facts: End of last semester. Blonde. Honors course. One thousand. Revenge. Plant. Em thought she could wipe her ass on a few pages of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper and turn it in to get an A. The prof dared to give her a generous B-. The class was small, and she was vocal, so changing the grade wasn’t an option. I planted random porn on the prof’s faculty computer, Photoshopped the dean’s face on a few of the images for good measure, and made sure that it would be noticed by the techs.

So, Jake was trustworthy. Em would not be the type of person to risk getting exposed.

I tapped my fingers on the table as I verified the office number and that the prof was gone. “Alright. I’ll change it today. Once you get your report card, leave another message within a week. Otherwise.”

I got up to leave, and he grabbed my wrist firmly. I instinctively tried to shake away, but he held on.

His voice was suddenly low, and hoarse. “If you”

“Yeah, and if you threaten me, you’ll be locked up on Kiddie Porn Row for twenty years. Mommy and Daddy would be so proud.”

He threw my wrist back at me and walked away.

*

A couple girls in shorts walked together, strangely not speaking, and a skateboard carried a guy to the parking lot. A Trogdor wrought of chalks and sweat sprawled on the concrete below, and I made certain to step on its flames. Right before the steps words were written: “Smile and breathe.” I continued to refrain from smiling, but I was half-tempted to stop breathing.

I walked in the building, wandered around the halls until I found the correct alcove of offices. I knew that I should have come back and did it later that night, when nobody would be around, but I was impatient. Plus, the season finale of Hope & Grace was on that night, and I refused to trust my TiVo for such a critical event.

I pulled out my pick and tension wrench, and after ten seconds of reactive metal movements, the office was open. I could feel my pulse tremble through my fingers, pulsating every moment.

Once in side, I turned the doorknob while shutting the door, closing it silently, and locked it. The office was cluttered: frames with a smiling wife and two young girls were all around, an audience for any mutterings Adams would say under his breathe. Papers were stacked on top of the monitor, with a few in a motionless slide to the inner depths of the back of the desk. A few books were in a fallen stack in the bookshelf, and I spotted a copy of the DSM IV.

I made some mental notes: the mouse was slightly tilted towards the monitor, the keyboard was straight in front of it, the chair was tilted towards the door, and the computer and monitor were both off.

I sat at the desk, turned on the monitor computer, and popped open the suitcase. I shoved the yellow envelope in a separate pocket, and pulled out the red CD. I plopped it in the computer before it had a chance to start normally, and it began loading from my disk. No traces.

In twenty seconds, my menu popped up, and my fingers tapped the ingrained sequence. Ten keystrokes and I located the grading spreadsheet. My heart shuddered in place. I tweaked a few numbers for Jake Brummit: 79 on the exam 1, 72 on exam 2, and a plain 75 on the final. Averaged out to a C, I saved, popped out my CD, turned off the computer and monitor. I was done.

Invisible roaches burrowed into my neck, and my bones were paralyzed. A muscle in my calf began twitching. I heard the sound of fumbling keys outside the door, creating an unmelodic clatter.

There was no reachable window in this office, no air vent to crawl through. I scratched at an invisible ant climbing on my scalp above my left ear. My upper-lip tingled.

I silently thanked Jake for making me feel alive.

I heard the key slide precariously into the doorknob, and saw it turn. A man in his forties or fifties walked in, hair starting to gray, with jeans and a university sweatshirt on. His suitcase was hard leather. I sat still, very still. My lungs collapsed mid-breath, and my fingers started trembling in a ripple up my arms. He didn’t see me yet. I was right there, but he seemed intently focused on something else, and assumed that nobody was sitting in his chair. I was invisible for the moment. I had a choice: push or convince.

“Hello there, Professor Adams,” I said. I stood up and extended my hand.

I watched as his muscles attempted to leap out of his body. He dropped his suitcase. I thought he would have worn glasses. He glanced around the office, adjusting to the dim light, and took my hand for a handshake.

“I’m with Computer & Technology Support. We found a virus on your computer that was trying to spread out on the network, and I was sent by to clean it up. I just finished.”

His eyes narrowed.

I decided to keep talking. “Uh, I was told that you were gone for the day.”

He stared at me, unwaveringly. He didn’t glance at anything else in the room. “Conference was cancelled. Can I see your badge?”

I searched through my pockets, and mocking surprise, I said “Um, I forgot it back at the maintenance room. It’s Friday, you know?” I stifled a laugh.

Adams blinked slowly, and he still blocked the doorway. I felt sweat begin to condense on my forehead.

I picked up my suitcase. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be going now.”

“How did you get in here?”

“Maintenance gave me a key.”

His nostrils flared, nose-hairs poked out. “I changed the locks last weekend.”

My mind was full of questions, but I knew that I was cornered. I should have pushed.

I saw him clench his fists. “Who in the hell are you?”

“Listen, Adams. If you don’t let me go without any trouble, you’re done. Imagine the techs finding mountains of evidence of child porn on your computer, in your network logs, everywhere. What’ll happen then? No job, no friends, no kids, no life. Let me go.”

Bluffing was a fine art. I hadn’t planted any child porn. It was far too dangerous with the feds trying to make headlines every few months. But it usually made a good threat.

He stood there, physically shaking in place. Veins formed round hills on his forehead. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“You know Sergeant Rick Lane? From a month ago? It was all over the news, I know you saw it. Hey, looky what I did.”

Taking credit for something I didn’t do was always a risk, as the guy might have read more newspaper articles than I did. I could always say that the newspaper got that part wrong, but I didn’t want to even have him question me.

I saw his fist come towards my nose in slow motion. My mind raced through a thousand thoughts: Looks like a fairly meaty fist he has there. Ooh, a ring. I bet that will hurt. He’s actually going to hit me. I haven’t played blackjack in a while.

My knees gave out. I knelt to the ground, fists on the carpet. My nose felt sticky. I heard him say syllables, which seemed like they should form words. I wiped my nose with my sleeve, and a sharp pain blew my synapses open to raw reality. I heard a drawer open. Somehow he had walked over me, and was rummaging through a drawer. The door was still open. My suitcase was at my side. My hand grasped and my feet leaped. I ran. I ran out the building, each thump of my heart powering another unsteady lunge.

*

At my apartment, the steady hum welcomed me back. I threw off my bloodied shirt somewhere before the bathroom. I tried dousing my face with cold water, but that made my nose feel like it was going to burst and splatter mucus and cartilage across the faux-marble counter. Warm water was tolerable. I wished I had health insurance. My hands shook as they poured a tube of Neosporin over my nose and covered it with small bandages.

I sat down on the couch next to the broken VCRs. I lit a cigarette and took a deep drawl. I glanced at the clock. It was almost six. My cigarette had left a shaky trail of ashes on the couch, and was barely smoldering. I didn’t remember sleeping. I found myself in the kitchen. I re-stacked the pizza boxes and found a mop-thing under the sink, and filled a bucket with hot water and soap. The ever-present television said something about a top story from the university, but the syllables of the live reporter refused to form words of understanding.

The ants would not be happy.

“Can you slow down a bit?”

Jessica was trailing behind by a few yards. Her matching white shorts and top shined under the street lights. David turned his head and grinned. He said “Can you run a bit faster?” as he slowed his pace. They ran side-by-side, focused on the moon hiding behind the old Oak ahead. A decrepit picnic table was barely visible, standing in shadow.

A rusted Cadillac sped past them radiating distorted beats of the Beastie Boys through its salvaged speakers. The windows were tinted with a thin layer of whitish-brown grime and the bumper was affixed with a faded “I’m A Vegetarian Because I Hate Plants” sticker. Exhaust tinged with burnt oil lingered in the air.

After the rear lights faded into the night ahead, David said “Why do they have to do that? It just ruins it, the music, it’s like they want everyone to think they’re cool by shoving it out of their car.”

“Maybe he’s deaf” Jessica said between breaths.

“If he was deaf, he wouldn’t listen to music.”

“What about Beethoven or Mozart or one of those guys?”

“Just a fluke.”

The sidewalk ran into the ground just before the table, and they slowed down to a walk. Jessica’s lungs and legs burst into acid; rarely used muscles desperate for life. She limped towards the side of the table away from the road.

“Mozart was a good fluke, maybe he’ll be the next Mozart.” He just shook his head.

They sat down at the picnic table. There was a three-foot tall monument off to the side, which held a plaque obscured by technicolor spray-paint. Etched in faux bronze, it said ‘In Loving Memory of Harold L. Vesota. June 23rd, 1987.’

David sat hunched over the table, as he pulled on each of his fingers, snapping them right to left. Jessica sat her hands along her bench, picking away at the splinters, and said “I don’t think I’m going to pass Bio. The professor just doesn’t care. I mean, I ask him questions, and he says to read the book. I don’t have any time.”

David took the thumbtack out of his shorts pocket and started poking it in and out of the table. “Yeah… it sucks with Bradley. I had it with Thomas, it was a cake walk. We only had two tests, and they were open book and open note.”

Jessica sighed and said “Lucky.”

A soft gust of wind rustled the weeds awake, whispering through the field. Across the road, the final street light buzzed and flickered. The apartment complex was illuminated down the road, two burning miles away. There were eight two-story buildings in Ravenwood Hills. Each of the apartments had a direct entrance, with no communal hallways to mess around with. Everything looked fake from this distance, a series of doll houses on an empty stage.

She asked “Do you know what you’re going to do after this semester?”

“No clue. My internship ends, and I haven’t done any interviews or anything.”

“You should.”

He turned his gaze back towards the road. “I know.”

They watched a Pontiac Sunbird swerve towards the apartments from a side-street, going well over the posted speed limit.

David stopped poking the thumbtack and sat up straight. He looked at her, and waited for eye contact.

“I have another idea.”

“Oh?”

“A race.”

David looked around, squinting in the dark. The scattered light illuminated a rough tennis-ball-sized rock next to the table. He picked it up. “If I get too far ahead, you can throw this at me.” He held up the rock beside his head. “I think this could work.”

She noticed he wasn’t smiling any more. She brought her hands up above the table. “But…”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll be fine,” he said, as he held the rock in front of her.

She turned her head towards the Oak, staring through the branches for a few seconds, and closed her eyes as she took the rock with her trembling left hand. It clinked against her class ring.

“Or, we could just stay here and…” he said, leaving the weeds to complete his words.

She looked behind her at the field. She saw the flicker of wings in the sky, flapping softly. Suddenly, they turned rigid, and swooped down into the field. She glimpsed them flapping again, rising slowly towards the trees. She barely heard the mouse’s dying squeak in the talons of the owl.

“No, a race might be…” she trailed off for a few moments, “fun.”

The wind picked up, and the final street light began swaying. Shadows swam around them.

David stood up, and Jessica followed his lead. “Let’s go” he said.

He started running backwards, awkwardly, as she started a slow jog.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

“Oh, just having some fun.” His teeth grin gleamed at her, a Cheshire Cat of the night.

He suddenly started running forwards, behind Jessica, and around her other side. “Jeez, I’m running circles around you now!”

He was twenty yards ahead, and laughed. She hurled the rock overhand, and watched it bean his right calf. He stumbled forward, losing any semblance of balance, and quickly skidded to a stop. Small, sharp rocks stabbed his knees and forearms, eager accomplices to the mutilation.

Jessica ran faster, her legs shuddering with each impact against the concrete. “David? David?”

She knelt down to pull him on his back as he coughed. David punched her below her left breast. Her lungs expunged their air, and began to tingle all over. She fell down to her knees, trying to remember how to breathe again, but she couldn’t. She opened her mouth, blinking, and held her hands over her stomach. They both rose up in a hunched stand, right in each other’s face, and she gasped, able to breathe again.

She lunged towards him. Left and right punches connected with his jaw, and she started pulling his hair. He reached his hands up around her wrists, crushing muscle, bone, and veins together. “Ow, let go, dammit! Not the wrists!”

He let go, and she immediately slapped him with her left hand, her class ring diving into his right temple. He staggered backwards, sticky drool dripping down his chin.

They stood a few feet apart. David wiped his chin with two fingers, staring at the blood, and held his right temple. Jessica bounced back-and-forth in place, a harsh mimicry of late-night kung fu movies starring nameless punching bags of Asian descent.

The sticky concoction of saliva, blood, and sweat streamed down David’s throat, creating gurgles whenever he spoke. “So far, so good?”

Jessica nodded, still bouncing. She took two huge steps forward, and pushed on David’s shoulders, toppling him back onto the sidewalk again. He groaned as she put her weight down on his upper body. She started twisting one ear and thwacked the other repeatedly. “Come on now, Jess, you’re not going to go Mike Tyson on me and bite off my ear, are you?”

David’s hands were free, though, and he pushed off his right side. Jessica tumbled along with him, and fell under David’s weight. He began punching her sides and shoulders, as she pounded his eyebrows and forehead. She grabbed his hands, struggling in an odd arm wrestling position.

The Cadillac came up to a stop along the sidewalk, muted by their scuffle. “Got this dance that’s more than real drink Brass Monkey here’s how you feel put your left leg down your right leg up…”

A tall man with an oriental dragon tattoo on his left forearm stepped out of the driver’s seat. “Hey, hey, what the hell are you doing, man?”

Jessica and David stopped their struggle, and looked up at the silhouette standing ten-feet away. Jessica shook her fist in the air “Get the hell away from us, you pervert!”

Cadillac man’s face snapped crimson. “Jesus Christ!” he said, “Just trying to help, find a god dang room.” He slammed his car-door shut, and accelerated away, leaving a familiar cloud behind.

David coughed, and smiled. “Nice thinking.”

She punched his forehead, shifting his weight so she could get free.

He fell back, and sat Indian-style in the middle of the sidewalk. “Arrêt, stop.”

Jessica nodded. She walked towards David, and offered her hand as support. He took it, and their pulses joined, beating deeply.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I know.” He grabbed two conjoined pieces of paper towel out of his shorts pocket, and wiped off his chin, arms, and legs. He crumpled it into a ball in his right hand.

“Your head is still bleeding a bit. Have any band-aids with you this time?”

David nodded, and produced a handful out of his other pocket. Jessica grabbed one, dropped the peelings onto the sidewalk, and placed it on his temple. He shoved the rest back in his pocket.

“There, you might want to put some stuff on it when you get home, it didn’t look very good.”

They began walking back. David grinned and said “Hey, want to catch?” as he pretended to throw his towel towards Jessica.

“I don’t need your stinking blood.” She stuck her tongue out for a moment.

The wind had died down. Frogs and crickets launched their calls into the depths of the night to an instant response.

“My blood don’t stink” he said, laughing at himself.

Up ahead at the apartments, nothing was going on. Nobody was rollerblading down the sidewalk narrowly missing ignorant pedestrians, no cars were waiting in the parking lot with obnoxious chatter coming out of their windows, and no police were breaking up parties rife with underage drinking. They walked down the sidewalk, gazing towards what might have been. Their scuffling footsteps drowned out nature.

“I have that eight am Bio class tomorrow, dammit.”

“Well, have fun with that.” He let out a sigh. “I wish I didn’t have to go to accounting either.”

“How’s that?”

“Easy. We’re going over how to audit different businesses, like making sure that things are Sarbanes-Oxley compliant. Just following lists of business practices, like we’ve been doing for ages.”

“Mmhmm.”

David cleared his throat. “Just don’t let Frank see you naked in full-light for a week or so… I know it wasn’t the idea of this, but the bruises should fade away.”

A sitcom laugh-track murmured from an apartment window.

“I know how to cover up” she said, smiling. She slid her class ring off, exposing an inner ring of scars and stitches. “I was mad at my parents one day.”

David looked closer. “Completely detached?” Jessica nodded. He grunted.

They came to a stop at apartment 4-D, and she slid her ring back on. “See ya.”

“Yeah, see you later.”

Jessica unlocked her door as David walked away. He did not turn around.