Saturday - November 4, 2017 - 3:55 p.m.

The crisp fall leaves crunched under my boots as I turned the corner and strolled toward Zara's house. There wasn't a soul in sight as I made my way down the cracked, unlevel sidewalk of Burdette street, nothing short of a normal Saturday afternoon in Chamberlain.

I let out a deep yawn, gulping in a gust of chilly Autumn air. My lungs were still recovering from the brisk half-walk-half-sprint that had been necessary to get me here in time. It was hard to believe that only twenty minutes earlier, I'd been raveled up in a warm fleece blanket on Brandon's bed as we watched old Shane Dawson skits on YouTube and began our apartment hunt.

I quickly surveyed my reflection in my iPhone screen, diligently scanning for any remnants of bed head that may have trailed into the afternoon.

Although I seldom suffered from Olivia and Hazel's superficial paranoia of looking like an Instagram model around the clock, I did feel the need to look my best around certain people—namely, those I wanted to impress or gain approval from. And Zara fit that description to a tee. She was the mecca of physical beauty, at least from what I'd seen in the past week, and for some reason I wanted so badly to reciprocate that. Our first impression had gone smoothly enough, much smoother than I'd originally forecasted. I wanted our second to go just as well—maybe even better.

It was at this moment, as my eyes lowered down my reflection, that I realized I was wearing a raggedy, partially stained Oklahoma! T-shirt, complete with cheery cowhands and frolicking farmgirls square-dancing across the front. There was a small rip just below the neckline, and the once vibrant tie-dye had become depressingly faded thanks to years of rinse cycles.

Fuck me, I lamented, yanking the zipper on my hoodie as high as it would go.

It didn't get more cringe-worthy than a leftover T-shirt from a sixth-grade musical. Apparently, the groggy daze that had held me captive me after I'd woken up had caused me to grab the first thing my hand made contact with as I'd reached in my dresser this morning.

I'd acquired quite a few of these shirts in my days as a young thespian, and I religiously avoided wearing them anywhere but the privacy of my own home. I often wondered why I'd even held onto these obsolete rags all these years.

From the ages of ten to thirteen—not my finest hour, I might add—I'd had a true passion for theater, landing lead roles in nearly every production put on by the Truman Middle School Drama Club. I wowed the crowd as Tzeitel in Fiddler on the Roof; I received a standing ovation for my portrayal of Glinda in The Wizard of Oz; and, in eighth grade, I sang and danced my way to school-wide stardom as Penny Pingleton in Hairspray, my exceptional performance earning me an exclusive profile in the school magazine.

I couldn't explain what had attracted me to theater. Every step of the process was so enthralling to me: dazzling the director at auditions, scanning the cast list the following morning to see which role I'd scored, reading through the script for the first time, memorizing lines, researching my character's backstory, being fitted for costumes....

But the best part by far had been show night.

After months of grueling rehearsals, seeing the whole thing come together on stage was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life, and knowing I was a part of the magic made it even more stimulating. It was such an adrenaline rush for me, having the ability to captivate the audience, to transport them to a whole new world, even if only for an hour or two. I'd been fortunate enough to have never suffered from stage fright—the bigger the crowd, the better. I'd had such fond fantasies of becoming a big name on Broadway, securing my stardom before gradually transitioning into movies and television.

Perhaps this was why I couldn't bring myself to toss these stupid old shirts in the trash. No matter how cringy they might be, they were a nostalgic reminder of something that had once brought me so much joy in life.

Finally, I reached a small house at the end of the deserted street. I pulled out the shred of paper Zara had given me, quickly confirming the address.

1705 Burdette Street.

As I stood gazing at the house before me, I was thoroughly convinced I had the wrong address.

It was undeniably the least aesthetic house on the street, as well as the smallest. The puke-green paint was chipping away in many areas, and the few intact ones had a murky, gray tinge to them. Several patches of roof were missing, rendering a checkerboard pattern around the decrepit chimney. The lawn had been reduced to a bed of tan needles, as if someone had sucked the life right out of the once lush grass, and just before the porch sat a row of withering petunias slumped over in agony, begging to be decomposed.

The desolate facade looked like something out of an old western ghost town; all that was missing was a drifting tumbleweed.

On the surface, the house looked almost inhabitable, especially for someone who showed up to school with Coach totes and clothes fit for a Fashion Week runway.

After a moment of unsettling hesitation, I gave the rusty gate a tentative push and made my way along the disheveled stone path and up the creaky stairs.

At the far end of the porch was a rustic-looking swing that drooped down at a slanted angle, supported by a single chain on the left; the right one had broken free from the ceiling and now lay in a silver coil on the floor. Beside the swing was a small glass table with so many fractures that it looked like it could disintegrate at any moment. On either side of the table stood two white plastic chairs that looked like they'd been purchased from the dollar store.

Please be the right house, I silently prayed to God. My ass was in that church pew every Sunday—he owed me this.

I took a deep breath and raised my fist to knock.

Before my hand had made contact with the door, it swung open rapidly, and a tall woman with jet-black hair appeared in the doorway, a cigarette between her bony fingers and a lighter at the ready. She wore a leopard-print jacket with a thick fur hood and a pair of heavily ripped light blue jeans—I couldn't tell if this was the intended style or if they'd just been through the ringer—tucked into her faux sheepskin boots. She looked to be in her early thirties, though the massive cat-eye sunglasses shielding her face made it hard to estimate an age.

The woman jolted back as she saw me, causing her cigarette to fly from her hand and into a nearby flowerpot.

"Jesus Christ!" she screamed, clutching her chest and emitting a sigh of relief. "You scared the shit outta me, kid."

I was just as startled by this encounter, though I managed to conceal it much better than her.

She bent over and retrieved her cigarette from the pot, brushing it off on her pant leg before stuffing it between her lips. "You sellin' something?" she asked, her eyes exuding a look of suspicion as she took a lengthy draw. "I'm not interested."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

I considered turning back right then, but I figured I might as well confirm I was at the right place.

"I'm here to see Zara. We're working on a project for school."

The woman continued eyeing me doubtfully, as if she were still waiting for me to unleash my sales pitch on her. She exhaled a thick stream of smoke, which missed my face by only a few centimeters. "Upstairs. Second door on the right."

Without saying another word, the woman marched down the steps and disappeared around back towards the garage, leaving a hazy cloud in her wake.

I pushed through the open door, mentally recovering from this encounter, and sauntered into the house.

Just as I'd expected, the interior was largely on par with the exterior.

The room to my left appeared to be the living room, and the one to my right the dining room, though it was hard to discern due to the lack of furniture. The "dining room" was equipped with a white folding table—something a frat house might use for their beer pong tournaments—that was littered with Corona bottles and a pink, heart-shaped ashtray that looked as if it hadn't had a good emptying in three years, and around the table were three dark green plastic chairs. The "living room" housed a battered burgundy sofa and matching ottoman, which had cotton leaking from the sides. A bulky, nineties-looking TV was perched on a stack of rubber storage boxes in front of the window, covered partially by a light blue curtain stained with tiny black smudges. The walls were the most unflattering shade of mucus-brown I'd ever seen, and I felt like it was for the better that the paint was slowly starting to chip away.

The sharp rev of an engine suddenly roared from the side of the house. I glanced out the window just in time to see the red Ford Taurus speeding out of the driveway, knocking over one of the trash cans on the tree lawn as it pulled out. A gust of smoke billowed from the driver's side window as the car peeled off down the street and out of sight.

I walked over to the staircase, still questioning who that woman could've been, and whether she'd be returning anytime soon.

As I ascended the stairs, my attention was quickly harnessed by a set of framed photographs hanging on the wall.

The first one exhibited a young boy, no older than six or seven, with dusty blond hair and electric blue eyes. He was lying on his stomach in the middle of an emerald green lawn in a Superman pose, his arms expanded at his side, his legs hoisted into the air behind him. His mouth was stretched into a broad, chipper smile that revealed a missing front tooth.

My gaze slowly drifted to the next photo, which showed a strikingly beautiful teenage girl giving a piggyback to a younger girl with golden blond hair, both of them flashing exuberant smiles for the camera. They appeared to be in a forest of some sort; I could tell it was peak Autumn season by the crimson and russet leaves floating in the air around them.

The third photo, cast in black and white, was by far the most picturesque of the three. It was of a man and a woman standing on what appeared to be the edge of a large cliff overlooking the ocean. The man was dressed in an immaculate black tuxedo, and the woman had on a snow-white wedding gown accompanied by a lace veil fluttering behind her in the wind. They were locked in a tight embrace, holding each other with a fiery tenderness as they stared deeply into each other's eyes, seemingly oblivious to the world surrounding them.

"Corny, right?" came a sudden voice from above me.

I jolted to my right to find Zara perched at the top of the stairs, her lips fixed in their usual mystical smile. She had on a neon pink tank top and baggy blue sweatpants that spelled out CALIFORNIA along the leg. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and her flawless skin was beaming brightly as always.

I couldn't help but feel like she'd just gotten up for the day, though she looked nothing like the train wreck I did when I first rolled out of bed.

"Oh, no!" I replied, praying I hadn't come off as a snooper. "They're nice photos. I love them."

She directed her own gaze to the pictures, a glint of nostalgia twinkling in her eyes. "Thanks. They were stowed away under my sister's bed. I put them up as soon as I found them." She hesitated for a second, as if trying to find the right words. "She's not really a...family person."

I gave an understanding nod as she ushered me up the stairs and into a room at the end of the hallway.

Much like the first floor, the furniture in her bedroom was strikingly scarce, though it wasn't nearly as unkempt as the rest of the house. A lumpy mattress lay wedged in the corner beside a slightly-splintered nightstand and a floor lamp with a tattered purple shade. In lieu of a dresser, her clothes sat in a series of large Rubbermaid containers lining the wall, which was a soft shade a beige—definitely an aesthetic upgrade from the downstairs.

"Sorry it's so depressing in here," she said, as if she'd just overheard my silent assessment of the room. "The rest of my stuff is still en route from Cali."

She plopped down onto the mattress, clearing some clothes off the end, and motioned for me to sit down. I smiled and sat down next to her, propping my back against the wall and pulling out my copy of Romeo & Juliet from my bag.

Zara opened her laptop, a blank expression seeping into her face as she stared at the screen. "I hate opening a new Word doc and seeing that stupid blinking cursor at the top left corner. It's so intimidating, you know? Just sitting there, flashing before your eyes in a sea of white, like it's begging you to just write something already."

I chuckled as I reflected on her observation.

She grabbed her folder from the nightstand and took out the rubric Mr. Harrow had given us, scanning it briefly. "So, we need to choose a theme from the story. Got any ideas?"

In all honesty, a million ideas were racing through my mind at the moment: societal conflict, forced marriage, the inevitability of fate, the influence of family on individual identity —just to name a few.

Yet I couldn't bring myself to voice any of these suggestions, so I bit my tongue as usual, picturing the expression of confusion on Zara's face if I were to start rattling off Shakespearian motifs like they were letters of the alphabet.

"I can't think of any," I lied. "What about you?"

Her eyes narrowed in deep concentration. "What about revenge?"

Revenge, I mused. On all my occasions reading this play, that particular theme had never occurred to me. I smiled and nodded in agreement, eager to hear her reasoning.

"We can focus specifically on the harmful repercussions that result, as well as the underlying motives that drive various characters to seek vengeance in the first place." She began typing vigorously as she explained further. "We should have plenty of supporting evidence. For starters, there's the scene where Romeo kills Tybalt in a fit of rage after he murders Mercutio. And then there's Romeo's exile from Verona in act three, scene one, which could be seen as a form of spiteful retaliation on the part of the Capulet family. Then, of course, there's the scene at the end when Paris attempts to have Romeo arrested for Juliet's death. You think that'll be enough material to work with?"

"Yeah," I said, momentarily stunned by her impressive analysis. It was so refreshing to see someone so beautiful encapsulate such confident intelligence, unphased by the prospect of sounding like a square.

I could definitely learn a thing or two from this girl, I thought to myself.

Suddenly, a surge of inspiration raced through me, and I decided to test the waters with some input of my own.

"If you think about it," I began tentatively, "revenge could also be one of the motives surrounding Juliet's death. I mean, there must've been so much unrest and animosity building up inside her during her forbidden rendezvous with Romeo. She was wronged by so many people in her life. Her own blood was constantly trying to control her, unjustly denying her the one thing she longed for most. As crazy as it sounds, maybe her suicide had roots of vengeance, a giant middle finger to the system of subordination and prejudice in which she'd been trapped her whole life."

A look of bewilderment flooded into Zara features. "Cassie, that's brilliant!" she exclaimed, her fingers drumming away excitedly at the keyboard. "I never even thought of that. I'll it to our outline."

I had to admit, hearing her compliment my idea sent a tingle of gratification through me. I was starting to think that this need to act the empty-headed cheerleader all the time was just in my head.

"Thanks," I said, a heartened smile on my face as I pulled out my MacBook. "I'll start drafting the introduction."

"I'll get to work on the body," she added. "Hell, we might be able to knock out this whole paper today."

I held up a pair of crossed fingers, glad that we'd established a gameplan.

We spent about two hours completing our respective sections, periodically bouncing ideas off each other and making the necessary revisions. I'd managed to crank out a fairly solid introduction that took up almost a whole page, along with two additional pages of character analysis.

It was a pleasant change working with someone who actually pulled their weight, unlike Olivia and Hazel, who usually spent our study sessions giving their nails a fresh coat and discussing the latest episode of Riverdale while I slaved away over the assignment.

I glanced down at my phone to check the time, only to find the screen black and unresponsive.

"Do you have an iPhone charger I could borrow?" I asked.

"For sure," Zara replied, grabbing a white cable from the drawer beside her and handing it to me.

My eyes suddenly caught sight of a small photo tucked inside a heart-shaped frame perched on the edge of her nightstand.

It was of the same young boy I'd seen earlier by the stairs, along with one of the girls, who I could now make out as a preteenage Zara. In this one, the young Zara was swaying on the seat of a backyard swingset, the small boy sitting happily on her lap. Her arms were fastened around his chest as she gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

"That picture is so cute," I said, motioning to the photo.

A faint blush flowed into her cheeks. "Thanks," she said with a tentative smile. "That's my little brother, Ethan."

"He's so adorable. He'll definitely be breaking a lot of hearts when he's older."

Her smile faltered slightly at my comment, her gaze wandering out the window. All of a sudden, a deafening silence wafted across the room, punctuated only by the sound of the harsh wind whipping through the trees outside.

An uneasy feeling washed over me as I witnessed this sudden change in her demeanor. It was like every trace of life had been sucked right out of her.

"He passed away last year," she muttered, almost inaudibly. Her eyes remained fixed out the window as she spoke, then drifted gradually to the photo. "Leukemia."

My face began to boil with embarrassment. I opened my mouth to say something, but no words came out.

Nice going, I scolded myself.

"I...I'm so sorry."

I wanted to say more—something more reassuring than those three measly words—but that seemed to be all my voice box could manage at the moment.

Her eyes were still glued to the photo of her brother, yet her expression had seemed to transform from one of gloom to indifference. She wasn't smiling nor frowning. She look neither happy nor sad. She simply sat there, staring off blankly into the distance.

Unfortunately, this was not the first time I'd been this kind of situation, albeit from a different perspective.

Every so often, people would make certain comments to Brandon like: You must get your good looks from your dad! or Nice game, Brandon! Your old man must be real proud! Or the worst of all: Like father, like son! He always tried so hard to conceal his anguish, to brush it off like nothing had happened, but I knew how great of a toll these seemingly innocent comments took on him. Whenever he heard the slightest mention of his