My mother was convinced I was a drug addict. I overheard her rambling on the phone, probably to one of her old cheer buddies, with great concern for my behavior.

"He's slipping through the cracks," she said. Pause. "He reeks of weed." Pause. "Yes, I went into his room today and confiscated it."

I sighed, slightly bothered by the fact she was in my room, and majorly frustrated to wake up to her complaining about me. I rolled out of bed and threw on an outfit from the clothes already scattered on the floor. It was wrinkled and worn but I didn't mind. The sun assured me that I didn't completely sleep the day away, and sure enough, my bong and bud were gone from my nightstand. I knew exactly where to find them, though. My mom hid everything under her bed.

Careful not to be seen or heard, I slipped into her room, not in the mood for questions. Thankfully, my mom was still on the phone listing how disappointing I was. Crouching down, I looked and saw nothing but junk under her bed: gifts for Hadley, a few boxes, my dad's favorite ugly yellow tie, and, boom, my things.

I bent down and pulled but instead of my weed, it was a photo. My mind blanked.

He was in his favorite sci-fi fan shirt, smiling the width of Texas. It had been a year and three days, but it felt longer. There wasn't a single day when I didn't think about him. It happened so swiftly. I could be tying my shoe, and suddenly, I remembered that my uncle died in a car crash. Something deep prickled the inside of my stomach. I could have cried, but I held it back.

I looked again and noticed that the photo came from one of the boxes. Inside, it only revealed an old pair of his glasses and a small black notebook. I always thought my dad wasn't affected by my uncle's death in the slightest, but why would he have these things if that was the case? The thought ran away as quickly as it came. I grabbed the notebook and flipped it open. The curiosity swallowed me whole. The first page was labeled Confessions in his familiar chicken-scratch handwriting.

February 20, 2005

I don't know if I have the heart to tell my wife I hate her cooking.

June 2, 2003

I genuinely hate receiving compliments.

October 11, 2007

Maybe I should start my own radio show, conversations with myself are too good to not be displayed.

May 6, 1990

My father is a terrible person but I can't help but love him.

Page after page was another date and another confession. I knew I should stop reading, but I couldn't. I gorged myself on the words. I was back with my uncle, in a way. He was right beside me, with his messy hair and cheesy smile, telling me all of his secrets. I read and read until I heard my mom's voice growing closer and closer. I stuffed my belongings in my pocket along with the small notebook and left.

***

I stopped by the Basement, but Mikey was leaving for his dad's house for the week. And now I was even stopping by Brisklin Street because I didn't know where else to go. I drove around the street three times before I finally decided to go to the café.

Whether or not Beverly had a shift today didn't even cross my mind as I approached the quaint coffee shop. The closer I got, the more the internal battle inside my head increased. She had invited me to come, but I didn't think she'd meant so soon. Walking across the wet pavement, I pulled open the door. The warmth instantly surrounded me as I took in the place. Surprisingly, I was in a good mood. The first thing that caught my eye was the girl singing softly and playing her guitar on a stage. People were sitting at tables, either typing away alone on their laptops or having a cup of coffee with a friend. The place smelled like indescribable spices.

It was calming.

"Whoa, who's the cutie?" I turned my head to face two identical- looking girls. They both shared the gene of red hair, but it was obvious that one shade was darker. The darker-haired one walked over to me and smiled slyly, like she was the fox and I was the chicken. "Hey. I'm Rose."

The lighter redhead stayed behind and threw me a smile and a wave, before turning and tapping a blond who shared the same distinct features as the other two. They were triplets. A guy with a long beard standing with her turned to look at me. The eyes and the stares bothered me. I felt as though I was being violated of the right of ever being viewed as a normal person. The change of the gazes from admiration to judging was astonishing.

"Everest."

I kept it simple and didn't even throw a fake smile like I usually did. My lips remained in their thin line, and I was sure that my eyebrows tightened as well. A small gasp entered the room, but it was so discreet that if the room wasn't so quiet, there would be no way that I would have heard it.

"You came." I turned and saw Beverly smiling, her eyes brightening, and I couldn't understand why.

She walked from behind the counter and toward me, venturing through the triplets and bearded guy, and wrapped her arms around my torso in a tight hug. I immediately tensed.

"You know this guy?" the fox asked. Such a perplexing question due to the fact that Beverly didn't actually know me.

"He goes to my school, and I invited him to come check the place out," she said after she released her arms from around me, her face a tad disappointed that I didn't hug her back.

The guy with the beard tapped her hard on the shoulder and chuckled loudly. "Good job, Betty! Keep bringing in customers."

Betty? Her face went slack, but I think I was the only one who noticed.

"Hey, weren't you on the news? For . . ." the light red-haired girl said, her eyes searching for recognition.

"Poppy! You can't just ask people stuff like that," Rose cut her off, giving me an apologetic look.

"Attempting to kill himself? Yes, that's me," I cut off the fox, my bluntness shocking even me.

Their mouths took the shape of circles, but Beverly just stared at me. I was starting to notice that she did that a lot. But it didn't really bother me as much as the other ones did; her eyes weren't judging, just curious.

"Wow, how did you do it? They didn't say on the news. Isn't your dad Frank Finley from Finley Corp? Dude, is there any way you could advertise our lil ol' place? It would really help . . ."

"Poppy!" The blond spoke for the first time. She turned toward me with a sad smile, and I wanted to shut my eyes so I wouldn't have to see it.

"Twenty-three years old and she still doesn't have a filter, I'm so sorry. You can order anything, it'll be on the house for when- ever you're hungry." She tucked a strand of her blond hair behind her ear.

"Really, Lily? He's filthy rich and we are giving him free food? That makes no s—" Rose wrapped her fingers around Poppy's mouth.

"Shut up," Rose scolded her, and I looked over at Beverly, who was now staring at the stage. She must have felt my gaze because she turned back to me and nodded her head toward a table near the stage.

We sat at the small square table and she propped her head up, her chin upon her fist and her elbow grounded to the table. She did that weird staring thing again, and I directed my eyes toward the stage.

"Sorry about Poppy, she's kind of . . ."

"It's cool." I shrugged it off and looked back at the stage.

"No, it wasn't," she mumbled, and from the corner of my eye,

I saw her take a bite from a muffin.

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, until she started staring at me again, her large brown eyes reading me.

"Did your mom ever tell you it's rude to stare?" I asked, turning to stare at her now.

"Nope," she answered innocently, sincerely.

"Well, it is," I said, slightly annoyed.

"Sorry," she apologized, oblivious to the little crumbs that had made a home on her cheeks. She even had bits of crumbs in her curly black hair. I wanted to remove them but I ignored that feeling. Now that I was looking at her hair, it was oddly distracting—the large spirals that covered her head were almost hypnotic.

"Did your mom ever tell you it's rude to stare?" she teased my words back at me.

"You have some crumbs . . ." I gestured to my cheek. She brushed them off, missing a spot, but I didn't say anything. I had already made myself look stupid, and thought it would be best if I didn't say anything else.

"You know what I've realized about you?" she asked, her eyes bright and full of knowing.

"What?"

"You've turned into, like, this dark cloud."

"Excuse me?"

"You're like this gloomy shadow, just floating around, ready to explode." She took another bite of her muffin.

"Sorry?" I didn't really know what else to say.

"No, don't be. Because without those clouds, we wouldn't have rain."

"But rain ruins," I added, thinking about the topic. We all seek shelter from the storm.

Beverly was interesting—weird, but no less intriguing. In less than twenty-four hours, she'd been nothing but nice to me even when everyone else wasn't. Even after I was a jerk. Even after knowing I tried to kill myself.

"You know what I realized?" I asked her. She looked at me curiously, her left eyebrow arching upward. "You are too positive." 

"W-What?" She reeled from laughter; her large smile causing my lips to twitch slightly.

"You're just too much rainbow and butterflies. I could take a dump on this table right now and you'd call it art." She laughed louder this time, and I couldn't help the chuckle that escaped from my mouth.

"You can't be too positive," she giggled.

"You're too positive. It's nice to know destruction sometimes," I said.

"You hold too much destruction, it's good to have positivity too," she replied.

I eyed her half-eaten muffin, and she rolled her eyes before pushing it toward me. I bit into it while she stared at the performance taking place onstage.

"This muffin has made a positive impact on my taste buds." I cracked a joke, and a feeling hit me right in the gut. I couldn't even remember how long it was since I was genuinely amused. She chuckled at my words, her eyes diverted away from the stage, downward, and then finally meeting my eyes.

"Why don't you go home, Betty? We got it from here," Poppy yelled across the café.

Beverly looked up. "You sure?"

"Yeah, go spend time with your boyfriend."

Beverly's eyes grew huge, and she fumbled over her words.

"We aren't together."

She looked at me, embarrassed. She got up, stumbling from the chair, and made her way behind the counter to get her bag. I followed her and stuck my hands in the pockets of my hoodie, unsure of what to do next. She pulled on her jacket, and when she turned to grab her bag, our eyes connected.

"Do you need a ride?" I asked, swinging my keys on my ring finger.

***

"Nice car," she said as she climbed into the passenger seat of my pride and joy.

I'd got this Ford Mustang on my sixteenth birthday. Nash had spent the night when my parents "surprised" me first thing in the morning. Only it wasn't a surprise at all—I'd been telling my parents I wanted a '67 Mustang since my uncle bought himself one when I was ten. No, the only thing surprising that day was when I caught Nash kissing Jacob Riley, our rival team's quarter- back. Nash was mortified but I didn't care. You love who you love.

He made me promise not to tell anyone and I hadn't broken that promise. I would never break it.

"Yeah, it's all right," I answered absentmindedly, my thoughts wandering.

The tension in the car was awkward. Beverly was sitting with her hands in her lap, staring out the window. I turned the music on and tapped my fingers on the wheel. It was some terrible pop song, but it would do for the silence.

"I live in the east end." She practically swallowed her words so quickly that I barely caught them.

The car ride consisted of awkward eye contact, September night air passing through our hair, and laughing at stupid random things. When we got to the edge of her neighborhood, she grew even more tense.

"You can drop me off right here," she said. I looked around and there weren't any houses.

"Live at a secret location?" I joked.

"Something like that. Bye, Ev."

I found myself kind of liking the nickname. Everyone always

referred to my name formally. Now, after my attempt, it wasn't nicknames, but horrible names. And this was the first new nickname that I'd liked.

"Bye, Bev." I smiled as she climbed out of my car.

As I drove off, I realized that Beverly was the first person who'd treated me normally after my attempt.