Disclaimer: I don't think we even have to include these, but what the hell? I don't own it.

I wrote another story about Jared and Kim, but I just like this one so much more. Please read and tell me what you think!

I find that if I concentrate on one thing and nothing else, everything else in the entire world ceases to exist.

A red stain on the carpet. Probably from Lila's experiment with her new nail polish, I decide. It was going to take me a long time to get that out. Unless it was bleached. But the carpet was off-white, and the bleach would probably take the color out of that spot. So bleach was out of the question. It probably needed a good scrubbing and some quality stain remover. Or maybe I'd just find a nice throw rug to put in that spot.

When I am thinking about this red stain, I can barely hear the yelling. I don't hear my father's fury and my mother's anguish. I can't even hear my sister's deep, unconscious breathing in the bed right beside mine. If I work hard enough, I don't even hear my tears.

It's not like I hadn't heard this before. But as far as family's go, mine's not exactly dysfunctional. Occasionally my dad will come home all riled up and take it out on my mother, loudly. It's not like he hits anyone. I'm pretty sure he doesn't even get up from the couch as he yells. It's just that when everything in your entire life is falling apart, it'd be nice to have the comfort of a safe-harbor at home. I have no such luxuries.

So for a while I just sit there on my bed, my knees pulled up to my chin, and cry. I don't think I'm even crying because of my parent's anymore. It's one of those things about me, the ones I can't change even if I really tried. Once the tears start, I can't stop, I just cry and cry and cry until there's no more tears inside of me. It's kind of nice sometimes.

"Kim, stop crying."

The funny part is no one's actually telling me to stop crying. You'd probably think I was a schizophrenic right about now, but I'm not. When I imagine someone telling me to do something, I do it. If I tell myself to do something, I don't. So I use my imagination, and I get things done.

I can't stop crying. I don't want to, don't want to, don't make me…

I stop crying.

I am nothing if not an obedient young woman.

And it's like magic, the way my tears stop coming full-force and I'm able to sit up in my bed and wipe my eyes off and then, just like that, I'm fine. No one will ever know that I was crying. They'll see me tomorrow, I'll smile at them, and they'll think, Look at Kim, she's so happy and smart and everything's just so easy for her.

And I'll let them think that, even though just once, I wish someone would see that I wasn't.

***

In the morning, things are great.

My mom makes pancakes while Dad reads the paper and hums quietly to himself. It's like, they think if they put on this show of how perfectly normal they are, they will be. If they don't talk about their problems, they don't have any problems.

I'm just like them.

"I want a puppy," my little sister Lila announces, in the pseudo-manner of eight-year-olds everywhere. She doesn't really want a puppy. In fact, if she had one, she'd probably neglect it so bad Animal Services would come for it. But she's eight and she's a girl, so she has to say things like this, because that's what eight-year-old girls do. They want puppies.

"You can't have a puppy, Lila," Mom says, all exasperated, like she's gone over this a million times, even though she hasn't.

"Why not?" Lila pouted.

"Puppies are a lot of responsibility. I don't think you're ready for that."

Which is a direct translation for, I don't want to have to pick up your puppy's goddamn shit all over my house.

"I can be responsible," countered Lila fervently. "I'll prove it to you. What if I pick up my room, help around the house, and don't fight with Amanda or Kimmie for three whole weeks? Then could I have a puppy?"

"How about you do all that, and then we'll see?" Mom suggests. She sets down a stack of the pancakes that I'm supposed to pretend to enjoy in front of me and glances at my dad, making sure he caught onto her impressive parenting skills.

"Okay!" Lila exclaims.

I'm not a morning person and my entire family knows it. No one speaks to me before noon unless they'd like to be yelled at. It's an unspoken rule that everyone keeps their distance and that's how I retain my sanity during these trying times.

"Kim, could you ride the bus in this week to school?" Amanda asks. I grunt in response. "I have to go in early for practice."

In the stereotypical synopsis of your average angsty teenager's family life, my older sister, Amanda, is perfect. When I say that she's perfect, I actually mean that she is perfect. She's so perfect that people think I'm practically perfect just because I share DNA with her. She's on the honor-roll and she's loved by everyone. She's in five out of eight clubs at our tiny school. She does charity work and cheerleading. She's pretty but not a slut, she has a boyfriend on the football team, friends in every clique available at La Push Rez High, and she's nice. Nice. Like, I'd even probably like her if she wasn't so perfect that it drove me insane every time I was around her.

If Amanda was troubled in any way, you would have the most amazing book plot ever.

I mutter something under my breath that even I can't understand, and Amanda takes it as a yes.

"Thanks," she says, injecting an amount of enthusiasm that only a truly happy person could muster at six in the morning.

I push away my pancakes because they're gross and I don't like them. When my mother asks why I haven't eaten, I tell her, "Because these are gross and I don't like them."

That's why I go to the school psychologist every Wednesday afternoon during free period. According to my mother, I have no censor on what I say. And if I talk about my problems, one will suddenly appear.

"Don't talk to your mother that way," Dad warns.

"Don't scream at her when you think everyone else is asleep," I reply.

Dad glares at me threateningly, Mom goes ashen, Amanda gasps a little, and Lila talks about how she'd like to get a Golden retriever if only they didn't get so big when they were older.

And I fight the urge to shout, "Burn!"

It's all very mature.

"I'm going to go get ready for school now."

It takes me about two minutes to do so. Some girls, I know, will spend hours putting on their makeup and fixing their hair and adjusting their clothes just right. I'm not one of them. The way I see it, I'm not pretty and I never will be. If I put on makeup, I'll be only slightly prettier, which still isn't pretty, so what's the point? So I go all-natural, which makes me a minority in high school and makes people think I'm "edgy."

La Push Reservation High is probably the only public school in the United States that has no dress code to speak of. It doesn't need one. In the Olympic Peninsula of Washington, if you wear spaghetti straps with widths of less than three fingers and shorts above your fingertips, you've probably never stepped inside a school building before, because you're retarded. If it's cold, which it practically always is, you're going to need warm clothes. And if it's not cold, it's going to rain. There's no room for slutty clothes in these conditions.

I'm glad that it doesn't have a dress code, though, because that means there is no uniform whatsoever. It would have been smarter of the administration to enforce some sort of rule, like brushing your hair or wearing nice shoes or something, but maybe they decided having nothing was better than half-assing it, because we are free to wear whatever we want. Technically, they couldn't get you into trouble for going to school naked. Just saying.

But I am one of those annoying people that is always, always, always cold. I'll have a sweatshirt in Florida in the summer, that's how cold my body temperature is. So I throw on a long-sleeved blue shirt, jeans, and my Yale sweatshirt. I have a Yale sweatshirt because that's where Amanda's going at the end of this year, and I wear it because it's amazingly warm.

"Kim, what you said down there…"

Amanda is leaning against the bathroom doorframe when I look up from brushing my teeth, effectively scaring the shit out of me.

"Holy crap, you scared the shit out of me," I say, but it sounds like "howwy cwap, euw scured da shif ow of me," because my mouth is still filled with toothpaste.

"What they do when we're supposed to be in bed isn't your business," she goes on like I hadn't spoken.

"I don't care," I tell her, wiping my mouth off.

"Couples fight," she says. She's trying to convince herself, not me, only I'm not sure she knows that.

"I know that."

"And it could be a lot worse, you know. Dad could be a drunk, or—or—"

"God. Fuck off, Amanda!"

It's like I slapped her across the face. I'd feel a little bad, except then she crosses her arms over her chest and replies, "You are acting like such a brat lately. I don't even know who the hell you are anymore."

"Yeah?" Suddenly, I'm overcome with this urge to make her cry. I just really, really want to see her crying, like I need to prove that she's not perfect and I'm not the only one with problems. So I say, "Go ask Chris. He knows me pretty well these days."

Which is just so, so, so low, because as our relationship goes, Chris is a sore spot. Chris O'Hare has been my best friend since before I can remember ever making the decision to have him be my best friend. He's a junior, and since Amanda's a senior and I'm a sophomore, he's fair-game. Chris is popular and nice-looking, I guess, but I don't like him like that. He doesn't like me that way, either, and I don't blame him. I don't think he'd even bother being friends with me if he met me anytime after grade school. If we hadn't already had such a strong friendship, he probably wouldn't have thought I was worth his time. Chris is sort of a douche-bag, but sometimes being a douche-bag is okay, like in Chris's case. It just works for him.

Anyway, Amanda is and always has been in love with Chris. And for some reason, he never gives her the time of day. Amanda confided in me with this a while back, and I know the feelings never died down, which is why I'm a bitch for bringing up the fact that I'm closer to him than she ever will be.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she spits through her teeth, and she is crying, just a little bit. Her hazel eyes are sparkling.

I feel like my heart's going to explode, really. The feeling lasts about point two seconds and then it's over, done, gone. I feel just fine.

"Nothing's wrong with me," I say, and I believe it, too.

Nothing's wrong with me. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

***

"You look like shit."

"Thanks. You, too."

Chris tugs at my ponytail affectionately until I turn to look at him. He's smirking down at me, but his eyes are concerned, the softie. "You okay, Chetco?"

"I'm a-okay, O'Hare," I report.

"You look like you haven't slept in months."

"That's because I haven't slept in months." I roll my eyes and grab my third-period Calculus binder. Contrary to popular preference, math is my favorite subject. Math is safe. It's when you get into reading and writing and the liberal arts that I have a problem.

"Got a date with Keira Friday. I've been after her for months," Chris says excitedly, shutting my locker for me.

He's been after her for about a week now, but I don't say this, because he's happy. "Way to go, Chris! At least someone's getting laid."

The way I say this would make you think I want to get laid, but I don't, not at all. Being around Chris makes me say guyish things.

Sometimes I wonder what people think when they see Chris and I walking together. Like, oh, there's the quarterback and that…that girl – what's her name again? But Chris never seems to mind it if anyone is saying things about us, so I try not to, either.

"You going to Sparo's party Friday?" he asks.

I scowl. Chris knows I wouldn't be invited to something like that. I shrug. "Wasn't invited."

Paul Sparo throws the best parties La Push has ever seen, apparently. I hate Paul and I hate his stupid parties and more than anything I hate that I'm never invited. If I want to go, I have to crash, and that's just pathetic.

"Come with me. You can be my plus-one."

"Keira's your plus-one," I point out.

"Keira was invited."

"You can't have a plus-one and a date on the side, Chris," I explain patiently. "It's basic party etiquette."

"My mother didn't raise me right," Chris admits, feigning shame. "So what the hell, right? Won't be a party without you."

"Oh yeah. I know it."

I sit on couches at parties, and Chris gives me shit about it. It's way fun.

"So will you come?" It says something about his loyalty to me that he actually looks hopeful. I take a moment to be touched and then reply:

"And watch you suck face with Keira with her hands down your pants all night? Right. No thanks."

"You could mingle. Make friends, all that." His eyes light up, and I know what he's going to say, and I would try to kick him in the groin before he has a chance to say it but I don't have enough time because then he's opening his mouth and grinning and practically shouted, "And you could talk to Jared!"

Almost five heads turn in our direction. I look at Chris with nothing but murder in my mind.

"Fuck you, Chris."

In case anyone in the school had been unaware of my crush on Jared Khail – which seemed admittedly seemed very unlikely – they were all now informed. The way I feel about Jared isn't exactly something I'm proud of. He's a senior, but I've known him ever since elementary school, and I've liked him all that time. I'm not sure he knows my name. Something about him just draws me in, like when I'm around him I can't breathe or think and he's just so perfect, like how I want to be. Effortlessly happy, like it's natural to him, like he's high on life. Funny without being cheesy. Tall and dark and good-looking, but not traditionally handsome. His face was strong and chiseled and just…just so hot.

Maybe it wasn't just me though. Because a lot of girls seemed to feel this way about Jared Khail.

"Khail hasn't been in school for a week. Chill out." I wished I was strong enough to break Chris's jaw.

Instead of replying, I go to Calculus. Normally I look forward to this class, because Jared's in it, but not today. Jared hasn't been out a week – he's been out a week and two days. I'm pretty sure he's dead. The thought gives me a stomachache.

"Hello, Miss Chetco," the teacher, Mr. Starr, says sternly, because I'm almost late. The bell rings the second I enter the class. It's okay, though. Mr. Starr loves me.

I take a test that I know I aced and doodle in my notebook for the rest of the class period. Without really meaning to, I scribble some unconscious notes that made me flush when I look down. J & K, Mrs. Kimberly Khail, Kimberly Anne Khail. It looks like a middle-schooler threw up on it. A really annoying middle schooler. And it's all over my math notebook.

If Chris saw this, he'd never let me hear the end of it.

The bell rings and I sigh, because it's Wednesday and it's fourth period and that means I have to go see Ms. Renner. I don't dread it like I should. I like Ms. Renner and I love messing with her.

Amanda sees me in the hallway, and I can tell by the way she's looking at me that she's trying to corner me so she can apologize. That's the thing about Mandy. She has this really big conscience. And if something goes wrong, regardless who's fault it is, she has to say sorry. 'I'm sorry' is her catchphrase.

But I don't want her to apologize and I certainly don't want to apologize back, so I duck into the crowd and make a dash for the office. People look at me strangely, but it's worth it. 'I'm sorry' and me just don't mix.

"Hello, Kim." The office secretary, Mrs. Joanna, likes to think she knows everything about every student in the entire school. I have a theory that she goes through our files after school after night and memorizes our pictures so she can spit out random small talk like, "How's softball going?" to impress us. When really it just creeps us out.

"Hey, Jo," I say. I'm not supposed to call her that but I do anyway. I push open the door to Ms. Renner's door, which I'm not supposed to do either, but I'm on a streak.

"Kimberly, hi."

If you saw Ms. Renner on the street, you'd immediately stop in your tracks and think, My God! That woman looks like an owl! At least I would. She's got short, flaming red hair and the widest eyes I've ever seen. Her head is a perfect circle, and I think her neck would turn all the way around if she so desired.

"Good afternoon," I greet her with practiced politeness and drop into the seat across from her wooden desk.

"How are you?" she asks.

"I'm wonderful."

Ms. Renner hates small talk, which is a little odd for a shrink, because half the job is small talk. Generally people with problems don't like to jump right into discussing them. At least, that's the impression I get.

I know what she thinks. It's what my parents' think, what Chris thinks, and I've heard it a million times. She thinks that I was perfect and I couldn't handle it and I snapped and that's why I'm so screwed up now. She thinks something happened over the summer that pushed me over the edge. She thinks I'm an anal-retentive freak who tried to be perfect but couldn't manage it. So I went from sweet to bitchy because that's what you do when you crash and burn. It's a great story and I wish it was true.

I want to tell her what really happened, but I don't, because I don't tell anyone that.