[Freakshow]

[Jnusch]

15: You're such a poor, misguided fool

One day, my dear father walked into the sitting room, where I was reading something I have now long-forgotten, something for my studies likely, and my mother was writing a letter to one of her many acquaintances. She did not have friends, but still she felt obliged to write to all these people, and they felt obliged to return the favour. In any case, my father walked in, sat down and suddenly I could see what it was that he had carried in, packed in a white cloth. A gun. It looked old, and was inlaid with ivory. It was undoubtedly expensive, as most everything in the house.

My mother, of course, bless her soul, did not look up from her writing, nor did she speak when my father entered. They had long passes that stage in their relationship, where at least they still tried, or pretended to. All pretence of happiness had been dropped long ago, before I was born. She only looked up after she heard the blast that resonated in our ears still when we wiped the splatters of our faces.

At fifty-four, my father had seen enough trouble to last him a lifetime and beyond. He had been thrown in jail on several occasions, each time because of the stench of liquor in his breath. He lost his older brother and idol in a war, although near the end of his life which one it was differed every time he spoke of him. He saw the girl he truly loved, Darcy, run off to lead an independent life, free of men. He tasted alcohol and found in it a devilish friend. He died a hundred deaths in his nightmare. He was ever unhappy.

Mama used to say that pretty boys make lousy men. "They grow up to be odious, self-indulgent and good for nothing. These are the men that burden a perfectly respectable young lady with the love and care for a child and then they turn their despicable backs on them." I can hear her say it still, in her slightly nasal, but still rather appealing voice. She would have liked to be a singer, but in those days it was not a respectable pursuit for a girl, and she was first and foremost respectable and proper.

I am quite sure that the men, or man, she was referring to was really my father. In his time, before alcohol washed it all away, he had been quite the stunner. As far as looks went, I got most of them from him. God only knows why he fell for her, especially seeing as how he was the one bringing all the money to the marriage. On the other hand, it will always remain a mystery, too, why she allowed him to get down on one knee. Something must have blinded them, and God knows it ain't love.

Frankly, though, I fear I must agree with my dearest mother. One look at Beau White is enough. A terribly spoilt boy, and terribly pretty as well. His mother was never a strong woman in the face of love and she left the boy to rot inside. I daresay the only reason I turned out any different from him or my father is the impeccable upbringing I enjoyed. By the time I was an adult, I had no illusions of grandeur left in me. Any sign of confidence or self-love had been rooted out vigorously and effectively.

Not in Beau, though. He lived with his mother and Edgar for six years before I got any hand in how he was raised and that was enough to turn him into a boy so supremely confident, so sure of his appeal, that simply looking at his face, with that eternal smirk, irks me. Amelia kept saying how he took after me, so when she finally called on me to take him in for a while because she felt she couldn't cope, I gladly did. She was vague on what exactly made her feel incapable, dropping only vague hints about strange things happening that distressed her. I had a hard time imagining what a six-year old boy might do, so I laughed it off.

When he arrived, I suppose I could see how he took after me. We clearly looked alike, although there were some features that could only come from his mother. Other than that, though, I felt we were worlds apart, at least him and the six-year old me. As I said, he had that confidence, that smugness, and he was awfully demanding. I learnt quickly how bad the tantrums were, which he would throw any time he did not get precisely what he called for. From my father, I had learnt how effective taking a stand against any unwanted behaviour was. Of course, to my father, stern behaviour was slamming a bottle on the table in rage and then waving the shards in my face, threatening to slice my eyelids off.

I wouldn't say I approve of going quite that far – not that he ever actually did anything like cutting into my eyes, although I still have some scars to show for what he did do – but a firm hand can go a long way. He quickly learnt to tone down his behaviour around me. Still, everything about him rubbed me the wrong way. He copied what I did, the words I used, the way I drank, held my cutlery; it was unnerving. Yet, I was quite sure that was not what his mother had meant when she told me he unsettled her. And then I noticed.

He loved playing games, any kind of games. Card games, board games; mind games. And somehow, he always won. As if the odds were ever in his favour. He would do tricks with dice, rolling them and predicting how they would land and he was always right. I figured at first that it was simply a set that had been loaded somehow, but when I threw them, nothing. I was wrong far more often than right. He was doing something, something special. At first I attempted to get to the bottom of this problem with no aid but my mind, but it proved futile, I was not properly equipped. So I asked him.

To think that all it would take to change my life was a simple question! "What do you do? How?" He couldn't explain, he still can't, it was simply something he did. He would imagine a number, or an outcome, and want it. And somehow, he always got what he wanted, at least when chance was involved. Indeed, it only worked for – or rather, against – chance; when smarts, or strength, or anything but chance was the driving force behind a win, he was as good, or bad, as anyone.

And so I found out. About powers, about gifts – about finally being special. If only my parents had still been alive to see it. I could have used my own power on them. They would have loved me. They wouldn't have stood a chance. Alas. But I had a new goal to strive for, an idea to pursue. When that idea was borne into my mind, I knew it to be beautiful.

[Jnusch]

16: Then Death did us part

For some time now, I had allowed Brigitte to help me with my experiments. She enjoyed the work and it made her feel valuable and wanted, which was very important to her. She was not the brightest of the bunch, but she was a diligent student and she worked carefully, so most of the simpler tasks I could leave to her. I suppose it may have made some of the others jealous, and if it had been anyone but her, it would have quickly led to quarrelsome behaviour, but with her, there was a precarious balance that made it possible.

So, she would light candles, or arrange wires, she would administer concoctions or calm a child if need be. She was very useful in that sense. Also, if ever anyone got hurt - never purposefully of course - she would heal them. None of them ever suffered so much as a scar while they were with me. Old wounds were sadly beyond her power, because the technically, they were no longer really wounds. Any scars or trauma suffered before their arrival, the children were stuck with forever.

And then came the fateful day on which I lost my life. A surprised twang can still be heard in my heart whenever I think of it. Not once had it occurred to me that it might be her, who would eventually reduce me to ashes. Ephram, that would not have come as a surprise, or Johnny, or even Billy or Cleo, but Brigitte, that sweet, sensitive girl? Never. But indeed, all it takes is a tipped over candle left unnoticed and a door that won't open and you're done for, it is as simple as that. Probably happens all the time. Brigitte had left the room for a bit and I had gone into the potions cabinet, as I like to call it, and when I returned, the flames were already licking the ceiling, having climbed up along the walls and curtains. Those old mansions are extremely susceptible to fire; I'd always know that. Of course, it being located in the midst of a dark forest, help would never arrive in time to save any of the building upon realising the door was barred - maybe something had been knocked over on the other side - I knew I would die. The laboratory being in the cellar, there were but tiny windows only a very smallish person would fit through and although I was never chunky or sturdy, I hadn't fit through them for longer than I cared to remember.

To die in a fire is a terrible ending, I might tell you. It hurts so very much - it truly is a pain beyond all imagination, a pain that requires experience to fully grasp it. Therefore, I decided it would be clever to speed things up a notch, and plunged myself into the biggest knife I could find. A bit like hari kiri, isn't it? Only for me it was an action spurred by cowardice, rather than a brave fighter's last resort. On the upside, the knife was horribly short and it hadn't been sharpened in quite some time, so it was still not by far as effective as I'd liked it to be. But the combination of blood pouring out my gut and the flames singing my flesh quickly ended me. It reminded me of how in death, we are all equal. I am not sure if we are, not in all ways, but at least in death we are all ugly, sooner or later.

Why no one saved me, still baffles me a little bit. I always hoped they would. Then again, sometimes we must admit our defeat and accept gracefully that we cannot change what must pass, and this might have been such an occasion. After all, that door could have been blocked by a number of objects, and whatever it was must have been heavy, for me to be unable to displace it. Had Conrad still been with us, he could have easily thrown it out of the way, but Conrad died many years before me, in a reckless attempt to lift several trees at once. A loss I mourned only shortly, seeing as how he never had shown any signs of being useful to me in any other way than to help me rearrange the furniture.

He is not interesting anyway, so let's forsake speaking of him. I only remembered because he could have saved me, otherwise he never would have crossed my mind. Maybe if they had joined forces, together the older ones could have managed, but I doubt any of them could think quite so clearly as the house was collapsing around them. Besides, when did they finally notice I had not fled the burning interior? Before they found each other and calmed down enough to do a head count... well, I might have already been dead by then. I don't blame them, I just pity them. They will be lost in the outside world, without my help and guidance and my protection. They have never really stood on their own two feet before, not as they are now.

Brigitte will not be the mother-figure, taking over from me. She is far too reliant on someone to look up to askance to do any of that. A shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold and a smile to accept, but no more. Ephram, maybe, could lead them, but he shall probably be unwilling. He still longs for the home he remembers only vaguely and I daresay he will attempt to return to it. Cleo, as I said, died in the fire with me. I could hear her screams before I passed out. She might have been capable. Kyle, too, could do the job, if not for the fact that most of what he says passes unnoticed. With Brigitte's help, he could pull it off, I think, but I can't be sure. Then, who are left? Diana, of course, but she is too frivolous to be a leader, and too young. Apollo could have done it, if he had had vision to aid him. Without it, he will be too insecure I fear. Joachim, he might prove to be very resourceful, a great source of hope. Not necessarily himself the leader, he could help whoever does take up the role in many ways. Together, it seems, they could manage. But alone, no.

Of course, Beau White remains. My beloved son. He will leave them; he always comes and goes as he pleases. Maybe he will provide them with at least a sense of direction and some money, God knows he has enough to spare of both. If anyone knows a place that might be accepting of them, it is him. As for the money, he is a gambler and a fool. He loves spending it. Let's just hope that he won't mind spending it on a cause as hopeless as theirs. It would be the least he could do, the very least.

And that is all. That is all I can say. The only reflection I can provide. Now, the time has almost come for me to pass on, I believe. The lights are dimming and my thoughts are starting to become clouded, as if I drank too much without being aware of the fact. I do so hope there will be a party in celebration of me, wherever I am on my way to. Surely the kids will not think of drinking to my memory at this point in time; I must admit also that I am unsure if I ever told them of this custom. Maybe Apollo can see it mentioned in the future.

[Jnusch]

[Part II: Alone]

'Where are they, where are they Ephram?' Brigitte could barely see through the tears but she knew it was Ephram holding her from behind, "Why did you let Cleo go in? You should have stopped her!" The accusation was almost palpable on her skin as she spits out the words.

"I could only stop one of you, I saw her too late. I'm sorry, there was nothing I could have done. Would you have wanted me to let you die?" As much as he said he was sorry, he didn't sound like he was, not as much as she, or the rest of them.

"They're both dead," It's Apollo saying this, so they know it's true, but still, all of them have to fight the urge to argue with him, "It didn't take long. They didn't suffer."

This is not true, merely something he has made up to keep them from going crazy. It's a small comfort and he doesn't mind carrying the burden of knowing that it's a lie. He has done that so many times, he hardly even notices any longer. Lying has become a second nature to him, and they come so easily. When he found out about what he could do, how he could see things - some things - after all, he quickly learnt that not all truths should be shared with everyone. His father would have been much happier not knowing of the things his mother got up to, and maybe if he hadn't known, nothing would have happened.

The Poet always told him not to blame these things on himself; that people knew, or should know, full well what they were getting themselves into when asking for what really was, but nonetheless, it still hurt. Even the Poet sometimes asked for answers he did not truly wish to hear. Everyone does that, everyone is far too curious for their own good. Or rather, they are all blinded, into thinking that knowing everything will make you happier. It doesn't, he could know. And now his only connection, his only shield, from all those people was dead. The Poet had cared for him for such a long time; it was hard to clearly remember what it had been like before. Not good, he thought he remembered that much.

And he knew that for most of them, it wasn't any different. They all came from broken homes or broken parents, or both. Some had been abandoned, bluntly left to die, and some had been saved, from almost certain death. The Poet had been strict, but he had been good to them. He was kind most of the time, and he enjoyed seeing them smile. All they had to do in return was take some tests, every other day. Usually, they didn't even hurt, and mostly, if they did, Brigitte quickly kissed away the pain. Life had been good.

Now, what was left of it? They were a sad bunch of freaks. A travelling freak show, maybe that would work for them, at least it would earn them some money. And both Ephram and Brigitte were legally adults; if need be, they could pose as their caretakers probably. He wasn't sure how exactly those things worked, but if the Poet was able to convince authorities that he could care for the whole lot of them, if he could keep any kind of scrutiny at bay, then surely they could manage, right?

Besides, they had some useful powers among them. Some not so useful as well, but they'd just have to do. Although, someone like Ephram, he would only mean trouble, that was frankly what it came down to. A werewolf-boy? Yeah, as if those go unnoticed. Other than him, only Billy and, to a lesser degree, Joachim, might prove to be trouble, but their were good boys really. They would listen to reason, even if it needed a little bit of pressure behind it. Ephram however, he was hard to keep track of, silent and brooding and always ready to burst at the slightest provocation. That was definitely not what they needed.

Also, why had he let Cleo run in there? She was about the only person who really hung out with him, who seemed to sort of understand. If anyone, Apollo figured he would have given everything to keep her out. Maybe friendships sometimes really seem to be far more than they actually are. He hoped Cleo hadn't seen it any differently; a betrayal like that... it would have killed her.

It did kill her, he thought, wryly. Suddenly he felt much better about keeping most of the others at a safe distance. As long as you didn't trust anyone, they couldn't breach that trust either. Yes, it was a little, "Don't let anyone close or they'll hurt you", but hey, wasn't that reality? He hadn't grown up to believe anything other than that, he wasn't to blame.

The Poet had been working on that, he had tried to gain his trust. Some days, it had worked better than others. Those good days, they were fun, with the Poet happy and content, and him actually enjoying the real contact quite a bit. But then there were the bad days, when it all had to be a lie and he felt paranoid and angry, and he knew that if only he could see all their faces, he would be able to tell who was real and who was not. But no, he never would. The Poet had explained his theory to him and it all sounded pretty plausible. Of course, if it was true, that meant no one could give him his eyesight, ever. So really, he kind of hoped the Poet was just wrong.

There were a lot of things that he hoped the Poet was wrong about, but most of them he did not understand well enough to look into. And most facts he couldn't check, simply because they weren't related to time, or an outcome, and therefore not specifically in the future. Thinking of that always made him feel that it was stupid to have a power if it wasn't even omnipotent.

"Where's my father?" It took Apollo a couple of seconds to link the voice to a person - Beau wasn't around enough to become very familiar with him, and besides, Apollo did not like the guy at all; he annoyed the Poet very much. Yet now, he sounded concerned, really concerned. As if the loss had been more painful for him, or would be. He didn't seem to know yet. Apollo had forgotten he was even around, because he left and came so often it was hard to keep track of. He had been away for quite a while now, off to see faraway places apparently. If he really did care for the Poet, he shouldn't have left in the first place.

"Beau," This was Brigitte again, sounding... as if she was going to tell him he was dying. And maybe she was. As much as he seemed to love making the Poet angry, there was something about it that screamed something else. Like he only did it to get his attention or something. Why he thought pissing someone off then, was a good idea was beyond him. People did all kinds of crazy things, he'd seen his fair share, so he just accepted that for what it was.

"I'm so sorry. He was in the lab, and" Apollo couldn't see this, but as the words left Brigitte's lips, Beau's face grew darker and darker, and there were tears blinking in his eyes.

"No! NO! He wasn't in there, you are lying! Cleo went in there, I saw it, it was her. He wasn't down there. You're lying!" Apollo had never heard him like this, his voice strangled and choked up and tears that almost audibly ran down his cheeks. Of course he had been told how beautiful Beau was, and he wondered if crying did anything to defile that beauty, or if he was one of the few people who actually looked good doing it. Maybe he'd ask the others, later, when the pain had faded and the tears had dried.

"Beau, I'm so sorry. Cleo went in there to get him out. She didn't make either; they are not coming out."

"Guys, I'm really sorry to break this up," Ephram again, and still not sorry by the sound of his voice, "But, we need to leave. This fire is not going to go unnoticed, no matter how far from the rest of the world we may be here." As one of the few, together only with Beau and the Poet himself, Ephram was aware of how vast the woods were. Although he couldn't be sure, seeing as how the world looked quite a bit different seen with wolf eyes while running on all fours, he knew it was safe to say that the first inhabited place was far away. The forest wasn't easy to move through either, but still. They would come. If not, the whole area would burn down probably.

"We can't just leave him there!" This was Beau, screaming hysterically now, having lost all traces of his usually so composed and eloquent self, "We need to find him!"

"Why? What are we gonna do if we find him, huh? Take him with us? A burnt body? How had you envisioned that, oh great Beau White?"
"He was my father, I can't just leave him here! He deserves better than that, far better."

"Oh God, he wasn't your father! That was just some lie he told all of us to keep us from leaving. I can't believe you fell for that! How stupid are you really?" Ephram was really getting worked up now, his words cutting deeper after every breath. Although Apollo agreed that it was foolish to think the Poet was really the biological father of any of them, if Beau did believe that, it was cruel to taunt him like this. Even if it wasn't, it was cruel. Every word made Apollo cringe, not just because it was mean, but because it was purposefully so. As if Ephram was out to get him.

[Jnusch]

"Ephram, don't say that! Daddy was our father, he told us!" This voice was new; it held somewhere between the Poet and Beau, but it was a girls voice. Diana, of course. For her to use a new voice, so unlike the one she usually presented as her own, that meant she was really upset. Small wonder, for she was clearly one of those who had fallen for the Poet's white lies. Apollo knew they were that, because he recognised them as very similar to the ones he told. They were meant to protect them from the truth, at least at first. Of course all of them eventually grew old enough to realise that he couldn't really be there father, not of all of them. And where were there mothers at that? But by that time, most of them were old enough to know not to ask such questions, if not because they wouldn't get a straight answer anyway, than at least because they would upset some of the younger kids. Life in the mansion was dedicated for a large part to not upsetting anyone. With a hint of regret Apollo had to admit that he, too, had been among those you weren't supposed to upset.

"He wasn't your father, Diana. Ephram is right, he just told you that because it was easier that way. But he was mine. And I want to get him out. If you won't help me, than piss off and I'll just do it alone. I don't need your help." Apollo wasn't sure if he could see this in any way, but he had to try. There were so many implications, if Beau did turn out to really be the Poet's son. He would know so many things; he could help them. He would know the Poet's real identity!

"Beau?" It felt strange, talking when he was so used to listening only. He hurt a shuffle of feet and then footsteps approaching him, Beau had been further away than he thought, talking more loudly, too, than he had thought. When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he continued.

"How come," He was unsure of how to word his question, and also of what his question actually was, "How do you know?"

"Hmph, at least you have an excuse," When Apollo looked up at him, or to the sound of his voice, questioningly, he sighed, "You can't see, but the resemblance was quite striking. We look- looked, so much alike. I have my mother's hair and the colour of her eyes, but other than that, we were remarkably similar. Not just in our physique, but also in our mannerisms and posture, although much of those I started copying from the day I met him."

Another sigh. It was so bewildering, hearing him like this, so controlled and small; the opposite of who he really was, or pretended to be.

"Who was he?" It seemed best to just get straight to the point, before Beau drifted out of this tell-all mood again. This might be the only chance they would get to learn some answers.

"He was a great man. A great man made to stoop because of life." The return of the fanciful wording did not leave Apollo with much hope of finding out anything.

"But, a name, anything? Where are we, who are we? What do we do now?"

"I can give you some money and send you on your way, but I can't help you. I wouldn't know what to do with you or where to bring you. Maybe you can go home."

"Most of us can't go home, Beau. At least, I know I can't." This was Kyle who had spoken, and it took all of them by surprise to hear his voice. That happening said a lot about the situation; normally, Kyle could shout at the top of his lungs and they might not hear a sound.

"I don't have anything to go home to, and I don't even know where home is, I-"

"But I do." Apollo could hear the rustling of a coat being opened and then the crackling of papers. He thought they were unfolded and smoothed out, then Beau cleared his voice in a slightly guilty manner.

"I found these, in my father's office. In a locked drawer. They're your files. He kept them diligently, adding everything about the experiments, too." These last words, and especially experiments, came out as a hiss. He seemed to harbour some particular hatred for them, although Apollo failed to see why. Surely they hadn't necessarily been enjoyable, but to be so upset over them, that did not make sense to him either.

"Regardless, I didn't bother taking all of that. Not very interesting; nothing new. However, he also noted where and when he took you. How exactly he got you to come with him, what lies he whispered in your ears. How much you struggled against his spell. Most of you didn't struggle very much. Honestly, it's a little embarrassing."

"I cried, I think, when he came to get me. I cried tears of joy, and for once, they were not made of blood!" Joachim sounded happy at the memory, and sad at the loss he was thinking of all the while. Joachim was a quiet boy, never one to cause trouble or make a fuss. All of them liked him, and he liked all of them. Maybe not equally – surely no one could like Ephram very much – but he was very civil to all of them. Very sweet. Everyone did their best to keep him from crying as much as they could, apart from Beau of Ephram when they were in a particularly nasty mood.

"I, too, have no home to return to." Joachim whispered, "I was all alone. I don't want to leave you."

"Neither do I, Joachim," came Brigitte's response. Apollo thought he heard her taking his hand, but he couldn't be sure.

"Well, I do. My parents – my real parents – they loved me and they would have never abandoned me just because of what I am. They probably knew and could have taken far better care of me, too!"

"Then just leave, Ephram, just go. None of us really care to have you here anyway, honestly." Kyle seemed to enjoy all the attention, and using it to finally get some things off his chest. Ephram had never been nice to him; actually, both Cleo and he took a liking to ignoring him, even when everyone was aware of Kyle. Cleo was a pretty sweet girl most of the time, but Ephram had a way of bringing out the worst in her that all of them loathed. He was a handful if ever there was one, but for some reason, the Poet had been reluctant to deal with him as he would with the others. As he had with Johnny, and Patricia, and more, if he was to believe the stories Ephram and Brigitte sometimes told.

"Kyle! Don't say that – of course we want you here Ephram!"

"Who cares? I'm going home. I suggest you try to do the same thing, anything else would be foolishness. Your parents are probably perfectly normal, nice people. Brigitte, can you even remember them? How long have you even been here?"

The way he said it, it sounded like an accusation, as if she should have tried to run away, against what she knew to be true, or thought to be true. From the day they arrived, the Poet told them their parents had abandoned them, or treated them horribly. Frankly, most of them were afraid to take the risk of not believing him.

"Don't you see? He messed with our heads; he made us see stuff that wasn't real. That's how he got us to come with him, too!"
It wasn't the first time Ephram brought this up. He talked about it frequently, in stolen moments when the Poet was elsewhere in the house. Apollo wasn't sure if he should believe it. Of course, the Poet had never made him see things, but he did remember the strange feeling he'd had when the Poet took him. He had agreed to come along, at least he thought he had, but he'd felt a bit weird. Maybe that was what Ephram meant, only for him it was just a sensation because he was blind. He'd never felt it since.

Ephram, however, talked about it all the time, not only because he believed it was the reason the Poet had succeeded in taking him, but also because, as he so adamantly claimed, the Poet did it to him all the time. One minute he'd be so angry, and saying all these things, and then the next he suddenly felt it was all nonsense, that none of what he was saying made sense. It clearly hadn't occurred to Ephram that maybe this was just him suddenly being reasonable and seeing the flaws in his theory. The Poet had never told them about any sort of gift he might have, not like theirs. Actually, it seemed like he was trying to find a way to get one for himself, only so far, his quest had been unsuccessful.

And now he would never succeed. The thought hit Apollo like a slap in the face. It woke him up and drenched him in cold, painful grief. He was not ready to take on the world by himself, and he wasn't sure if he would be ready with the others either. None of them were really ready for that, they had had no preparation. Somewhere inside he knew that the Poet had done that on purpose, that they were not to leave unless told, or forced, but he couldn't see why. He was pretty sure that most of them would have come back anyway, even if they had been allowed outside. What was so horrible about it?

[Jnusch]

1: Where do we go now?

"You could go to my mother."

Kyle, Brigitte and Beau had been discussing for almost an hour, proposing and then dismissing all kinds of ideas. The rest was mostly listening, and occasionally offering some input of their own; only Ephram was not joining in, lingering around the house as if he was looking for something. He was clearly listening in, though, offering some "constructive" criticism every now and then. Most of the ideas involved searching for the parents of one of the kids in the group; usually the one that someone felt would be most accepting and most willing to take a group like them in. Generally, these would be the proposers own parents, but despite this bias, the others were all too ready to jump on the bandwagon and start moving immediately.

Then Beau would interject, make everyone see reason, (which mostly meant make them see how bad the idea really was), and then wait for another suggestion.

"Your mother?" Diana sounded so perfectly incredulous, Kyle almost burst out laughing. He supposed her surprise wasn't that mystifying, seeing as the Poet had never spoken of a mother. He was their father; that was all they needed to repeat back to him. It had always surprised Kyle that there was no better half in the Poet's life. Not that he was an expert, but he felt he could judge the Poet to be a good-looking man, and he was generally nice and well-behaved and gentlemanly. Wasn't that what all women dreamed of? Brigitte definitely agreed with him; even when they first met, Kyle knew that there was really only one person that could vie for her attention. They all knew it, even Apollo, and he couldn't see the glances she threw in his direction, or the flustered batting of eyelashes, or the red cheeks.

For some time, Kyle had been jealous. She was the only one who paid any attention to him, but even when she was paying attention to him, she was so easily distraught by him. If ever she thought he needed anything, she'd rush to his side, regardless of what she had been busy doing. After a while, though, he had realised that it was something of an obligatory jealousy. A girl like Brigitte, you were supposed to want her full attention, at all times. Only he didn't want that, not really. He liked her, and she was pretty sure she liked him, but just as friends. They were friends and both were happy with that, neither looking for more. Or rather, not for more of each other.

Kyle liked Ephram. Yes, he was terribly moody and a little too sure of himself, but then again, that was kind of... attractive, in a way. Everything about him was somehow attractive, although he'd sooner die than admit that to him. He had told Brigitte, of course, although he was aware of her not really understanding things like that. She understood most simple things, and a lot of complicated things, but only if she could relate to them. They had to mean something to her, otherwise it was impossible to make her see how you felt, or how something worked. Other than her, he had tried talking to Apollo about it once, but then he had gotten scared and chickened out, and made up some bullshit story he was sure Apollo did not buy. Not that it mattered, because Apollo had the nasty habit of looking into the future when someone seemingly randomly started a conversation with him, to see what it was about. So Apollo probably knew, too.

The Poet hadn't known. Not because Kyle was afraid he wouldn't accept – generally the Poet was very accepting of a vast range of things, most of them far crazier or fucked up than this – it was just weird. Thinking about that conversation was so weird, it almost made him laugh. It would be like telling his father, especially since the Poet was as close to a father as he'd ever had. And telling your dad you're gay, he didn't know how to do that. He didn't even know if he wanted to do that. Probably not; you weren't supposed to want to talk to your parents about feelings and stuff, he'd seen plenty of movies to know that.

When he finally started listening to the conversation again, he realised he'd missed a bit, and it didn't quite make sense anymore. He tried remembering what had been said exactly, but as much as Lindsay Lohan was capable of looking straight through that guy's head and recalling what the teacher said, he had no clue. Reason enough to assume she did not really like that guy; if she did, she wouldn't have stood a chance of winning that math competition.

"It will take a really long time to get there, though, won't it? Without any means of transportation besides our feet." Apollo was frowning, which always looked a bit funny, because his eyes were so milky that it was obvious to anyone he couldn't see. It seemed that he wouldn't have any need for the bits of face surrounding his eyes, such as his eyebrows.

Apollo had a nice face, a little brusque, but quite handsome. His eyes were creepy if you weren't used to them, but once you did, you could see how friendly they looked. There was nothing scary about him, most of the time. Only when he got really angry, and started shouting and spit would fly from his mouth, his eyes grew a shade darker, and his brow would furrow like it was now. Two bushy lines, like angry caterpillars. Angry caterpillars capable of breathing fire, or of something else, equally deadly.

"Kyle, what do you think?"

"Huh? I'm sorry, I drifted off for a bit, what are we talking about exactly?" He knew he was blinking stupidly at Beau, who answered him with raised eyebrows and a shake of his head. Why were all these people so pretty? Had they been selected for that?

"Beau was saying that we should go to his mom, who might help us out and take us in. She also might not, and laugh at us before slamming the door in our faces. It's a bit of a risk, especially since we have to travel for ages to get there, even though it's fall, which makes it cold and wet outside." Ephram rolled his eyes, as if even thinking of doing that was so stupid it shouldn't have been considered in the first place. "You can also get your file, lookup where your parents live and go to them, which I suggest we all do, since it's a much safer bet than dying out in the cold. Your choice."

As if I have a choice, Kyle couldn't help but think.