Authors' Note: Hello everyone! I'm just going to come out and say it - SAD number of reviews for the last chapter. If you're reading could you pretty please send us a quick message just to let us know? It would make our fangirl hearts sing and spark some much needed confidence to finish writing our later chapters. Also, I personally adore this chapter - it's Amanda's fine work - and it'll catapult you around a bit more, but alas, that is our objective. Pay attention to the dates. And get ready to be better acquainted with a young lady very near and dear to our hearts. Enjoy!

I'm in agreement with Ashley. Where are the reviews? Even a quick "Great work!" makes our hearts soar like a feather on the midsummer's wind. Literally. I have a feather in my back pocket for times like those. And it ain't flying. As you can see, this chapter is quite long, and I feel rather... at odd ends with this chapter. It's mine and while I love it I also dislike it. A lot takes place in, and that is what I feel is off putting for me. But, it needed to be done. I'm just being picky. Hey, has anybody noticed the lovely quotes posted at the beginning of each chapter? That is the fine work of Miss Ashley. AND they're all joy related. Huh... isn't that a wonder?

Chapter Title: Black Wave by The Shins. This song pretty much works for the entire mood of the chapter. Just put it on repeat.

Disclaimer: We do not own Bones. Though we definitely wish we did. Also, we're terribly young and therefore know very little about pregnancy and its affects, potential problems, etc. So, we could very well be making stuff up. Our passion/skills for research is also quite limited. Just thought you should know.

Terribly young? I'm wounded by that accusation, for I am older than you. ... But I do see what you mean. Yes, we're still babies when it comes to this world. We daily sing "These are a few of my favourite things" from The Sound of Music. We even made our own version of it. I should post that. Booth is in it. I mean, why wouldn't he be? What do you say? Post it or not as a little surprise? Now... where is that song...

"Without joy in your life you are powerless."

- JOYCE MEYERS

Chapter Five

Looking On the Brighter Side

Tuesday, October 21, 2025 – 5:31 AM

The road ahead of us seemed endless. There were no twists or turns, no corners to take. Just a straight path, the heavy foliage on the roadside acting as blinders to our vision. Time had passed, just like our path; straight, severed to the point where I could feel it weathering us down. It had only been five years. Five years of this road and I knew we would remain on this road for another several. The quiet hum of the engine filled my ears like a roar, and I leaned my forehead heavily against the passenger window, eyes unseeing as I passed the blur of dark greens and greys, a mixture of hues that only illustrated my inner feelings on the matter of this road, of this time. I sighed softly, it was the only thing I could control at the moment, wholly, and it made me feel a spark of pride – that I could control the one substance that others were ruled by: their emotions. I was rational. I was solid and secure. Everything I did, I did with a purpose and meaning.

Shifting my weight, I glanced up at the review mirror, taking in the empty road behind us. It had always been lonely, just the two of us, our road in front of us bearing no standards of what to expect, and the road of the past lay behind us, shrouded in mist, cloudy and indiscernible. I imagine if she had been here with us, if she had been a part of our past, the grays and dark pastels of our world would be lightened considerably.

It wouldn't matter where we were going, there would be no importance on the how or when or why.

We would be whole, three strings tied as one, with no care of the immediate danger or impending verdict of our actions. The only matter of importance would be that my father would smile a little bit more, his famous grin dominating the space we sat in and she would lighten the air we breathed, easing our thoughts, her determination and focused nature being a constant source of comfort and home.

"Almost there." My father's low voice broke through my dark thoughts and I glanced up at him. Collapsing back into my seat I tucked my long legs beneath me, a practice that was now done with ease – compared to the clumsiness of movement of any sort that I did in the past – having grown into the length of my body. Now I was just dealing with the arrival of the soft curves I found deepening each day. Rolling my shoulders, I grimaced as I felt my breasts rub uncomfortably against my bra. Most girls my age were nearly fully developed, sporting their filled C cup bras at school. As for me, even though I had curves, they had only recently started... adapting to my height. My breasts had seemingly awakened and decided to up their measly size from an A to a C and my hips had broadened centimetre by centimetre in the past few weeks.

Noticing my grimace, but misinterpreting it, my dad reached over and squeezed my knee. "How are you holding up, Nat?"

"Better than most average fifteen year olds."

I crossed my arms and set my gaze determinedly out the front windshield. "It's not that bad." Dad spoke up, rubbing his eyes and jaw, as if to wake himself up. Whether he was tired or his actions were meant to wake him from the nightmare we called our lives, I wasn't sure, but I knew how he felt at that moment.

"I know dad, I know." Compassion was the only thing I could offer at the moment. Full understanding and my own reasoning of logic kept me from acting out as teens my age normally would do, so allowing the umpteenth sigh to manage its way up my oesophagus was the only way I make my silent displeasure known. It was all about control.

"We're almost there," Dad repeated. And it was true. I could see the distance skyscrapers on the muggy horizon, taking shape and defining into sharp points. Another life, but the same road, the same time; we were starting over yet creating nothing new.

~*~

The back of our SUV was filled with our personal luggage, and any valuable belongings that we didn't trust with the movers. Truthfully, there weren't many things that my father and I owned that could be considered "valuable." So for the most part, our vehicle was empty. Except for the tiny vault that lay in the back, locked and kept within our possession. My father didn't trust anyone with the vault, barely even me.

Opening the back latch of the car, I heaved my own suitcase out, and then my dad's, rolling them behind me as I made my way into our new house. Dodging the movers, I carried the luggage up the winding staircase. The house was beautiful – they all were – and it smelt of fresh wood pine, a crispness that could only be captured in new homes. Despite the fact that we were technically on the run, thus concluding the common course of action would be to lay low with cheap motels and home schooling, my father ensured that wherever we may be, we lived in a proper home and I attended a proper school. It's what they least expect, dad would say.

Logistically speaking it made sense, but I guess what hurt seeing our upscale homes and prestigious schools was that they was behind it. Helping out, hidden behind the curtains, sending support through wired transactions. And while it should have been soothing to know they thought of us daily – as we did of them – it only added to the burn that she wasn't here.

It was over within the next two hours. We had become efficient enough at this that the moving stage only took a matter of minutes compared to the hours it took to unpack and turn this house into a home. I stood by the front door, observing the wooden floors, the pale walls, our sparse furniture filling parts of the rooms.

I felt my dad's presence behind me, the vault tucked under his arm.

"Nat, baby, you know we had to do this." I kept my emotions in check, doing a quick scan to make sure I didn't become the one to create an outburst. Just like in the car, I repeated my staged answers.

"I know."

Dad nudged my shoulder and looked up to see a bit of his old self sparking in his eyes. And that fact alone made me feel more at home at the moment than I had in years. "You have your own bathroom here." He teased.

"Good!" I let the rare laugh escape me. It felt good. Shutting the door, I followed my dad into the kitchen, feeling myself losing the weight of my thoughts.

"Pizza? Or do you want Chinese tonight?" Dad asked, setting our vault in the counter. He turned to me, cell in hand, grabbing his laptop from his bag. "I'll look for a restaurant to call."

"Greek sound fine to you?" I asked. Hearing Dad's groan fill the kitchen I grinned as I unpacked our loose groceries, bare essentials consisting of milk and butter and bread.

"We had Greek last time, Natalie."

"You asked, Dad."

I spent the next several hours into the night slowly arranging my room, pushing boxes to the places where I would unpack and arrange them. My bed had already been placed, and I was now digging for the box that contained my sheets.

"Have you seen my bedding, Dad?" I called out. The house had a slight echo to, something I hoped to rectify within the week. "And Pan, I can't find Pan."

The wooden stairs would have alerted me to the thumps of somebody making their way to the second level of the house. Noise would have been conducted, raising my vigilance that someone was making their way towards me. But my father was a completely different matter of human. His presence was made known by the calmness I felt cover me, and I would have jumped out of my skin if I had not been used to his silent ways. It's always best to be prepared, he told me. You can't escape from somebody if you walk like an elephant. He had been training me since I was ten, but I had yet to perfect the skill of making the least amount of noise possible – I blamed my clumsiness on long limbs.

"I'm positive I had the movers take all of your boxes to your room." Briefly scanning my room, Dad made his way, checking the hall for the boxes that lined the wall. "Here it is."

Together we tore the box open, shaking the sheets out, each of us grasping our ends tightly. In unity we shook the sheet into the air, letting it glide back down to the floor.

"Higher, Uncle Jack!" The little girl had screamed years ago. Her parents had been called out, temporarily setting foot into the field. She had wound up in her Uncle Jack's "office," what he called his Zone of Experiments, and both Uncle Jack and Aunt Angela had left their work, grabbing a white sheet and shaking it above her.

She had run below it, twisting, craning her neck as she watched it flutter and whip. It created noise like the wind yet it glowed like a white sky on a sunny day. Laughter had rung throughout the room, squeals tearing through the little's girls lips.

When nobody was looking the child would wander throughout the offices of the lab, studying the artifacts lining the walls. Whether it was her Aunt Angela's paintings or scrapbooks laying on her coffee table, or hammers and knifes and various kinds of fruit sitting on her Uncle Jack's counters, she would gaze at them, hesitantly reaching out and ghosting soft touches over them with her fingers, tracing the patterns and grids. Her favourite room was the one she had been raised in, the plush carpet, the soft couch; history lined the shelves, skulls, photos, historical prizes. It was the room she would sit in for hours, doing nothing but gazing and learning, reading and knowing, defining and determining.

The sheets had been tucked in and I fell to my bed, exhausted from the long day's events as well as memories of the swelling past. Digging Pan out of my luggage, my dad sat him on my pillows, before reaching over and kissing my forehead.

"Sleep well, Natalie. I love you."

I watched him walk out of the room, flicking my bedroom light off, leaving only my lamp on. "Night Daddy," I called out softly. "I love you, too.

~*~

Tuesday, October 28, 2025 - 10:13 AM

The large hallways of East High seemed to hold the threat that they could consume me. They were large and airy, not a blemish on them, no unwanted speck of dirt marking the walls. Yet the vast emptiness of them, the silence they emitted glared down at me as I trudged through them. I was repeating this stage over again, and while some of my classes were beneficial, keeping me sharp or actually teaching me something for once, nothing new was happening. It was a repeat performance. A permanent frown had been cast on my face, my lips tight. I didn't want to be here. I was already ahead of my grade, and I knew I could easily bump myself up another. The month's end was rolling to a close within the next week, and I had argued to the best of my ability, finally resorting to begging, asking Dad not to enroll me until the end of the month.

"You need to go to school, Natalie."

"Hardly," I scoffed. "Those public schools are beyond mundane. I finish the work before it is even assigned, Dad. I spend my time doing nothing. It's a waste of my time."

"I don't want you getting behind by taking time off." Dad's argument was weak and we both knew it.

"Two weeks, Dad. It's nearly the end of the month, I'll sign up then."

"..." I nearly had him.

"You don't have a job yet." Dad's eyes flickered away from my piercing gaze, and I knew it was time to lay my ace card. "We could spend the time together." I lowered my voice, knowing it was a low blow of me to do so, "We hardly ever have time together. I miss being with you. I don't... there's nobody... I don't like being alone."

"You're not alone, Baby." Dad straightened out, his dark eyes boring into mine, strengthening his words with his eyes.

"In this life, Dad, I can't be who I am. I'm just asking that I have some time to be me." I was almost at the finish line, and we both knew it.

I failed. Despite my best efforts, I had lost the battle. But the war is mine, I thought, clenching my teeth at the sight of the black lockers lining the pale walls. The white tiles glared up at me and I scuffed my shoe roughly against the floor, hoping the loud squeak emitted was a sign that I had caused some damage.

Shouldering my bag, I clenched my class schedules tightly in my fist. I had arrived early, already having been assigned to my classes and locker the day before, but the office attendants had insisted I wait for a brief overview with the school principle, Mr. Walsh Richard-Josh. He had been cruelly given a last name for a first name and two first names for a last. Mr. Richard-Josh was the well known principal of Madison, and was commonly known as Mr. R.J by colleagues and students. While I found the man's IQ to be a tad unsatisfactory for running a faculty containing over a thousand students, the man had a sharp mind for morals and an outgoing spirit that reflected well on East High. If I had not been subjected to over an hour of Mr. R.J's rambling, I would have most likely held him in the high regard that the other board members viewed him with. The school board had been informed of my intelligence, and the fact that I was a grade ahead of others my age only added to the attention from teachers that I didn't want or need.

Mr. Richard-Josh had commended me, welcoming me to East High with hopes that I would be a great asset to the school. While he was a kind man, trying to make me feel as if East High could become a home to me, I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with boredom at his imbecile attempts at sucking up. My dislike for him grew after I saw the clocks hour hand near the ten, signalling that the first class of the day was well underway. My objective was to blend in, it was key to my performance to be nothing but a wall flower.

A brilliant wall flower.

Being late – late seemed too weak a word – for my first class on my first day at my new school hardly qualified as wall flower material.

Taking the stairs by two, I made my way down the North Hall, my eyes scanning for Room 309. My first class was English, a class I actually enjoyed, and it was nearly over. Grasping the door handle, I made to just walk in, before realizing I should probably knock first. Raising my fist, I felt my courage drain me. A very small part of me pointed out that this was my chance to leave and spend my days doing something other than be bored to death – not literally – and my dad would never have to know. Until the school called, my rational side stated followed by a sharp, mental roll of the eyes.

"Get a grip, Natalie Booth." I murmured. Portman, the rational side whispered. I repeated it to myself before making my presence known to the class. Portman, Portman, Portman.

I am Natalie Joy Portman. And with that, I knocked on the door. I had situated myself so that anybody inside of the class would not be able to see me through the glass of the door, but I could see the teacher make his way to the door, a frown on his face at being interrupted.

Opening the door, he looked surprised to see me. "Yes?" He asked.

"Natalie Portman," I said, repeating my lines that I had memorized from the years. "Transfer student from Rochester."

"Ah! Miss Portman. I thought you wouldn't be attending today, seeing how you weren't here for roll call."

"Mr. R.J. held me back. I'm sorry." I added as afterthought.

"No trouble, my dear. No trouble at all." Leading the way into the class, the teacher waved me in, showcasing me to the fellow classmates as if it were show and tell. "We have a new student joining us today, Natalie Portman," I heard the whispers creep throughout the bodies and I suppressed a moan. Whoever decided from the FBI to put Natalie and Portman together...I seethed, I can't wait to meet them. "Miss Portman, welcome to English 11 – home to intuitive minds and a haven for safe thoughts."

He was poetic – in a sense – and I could see how he could easily become an enjoyable teacher. He seemed sound of mind – compared to some other wing nuts I had crossed in my years of switching schools. I could like you, I thought.

"Why don't you tell us a little about yourself, Miss Portman?" And there came the dislike. I was still standing at the front of the class, wanting nothing more than to just sit down and shift into the background. I cast a pointed glance at my English teacher, and I was delighted to see him squirm. "We have time for that later. You're seat is – uh – right down there. By the window, behind Mr. Vance."

"Thank you," I nodded my head curtly, making my way to the far side of the class. A window seat was the best. There I could allow myself to leave the living hell I was sitting in and spend an hour in mental solitude. I wished that schools offered choices of seating like airplanes did. Would you like a window or aisle seat?

"By the way," the teacher called out, "I'm Mr. McEwan." I already knew that. His name was written on my schedule, as was every other teacher that I had. I subtly sighed before dropping into my seat.

I was given instruction to pay attention but to not follow along with any assigned work for the day. A writer's passage on the essay of Arthur Schopenhauer was handed to the class, a handful of his quotes distributed from which we were to pick one and analyze it. I barely contained my gleeful grin. It looked like I would have at least one class this year that would pose some sort of challenge.

Climbing down from my secret euphoria, I pulled my current book out of my bag with a shake of my head. Settling into my chair, I furthered my knowledge on the varying degrees of the criminal law system, burying myself in the psychology, crime solving genre. It was a light read which held interesting facts and kept my mind busy. More importantly, it kept my mind from wandering to thoughts that I did my best to keep separate from my everyday life.

The sharp ring of the bell snapped me out of my novel, and slowly packing my book away, I waited in my seat for the class to empty.

"Side reading?" A voice asked beside me. Glancing over, I saw the girl next to me leaning in her seat, her leg under her, packing her bag in a jumbled manner. Her pale blonde hair, cut to her shoulders, shimmered under the sunlight from the window. She was slender, soft and sweet. Her grey eyes were piercing though, and I found myself surprised at her sharp stare. I wasn't sure if I could label it as intelligence, but I realized she was one of the few people who had a perceptive nature.

She reminded me of my Aunt Angela.

"Something to keep me busy." I answered coolly. She nodded her head in agreement.

"Wait until Mr. McEwan assigns you the work for this class. It may take you a while to finish your book then." She wasn't unkind – far from it – but rather straightforward. I really missed Aunt Angela at that moment.

"Perhaps." I was being unreasonable with the cold attitude, but I was beyond caring. Soon I would be gone, just like with the other schools.

"Perhaps." She repeated. Swinging out of her chair, she shouldered her bag. "I'll see you around." Without another word she made her way towards the door of the class, before joining the hoards of students.

"Miss Portman?" I made my way to Mr. McEwan. He was holding a stack of paper work, held together by a large paper clip. "Seeing as how it is the end of October, you have missed quite a load of work. I'll be giving you all of the assignments to look over, but I've marked the ones that I would like you to complete and hand in. If you could have those finished by the end of November, Christmas break latest, that would be fine."

I weighed the papers in my hand, nodding my head at Mr. McEwan's orders. "If you don't mind, my dear, did you plan to come to school this late, or is that just how it worked out?"

"If I go to school at the beginning of the year I will probably die from boredom, dad."

"Literally?" He was teasing me.

"Dad." I snapped. "Seriously. Can we just take our time with this move? We always rush. I don't need to be at my new school right away."

Dad groaned, rubbing the back of his neck before setting his sight on me. "Fine. We'll extend our move. But when we arrive in Madison, you enrol right away."

"Deal."

I tried breaking that the minute we had arrived here, begging for the two weeks off, wanting to wait until the beginning of November to enrol. Unfortunately, my father was a man of his word, and I had given him my compliance on immediate enrolment, dooming myself to subjected torture of everyday school life.

"The house didn't sell until the middle of September." It was a lie, but that was all that was needed. "We packed and moved as fast as we could, but it still took time." Like we needed to worry about selling our house; details like that were left to the FBI to handle.

"Ah, well, you can't speed up house selling. That's its own special art." I nodded my head, but kept silent otherwise. "If you need any help, my dear, just come and see me. I want to ensure that you don't fall too far behind. But that shouldn't be too much of a problem, I hear you're only fifteen. There's potential there."

"Thank you, Mr. McEwan." With that I made my way to the door.

"Remember, my dear, if you need any help just come and see me!" Like I'll need it, I scoffed. I was lucky enough that I had managed to convince my father to move two months later than the intended date. I was now holding nearly two months of school work –and would soon be accumulating three other classes' assignments – and I figured how long that should occupy my time. This will be keep me busy until Christmas, I thought with a sigh. That was the best I could wish for.

Walking into the hall, I headed down towards the west wing, on the upper level, looking for locker 1802. Cracking my combination, I slipped my books inside, arranging my studies and grabbing the next set of text books. Science. Well, at least it wasn't Math.

~*~

Monday, November 3, 2025 - 12:55 PM

I had been attending East High for nearly a week and I was glad to say that I was managing my time well enough that, at the moment, I had a strong excuse to dismiss any friendly inquiries due to my overload of class work. I was currently enrolled in English, Science, Math and Social Psychology . I had enough homework piled on me that any average student would have collapsed in misery. For me, this was a welcoming challenge, a diversion to have a plausible reason to set myself apart from school activities and remain uninvolved. Until the second semester, that is.

I spent my spare time during classes working on my assignments, choosing a quiet corner in the airy library to separate myself from the daily on goings of normal student life. English and General Science hardly posed a challenge to me. In fact, they were just tedious with the amount of writing and solving becoming a huge time consumer. Psychology was hardly a legal course in my opinion, but it was a chance to pass the time and wing it as Dad would put it. Plus, I secretly hoped that Uncle Sweets would have been proud of my elective choice - if he'd been given the opportunity to know, that is.

Shifting my weight to my right foot, I leaned heavily on the cold railings of the school stands facing the open track field. A light breeze passed over me, whisking wisps of my hair around my face, tickling my forehead and chin. I clasped my hands together, doing my best to divert my attention from the group of students playing a loose game of soccer on the school field. I traced the line of my hands with my eyes, following the dips and curves and shadows of my tightly clasped fingers, trying to convince myself that the study of my hands was the most important thing in the world at the moment.

Tensing my knuckles, I watched as the tendons of my extensor digitorum muscle pushed against my skin, straining and showing where the metacarpal bones lay.

Tendons, I recited silently to myself, as well as ligaments and joints have the sole function to generate and transfer force so that individual or whole body members can be manipulated in three-dimensional space.

"You shouldn't clench your hands so hard; you may get arthritis when you're older." Startled, I looked up and over my shoulder to see the female student from my English standing behind me. Seeing that I had acknowledged her presence, she moved forward and leaned on the bars as I was. "Are you watching them?"

Seeing my slight frown, she pointed to the small group of people kicking the ball around. "It's nice to have such nice weather like this in November. We'll take every chance we get – you'll probably see them playing more often if the sun stays out for the next while."

I didn't answer; rather, I followed her pointed finger and resumed watching the soccer ball fly across the field.

"You should join them."

"I don't play." I said in a matter-of-fact voice. She snorted, pushing her blonde hair out of her eyes, blinking at my lie and the slight breeze.

"Nonsense. I saw you the other day. During lunch?" She wanted me to carry on, to explain to her why I had been kicking a soccer ball around the field, for once looking like I had been enjoying myself after arriving at East High.

This study is known as biomechanics, I thought. And I don't owe you anything, I added on as a silent afterthought to the blonde girl. Ignoring her question, silence fell between us, somewhat awkward, but I told myself I didn't care.

"I'm Samantha." She finally said, reaching a hand out to me.

"Natalie." I answered as I shook her hand. "And it's an unproved theory that cracking your knuckles will lead to arthritis when you're older. So it's reasonable to conclude that just clenching your hands tightly will not result in stiff joints."

Samantha laughed aloud, her grey eyes crinkling with laugh lines. Wiping her imaginary tears away, she shook her head. "You're avoiding the topic of discussion here. You like soccer, don't you?"

I could have lied. I was good enough – not as good as Dad – but I could have just easily pushed her away at that moment, knowing it was futile to try and prevent the inevitable. But for the first time, I gave into the always present feeling of wanting to honestly open up to someone. I may not be telling her who I was, but just telling Samantha that I loved soccer would be enough for now.

"Love it, actually." I confirmed.

"You should try out." I was shaking my head before Samantha had even finished her sentence.

"I'm much too... busy, to try out for soccer." I said. I saw Samantha frown out of the corner of my eye, her eyes narrowing; fortunately she didn't carry on with her suggestions. Movement caught my vision from over Samantha's head, and I glanced over to see a tall, lean figure jogging to the soccer group. Cries faintly filled the air as the group put their game on pause, waving the male figure over with enthusiasm.

"Landon Hughes." Samantha sighed. "He's so, so..."

"Arrogant." I finished.

"I was going for dreamy." Samantha said, raising an eyebrow and looking at me. "Do you know him?"

"I met him once." I answered with a shrug.

"Once?" Samantha sounded sceptical. "You got arrogant from one encounter?"

Remaining silent, I pursed my lips as I watched Landon Hughes enter the group, laughing and immediately taking charge of the ball. The game resumed, but with much more enthusiasm than before. His chestnut hair swayed in the air, musing itself up from his running and dodging with the soccer ball. Despite his attractive physical features – which I had ordered myself that I would not feel any sort of attraction to – I couldn't help but grit my teeth watching him, run around on the soccer field.

(THE OTHER DAY)

Grabbing my Math textbook and binder out of my locker, I frowned at the only course that was able to put a wall in front of me. Weighing the solid book in my hand, I momentarily considered throwing it out the nearest window, playing with the pleasing thoughts of watching the textbook burn in fire or hearing the rip of the pages being torn out. Instead, shaking the thoughts out of mind, I tucked my binder under my math book and hugged the heavy texts close to my chest. Leaning against my locker, I turned to face the student bodies ambling through the halls. My Math class was in the East hall, nearly on the other side of the school. Making my way through roughly two thousand students would take some time, and I had only five minutes until the bell rang.

"Jesus, Hughes." A loud voice carried down from the lockers across the hall. I looked over to see two males standing close together, the one having recently spoken stood tall, his shoulders pulled back, and a smug smirk on his face. I recognized him to be Matthew Vance, the boy I sat behind in English. The other - who I recognized but couldn't place - was slouching, his head hanging to the side, jaw clenched. "This is some nice shit you have here. When did you try out?"

Seeing others were casting looks, the boy straightened his figure out, unravelling his tall length and glaring at Matthew Vance. "Keep it down, you ass." Snatching a white folder out of his friend's hands, I watched him tuck the envelope into his pocket. He lowered his voice. "Look, nobody knows about this."

"Nobody?" Matthew repeated. I sensed there was meaning behind the word nobody, in which a certain somebody didn't know nor need to know.

"I was given the letter through the office." Falling heavily against his locker, eyes hard, he sighed. "I didn't even try out."

"That's a good sign, man. Seriously, if coach sent that to you... You want this. You always have." Matthew's encouragement was met with silence. "Landon..." Matthew sighed, his shoulders slouching to meet Landon's posture.

Landon, I thought, finally putting the name to his face. I knew I recognized him – he was in my English and Science – but I had never learned his name, nor actually met him.

"I'm going for football, Matt." I heard the finality in Landon's voice and I felt an unexpected surge of sympathy run through me. I didn't know him or what his circumstances were, but it was the hidden, disappointed sigh drifting out in his words that sparked my sudden compassion. I knew, without a doubt, that I could relate to Landon's feeling of finality and despair.

Lost in my own personal train of thought, I didn't realize that Landon had stopped talking and was looking straight at me. Blinking myself out of my stupor, I realized that lost in my own thoughts I had left my eyes staring in Landon's direction – a habit of mine that unnerved others. He had tilted his head to the side, and I concluded from the look in his eyes that he was searching my own. I felt the slight blush taint my cheeks upon realization that he had caught me eavesdropping and staring, and mortification filled me as well as a deep, irrational anger.

You don't know me, I seethed. My blush turned from embarrassment to anger. Stop searching me, you won't find anything here. With that I turned on my heel and made my way to my math class, silently conveying my irritation with Landon Hughes.

As I knew it would, Math hadn't gone well. Feeling frustrated and disgusted with my recent lack of control over my temper, I spent my lunch on the field, weathering out the cool wind and blowing leaves. The sun was warm, but the cold North wind blowing in had caused my fingers to numb and my cheeks to flush. Borrowing a soccer ball from the gym, I now kicked the ball about the field, venting my anger in a one person game.

"You have quite the kick."

I stopped, pulling up quickly and catching the rolling ball under my foot. Roughly ten feet away stood Landon Hughes, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, the neck pulled up to cover his face from the wind. I had left my hair untied and the long strands fluttered in my vision, only increasing my irrational frustration.

"Do you need a goalie?"

Smartly pushing the strands of hair out of my eyes, I narrowed my eyes at Landon in suspicion. "No. I'm fine."

"I'm not offering you help on your technique." I stiffened at his words. Noticing this, he hurried on. "No, no! You look great – I mean your soccer skills are perfect. I just thought you would like a goalie. You know, a little bit of help?"

"I don't need help with my soccer, thank you." I snapped. "I need help with math." Landon fell quiet, his eyes searching mine for a moment – like he had done earlier – and I jerked my gaze away to look anywhere but at him. Math was always something my mother had coached me through. I was too impatient in a classroom setting if I didn't grasp a concept right away. I wasn't used to having to try.

"No. No you don't need help on soccer," He started out slowly. "So math, huh? Let me guess, you have Mrs. Harris, right?" My eyes flickered to him, then away, but that was the confirmation he needed.

Clearing my throat, I slowly started to pass the ball between my feet, clenching and unclenching my fingers in hopes of returning some warmth to them.

"I can do that. I can help with your math." My breath stopped short and I froze looking over at him. Why was he showing an interest in me?

"Why?"

"Because I can." Landon drawled, smoothly giving me his answer. I was surprised at the sudden rush I felt run through me. This was the first time somebody was actually extending a hand out to me and it was my reaction that was catching me off guard. Landon – for some unknown reason – was reaching out to me... and I wanted to reach back. I didn't understand his angle, what he wanted from this and the dawning thought slowly made its way into my muddled brain.

"You're allowed to have friends, Baby." That's what dad had told me years ago and that's what he had reminded me ever since.

"Friends, but no relationships." I had stated. Relationships – whether it was a close, best friend or boyfriend – that was too close for comfort. I could have friends only if I constantly lied to them, if I only let them know the fake Natalie from the fraudulent ID's. Only if I didn't grow close to them in return.

Dad had hesitated before giving me a shaky kiss on my forehead, murmuring against my skin, "Friends, but no relationships."

The thought infuriated me. Here was somebody – for the first time – offering a hand to me. And here I was – for the first time – wanting to react to that person. Looking at Landon, I knew that I could have been his friend. But that was denied to me and that alone was the cause for the fury ripping through me. So I did the one thing I could do. I lashed out and pushed him away.

"You're offering me help?" I sneered. "Maybe you should focus on yourself first."

Landon's confident posture faltered and I watched his own frown cross his face, before his eyes narrowed to match my own. "From what I heard it looks like you have your own problems to deal with before you can consider offering help."

"I don't know what you're talking about." His voice was cold, his body tensing.

"Football, seriously?" I mocked. "Let me guess, a relative? And you don't have the spine to stand up?"

"It's not polite to eavesdrop." He snarled.

"It's hard to not listen when you discuss your own personal matters in front of the student body." I retaliated. "Just take it from me; you should take the time to focus on yourself before offering your own weak advice."

Landon glared at me for several moments, his entire body locked and rigid. I held his gaze with equal fervour until I blinked and looked away, casting my sight on the ground. I didn't hear him leave, but I knew he was gone.

Blinking away a lone tear, I angrily scuffed the grass with my foot. I had been cruel, beyond rude, but it had been for the best. I had pushed Landon away for his own safety. And while my words had been cutting, it was the only way I was able to tell Landon that he had the chance to direct his own life. I understood what it was like to have the pressure to be someone you're not. Unlike Landon, I had no alternative, no chance to try and explore and deviate.

~*~

I had pushed Landon away and I was about to do it again.

"I met him the other day." I informed Samantha. "He offered to help with my math work."

"And you said no?!" Samantha cried, and look akin to horror washing over her features.

"Why would I say yes?" I asked coolly. I turned my body away from Samantha, angling myself so she wouldn't see the guilt wash over my face. Realizing I was shutting her off, Samantha pulled back.

"You should try out for soccer." She repeated softly. Then, just like Landon had the other day, she was gone. My shoulders slumped and I hung my head in shame. Biting my lip, almost painfully, I raised my head to see Landon, across the field, staring at me. His gaze was cool, his lips pulled in a smug smirk. I held his gaze.

Slowly, so subtle that I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't held such direct eye contact with him, his smug look melted until he was looking passively at me. A small, lopsided grin graced his lips. And I returned it with a small grin of my own. A blink later and the moment was gone. He was moving again, other bodies blocking him from my direct line of vision and all I could see was his light chestnut hair shining in the warm afternoon sun.

I didn't realize it at the time, but this was the slow awakening of me. This road, the time, this move would be unlike the ones before in many ways, and for the first time in my life I would gain absolute control of myself and others. I would mould the dark scenery with my own hands, and shift it into my own wanting visions. But in this moment, at this time, I would only see and focus on the despair of my path, unaware of the smallest shifts of detail which signified the happening change.

Indeed, the road ahead of me seemed endless.

A/N: Didn't you love her?

... Love who? Me or Natalie? I'd like to think it is me... I mean, I created Natalie. :)

Okay, so reading this chapter you may see how Natalie sounded so... immature and moody despite her seeing herself as rational. Now, obviously, there is a reason for this. Besides, she's only fifteen. Give her a break. And one last thing...

WARNING! The next chapter may be off schedule. It's still in the works (and it's driving me crazy) so please have patience. You won't be waiting a month - or anything crazy like that - but probably over a week. I'll try to have it done as soon as possible. Hint, hint: Reviews may help get this next chapter done quicker *wink, wink*