Drip. Drip. Drip.

The tarp had sprung a leak.

“So you live here?”

“Only at night.”

It was quiet for a moment, or at least as quiet as it can be under a bridge on a rainy day. The sound of cars rumbling above us and the sound of the river rushing unceasingly past us assaulted what was left of our ear drums.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Somehow, the solitary sound of these drops of water made their way through the cacophony to the depths of my consciousness. I held my hands up to the heat of the fire as it slowly burned itself away.

“You want some food?” he asked suddenly, standing. I shrugged. He left my sight for a moment and I didn't follow him with my eyes -- for some reason it felt like it would be intrusive to see where he went. Instead, I stared resolutely into the depths of the flames, willing myself to be warmer.

A moment later he returned holding a red and white cooler.

“What's in there?” I asked.

“Salmon.”

“I thought you were a vegetarian.”

“It's okay to eat fish, 'cause they don't have any feelings.” He seemed to be telling himself as much as me. This was all he had, so he'd eat it, no matter what it was.

His ability to set up the fire to be able to cook on it was undoubtably a result of four hated years of Boy Scouts his father had made him take part in.

Either that or he was a genius.

Probably a little of both.

He pulled the cooked salmon off of the tray with a stick and put it on a paper plate he'd had stored in the cooler, proceeding to hand it to me. He took out another of the raw fish, stripped the plastic off of it, and plopped it on the tray.

“Make sure it doesn't explode or something,” he said and went to rinse his hands in the cold river. I was pulling my fish up toward my mouth to take a bite when I heard him swear. He sprinted back to the fire and the tarp.

“Shit. The cops,” he told me.

“Is there something wrong with them?” I asked.

“Not with them. With us.” And with that he took off.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I looked down at my fish, sighed, sat the plate on the ground, and ran after him. His name is Andrew Novoselic.

Six years ago. Andrew was a very normal kid. He had a loving family – his mom the upholsterer, his dad the lawyer, his brother, Josh, the jock who was four years older than him... He was living large. He loved sports, loved school, and loved to talk.

Five years ago. Around this time, both of Andrew's parents seemed to have a change in their worldviews. And with that change came a change in their occupation: his dad the public servant and his mom the career-alcoholic. He'd later find out this was around the time his father's firm went bankrupt and they had no money. And having no money can do strange things to a family. Back then, though Andrew thought he had done something to cause all this heartache. His parents began to beat him.

Well, not his parents. His mother. His father just grew a 70s porn star moustache and stopped caring about anything. Later, Andrew resented his father more than his mother. But not yet. Five years ago, he resented no one but himself.

He became detached. His friends fell away one-by-one. He lost interest in sports.

I caught up to him and stopped, panting. He glanced back and stopped as well. He didn't seem tired.

“Andrew! Why are we running?!”

“What do you think they're gonna do when they find a couple of hoodlum kids playing with fire under the bridge?”

“We weren't doing anything wrong though...”

“You think they're gonna believe us? Come on, Ben, we'll go to Josh's place, get inside from the rain.”

I looked at him for a moment.

“We can walk,” he added.

Four years ago, Josh Novoselic started high school. He started high school and joined the football team. He joined the fotball team and became the most popular freshman in the school.

His father loved him.

His little brother, Andrew, hated him.

“If his house is so great, then why don't you just stay there at night?”

He shrugs off the question. He's been unusually locquacious today. The change back to his normal self shouldn't have been unexpected, but it still slightly jarred me.

“Answer,” I said simply, “Please.”

“He's just as bad as my parents.” He murmured, “He gets as drunk as my mom and beats me up worse. I only go there with friends. He doesn't usually hurt me when I have friends over.”

I frowned, wondering why he'd never brought me here before, but I didn't press the topic.

Three years ago, both Andrew and I entered the sixth grade. We had much in common: neither of us talked very much, we both had long hair, we both liked Firefly, saw Serenity in the theater, and we were both transferring into PPS from the Reynolds school district.

We didn't know each other in sixth grade. I was friends with Sticky and Johnny and the other Andrew.

Andrew wasn't. This was when he stopped hating himself and started hating everyone else instead. I was one of everyone else.

“Josh! It's Andrew!” He pounded on the door again, shaking it on its hinges. “Josh! Come on! It's cold out he--”

The door swung open and we beheld the visage of Andrew's brother, Josh Novoselic. He looked like a dirty, clean-cut version of Andrew. Like an Andrew in the military—-only who had been serving on the battlefield for awhile, so he looked a little battleworn.

He had short, greasy hair and he wore what was probably at some point a nice shirt that buttoned up to the loose collar. He was also holding a beer in his left hand.

What do you want?” Josh demanded. “Why are you... what do you want?!”

“Josh, this is Ben,” Andew said. I waved a little.

“What. Do you want?!” Josh repeated.

“It's cold,” Andrew responded, “We want to get indoors.”

“What about your tent?”

“Just let us in.”

Josh's house was small, and it was cramped. In this main room there was a computer in one corner, a full set of instruments for a band -- guitar, bass, drums, etc., there were posters of those four-wheeler ATV things all over the walls, there were beer cans littering the floor, like a layer of dust made up of aluminum and alcohol... The majority of the room, however, was taken up by a bed—an unkempt bed with no pillows that I thought may have at one point been a sofa-pull-out-bed, but that had been mutilated in some ungodly way.

Andrew led me down the hall and into a room that was significantly less messy than the front room. It had a single, cushy chair, an empty bookcase, and a ping pong table. Bright, overcast-ish light shone in through the only window.

“Have a seat,” Andrew said, “Enjoy the majesty of this room.”

I smiled. “Majestic”

Two years ago, Andrew and I started to get to know each other. We saw the similarities between ourselves. I still don't think he really liked me. But we started to hang out—both in school and out of school, because we lived rght by each other.

He told me some stuff about his home life. Half the time I felt sorry for him. The other half I just didn't believe him.

That summer, our budding friendship continued to grow... but not in a gay way, like it sounds.

“How old is your brother again?” I asked, “He's seventeen, isn't he?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Technically?”

“It's complicated.”

I didn't press the topic. “So how does he afford this house, though?”

“He steals money from our parents some months, and just doesn't pay rent others.”

“They still let him stay here, though?”

“This dump? Who else would pay to live here?”

My parents fight. My parents fight about some of the stupidest things.

I've resented them just a little bit, and I think, honestly, they've probably seriously messed up my mindset.

Now, they've never been abusive, I just hate being around them most of the time, and I don't like talking to them. Ever.

I always thought that my life sucked a hundred times more than any of my friends' did.

Then I met Andrew.

Six months ago, school started again, and as everyone was talking excitedly about how great their high school is going to be, me and Andrew were instead worrying about even getting into the district again.

We became something close to best friends. As close to best friends as two guys who say three words at a max throughout the course of and entire day could possibly be.

The door flew open with a bang. Or a crash. It was a loud sound. That's all I know. Josh Novoselic stormed in. Or more like stumbled in. He was obviously insanely drunk, and something had set him off.

“You know,” he said, “You can't just come here all the time and.. and.. steal my food.. and drink my.. water... and.. ya know.. sit in my chair.”

Andrew sighed. “Josh, you're drunk.” He stood up. “Just fuck off.”

Josh pushed him. “Don't tell me to fuck off in my own house.”

“Fuck off, “ Andrew repeated.

And with that, Josh punched him.

Three months ago, I told Andrew about how effing cold it was at my house, because we couldn't afford to turn on the heat. His response was to tell me about his tent under the bridge and to invite me over sometime.

I was never sure what to believe, with him.

It was over quickly. All three of us had blood on ourselves. I was still sitting in the chair, blood oozing out of the cut by my left eyebrow. Andrew was on the ground, blood pouring from his probably-broken nose. Other scrapes and bruises adorned his face and arms. The same was true for Josh, who was probably losing the least blood of the three of us. He was mostly just bruised, with a single cut on his cheek.

“Fuck,” he said simply, and stormed off.

I sat, dumbfounded, for a good long moment, and Andrew did the same, clutching his nose. Why was I even here? I asked myself. Why today? Why me?

A few hours ago. I think about how sucky my grades are in Biology. I think about how sucky it is that I can't work up the courage to just go and talk to Keira. I think about how sucky everything I've written in the past few months is. I think about how sucky I am at playing guitar. I think about how sucky it is that my computer only works when it decides it wants to. I think about how sucky it is that my website doesn't work in Internet Explorer. I think about how sucky I am at getting my classwork done.

Andrew walks over to me in the corner of Ms. Schumann's room. “Hey, Ben, you wanna hang out today after school?”

“Really?”

Andrew nods and I think about it. Do I really want to do that? Or do I want to just go home and sink into my bed and drown myself in the comforts of misery?

“Yeah, sure,” I decide.

After all, an afternoon off of my sucky life would do me good.