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grounding themselves once again on just being together.
    Loren watched now as Eliot went to the top of the bleachers and jumped up on a small ledge, balancing, his arms out. He cringed. Eliot didn’t seem to care sometimes if he lived or died, and the chances he took were awful. Loren wondered if he was on speed because he was always up, always hyper.
    Then there were those weird random times when Eliot seemed to deflate like a balloon, would burst into tears at lunch, or sometimes just sit with his head on his desk like the weight of the world had gotten to be too much.
    He still never seemed to sleep. If the teacher asked for a five-page essay, Eliot would turn up with thirty pages the next day. Every now and then Loren would feel a real sense of unease because sometimes the dude seemed truly crazy, and not in a good way.
    “Loren!” one of the cheerleaders shouted flirtatiously, startling Loren out of his reverie. He waved at her before searching for Eliot one more time, still seeing the blue-streaked hair high up in the stands with some of his stoner friends, and he turned back to his game warm up stretches, bending down and touching his toes several times, running in place while he windmilled his arms, loosening up his shoulders.
    The cheerleader walked over, flipping her hair and batting her heavily mascaraed eyelashes at him.
    He grinned. “Hey, Mandy.” He blew her a kiss, watching as she ran back to her teammates and giggled, turning around and twitching her hips to make her little cheerleader skirt flip up, ensuring that Loren got a good view from the rear. And it was a very nice view, he had to admit. Too bad he was starting to realize more and more he’d much rather see Tate Miller, the starting quarterback, bend over in his jockstrap in the locker room than a pretty girl shake her cute little ass.
    Fuck my life.
     
     
    “DAMN, DUDE, you fuckin’ reek!” Loren exclaimed to the lump under the covers. “Get your ass up and take a fuckin’ shower. And where have you been for the past three days?”
    The days of looking around with furtive glee for adult ears before letting loose with a curse had long since passed. Mrs. Garcia wasn’t there anymore to police their language, and both sets of their parents couldn’t care less. They were always busy anyway, and Eliot and Loren were true latchkey kids, pretty much doing whatever they pleased.
    There was no answer from the quilt-covered lump, and Loren ripped the covers off him and flung them to the floor. No response. No indignant scream, no flail, just—nothing.
    “Eliot?” Loren said, his voice tentative, sitting on the edge of the bed. Eliot didn’t move when Loren placed his hand on his bare back. “What’s wrong?”
    Eliot didn’t say anything, and Loren finally got up and went to open the blinds, thinking the blast of sunlight into the dark room would have to elicit some kind of reaction. The light flooded in, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air, and it fell right across Eliot’s face. He didn’t even twitch.
    “You’re scaring me, El,” Loren whispered, sitting back down on the bed. “Did something happen? Talk to me.”
    Eliot dragged his lids open like they weighed several thousand tons, the effort of blinking against the bright light even seeming to be too much for him. His green eyes were dull, lifeless, with none of the feverish, frenetic light in them Loren was used to seeing of late.
    Eliot’s lips moved, but Loren couldn’t hear. He leaned in closer, trying to ignore the smell of sour sweat, of greasy hair.
    “Hopeless. Die,” Eliot breathed, and Loren put his hand on his back again.
    “What’s hopeless?” Eliot didn’t respond, so Loren continued, “And who died?” He stroked once up and down Eliot’s back, feeling the stickiness of sweat.
    “Did someone die, El?” he repeated, and his insides froze when Eliot rasped painfully, “Want to die. Me.”
    “Jesus,” Loren exclaimed, scared shitless.