He's poisoning my life. Even as I'm sitting at my lessons, or hanging out with the guys during the breaks, or eating my lunch, or driving to the baseball practice, there's just constantly that underlying feeling of something wrong. Knowing that Raven is at home and up to who knows what new mischief is nagging at me. I guess it's the lack of control that gets to me so badly. Not having nearly as much influence over my life as I thought I had.

I've got to find some way to convince Catherine to get rid of him.

Even coach Williams notices something.

"Are you all right?" he says. "You seem distracted."

"I'm fine," I say, but then, surprising myself, add, "No, actually, I don’t feel so well."

"Oh?" He frowns, then reaches out and touches my forehead in a surprisingly parental gesture. "No fever, but you sure don’t look well. I though you never get sick, kid. Want to cut early today?"

"Uhm…yeah," I mutter, realizing that this was actually the reason behind my spontaneous lie. To go home. To make sure it's still standing, despite Raven being there.

"All right then," he says. "Make sure you're in top shape by Wednesday."

"Thank you, sir."

My ears feel hot. I hate lying, particularly to people who are good to me.

I park by the sidewalk, leaving the driveway for Catherine. It's only four in the afternoon, so it will be nice to squash Raven's plans of having the house for himself until six. Also, I'd like to see what kind of friend is helping him with his homework.

The house is quiet. No music this time—perhaps they are studying, after all. I take off my shoes and leave my backpack on the floor, and then tiptoe up the stairs. I'm not sure why I want to surprise him with my sudden appearance, but maybe it's that issue of control again. Seizing the opportunity to show him that not everything always goes according to his plans.

On the second floor, I pause, listening. Muffled sounds come from his room. I approach his door. Through the crack, I can see a corner of his desk and a plate on it, containing the remainders of a ham sandwich, and a knife they must have used to make it. So much for Catherine's rule of not taking the food upstairs.

I clench my fists. That brat. That damn thankless, disrespectful brat.

The sounds come again. Not talking. Huffing. Puffing. Rhythmical.

Unmistakable.

Then, comes Raven's voice, breathless, barely recognizable.

"Yeah...oh fuck, yeah…ah…harder…yeah, like that…"

I fling the door open.

There's a flurry of motion on the bed, a lot of naked skin and crumpled sheets and two pairs of wide eyes staring at me. Two bodies untangle, and an unfamiliar guy slips off the bed, landing on his knees. He gets up hurriedly, picking up his clothes from the floor. As he straightens up, I can tell there's no way he's Raven's classmate. He's clearly an adult, perhaps in his mid-twenties.

"Uhm," he mutters, pulling on his underwear. "Uhm…and you are?… I'm…I'm sorry?"

Behind him, on the bed, Raven begins to laugh. He sits up and covers with a sheet, pulling it up to his chest, watching his lover struggle clumsily to get dressed.

"What. The. Hell?" I growl, entering the room. It's in a state of a total mess, and the remainders of food are not only on the desk but on the floor, too, in two more plates. "Do you think it's a brothel here where you can just bring your…clients?" I stare at the man who is jumping on one foot, trying to get the other one into his pant leg. "And you—do you know he's underage? I'm calling the police right now!"

"No, please," he mutters. "I didn’t know. I swear I didn't know!"

"Like fuck you didn’t know!"

"No swearing, Jamie," Raven chimes in, shaking with laughter. "No swearing in the house."

"You!" I point my finger at him, and the half-naked man uses my momentary distraction to dart past me and out of the room, his shoes in his hands.

"Come back!" I reach out, but he eludes my grip and runs down the corridor. I hear him nearly tumbling down the stairs, and then the door slams shut.

I turn back to Raven. He's out of his bed already, still laughing, getting into his own underwear. My fingers clench into fists again, blood pulsating in my temples.

"You damn brat --"

"You're funny," he says, looking around for his pants. "Bursting in like I'm your cheating wife or something. Couldn’t you wait for a couple of minutes? I was just beginning to enjoy myself."

I see red. This is not happening. He's bringing all that's bad and disgusting into my home, my sanctuary, and he dares to laugh in my face?

I grab the kitchen knife from the desk, wanting nothing more than to stick it into this laughing, disgusting mess, to make him stop, to make him hurt.

He notices my movement. The smile freezes on his face as his eyes lock on the knife.

"Jamie?" he says.

"Shut up," I say, and take a step in his direction.