Angel

      I groan as the alarm clock sitting on the table reminds me that it's time to get ready for school. I roll over and slam the off button before sitting up and attempting to rub the sleep out of my eyes. I glance over to get a look at the date, written in red, digital lettering on the clock. "March 3rd" it reads, and I sigh.

      Next to my clock is a small notepad and a pen that my father bought for me after a particularly bad day as his way of apologizing to me. I flip through the pages, entries upon entries with dates scribbled at the top and page-long ramblings of a struggling 14-year-old boy underneath them. The last entry was on March 1st, two entire days before today.

      I shake my head, trying to recall anything from the two days missing in my head, but even my recollections of the 1st are fuzzy, like trying to remember a dream after you wake up. You know you had the dream; you know you were there, but everything is vague and far away.

      One thing I do remember from that day is that it was a Monday, and the day my book report was due, an assignment that I didn't know existed, since every day I was reminded of it is missing in my stupid, forgetful brain. No journal entries, no notes, and only small glimpses of those days remain. My father was surely enraged about the F that I brought home that day, and he surely punished me, and I surely deserved whatever he did to me, but I don't remember any of it.

      After writing an entry for today, I dress myself in my favorite black hoodie and make my way downstairs, where my father sits at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. The glasses on his face accentuate his features, and he refuses to acknowledge me as I make my way over to the cabinet. His silence fills the air, and I pour myself a bowl of the off-brand Cocoa Puffs that my mother used to love, doing my best to ignore the tension.

      He clears his throat, but he doesn't look at me. I hold back my sigh and look up at him. "What is it, Dad?"

      He still doesn't look up from his newspaper. "There's something wrong with you, son."

      I try not to let his hurtful words sink into me, a practice I've nearly perfected, and instead I allow the chocolate puff balls to linger in my mouth, melting on my tongue until all that remains is the aftertaste of corn starch.

      "I'm getting you therapy. It's long overdue."

      I nearly spit out my spoonful in surprise. "Are you being serious?" I ask. "Why?"

      He sighs, and I study his face. He looks much older than I remember. Perhaps it's the alcohol aging him faster than a man should, or perhaps it's his grief of losing both his wife and his youngest son – his favorite son – in the span of two years. His curly black hair has lightened to a silver color, and although my father is far from put-together these days, he never looks unkempt. His hair is always the same length – long enough to have some volume to it but too short to be considered an afro.

      "Because there's something wrong with you, Omari," he repeats, and I drop the subject. I glance at the watch on my wrist, and it reminds me that if I don't leave now, I'm going to be late. I finish shoving the last of my cereal into my mouth and stand up, not even bothering to put my bowl in the sink. "Bye, Dad! I'll see you later!" I say, grabbing my backpack as I swing open the door.

      "Have a good day, Omari. I love you."

      "I love you, too."

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      "Omari!" My best friend, Elena, calls out with a wave and a small smile. In the sea of my fellow freshmen, I can make out her long blonde hair and her favorite silk green dress, even though I can barely see the top of her head. I smile back and push past a few people to make my way over to her locker. I lean against the maroon lockers, which probably haven't been updated or replaced since the school was built back in the 60's.

      "Hey, Elena."

      "Where have you been?" She asks. 

      I pause, not really knowing the answer myself. "Well, at school I assumed."

      "You sure that was you and not Angel?" She crosses her arms, something she always does when she's worried. Elena tends to wear her heart on her sleeve, which leads to her being incredibly easy to read.

      I scoff in embarrassment, and she rolls her eyes. "I guess you blacked out again?"

      I rub the back of my neck with my hand and nod. "Yeah, but my dad said that he was going to put me in therapy."

      "Your dad? Putting you in therapy?"

      "I know, crazy, right? I almost spit out my cereal when he told me this morning." I smile and she lets herself chuckle. My heart does a little flip at the sound.

      "Well, that's great news! You're going to go, right?"

      I wince. "Well, I'm not sure."

      She raises an eyebrow at me. "Omari, I really think you should. It would be good for you. With everything going on with you and…" She drifts off. She shakes her head as if deciding not to ask the question that was floating around in her head. "Anyway, Michael and I have been really worried about you lately."

      Michael Horne is the third person in our trifecta of misfits. The three of us could not be more different, and yet, we've remained friends since elementary school. I've always been the nerdy one out of the group. I'm great at math and I love to read, but I've never been too great at science and history (which is what Michael is for).

      Elena Jackson is the nicest person anyone could ever meet, and her family is pretty well-known around our county. Her father is a firefighter, and in fact the same one that was on the scene the night my mother died. Ever since, Elena's family has taken care of me, and until his death, my brother as well.

      Michael is my former neighbor, and he's been my friend since before I knew what a friend even was. We would bond over our love for love for the Seattle Seahawks, the fact that we were constantly competing in school for the top marks, and that we have the same taste in girls. He's always been a great friend to Elena and me, but recently, I've noticed how he's seemed to distance himself from us (or, Elena, more specifically).

      The bell rings, warning that we have only one more minute to get to class before we're marked as late. I sigh. "I'll think about it," I say, and turn around so that I don't see the disapproving glare that I know she throws at me.

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      Dr. Harlem's office is nothing like how I expected it to be. In movies and TV shows, the therapist office always appears so stuffy, with that stereotypical brown, leather couch in the center of the room and some old guy in glasses ready to ask you about how that makes you feel. Dr. Harlem, however, has an office more reminiscent of a living room, though it's a little quirkier. Her office is filled from wall-to-wall with pictures of her and cats that I assume all belong to her. In the corner, her coatrack, instead of being functional, is covered top to bottom with a witch costume, complete with a broomstick beside it.

      The therapist herself has long, black hair, with bangs that frame her face. She wears all black, and she gives off the vibe of someone who would be into taxidermy and would explain to you how your star sign affects your compatibility with others.

      Despite the stark contrast to what I had anticipated, or perhaps because of it, I can't help but feel safe and cared for in her presence.

      "Omari," she greets. Her smile is warm, and her tone is melodic. I wonder if she was a theater kid. "I'm glad you're here."

      In any other context, her statement might feel ominous, but I can sense the honesty in her words. Despite my initial reluctance and even outright refusal to participate, I know that in the end, Elena is probably right (as she usually is). I nod in response, actually feeling nervous, and not knowing how to proceed.

      So much has happened to me. So much could be wrong with me. Where to even start?

      "I know you had some initial hesitation, but, if I may be extremely candid with you for a moment, I believe our sessions will be very beneficial to you, if what your father explained to me has any sort of truth to it." She never drops her smile, her kind eyes almost begging me to stay. "But what do you think, Omari?"

      I stutter before giving a reply, not expecting her to ask me straight up if I want to be here. Though I have my reservations, I know that Dr. Harlem is the key to understanding and fixing everything that's wrong with me. "I… I think I want to stay."

      She nods. "That's wonderful to hear," she says. "Now, let's start with something that may be a little difficult to speak about. If you feel uncomfortable or you need to stop, just let me know, and we'll talk about something else, alright?" I nod. "Alright. Let's talk about your mother."

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      The giddiness caused by the first day of my sophomore year quickly vanishes as I make my way down the stairs. My father is seated in his favorite recliner in the living room watching the replay of yesterday's Seahawks game, beer in hand. I try to avoid him by walking into the kitchen, but he doesn't allow me such luxury. "You need a haircut," he says, his eyes not wavering from the screen.

      He's drunk. My breath hitches and I try to prevent myself from shaking as I turn around to face him. Avoiding him will only make it worse. Leaving now will only make my punishment more severe when I get home. I might as well get it over with now.

      "You need a haircut," he repeats, a little louder this time.

      "I'll get one after school today," I reply, nearly succeeding in trying to keep my voice steady.

      "No, you won't," he says, raising his voice now. "You never fucking do what I ask you to do." He slams the beer can on the table, and the noise of the tin on the glass makes me jump.

      He looks at me now, his eyes boring holes in my skin, and I'm burning. My skin is on fire. My house is on fire. I'm stuck. My mother is stuck inside. I can't move. I'm holding my brother. I can't move.

      "Are you going to answer me?" He slurs, his voice still firm, but he's no longer yelling.

      "I… yes sir. I just need some money. I can do it after school. I'll do it after school. I promise, Father. Whatever you want."

      He grunts and throws a wad of cash on the floor. "Don't come back until your hair is halfway decent. I can't believe you're going to school like that. It's an embarrassment. You're an embarrassment."

      He doesn't bother to help me as I scramble to pick the cash up off the floor as quickly as possible so I can leave. I don't even think about having breakfast. Again. 

      "Have a good day, Omari. I love you," my father says, spitting out the same phrase he does every morning, as if nothing happened.

      For the first time in my life, I don't reply as I rush out the door.

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      I remember how cold it was that night. That was one thing I don't think will ever leave my mind. I remember the way the wind nipped at my nose as I watched the flames lick the top of the roof of the house I grew up in. I remember how tightly I held my brother, his tears freezing on his face as he stood there in his Thomas the Tank Engine pajamas. I remember as my father screamed his despair at the burning building, wanting, but not having the courage to face the flames and save my mother.

      I remember how casual our night had been before that.

      My brother and I were sitting on the floor of the living room, playing with our cool new Hot Wheels that we had gotten for Christmas only a couple weeks prior. We invented a game called "Bumper Cars", which we had been playing nonstop since Christmas. The game entailed us hosting a draft to pick which cars we wanted, then we lined up our team of cars to face the other person's team, counted to three, and pushed the cars into each other. If a car flipped over, it was out, and the last team standing was the winner. This game had led to some yelling, but mostly laughter.

      My father was pounding away at the keys of our grand piano, trying to learn a new piece for his upcoming recital. My mother hadn't gotten home yet. I remember they would keep her late at the lab, working on some new plant serum or environmentally friendly insecticide or whatever it was botanists did back then. My father had already made dinner, tonight being my favorite: pulled pork. My father used to make a mean pulled pork sandwich. He'd fire up his crockpot and marinate his pork in every spice he could find in the house. He always started cooking before my mother came home, then, when he was finished, he'd sit at the piano until she returned. Then, we'd have a lovely meal, and my mother would always make my father promise to play a song for us before we had to go to bed.

      I remember how my mother returned home only slightly later than usual, and we ran to her, hugging her legs. She was much taller than most people I knew, and I remember how she would convince me to drink my milk by telling me stories about the joys of being so tall (some that probably had some base in reality, but most of them being completely made up).

      My father immediately turned his attention away from his music and a huge grin broke on his face when he saw my mother. I remember how infatuated my father was with my mother. I remember how every time he saw her, he looked at her as if he were falling in love with her for the first time again. I remember the joy in his face because I never saw it again after that night.

      I remember how the pulled pork was just as good as I knew it would be. I ate well for a boy my age. On the weekends, right after dinner, we were allowed a dessert. My mother loved baking, and she'd always insist that my brother and I helped her. We made a mess, and half the time it would end in bickering, but I miss it all the same. Oh, how much I would give to be back in the kitchen, standing there with my brother, having him scream at me for getting flour on his favorite shirt.

      I don't really remember how it happened. I remember my father playing Chopin's Nocturne No. 9. I remember my brother falling asleep in my mother's arms. I remember myself drifting in and out of consciousness. I remember the candle sitting beside me. I remember a scream. I remember the heat as the rug I was sitting on went up in flames. I remember thinking it was a dream. I remember my father yelling at me, my mother yelling at my father. I remember being escorted out of the house. I remember crying, begging for someone to save my stuffed bunny, Angel. I remember my mother handing my brother to my father as he yelled back at her. I remember my brother running up to me as I watched the flames rise higher. I remember the explosion that sent my father into a fit of agony and despair. I remember my brother – coughing, crying, begging for mommy to return.

      I remember. I want to forget.

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      "So last week, you mentioned you were having some pretty intense dreams," Dr. Harlem says, donning a black dress and braids that make her look like the real-life, grown-up version of Wednesday Addams. "And you said there was this name that kept coming up: Angel. Do you want to tell me about that?"

      I sit on her couch, the pillows placed in the exact same position I always put them. I sit with my legs crossed and my shoes carefully placed next to my backpack. Dr. Harlem said that the best way to feel comfortable opening up about things that make us uncomfortable is to make our body feel comfortable physically, too. She always makes tea for me during our sessions, and I've come to really enjoy my time with Dr. Harlem on Friday afternoons.

      I take a sip of my Earl Grey and nod. "I keep hearing the name in my daily life. Angel is the name that Elena has given my blackouts, and sometimes Michael will call me that, but I don't know if he's referring to my blackouts or… to something else." 

      I avoid her question regarding my dreams. Lately they've become more realistic. I keep waking up in a room that is not quite my own with a woman sitting beside me and humming, her voice familiar in a way that I can't seem to pinpoint. These dreams have been happening consistently for the last month or so, and it always seems to happen after I black out. I'm sure it means something, but I'm not ready to talk about it just yet.

      "You said Michael didn't really talk to you or Elena anymore. Is that still true?" She asks, pulling me away from my thoughts.

      "Mostly. Sometimes he'll say hi, but it's nothing like it used to be. He doesn't even sit with us at lunch anymore. He's been sitting with his football bros."

      "Why do you think that is?"

      I sigh, unable to avoid the answer that I've suspected to be true for a while now. "I think Michael has a crush on Elena."

      Dr. Harlem lets out a small hum. "You think he's avoiding you both because he's been witnessing the romantic relationship between you and Elena develop?"

      I nod. "I mean, I don't blame him. If I saw Michael developing some sort of romantic relationship with Elena, I'd probably distance myself, too."

      "I see." She writes something down in her notebook, something she usually only does when I say something she deems worthy of reporting. She has a laptop, but she claims it's only to look more professional, and that physically writing things down on a piece of paper is far more helpful to her. "You said Michael sometimes calls you Angel. Do you think he picked up on Elena's colloquial name for your blackouts?"

      I shrug. "I mean… it's possible. I don't really see another explanation for it."

      She writes something down again, then looks back up at me, a smile on her face. "There's always another explanation, Omari."

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      "Alright, everyone, I'm now going to hand back your math exams," Mr. Berger announces to his sixth period class, and I instantly panic, not remembering taking any math exam recently. I shoot Elena a confused glance, and her expression changes from anxious anticipation to concern, instantly recognizing my panic. "Overall, you all did pretty well, but there are a couple people I would like to speak with tomorrow during lunch period about your grades."

      I know the score before I even see it, and sure enough, I'm handed back an exam with a bright red "F" and a "See me at lunch!" scribbled out in messy red ink. Elena takes my hand and gives me a sympathetic squeeze, but even the feeling of her thumb brushing against my skin does nothing to stifle the panic rising in me.

      I'm barely present the rest of the day. Physically, I'm there, sitting at my desk, listening intently to Mr. Berger like any good student would. My mind, however, is elsewhere. On my father, whom I know will react to my grade with anger and violence. Those vicious words that have only become more venomous over the years. How I can't even get myself to tell him I love him anymore. How much I have failed him, how I'm to blame for the death of my mother, how I could never live up to what my brother was supposed to be. 

      My mother, who would have comforted me and told me that it's okay to fail sometimes, that no one can be perfect all the time. Who would have held me in her arms like she did when I got in trouble as a kid. Who would never have let my father hurt me the way he does. Who would have done everything she could to get me help when I first started showing signs of blackouts.

      My brother, whom I was supposed to be the role model for and oh, what would he think of the person I'd grown into? Would he call me a failure like our father? Did he blame me for his death? Would he have been beaten by our father, too? Was he the favorite son because he wasn't the one who knocked over the candle? Maybe he was always meant to be something better than me. Maybe I took that away from him.

      My feet are heavy as I know somehow to make it to the bus and sit in my favorite seat in the very back row. I think of Elena, who truly believes in the help I've been getting. I think of how her smiles have been becoming more strained when I'm around her. I think of how she and Michael don't talk anymore. I think of how she constantly comes to my defense when I get teased at school, and how that's probably taking a toll on her mentally. I think about how long I've had a crush on her, but how it's probably best if I weren't even in her life at all, if it had been me that died of leukemia instead of my brother.

      I think of Michael, who keeps giving me mixed signals. I think of how he walks around with a smile plastered on his face now, but how he barely acknowledges me anymore. I think of how sometimes he'll call me "Angel" instead of Omari, and how he always apologizes and walks away dejected, when I correct him. I think of how much I miss his friendship, and how he's probably just as sick of my blackouts as I am.

      I grip my iPod Touch as if it were going to disappear if my hands were not clasped tightly around it. A Coldplay song is on, but I am not present enough to hear what it is.

      I think of Dr. Harlem, and how she keeps hinting at something that I don't understand. How she keeps asking me if I can feel anyone else in my head, how she keeps having me describe my dreams. Can I give a name to any of the people I see in my dreams? Describe how I feel immediately after waking up from a blackout. Has anything peculiar happened to me since our last session? The same damn questions every time. Elena keeps insisting it will help, but it feels like it's only gotten worse, even after three years.

      I blink, and I am aware that the body is moving, but it's not me who's moving it. It's as if my body were on autopilot, guiding me up the hill that I know so well.

      It's so much easier to give up control, to disappear and allow myself to black out for a few days at a time, to relinquish myself to the trouble my brain gets me in. Every day, it becomes harder and harder to resist the temptation of letting myself slip away. Today, I don't even try to fight it.

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      Our group of three has finally decreased to two. Elena and I watched as Michael slowly drifted further and further away from us, and even though we were incredibly sad to watch it happen, the three-year build-up gave us time to grieve our friendship, and the finality of the split didn't hit so hard. Elena insists it has nothing to do with me, but the way I keep finding Michael staring at me tells me otherwise.

      When I asked, Elena disregarded my question, saying that it's normal for friends to grow apart. That part, of course, she's right about, but somehow, the explanation doesn't feel good enough. Maybe I didn't try hard enough to salvage it. I knew Michael was starting to avoid Elena, with how he would ask me to come over to hang out at his house and not her, how he asked if I wanted to come sit with him and the football team at lunch, how he would talk to me in the hallway and try to avoid Elena. Maybe he saw how I was flirting with Elena and was trying to save our friendship by pulling me away from her. Maybe he was acting cold towards her in order to save my feelings. Maybe it hurt him too much to watch me fall for the girl that he was in love with first.

      So badly do I want to go up to Michael and apologize for "stealing his girl", for letting my personal issues get in the way of our friendship, for allowing myself to be so selfish when it all it did was give pain to my best friend. After all, I don't deserve someone as beautiful and as kind as Elena. I've always been the black sheep of our friend group – why should I have a chance at happiness when Michael didn't?

      I rest my head on Elena's shoulder, feeling the exhaustive weight of my blackouts overpower me. My blackouts have been much worse recently. Even at night, instead of sleeping, I enter my weird fugue state, waking up the next morning feeling more tired than I did when I went to bed. Two weeks ago (or, at least, what I believe was two weeks ago, but who can keep track at this point?), I woke up to my nails painted black, and I had no idea that I even owned a bottle of nail polish.

      Elena and I are the only ones at our lunch table today. We're always the only ones at our lunch table. I'm okay with that. It gives me a chance to be alone with her, and between my blackouts, school, therapy, and my father's insistent nagging, I want to make the most of every moment with her.

      Out of the corner of my drooping eyes, I catch Michael glaring at me, his expression contorted into an anger I've only seen once from him before. I take notice when he comes up to us, and I try to shake myself awake enough to hold a conversation, sitting up now. "So, is it me you're toying with today?

      I don't know how to respond. "What do you mean?"

      He shakes his head, and an angry laugh escapes him. "You're the only person I've ever come out to. You were the only one I felt safe enough to do that around. You're the one who convinced me to come out for the sake of our relationship, and yet here you are being all handsy with Elena instead of even asking if I wanted to sit with you."

      I blink, the shock preventing the tears from welling in my eyes. "I thought you wanted nothing to do with us," I admit.

      "I want nothing to do with… whatever this is." He gestures vaguely and Elena and I and I let go of her hand. I notice how the lunchroom has seemed to quiet as everyone listens to our not-so-private conversation. "I just wanted you," Michael whispers, and I see a single tear slide down his cheek.

      I feel the tears of my own starting to form. "I don't… I don't understand."

      His desperation turns back into anger. "You don't understand a lot of things. I'm so tired of these fucking games." He slams his hand down on the table, and I flinch, suddenly feeling myself becoming distant from the present moment. "You know what I don't understand? I don't understand how one day, you'll be incredibly sweet and affectionate with me. You tell me how you want to spend the rest of your life with me. You tell me everything happens for a reason. You tell me how much I mean to you. Then, the next day, you ignore me in the hallways. You snuggle up to Elena and act like nothing ever happened between us. It's like you're a totally different person."   

      He's yelling, but his voice is starting to get further away. My head feels as if I'm underwater, and I can't focus on the anger he's directing at me.

      I'm speaking now, but I don't know what I'm saying. Michael shakes his head. "No, Angel. I'm done. We're over."

      And suddenly, just like that, I'm gone again.

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      When I return to consciousness, I'm in Dr. Harlem's office. She's speaking to me, but I can't make out what she's saying. My mind is spinning, racing to catch up with my body. I take in my surroundings. My nails are painted black, and I'm wearing a Hawaiian shirt instead of my typical black hoodie.

      "Take your time, Omari."

      I finally look up at her and blink. "Where… what happened?"

      She gives me a sad smile. "Welcome back, Omari. I hear you were taking some time away for a bit."

      "Away from what? What's going on?" I can feel myself start to tear up, and I quickly rub my eyes, trying to avoid the inevitable. "Dr. Harlem, what day is it? I blacked out. I can't…"

      She nods. "I know, Omari," she says, but I'm not sure she does. "It's October 14th."

      The 14th. "I've been gone a week?"

      Finally, I lose control. I break down into tears, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. Dr. Harlem doesn't move from her seat, though I desperately crave the warmth and touch of someone. Of her. Of my mother. Please hold me, I want to say, but I know I can't. Instead, I cry harder, and Dr. Harlem just sits there, watching me lose control of myself.

      I want to scream. I want to punch my father for blaming me for my mother's death. I want to kick the doctor that let my brother die. I want to slap myself for allowing myself to forget so often. "Why does my father hate me?" I choke out. "Why do my friends hate me? Why can't I stop blacking out? What's wrong with me, Dr. Harlem?" I struggle to breathe, using most of my energy to spit my angry words at her. I know it's not her fault that I'm this way, but I want her to fix me. I want her to tell me how I can get better, how to compose myself.

      Finally, I feel a pair of arms wrap around me, and I am able to allow myself to take deep breaths between my heaving sobs. She holds me there, saying nothing, and I'm sure it's unprofessional, but I need it, I need her embrace.

      "Omari," she says, and I attempt to compose myself. I don't notice the stinging in my face until my arms are fully back at my sides. "I believe I know why you're experiencing these blackouts." She gives me a small smile, now sitting back in her comfortable loveseat across from my spot on the couch. My pillows aren't even organized in the way I like. "Now, I could be wrong, as it's not something we psychologists tend to see very often. In fact, you may be the first person I personally have had the pleasure of working with that has this condition, assuming I'm correct, of course."

      "Spit it out, Doc."

      She chuckles. "Right, of course." She moves her bangs out of her face. "Omari, I believe what we're looking at here is a case of dissociative identity disorder."

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      The room I wake up in feels both familiar and completely new. The walls are gray, and sunlight seeps in from a window that does not exist. I close my eyes once again and take a deep breath. Beside me, I can feel a familiar presence, her humming keeping me calm. I can feel her touch her hand to my head before slowly caressing me, just as my mother used to do every night before bed. Her touch is as warm as the sunlight that creeps up the wall beside me.

      I open my eyes again, and I turn to face her. She gasps a little, her green eyes widening in surprise. I sit up, not breaking our eye contact, and once her shock wears off, she lowers her hand away from her mouth and smiles. Her lips are painted a bright red and her teeth are a white that's almost blinding. She has pin straight brown hair that reaches nearly to floor. 

      "Omari," she says, and the strangeness of my situation takes ahold of me. "We've been waiting for you."

      She stands up, and she's so tall that I worry she'll hit her head on the ceiling if she moves even the slightest bit. She holds her hand out and beckons me to follow her. I notice the ring on her finger, and I look back at her suspiciously. "Is this a dream?" I ask. "You're dead. This can't be real."

      She chuckles a bit, as if I didn't just question the entire validity of her existence. "Come with me, Omari. Come meet everyone else. Things will make sense eventually."

      Hesitantly, I take her hand and follow her out the door. Holding her hand, a memory washes over me of my mother, my brother, and I standing and waiting in line at the grocery store. Both my brother and I are holding stolen lollipops, trying to hide them from our mother, but our giggling gives us away. Instead of scolding us, she grabs one for herself and puts it in her pocket. She gives us a wink and to this day, it's been my little secret.

      I shake myself out of the memory but allow the smile to linger on my face for just a moment longer. 

      "My name is Mother," the woman says right as I'm about to ask her what's going on. "I'm not actually your mother; just a manifestation of her that helps you boys take care of yourselves."

      "'You boys?' You mean there are more of… us?"

      She smiles. "Of course there are, Omari."

      I don't notice that we've walked down a set of stairs until we're at the bottom. In front of me is a living room with two other boys sitting on couches that look more expensive than comfortable. The two boys look almost like opposites of each other. Mother gestures towards one of them. "That's Alistair. He's mute, but he's a very sweet kid. He also plays a mean piano." She winks at him.

      The boy – Alistair – is incredibly pale. He has straight, wiry black hair that nearly cover his eyes. I think he attempts to smile at me, but all he can muster is a light grimace. I take notice of his black hoodie and black painted fingernails. Politely, I smile back.

      The boy sitting across from him shares a striking resemblance to… me. I move towards him, and I note how his dark complexion is not masked by insecurity or doubt. He's smiling with his eyes, which lack the bags underneath that I've been carrying around for months. His mouth is turned upwards in a way that suggests that he doesn't have the weight of the world on his shoulders.

      "Oh! You must be Omari! It's really nice to finally meet you!" He sticks his hand out towards me, and I shake it, trying not to laugh when I see the goofy-looking Hawaiian shirt he's wearing. His grin lights up the room, and it's no wonder that Michael liked him so much more than me.

      "My name is Angel."