“Okay, guys, back off,” snaps Randall, pushing roughly between us. “Both of you, just chill out. None of us need this bullshit right now. Andrew, go away. Locke, sit the fuck down.”

Andrew shakes his head and snorts. He likes Randall-the two of them have partied together in the past, though, as Randall puts it, “we’re nowhere near friends”-and so he doesn’t try and get past him. Instead, he just points at me and says, “You better keep that dog on a leash, Randall, or else I’m gonna have to put it to sleep.”

“Whatever, Andrew. Walk away.”

You’re lucky, Tomas. You owe Randall your nose. Let’s do this again sometime, huh?

He backs off slowly, grumbling under his breath. I do the same, sitting back down and letting my aching fists turn back into hands. Sweat begins swelling on my brow as the blood begins its routine of rushing into and draining out of my face. Rage roars through my ears to the point where the classroom is seemingly nonexistent.

“Well, I guess you were right,” says Randall, taking his seat. “Who knew Andrew would react like that?”

“I did,” I say a little too quickly.

Randall eyes me. “You okay? Bad moment?”

Talking feels clumsy. “I almost…your timing was good. Something was about to happen. Venom was getting…difficult. Fuck, Randall, fuck.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Glad I got here in time, then,” he says. “It’ll be okay. I mean, come on, if you start dating his sister, he can’t keep threatening to beat your ass, can he?”

I hope not. I need to get a carton of chocolate milk and calm down.

The rest of the day is problematic. The venom isn’t happy. Which raises questions.

Forget the drama-queen-fictional-reality bullshit. I don’t believe that the venom has opinions of its own or that it’s some sort of alien entity, using me as a host or some such nonsense. That’s an attractive thought, sure, but it’s the stuff of comic books, and reality’s my place of residence. The venom is part of me; it was born out of my own twisted, ridiculous mind, and as such, all of its preferences and thoughts come from my own. If I like something, the venom is quicker to like it, and vice versa. Thank God for that-it’s the only thing keeping my family and friends safe. I have never had a serious attack of the venom aimed toward my mom or my brother. Maybe in front of them, but never at them. Randall’s come into contact with it, but he has a good sense of when to cut shit out. Randall’s fatal flaw is that, because he’s so well-liked, he’s prone to cockiness. Every so often, I become the weird kid in the black coat who tags along with him, and the venom responds accordingly. Overall, though, it acts more like a barometer for Randall: When I begin to get abrasive, he takes it as a sign that he’s gone a little too far, and tones himself down his self-righteousness. Point is, I’ve never taken a swing at him or anything.

But things are changing. The venom has its own voice, its own plan. There’s more to it than a break in the dam or a short fuse on a big bomb. The venom’s taking sides and making sure I know what they are. I feel less in control of it than ever before, because it’s not one poisoned personality. It’s two minds about everything, two competing viewpoints-or at least, one vying for access to the other.

The venom is not a fan of the Andrew Tomas situation. In fact, it’s so displeased by it that it’s decided to make this issue the be-all and end-all of its wretched little existence. Maybe if Andrew were just a tiny bit less of a stereotypical asshole, or maybe if I wasn’t so utterly enamored of this odd girl who wears too much makeup and plays board games with her cat, or maybe if she and Randall had warned me what I was getting into before I started falling for her, or maybe if she wasn’t so incredible and he wasn’t so fucking big-maybe then the venom could sit back and let me take care of this one. That is not the case. Renée’s face passes through my mind and I get goose bumps, but then it’s replaced by those squinted eyes and that asshole sneer. The smell of her skin crosses my nostrils, and for a moment I’m lost in romantic bliss, until the rank smell of his blunts-and-forties breath pops right into my brain. The idea of dating her is permanently linked to the idea of getting the shit kicked out of me by the school bully, all thanks to the venom. It won’t let me think about the one without reminding me of the other, just to make sure I understand its feelings.

Meanwhile, the dead parents are making the venom anxious. The venom is almost intimidated by the dead parents, which is an understandable reaction-I can’t begin to fathom something that horrible happening to me. Having my father leave was bad, but the idea of being truly left alone is a concept beyond anything I can grasp. And for a living, thinking entity based solely on sorrow and rage to be confronted with an idea so bad that it can’t truly process it, that’s humbling. “Humble” doesn’t exist in the venom’s dictionary. It’s used to holding dominion over all things miserable in my mind, but suddenly it’s looking at a trauma so horrid that it has no idea how to confront it.

So, between fighting for its place in the sun and feeling obsolete, the venom broods and stews in my head, fueled by nagging worry and depression. Every minute walking around school, I feel it work its way deeper into my mind, finding any way to make me unhappy. It’s taking this to the max. Being all it can be.

You can see where this is going.

I get home from school and Lon’s sitting on the couch, reading about sea turtles. He has two piles on the coffee table in front of him, and I’m assuming that one pile is what he’s already read and the other one is stuff that he has yet to read. They’re huge, the kind of books with little text but lots of glossy pictures with informational captions next to them. The kid never ceases to amaze me. There’s nothing more charming than coming home to find a small person who is earnestly eager to spend four hours scribbling notes about sea turtles. When I see Lon, I temporarily feel okay for the future of our species. He represents the people we all hope to one day know and elect into office. He looks up at me and gives me a know-it-all smile that suggests an impending trivia question.

“Hey, Locke, how long d’you think a sea turtle can live?”

I bite. “No idea. How long?”

“Over two hundred years.”

“Two hundred years? Damn, that’s one wrinkly old sea turtle,” I scoff, playing amazed. Lon’s ten, so he gets weird taboo pleasure out of hearing the word “damn” said freely in the house (if it’s an extra-rowdy day, I throw a “shit” or two in there, maybe a “bitch”; nothing makes a ten year old feel special like the casual use of swear words). “Do they get put in sea-turtle nursing homes? Do their shells begin to smell like old people?”

Lon starts laughing, and for the next ten minutes I pretend to be a sea turtle with a walker, complaining about shell pain and claiming that the hermit crabs rob from my room while I’m asleep. Soon we’re both a giggling mess, with me trying to get out final zingers between gasps and Lon spinning on the floor like he’s on fire and loves it. I can never do this for anyone else. Randall gets it sometimes, but then my sense of humor is more quiet and dry. With Lon, I can go all out and act like a total idiot. Whatever it takes to hear him laugh. I think I might have to admit to myself that I’m physically addicted to that kid’s laugh.

Once I’m in my room, I exhale and allow myself the rare gift of an unhindered grin. Goddamn, Lon. You’ve made my day. My life, even. You’re the reason, plain and simple.

I walk into my room and hear: Cute kid.

Whoa. Okay. I stop, feeling cold all of a sudden. My room is silent. The hum of the city outside is all I can hear.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and consciously think, each word booming through my mind.