text stringlengths 8 5.77M |
|---|
--TEST--
Phar: copy() tar-based
--SKIPIF--
<?php if (!extension_loaded("phar")) die("skip"); ?>
<?php if (!extension_loaded("zlib")) die("skip zlib not available"); ?>
--INI--
phar.readonly=0
phar.require_hash=1
--FILE--
<?php
$fname = __DIR__ . '/' . basename(__FILE__, '.php') . '.phar.tar.php';
$fname2 = __DIR__ . '/' . basename(__FILE__, '.php') . '2.phar.php';
$pname = 'phar://'.$fname;
$iname = '/file.txt';
$ename = '/error/..';
$p = new Phar($fname);
try
{
$p['a'] = 'hi';
$p->startBuffering();
$p->copy('a', 'b');
echo file_get_contents($p['b']->getPathName());
$p->copy('b', 'c');
$p->stopBuffering();
echo file_get_contents($p['c']->getPathName());
copy($fname, $fname2);
var_dump($p->isFileFormat(Phar::TAR));
$p->copy('a', $ename);
}
catch(Exception $e)
{
echo $e->getMessage() . "\n";
}
ini_set('phar.readonly',1);
$p2 = new Phar($fname2);
var_dump($p2->isFileFormat(Phar::TAR));
echo "\n";
echo 'a: ' , file_get_contents($p2['a']->getPathName());
echo 'b: ' ,file_get_contents($p2['b']->getPathName());
echo 'c: ' ,file_get_contents($p2['c']->getPathName());
?>
===DONE===
--CLEAN--
<?php unlink(__DIR__ . '/' . basename(__FILE__, '.clean.php') . '.phar.tar.php'); ?>
<?php unlink(__DIR__ . '/' . basename(__FILE__, '.clean.php') . '2.phar.php'); ?>
--EXPECTF--
hihibool(true)
file "/error/.." contains invalid characters upper directory reference, cannot be copied from "a" in phar %s
bool(true)
a: hib: hic: hi===DONE===
|
Q:
Get videos from Vimeo channel using AJAX without jQuery
I'm trying to write a simple AJAX method to get a list of videos from Vimeo without using jQuery. I realize that I must use the JSONP format because it is a cross-domain request. However, the result returned is always 200 OK and it is always empty. Here's my method:
var httpRequest = new XMLHttpRequest();
httpRequest.open("GET", "http://vimeo.com/api/v2/channel/staffpicks/videos.json?callback=?", true);
httpRequest.send();
httpRequest.onreadystatechange = function () {
if (httpRequest.readyState == 0) {
console.log("0");
}
if (httpRequest.readyState == 1) {
console.log("1");
}
if (httpRequest.readyState == 2) {
console.log("2");
}
if (httpRequest.readyState == 3) {
console.log("3");
}
if (httpRequest.readyState == 4 && httpRequest.status == 200) {
console.log("4");
}
if (httpRequest.readyState == 4 && httpRequest.status == 404) {
console.log("5");
}
};
The console logs 2, but not 0, 1, 3, 4, or 5. It's always just 2.
By the way, this doesn't have to be a Vimeo request. The only reason I'm using a Vimeo URL is because I don't know how else to test an AJAX request than to hit an actual site.
A:
In retrospect, this is a pretty poor question. It's really two or three questions:
Why does my cross-domain request to Vimeo return 200 OK but it is empty?
Why does the console log 2 but not 0, 1, 3, 4, or 5?
How else can I test an AJAX request other than to hit an actual site?
The answers to questions one and two are below, posted by Alexander and Eswar Rajesh Pinapala, respectively. The answer to question three is to request a local JavaScript file.
One thing I struggled with that others might benefit from is that httpRequest.status throws an exception when httpRequest.readyState is 0 or 1. So this doesn't work:
httpRequest.onreadystatechange = function () {
alert(httpRequest.readyState + httpRequest.status);
};
Here is what worked for me:
try {
httpRequest = new XMLHttpRequest();
console.log("0");
httpRequest.open(options.method, options.url, true);
console.log("1");
httpRequest.send();
} catch (err) {
console.log(err.name + ': ' + err.message + ' (line ' + err.lineNumber + ')');
return false;
}
httpRequest.onreadystatechange = function () {
if (httpRequest.status === 404) {
this.onreadystatechange = null;
return false;
}
if (httpRequest.readyState === 2) {
console.log("2");
} else if (httpRequest.readyState === 3) {
console.log("3");
} else if (httpRequest.readyState === 4) {
console.log("4");
return true;
}
};
The reason for wrapping the constructor, open, and send methods in a try...catch statement is so you can catch any errors that result from a bad filename or something. These will blow up before it ever gets into the onreadystatechange function. The onreadystatechange property is only initialized once the send method has been called.
|
An alleged Islamic hate preacher reported to have been the terror mastermind who recruited the Austrian jihad 'poster girls' and more than 160 others was travelling Europe 'like a popstar on tour', a court heard.
Mirsad Omerovic, 34, known by the Islamic name of 'Ebu Tejma', was arrested in November last year at the council flat he shared with his pregnant wife and five children.
Authorities believe Omerovic, originally from Bosnia now on trial in Austria's southern city of Graz, recruited Samra Kesinovic, 17 and Sabina Selimovic, 16, who became the public face of jihad.
He was also involved in a further 166 defections of European youngsters to fight in holy war.
Tejma's 'main message was that Islam needed to be spread to the world through jihad,' a prosecutor said. He added that Ebu Tejma was travelling through Europe 'like a popstar on tour'.
Poster girls: Samra Kesinovic, 17, (left) and Sabina Selimovic, 16, (right) became radicalised through the cell led by Ebu Tejma
A picture believed to show Sabina Selimovic, 15, with jihadi fighters in Syria. A United Nations official revealed the girl may had died fighting in Syria
Omerovic flat was stuffed with jewellery, cash and savings books worth a fortune when it was stormed by Austria's elite heavily-armed police special forces team WEGA. He had also been spotted driving top-of-the-range sport cars.
Opening his trial in Austria, the prosecutor told the court that Omerovic's 'main message was that Islam needed to be spread to the world through jihad.'
He added that Ebu Tejma was travelling through Europe 'like a popstar on tour'.
And he added that the popstar analogy was particularly appropriate because Omerovic even had his own YouTube channel aimed at young Muslims aged between 14 and their late twenties.
He added it offered 'to carry out brainwashing on those that viewed it'.
The two Austrian teens became the terror organisation's latest PR coup when they turned out to be poster girls for the death cult, and featured on ISIS websites carrying AK-47s and surrounded by groups of armed men.
Neither however has been seen for almost a year, with a Tunisian ISIS returnee telling investigators that Samra had been forced to become a sex slave who was offered as a present to new fighters, and that she was later stoned to death when she tried to escape.
With regards to Sabina, a United Nations official revealed a girl 'of Bosnian origin from Austria' - believed to be Sabina - had died fighting in Syria.
Both had allegedly become radicalised by Omerovic. When they had left their homes, they left a note for their families which read: 'Don't look for us. We will serve Allah and we will die for him.'
Authorities believe Omerovic, originally from Bosnia now on trial in Austria's southern city of Graz, recruited Samra Kesinovic, 17 and Sabina Selimovic, 16, who became the public face of jihad
As well as the two girls, Omerovic has also been linked in with the recruitment of more than 160 others who eventually joined ISIS.
The valuables that were seized at his home had all been provided by Muslims radicalised by the preacher and his cronies in a network that reportedly extended across the country and into the rest of Europe.
The prosecutor also claimed that on his computer a file that was a guide to making an explosive device was found. It was a guidebook to making an explosive device that could be detonated by mobile phone.
His arrest has been seen as a major blow against the terrorist group's activities and now the trial under judge Stephan Mertens is taking place in part behind closed doors to protect the identity of witnesses.
It is the first time a Muslim has been charged with murder through terrorism in Austria and he is also accused of inciting a co-accused in the murder of 'infidels' which could result in up to 20 years in prison.
As well as the two girls, Omerovic has also been linked in with the recruitment of more than 160 others who eventually joined ISIS
Austria has been concerned for years over fears that the country was becoming a hub for terrorist activities after inviting thousands of Muslim refugees into the country during the breakup of the former Yugoslavia
The co-accused is a 28-year-old Russian who was targeted by police because of his violence as the right-hand man of Omerovic.
He is accused of carrying out numerous murders of civilians in Syria as well as the shooting of sex slaves and forcing others out of their homes.
Security service insiders claim that he was not only one of 200 leading jihadists, but was also one of the leaders of the so called 'Bosnian cell' based in the Meidling district of Vienna that it was 'one of the most important logistic and financial support centres for jihadist activities in Europe', according to the 'Vecernje novosti', a local newspaper in Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Austria has been concerned for years over fears that the country was becoming a hub for terrorist activities after inviting thousands of Muslim refugees into the country during the breakup of the former Yugoslavia.
It meant Vienna provided a fertile breeding ground for Omerovic and his network. The Austrian newspaper the Krone claimed that 'there was scarcely a single recruit in Europe for Jihad in which he and his group were not involved'. In preparing the case, the prosecutor also asked German Islam expert Guido Steinberg to analyse YouTube videos that Omerovic had made.
Originally from the small Serbian town of Tutin, Tejma was known in Bosnia and Herzegovina as a preacher of hatred and intolerance, who very soon found himself allied with the extreme form of Islam known as Wahhabism – an ultra-conservative, Saudi brand of Salafism.
According to Austrian anti-terrorism authorities, Tejma appeared on their radar more than three years ago, when he began uploading videos onto his YouTube channel.
His arrest followed two years of investigation by intelligence officials that had been tapping his communications, monitoring his phone calls and building up a picture of his network - which then prompted the arrests on November 28.
One of those connections is allegedly a direct line to the caliph of ISIS terrorism, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi.
Tejma appeared on their radar more than three years ago, when he began uploading videos onto his YouTube channel
The two girls in their new life in a pic posted online. They attended sermons given by Tejma
Investigators saw a constant stream of Salafist Muslims during their operation on Tejma.
Salafism is the fastest-growing Islamic movement in the world. It is rooted in the 19th century where it emerged as a way of combating the spread of European ideas and values.
But in recent years, it has come to be associated with the jihad of extremist groups that advocate the killing of innocent civilians. Lawyers for Omerovic told the court that he would claim to have done nothing more than teaching Islam as he had been trained to do so in Saudi Arabia.
Security services recorded a constant stream of Salafist preachers, often accompanied by Mujahedin fighters travelling up from Bosnia and Herzegovina, to the mosque and the imam has been appearing in online videos revealing that it is every Muslim's duty to join jihad if an Islamic state is under attack from non-believers. |
Q:
Need a non-editable field in POST data, but ModelForm won't let me
I have a Model with a UUID as the pk.
class Product(models.Model):
uuid = models.UUIDField(
primary_key=True,
default=uuid.uuid4,
editable=False)
I need to edit some other fields using a ModelForm and need to submit the UUID in the POST data to identify the Product. At the moment, I get:
django.core.exceptions.FieldError: 'uuid' cannot be specified for Product model form as it is a non-editable field
Obviously I could make the field non-editable to quickly solve this an be done with it. However it seems to me that refusing write access to this field should occur at a lower level of logic than a ModelForm (i.e. I think an exception should be raised upon trying to edit it instead). Is it possible to do this instead?
Edit: sanitized traceback
File "/webapps/myapp/urls.py", line 6, in <module>
from my_app import views
File "/webapps/myapp/views/__init__.py", line 2, in <module>
from .my_view import MyView
File "/webapps/myapp/views/my_view.py", line 12, in <module>
from my_app.forms import ProductForm
File "/webapps/myapp/forms.py", line 5, in <module>
class ProductForm(forms.ModelForm):
File "/webapps/myapp/lib/python3.5/site-packages/django/forms/models.py", line 242, in __new__
opts.field_classes)
File "/webapps/myapp/lib/python3.5/site-packages/django/forms/models.py", line 138, in fields_for_model
f.name, model.__name__)
django.core.exceptions.FieldError: 'uuid' cannot be specified for Product model form as it is a non-editable field
And form code:
class ProductForm(forms.ModelForm):
uuid = forms.UUIDField(required=False, widget=forms.HiddenInput())
A:
Specify instance argument of form to change existing object:
def edit_product(request, uuid):
product = get_object_or_404(Product, uuid=uuid)
...
if request.method == 'POST':
form = ProductForm(request.POST, instance=product)
if form.is_valid():
form.save()
...
|
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Barbara Steele
The most beautiful star of the greatest horror masterpiece of Italian film, Black Sunday (1960): Barbara Steele was born on December 29, 1937 in Birkenhead, Cheshire, England. Barbara is loved by her fans for her talent, intelligence, and a dark, mysterious beauty that is unique; her face epitomizes either sweet innocence, or malign evil (she is ... See full bio » |
Posts tagged with the keyword: ‘plastic container’
Now that you have your meals planned and your food already precooked, it comes time to actually assemble your meals. Typically, this is done in advance so that you don’t have to worry about it when meal time arrives.
Meal assembly is simply the process of grabbing the precooked portions of carbs, protein and fats that you have on your meal plan and preparing them for either eating immediately or taking with you to eat later. Here is how it is done:
In the previous article, I talked about the benefits of eating healthy food every three hours. Now we’ll take a look at some of the handy kitchen items needed to ease your passage into a healthy lifestyle. Many of you will already have most of these items, while others with a sparse kitchen may not. |
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The B'nai Brith Canada Institute for International Affairs has a mandate to protest the abuse of human rights throughout the world and advocate on behalf of worldwide Jewish communities in distress. The Institute has a special focus on pro-Israel advocacy and education.
Rochelle WilnerPresident
Frank DimantChief Executive Officer
Amos SochaczevskiNational Chair
Ruth KleinNational Director
ISRAEL AND THE PALESTINIANS:Myths and Realities
by David Matas, LL.B., M.A.Senior Legal Counsel,Bnai Brith Canada
When the member states of the United Nations gather to discuss racism, anti-racist advocates have cause for concern. Will racism be condemned or endorsed; will the fight against racism be advanced or set back?
It is a victory for the anti-racist community, albeit a modest one, if the member states of the United Nations do not endorse racism. For the anti-racist community, the convening of a United Nations conference on racism becomes an exercise in damage control. Time, effort and money have to be poured into the struggle to prevent the inter-governmental community from reinforcing racism.
The Jewish community is a primary victim of twentieth century racism. The global response to the horrors of the Holocaust - the murder of six million Jews and the attempt to extinguish the whole Jewish people - was two-fold. The first response was the elaboration of human rights instruments and mechanisms, starting with the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The second was the acceptance by the world community of the need to create the State of Israel.
While the Universal Declaration of Human Rights met with consensus, the creation of the State of Israel did not. There remain to this day states at war with Israel, which refuse to recognize its existence and call for its destruction. Discussions at United Nations fora have become a reflection and a continuation of this war against Israel. Enemies of Israel have attempted to use the United Nations in a variety of ways to wage a campaign to delegitimize the State of Israel.
World conferences against racism have been front and centre in this anti-Israel attack. The 1978 conference, held in Geneva, recalled, with deep regret as part of its concluding declarationi the prevention of the return of the Palestinian people to their homes and the establishment therein of settlers from abroad. The 1983 conference, also held in Geneva, in condemning apartheid, singled out Israel alone for its trade with South Africa from amongst all the nations engaged in discreet bilateral trading with that pariah state.ii Similarly, the conference recalled with deep regret the practices of racial discrimination in Israel.iii
The preparatory discussions to the 2001 World Conference Against Racism, which will be held in August 31-September 7, 2001 in Durban, South Africa, have held up a similar spectre of condemnation of Israel. The Asian preparatory meeting for the World Conference, held February 2001 in Tehran (from which Israel was barred), expressed deep concern that Palestinian refugees are prevented from returning to their homes and properties because of a racially based Law of Return.iv The Tehran Declaration further recognized the right of return of the Palestinian refugees.
The following text sets out some of the criticisms of Israel that have surfaced at the United Nations before the third World Conference Against Racism and provides responses to those criticisms. Some of these criticisms are themselves racist. Yet, it is likely that they will be presented both at the non-governmental and inter-governmental fora in Durban. They may even be endorsed by the World Conference, as they were by the two previous World Conferences. These criticisms should be answered, rather than ignored.
Criticism: Zionism is racism.
Response: Zionism, the belief in the need for the State of Israel, is an assertion of human rights. Zionism asserts the right to the self-determination of the Jewish people and the right to preserve their cultural identity.
The Holocaust, though it left some Jews alive, completely extinguished Jewish shtetl culture in Europe. The survival of Israel is necessary today not only to protect its Jewish residents from those who would drive Jews in the Middle East into the sea. It is necessary as well for the cultural survival of the Jewish people. The end of the State of Israel would be a continuation of the Holocaust, a rejection of its human rights legacy, and an act of cultural genocide against the Jewish people everywhere.
The right to self-determination of peoples is the only human right that is to be found in both the 1966 International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights and the 1966 International Covenant on Economic Social and Cultural Rights. Its presence in both Covenants underlines its nature as a foundation for all rights.
The right to self-determination of a people does not always mean a right to statehood. However, it coalesces into a right to statehood whenever the rights of a people are violated in so gross and flagrant a manner that to expect the people to remain under the government of the perpetrators would be inhumane.v
If ever a people has earned through its suffering the right to statehood, it is the Jewish people. Throughout history, racism and its victims were found everywhere, but the scale and scope of the Final Solution was unprecedented. While the Nazis and their cohorts proceeded with plans to exterminate the Jews of Europe, countries around the world denied the victims refuge from persecution and death. After the war, in contrast, Nazi mass murderers found havens from prosecution with ease.
The horrors of the Holocaust discredited traditional antisemitism. Yet, antisemitism did not die. For many member states of the United Nations, it has become anti-Zionism. Israel has become the Jew amongst nations, condemned for sins it did not commit and targeted for destruction.
Anti-Zionism is typically a form of anti-Jewish racism, the assertion that the Jewish people, alone amongst the peoples of the world, do not have the right to self-determination.
Turning racist discourse on its head, in 1975 the United Nations General Assembly, by a vote of 89 to 67, passed a resolution declaring that Zionism is a form of racism. That resolution sat on the books until 1991 when it was revoked by a vote of 87 to 25. There remain, from the last recorded vote, at least 25 states that maintain the position that Zionism is a form of racism. That resolution was not an innocent mistake regarding the nature of racism, but rather a conscious attempt to delegitimize Israel and deny the Jewish people their right to self-determination.
Criticism: The Israeli Law of Return is racist because it allows Jews admission to Israel on the basis that they are Jewish.
Response: The Holocaust was possible because there was no state to which the Jews could flee. If Israel had existed before World War II, the Holocaust would not have happened.
Even after the war, it was easier for Nazis who perpetrated the Holocaust to get out of the displaced persons camps and find resettlement than it was for Jewish survivors. Before the creation of the State of Israel, Jewish survivors sat in refugee camps in Europe with little hope of relocation.
The Holocaust dictates not only that there should be a Jewish state, but also what kind of state it should be. The failure by countries around the globe to grant refuge to Jews fleeing the Holocaust and its aftermath tells us that a Jewish state has to be a place of refuge to Jews from all over the world.
Moreover, Israel was the logical choice for this place of refuge given that it was the ancient state of the Jewish people. Even after the expulsion of the Jews from their national homeland by the Romans in 70 AD, there has always been an unbroken chain of attachment and longing to return, as well as a continuous Jewish presence in the land of their forefathers.
This right of refuge is recognized in the Israeli Law of Return. This law is more than righting a historical wrong by providing a haven to survivors of the Holocaust. It has contemporary relevance because of continuing antisemitism, including the wave of antisemitism unleashed in the Middle East by the wars against Israel, and in some countries of Central and Eastern Europe by the replacement of communism with chauvinism. Only Israel offers an escape to every single victim of continuing antisemitism.
The phrase Zionism is racism is a blatant form of language distortion. Its repeal did not mean that the desire to obliterate the State of Israel and deny the right to self-determination of the Jewish people has ended. The desire rather has taken other more indirect linguistic forms. Instead of calling Zionism a form of racism, some member states of the United Nations have called the Israeli Law of Return racist.
This bandying about of the charge of racism, throwing it at Israel - the state of the survivor community of the most vicious racism - aside from its perversity and cruelty, ignores what racism is. Race has no objective scientific or anthropological meaning. There are not multiple human races, only one human race.
The 1951 United Nations Convention on Refugees obligates signatory states to provide protection to those who have a well-founded fear of persecution by reason of five listed grounds. One of these grounds is race. To fit within this category, the person does not actually have to be of a certain race that is targeted for persecution. Rather, the person has to be perceived by the persecutor to be of the race designated for victimization.
The concept of race has to be distinguished from the concept of a people. The two concepts are, in fact, exact opposites. A race is defined others, by the persecutor. A people is self-defined by the people themselves. They decide who can become members. Individuals decide whether or not they want to become members of that people. Integral to the right of self-determination of peoples is the right to determine who is eligible for membership. Once outsiders can say who is and who is not eligible to be a member of any given people, the right to self-determination is gone.
The Israeli Law of Return is an integral part of the right to the self-determination of the Jewish people, because it is an expression by the Jewish people of who their members are. Labelling Israels Law of Return as racist is, like labelling Zionism as racism, yet another form of delegitimization and denial of the right to self-determination of the Jewish people.
Just as anti-Zionism is a form of racism, by denying to the Jewish people the right of self-determination, so is opposition to the Israeli Law of Return, since it denies the Jewish people the right to determine their own membership. The right to self-determination cannot exist without the right to self-definition. To say that the Jewish people do not have the right to self-definition is to say that the right of self-determination exists for other peoples, but not for the Jews.
Criticism: The Israeli Law of Return is racist because it is based on ancestry or blood lines.
Response: The Israeli Law of Return considers a person as Jewish if the person was born a Jew or has converted to Judaism, and is not a member of another religion [Article 4B]. Judaism is a religion that anyone can join. While it does not proselytize, it does accept converts. It is impossible to call a law racist when anyone who chooses, by converting to Judaism, can take advantage of the law.
Race is often identified with colour. Yet, Jews come in every colour. There are black Jews, Falashas, who - under the Law of Return - were airlifted from Ethiopia to Israel by the Israeli government. One cannot brand a law racist that encompasses all races.
Citizenship laws across the globe allow parents to pass on their citizenship to their children. For instance, a child born of a Canadian parent is Canadian, no matter where in the world the child is born. The child can maintain Canadian citizenship throughout his or her life without ever entering Canada, provided that the person establishes a substantial connection with Canada.vi A citizenship law cannot be racist simply because it is based on birth.
The basic law of Germany allows anyone to become a citizen who is the descendant of a person who was a German citizen and was deprived of that citizenship on political, racial or religious grounds between January 30, 1933 and May 8, 1945.vii The person does not have to be a first generation descendant. This German law is itself informally called a Law of Return, yet no United Nations resolution has ever suggested that this German Law of Return is racist.
Criticism: The Israeli Law of Return discriminates against those who are not Jewish.
Response: The Israeli Law of Return distinguishes between those who are Jewish and are those who are not Jewish, but does not discriminate against those who are not Jewish. Not every legal distinction amounts to discrimination. A prohibition against discrimination does not encompass any law that has as its object improving the lot of the disadvantaged, including those disadvantaged because of race or religion.viii
The Israeli Law of Return exists as a protection against the racism Jews have suffered and continue to suffer. The law is a form of affirmative action, making sure that Jews who are at risk elsewhere around the world can seek and obtain protection in Israel.
In principle, every person who is the victim of antisemitic discrimination should be considered Jewish under the Law of Return whether, objectively, the person has any cultural or religious ties with Judaism or not. If racists target a person as Jewish, then a law and a state created to protect Jews should offer protection to that person. Offering protection to the victims of racism does not make the protector racist. Acknowledging the existence of racism and the need to defend against it is the antithesis of racism.
The Law of Return encompasses within its definition of a Jew those who had been targeted by the Nazi race laws. It includes in its definition of a Jew every person who was born of a Jewish mother.ix The Law further provides that the rights of a Jew are vested in a child and a grandchild of a Jew, the spouse of a Jew, the spouse of a child of a Jew, and the spouse of a grandchild of a Jew. The only exception to this law is a person who has been a Jew and who has voluntarily changed his religion.x
The Jewish community has learned through bitter experience who is likely to be targeted by antisemites for hatred and destruction. The Nazi Nuremberg race laws, attached as an appendix to this report, are a flagrant example.xi Calling the Israeli Law of Return racist means rejecting the notion that Jews have been disadvantaged and, in many countries, are still disadvantaged. The State of Israel, through its Law of Return, offers protection to all such people. It confounds logic, language and common sense to argue that a law designed to protect targets of racist persecution is itself racist.
Criticism: Palestinians have a right of return to Israel.
Response: The call for a Palestinian right of return is an eerie form of mimicry of the language of the Israeli Law of Return. It defies language and logic for states in one breath to call the Israeli Law of Return racist and in the next to call for a Palestinian right of return.
The claimed Palestinian right of return is not a right, since it is recognized neither in Israeli law nor in international law.xii Nor is it about return, since it is applied to millions of people who have never set foot in Israel.
There are reportedly 6.5 million Palestinians around the world who trace their descent from Arabs who lived in Palestine before 1948 and who identify themselves as Palestinians. Potentially all of these 6.5 million people would benefit from the asserted right of return.
As of December 30, 1999, according to the Government of Israel Central Bureau of Statistics, the population of Israel was 6.2 million people, of which 4.9 million were Jews. To introduce into that population a potential 6.5 million Arab Palestinians would mean that the Jewish character of the State of Israel would end, the preservation of the cultural identity of the Jewish people would be threatened and the right to the self-determination of the Jewish people would be defeated.
International human rights law allows for restriction on freedom of movement in order to allow for the preservation of the cultural identity of a people.xiii If for no other reason, Israel is justified in preventing the entry of 6.5 non-Jewish Palestinians into Israel in order to preserve the cultural identity of the Jewish people.
The coupling of a policy of entry into the Jewish State of Israel of a potential 6.5 million Palestinian Arabs together with a policy that would deny Jews around the world the right to seek refuge in Israel, should be seen for what it is: a naked attempt to end the right to self-determination of the Jewish people. The massive influx of a population that shares neither the language, nor the culture, nor the religion of the Jewish people would mean the end of Israel as the state for the Jewish people.
There may be some who assert the right of return for Palestinians without any awareness of the impact it would have on the Jewish people. Others are aware but either do not care, or worse, support that impact. For those in support, the right of return of the Palestinian people is today what the final solution to the Jewish problem was in the days of Hitler, a mask of words disguising the end result: a denial of the Jewish peoples right to a national identity in its historic homeland.
Criticism: Every person has a right of entry to his own country. Because Israel is the country of the Palestinians, Palestinians have a right of entry to Israel.
Response: The Universal Declaration of Human Rights asserts a right of return. However, the treaty that followed this provision, the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, does not. The closest provision within the Covenant to a right of return is the right of entry.
The Universal Declaration of Human Rights provides, in article 13(2), that everyone has the right to return to his country. The International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights provides, in Article 12(4) that: No one shall be arbitrarily deprived of the right to enter his own country.
The Human Rights Committee established under the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights General Comments on Freedom of Movementxiv states as a general principle that a country is a persons own country if the person, because of his or her special ties to or claims in relation to that country, cannot be considered to be a mere alien. The Committee gives three examples:
the person has been stripped of his or her nationality in violation of international law,
the country of nationality has been incorporated in or transferred to another national entity, whose nationality is being denied them, and
the person is stateless, a permanent resident of the country and arbitrarily deprived of the right to acquire the nationality of that country.
Neither the examples nor the general principle apply to Israel. Israel has not stripped Palestinians of their nationality in violation of international law. The country of nationality of the Palestinians has not been incorporated in or transferred to Israel. Stateless Palestinians are not permanent residents of Israel arbitrarily deprived of the right to acquire the nationality of Israel.
More generally, Israel is not the country of stateless Palestinian refugees. These refugees do not have special ties to or claims in relation to Israel. Each of these points is elaborated in what follows.
Criticism: Palestinians have been stripped of their nationality in Israel in violation of international law.
Response: Palestinians who claim a right of return to Israel never had nationality in Israel, and never were stripped of that nationality. There are alive today some Palestinians who had been offered the nationality of British Mandate Palestine. However, British Mandate Palestine no longer exists. These Palestinians lost their nationality in British Mandate Palestine because it no longer exists.
Criticism: The country of nationality of Palestinians, British Mandate Palestine, has been transferred to Israel, whose nationality is being denied them.
Response: The area currently under discussion comprises about one fifth of the original Mandate of Palestine which was awarded to Britain by the League of Nations on April 25, 1920. The remainder was subsequently ceded to the Hashemites to form Transjordan, the precursor of modern-day Jordan, of which approximately two thirds of the population are of Palestinian origin.
According to United Nations General Assembly Resolution 181 of November 29, 1947, there were to be two states created out of the remaining area of British Mandate Palestine west of the Jordan - a Jewish state and an Arab state.
The resolution recommended the adoption of a plan of partition that stated: Independent Arab and Jewish States...shall come into existence in Palestine. The details of the partition plan are superseded by United Nations Security Council Resolutions 242 and 338 of 1967 and 1973 respectively. However, the principle that there would be two states in the land of Palestine, one Jewish and one Arab, has not been superceded.
The suspended animation of the future Arab state in part of the territory of British Mandate Palestine has prevented the application of the principles of state succession. The Arab state, once created, may and certainly should allow Palestinian refugees to acquire the nationality of that state. Palestinian self-determination in its own state does not depend on a right of return to the State of Israel.
The Draft Articles on Nationality of Natural Persons in Relation to the Succession of States, adopted by the International Law Commission in July 1999, deal with the situation where a state ceases to exist and the various parts of the territory of the predecessor state form two or more successor states. One article attributes nationality based on habitual residence.xv Another article grants a right of option.xvi
The trouble with using these provisions is that, even though the predecessor state, British Mandate Palestine, has dissolved and ceased to exist, there are not now two successor states on the territory of the old Palestine west of the Jordan as envisaged by Resolution 181. It is impossible for the International Law Commission Draft Articles on Nationality of Natural Persons in Relation to the Succession of States to operate according to their terms until the Arab state in British Mandate Palestine west of the Jordan is created, and its law of nationality is legislated. Some of those Palestinians who left the territory of what has now become Israel, before its creation, left because they wanted to live in an Arab Palestine state rather than in a Jewish state. Today, presumably, Palestinian refugees would prefer to live in an Arab Palestinian state rather than a Jewish state.
As explained later, it is not altogether apparent that the principles set out in the draft articles cited above should apply to British Mandate Palestine. However, even if these principles are applied, the delayed creation of an Arab state in that area cannot create a right to nationality in the Jewish state. If the Arab state, once created, would be the country of Palestinian refugees, the delay in its creation cannot now make Israel the country of Palestinian refugees.
Criticism: Palestinians are stateless. They or their ancestors were permanent residents in what is now Israel. They have been arbitrarily deprived of the right to acquire Israeli nationality.
Response: Palestinians are not now permanent residents of Israel. Most of them have never been permanent residents of territory that is in Israel. They have not been arbitrarily deprived of the right to acquire Israeli nationality for the reasons given in the previous response.
The 1961 Convention on the Reduction of Statelessness attempts to address the problem of statelessness by committing signatory states to a series of rules for granting nationality to those who would otherwise be stateless. Israel signed the Convention, but has not yet ratified it. The 1969 Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties provides that a state is obliged to refrain from acts which would defeat the object and purpose of a treaty when it has signed the treaty, subject to ratification, unless and until it has made its intention clear not to become a party to the treaty.xvii
The denial of Israeli citizenship to stateless Palestinian refugees would not defeat the object and purpose of the Treaty. Palestinian refugees never had the citizenship of Israel. So the provisions of the Convention obligating states not to deprive certain persons of nationality do not apply to Israel and the Palestinian refugees.
There is nothing in the Convention on the Reduction of Statelessness dealing with the dissolution of a predecessor state and its succession by two new states. The general rule in the Convention is that a contracting state shall grant its nationality to a person born in its territory who would otherwise be stateless.xviii By now, the majority of the Palestinian refugees have been born outside of the territory that later became Israel.
Even for those born in the territory of what later became Israel, the problem arises caused by the delay in the creation of the Arab state envisaged in British Mandate Palestine west of the Jordan River. When that Arab state is created, would Palestinian refugees otherwise be stateless? In principle, they should not be, because the new Palestinian state should give all Palestinian refugees an option of acquiring nationality in that state. The delay in the creation of that state, here too, cannot create a right to nationality in Israel that would not otherwise exist. Insofar as statelessness has resulted because the Arab state has not yet come into existence, the remedy for that statelessness would be the creation of the Arab state, and not the creation of nationality in the State of Israel.
Criticism: A country with which a person has genuine and effective links is the persons own country. Israel is the country of the Palestinians because that is the country with which Palestinians have genuine and effective links. Palestinians have genuine and effective links with Israel because their ancestors came from there; they are attached to the territory, and that attachment is inculcated in their children.
Response: There are people who have links with countries of which they are not nationals that are far stronger than the links of Palestinian refugee with Israel. Anyone who accepts the principle that a country with which a person has genuine and effective links is the persons own country must apply that principle first to these other people, before it is applied to the Palestinians.
The notion that a country is the persons own country because the person has genuine and effective links with that country most commonly arises when a Western country attempts to deport a Third World national who has lived in that country for many years, without having national status there. It is common for a deportee from a Western country to argue that, under international law, the deportation is illegal. This argument rests on the claim that even though the deportee is not a national of the country from which he or she is being deported, that country is his or her own country since the person has genuine and effective links with it.
These deportees may have been born in the country and spent their whole lives there. They may know the language of the country, and not that of the country of their nationality. They may be acculturated to the country that seeks to deport them and alienated from their country of nationality; all their immediate family may be resident and even nationals there. It is impossible to call for recognition of a right of return of Palestinians, because of genuine and effective links to Israeli territory, without first calling for an end to Western deportations of Third World immigrants and visitors from the countries with which they have established genuine and effective links.
Even if one were to accept that many non-nationals ordered deported have a right to remain in the country trying to deport them, it does not necessarily follow that Palestinian refugees have a right of entry to Israel. The ties of Palestinian refugees to Israel are more akin to those of emigrants to their country of emigration than to those of deportees to the country that seeks to deport them.
Acceptance by the world in general of the right of entry asserted by Palestinian refugees would mean unscrambling history. The consequence would be that millions of descendants of emigrés would have a right of entry to their ancestral countries.
A right of return based on genuine and effective links would apply to virtually everyone in the Americas. Except for its aboriginal population, everyone in the Americas has an ancestor born abroad. Many people in the Americas show an attachment to a country of their ancestors and inculcate that attachment in their children. There are, as well, many millions of descendents who fit this description in the rest of the world. It would create havoc to grant all those people a right of return to the country of their ancestors.
Criticism: The Nottebohm case in the International Court of Justice supports the claimed right of return of Palestinians to Israel.
Response: The non-governmental organizations Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International have both endorsed the claimed right of return of Palestinians to Israel.xix In doing so, they have abandoned their human rights mandates and called for a human rights violation. The organizations have been led astray, in part, by a misreading of the Nottebohm case in the International Court of Justice.xx
Friedrich Nottebohm was a German national carrying on business in Guatemala from 1905. He took out Liechtenstein nationality in 1939, after the outbreak of World War II, and, by so doing, lost German nationality. Guatemala was at war with Germany, but not with Liechtenstein. In 1943 Guatemala, as a result of war measures, refused to readmit Nottebohm after he left.
Liechtenstein claimed before the World Court that Guatemala had acted towards its national, Nottebohm, in a manner contrary to international law. The Court ruled that the ties of Nottebohm to Liechtenstein were so tenuous that Liechtenstein was not entitled to invoke Nottebohms nationality against Guatemala.
In order to determine whether ties are tenuous or whether there are genuine and effective links with a country, the Court proposed specific criteria. Those were: habitual residence of the individual concerned, the centre of his interests, his family ties, his participation in public life, the attachment shown by him for a given country and whether that attachment was inculcated in his children. Those criteria, applied to Nottebohm, did not point to Liechtenstein.
Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International have drawn support from this case for the claimed Palestinian right of return. These organizations argue that Israel is the country of the Palestinians because Palestinians have genuine and effective links with Israel. They claim that at least some of the Nottebohm criteria apply, that Palestinians have an attachment to territory within the boundaries of Israel and that attachment is inculcated in their children.
It should be pointed out that the Court in the Nottebohm case did not deal with the situation where a person has no nationality. It is a stretch to apply the Nottebohm case to the situation of the Palestinians who have no nationality.
However, if one does so, one can see that the Nottebohm case does not support the position argued by Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International. On the contrary, the case supports the completely opposite position, that Israel is not the country of the Palestinians.
The Court in the Nottebohm case observed that, at the time of his eviction from Guatemala in 1943, Friedrich Nottebohm had been settled in Guatemala for thirty-four years. Guatemala was the centre of his interests and business activities. If the reasoning of Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International were correct, then the Court would have considered Nottebohm to have had effective nationality in Guatemala. Guatemala could not have refused to admit him, not because they were obliged to recognize Liechtenstein nationality, but because he was, in reality, Guatemalan.
The Court did not condemn the Guatemalan refusal to readmit Nottebohm as an enemy alien. By the time the case was decided, the war with Germany was long since over, yet the Court did not rule that Nottebohm had a right of return to Guatemala.
Even if we put aside the question of whether Guatemala was the country of Nottebohm and consider only Liechtenstein, here too, the reasoning of the Court undercuts, rather than supports, the position of Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International. Nottebohm chose Liechtenstein. Yet, the Court held that this choice should be disregarded and that the matter should be viewed objectively.
Palestinian refugees may well want to go to Israel. However, if we are to follow the Nottebohm reasoning, then this choice must be disregarded.
Viewed objectively, Palestinian refugees who have never set foot in Israel and are not Jewish either by culture or religion have far more real, genuine and effective links with the Palestinian state in the making than with Israel. Those links must be viewed in combination with the right to self-determination of the Jewish people and the large number of stateless Palestinian refugees. The result is that stateless Palestinian refugees who have never set foot in Israel would have a right of entry to a new Palestinian state only, and not a right of entry to Israel.
Criticism: United Nations General Assembly Resolution 194 recognizes the claimed Palestinian right of return.
Response: The Asian preparatory meeting for the World Conference, held in Tehran in February 2001, referred to General Assembly Resolution 194 in support of the claimed Palestinian right of return. It was the sole reference in the document to support that right.
An examination of that resolution shows that it asserts no such right. Rather it resolves that the refugees wishing to return to their homes and live at peace with their neighbours should be permitted to do so at the earliest practicable date.xxi The Resolution registers support, from some of the nations of the world, for granting permission to Palestinian refugees to return, not for a right of return. The language of rights was neither used nor intended.
The support for permission to return was subject to a precondition. The refugees must be willing to live at peace with their neighbours. Yet, many of the countries in the Arab world that host Palestinian refugees remain at war with Israel. Granting permission to return, according to the resolution, was envisaged as a measure to follow a full and lasting peace with Israel, and not to precede peace.
The resolution supports granting permission to return to the refugees alone, and not to their descendants. Of course, in 1948 the nations of the world could not have anticipated that the Palestinian refugee problem would remain unresolved 53 years later. Nonetheless, that resolution cannot be read as support for the proposition that millions of adult descendants of the original refugees, who have never set foot in Israel, should be granted permission to enter Israel.
The use of the word permission has its own special significance. The word acknowledges that the right to allow or to deny entry rests with Israel. The resolution recommends to Israel that its admitted power of entry to its own territory be exercised in a particular way.
Reliance on Resolution 194 in support of the claimed Palestinian right of return is a form of Orwellian double speak, saying two opposites at one and the same time, and believing in both with equal fervour. No state would accept that non-nationals have a right of entry into that states territory simply because of historic links to the territory. Every state would assert that this entry into its own territory is a sovereign right of the state, subject to its permission, and not the right of the foreign national. Yet, these same states interpret Resolution 194, which asserts this sovereign right, as somehow creating a right in non-nationals which Israel must respect, completely disregarding Israel’s own sovereign rights.
In a democracy, majority rules. To avoid a tyranny of the majority over disadvantaged minorities, democracies, as well, entrench human rights protections in their constitutions. In the United Nations General Assembly, the majority does not rule. The majority of the General Assembly may or may not reflect the majority of the worlds population. Micro-states like Kiribati or Tuvalu have the same vote as states with massive populations like China or India.
States voting at the General Assembly may or may not be democracies reflecting the will of their people. Repressive governments at odds with the will of their people cast votes in the General Assembly which have the same numerical weight as the votes of democratic states.
The General Assembly does not rule. General Assembly resolutions cannot be equated to statutes of a legislature. The Charter of the United Nations gives the General Assembly power to make recommendations only.xxii
There is no institutional mechanism, paralleling the courts in democracies, which can invalidate General Assembly votes that fail to meet international human rights standards. The only mechanism available is public disregard. If a General Assembly vote fails to respect the human rights of a minority, the vote should be ignored. That should be so even where the resolution represents the will of the majority of the states of the globe.
When the General Assembly passes a resolution respectful of human rights by consensus obligating each and every state, and the resolution is coupled with state practice in conformity with the resolution, then something has happened that approaches legal force. When the General Assembly passed the Universal Declaration of Human Rights by consensus, that was more than just a statement of political opinion.
However, when the General Assembly passes a vote on what Israel should or should not do, that vote tells us the political position of each and every state that votes in relation to Israel and nothing more. Such a vote binds neither the planet, nor Israel, nor the states voting in favour.
Resolution 194 was not passed unanimously, nor by consensus. Thus, it is not legally binding on any party. In particular, the Arab states voted against Resolution 194. There is obvious hypocrisy in the Arab states that voted against resolution 194 now saying to states that voted for the resolution: You are bound by your vote, but we are not bound by ours.
Even if resolution 194 could be read as an endorsement of the claimed Palestinian right of return, that endorsement should be disregarded because, as argued elsewhere, it does not respect the rights of the Jewish people. Human rights standards thus invalidate the vote.
There are many United Nations General Assembly resolutions that appear to support the Palestinian right of return.xxiiiIt is odd that the Tehran Declaration would cite a UN resolution that does not endorse the claimed Palestinian right of return and profess that it does, rather than cite UN resolutions which do appear to support a Palestinian right of return. It is also strange that Arab states would now invoke a resolution they had earlier opposed, and pass over resolutions they have always supported.
The answer presumably lies in the date of Resolution 194. The resolution was passed on December 11, 1948, following closely upon the creation of the State of Israel on May 14, 1948. While later resolutions asserting the Palestinian right of return were passed around the time of the resolution equating Zionism with racism, Resolution 194 was passed by a General Assembly not in the thralls of the reflex anti-Israel majority that developed subsequently. Thus, it is evidently seen by the enemies of Israel as a sort of admission by the then friends of Israel. This reliance on Resolution 194 should be seen for what it is, a cheap debating trick rather than an international law argument.
Criticism: The Palestinian right of return to Israel, because of its repeated acceptance by the majority of the states of the globe, has become customary international law.
Response: Customary international law is a custom or practice by states which they consider binding upon themselves. An example would be the principle that, in all actions concerning children undertaken by the state, the best interests of the child shall be a primary consideration. There is a widespread practice around the world by states giving the best interests of children primary consideration. States everywhere consider the practice binding upon themselves. The 1989 United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child,xxivwhich asserts this principle, has been signed by every state in the world except Somalia. The only reason Somalia has not signed is that it has no government in place that the international community recognizes as having the authority to sign the Convention.
Once a customary international law exists, it binds the whole international community, not just those who have been instrumental in establishing the law. So, for instance, the principle that, in all actions concerning children undertaken by the state, the best interests of the child shall be a primary consideration binds Somalia, even though Somalia has not signed the Convention on the Rights of the Child.
In order for there to be customary international law, there must be law, that is to say, a general principle; it must be customary; and it must be international. The claimed Palestinian right of return meets none of these criteria. It is, first of all, not a general principle. It is a particular situational assertion. The general principles invoked in support of the claimed right of return, the right to enter ones own country or the right to nationality, do not, as argued elsewhere in this paper, give Palestinians a right of return to Israel.
Second, it is not customary. A custom requires repetition of certain behaviour by many states over a long period, in the conviction that there exists an obligation to act in this way. A general principle on which Palestinians could rely to give them the right they assert is the principle that descendants have the right of entry into the country of their ancestors. Yet, there is no general practice around the world of giving non-national descendants the right of entry into the country of their ancestors. A custom of this nature simply does not exist.
Third, it is not international. Those states that support the right of return claimed for Palestinians are asserting a claim against one state only, Israel. They are not accepting any principle as binding upon themselves.
A large number of states ganging up on Israel does not make Israel’s existence illegal, only unpopular. When Israels critics condemn it for its failure to recognize the claimed Palestinian right of return, the true quarrel they have with Israel is its existence. What Israel has done to justify the criticism is survive. The only thing that will satisfy anti-Zionist critics is Israels destruction.
Criticism: The right of return claimed for Palestinians has been recognized elsewhere in other situations.
Response: Analogies with other situations are never exact. The Palestinian Liberation Organization put out a Factfile dated April 2000, with a section entitled The Right of Return and of Compensation in Other Selected Cases. The cases listed are the former Yugoslavia, Abkhazia/Georgia, Cyprus, Namibia-South Africa, and Iraq-Kuwait. Yet, in none of these cases is the situation the same as that in Israel. Except for the former Yugoslavia, all are single state situations. Also, the division of Cyprus has not been recognized by the international community. Thus, these “Other Selected Cases” are not analogies to the case of Israel today.
On the break-up of the former Yugoslavia, there was no acceptance by the international community of its division into ethnic or religions components to parallel the international acceptance of the partition of British Mandate Palestine into a Jewish state and an Arab state. There was no genocide that preceded the break up of the former Yugoslavia prompting the international community to assert the right to self-determination of any one of its religious or ethnic communities.
The closest one can come to a historical parallel to the creation of Jewish and Arab states out of British Mandate Palestine is the partition of the Indian subcontinent in 1947 and the creation of two states, one predominantly Moslem - Pakistan, and one predominantly Hindu - India. After partition, there was a mass movement of Hindus from Pakistan to India, and of Moslems from India to Pakistan, in the midst of wide scale armed combat. The international community does not now assert a right of return of those who moved after partition of the Indian subcontinent, whether those who relocated moved voluntarily or out of fear. This silence about the Indian subcontinent speaks volumes about the claimed Palestinian right of return.
Criticism: The solution to the problem of statelessness of the Palestinians is Israeli nationality.
Response: The Palestinian people are a population of stateless refugees for which no solution acceptable to them has yet been found. There is a real problem, but the existence of the State of Israel is not the cause. Its destruction is not the solution.
The preferred solution under international law to the problem of statelessness is not nationality in a state in whose territory ancestors have lived, but rather nationality in the state where the descendants have been born. The United Nations Convention on the Reduction of Statelessness has, as mentioned, a general rule that a contracting state shall grant its nationality to a person born in its territory.
The Convention is not widely accepted, having only twenty-one state parties, so it cannot be considered as customary international law. Since the Convention has not been signed and ratified by most of the states where stateless Palestinian refugees have been born, these states cannot be held to account for violation of the Convention. Nonetheless, the Convention provides a useful guide or standard.
The solution to the problem of statelessness of Palestinian refugees is the grant of nationality by the states in whose territories Palestinians have been born. It is the failure of these Arab states to grant nationality to Palestinians, as well as the failure to reach a peace agreement that would establish a Palestinian state, which created the problem of statelessness for the Palestinians, and not the existence of the State of Israel.
Criticism: The solution to the Palestinian refugee problem is repatriation to Israel.
Response: For refugees, the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees promotes three durable solutions: local integration, third country resettlement and voluntary repatriation. These durable solutions are not part of any treaty. However, their support by the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees and its Executive Committee does give them an international status.
The notion of voluntary repatriation of stateless refugees is an oxymoron. Stateless refugees, by definition, have no country of nationality. There is no country to which stateless refugees can be repatriated.
Some of the stateless Palestinian refugees once had been offered nationality in a state that no longer exists, British Mandate Palestine. Other stateless Palestinian refugees never had nationality anywhere and, with the exception of Jordan, were commonly denied citizenship in Arab countries. It is legitimate to ask whether either Israel or the Palestinian state in the making should become for the first time, the country of nationality of stateless Palestinian refugees. However, in answering that question, we must keep in mind that what we are talking about is patriation, not repatriation.
In general, the community of nations should share the responsibility for resettlement of refugees. Israel has done more than its fair share of resettlement of the worlds refugee population. This is because of its Law of Return and the protection it has given to hundreds of thousands of Jewish refugees fleeing antisemitism, including Holocaust survivors from the Displaced Persons Camps of Europe, and between 700,000-800,000 Jews fleeing persecution in Arab lands primarily in the years of 1948-1952.xxv Shlomo Deshen and Moshe Shokeid, The Predicament of Homecoming: Cultural and Social Life of North African Immigrants in Israel, Cornell University Press, 1974 Israel has also accepted the entry of 100,000 Palestinians in the framework of family reunification. There are other countries that have done a good deal less than Israel in resettling refugees and who could provide a durable solution to the problems Palestinian refugees face.
Criticism: Even if there is no Palestinian right of return while the war against Israel continues, the right arises once there is peace. A final peace agreement with Israel must include a Palestinian right of return.
Response: In general, a peace agreement should be settled between the parties to the agreement. It is inappropriate for outsiders to say what should or should not be in a peace agreement. For outsiders to insist that one provision or another should be in a peace agreement creates an obstacle to the peaceful settlement of disputes by emboldening one of the parties to the dispute.
The peaceful settlement of disputes is itself an overarching United Nations value, to be found in the Charter of the United Nations in its very first article. Positions taken by a United Nations conference supporting one side in a dispute make the peaceful settlement of the dispute less likely and frustrate a main purpose of the United Nations.
Resolutions like Zionism is racism make peace in the Middle East harder to achieve. Negotiators for the Palestinians become hardened in untenable positions because of the support they receive through the United Nations. These sorts of resolutions envenom the dispute and foster war rather than peace.
There is, nonetheless, an exception to the general principle that a peace agreement should be left to the parties. No peace treaty should bargain away human rights. Indeed, some human rights values are jus cogens, peremptory norms of international law, which no treaty can bargain away. The Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties provides that a treaty is void if it conflicts with a peremptory norm of international law.xxvi
The claimed right of return of Palestinians to Israel is not a right, let alone a human right. The relevant human right is a right to nationality. The 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights provides that every person has the right to a nationality.xxvii The Declaration, however, does not assert the right to any particular nationality.
The wrong, the human rights violation, which the Declaration seeks to combat is statelessness. The remedy for the wrong is the grant of nationality. No human rights instrument states that the sole acceptable remedy for the wrong of statelessness is the grant of nationality in the state now encompassing the territory in which ancestors resided.
The closest one can come to finding an instrument recognizing a right that stateless Palestinians could invoke is the International Law Draft Articles on Nationality of Natural Person in Relation to Succession of States. These Draft Articles have yet to be approved by the United Nations General Assembly. In its last session, the General Assembly simply invited governments to take into account, as appropriate, the provision contained in the articles. A preambular paragraph in the resolution referred to the Draft Articles as a useful guide for practice in dealing with this issue. xxviii
The Draft Articles repeat what is in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, that everyone has a right to a nationality in at least one state.xxix The Draft Articles make proposals to ensure that this happens, but do not suggest that the right to nationality is violated if nationality is granted in one state and not another.
As indicated previously, the Draft Articles propose that, in a situation where a state has dissolved and various parts form two successor states, each successor state should attribute its nationality to persons who have their habitual residence in its territory, with an option of nationality in the other state. The International Law Commission puts forward this proposal as a solution to the problem of statelessness, but not as the only acceptable solution. Nationality in either state that succeeds the predecessor state, or indeed any state, is a solution to the problem of statelessness consistent with human rights.
The removal of statelessness is not the only human rights value one has to keep in mind in assessing the acceptability of a Middle East peace agreement. There is also the right to self-determination of the Jewish people and the right to preserve their cultural identity. Any provision of a peace agreement that denies or threatens these rights is unacceptable in human rights terms.
The problem of statelessness of Palestinians can be resolved in at least two ways by a Middle East peace agreement, either by granting citizenship in the new Palestinian state that would be created by the peace agreement, or by granting citizenship in Israel. Either of these grants would resolve the Palestinian problem of statelessness. Only one, however, would be consistent with respect for the right of the Jewish people to self-determination and the right to preserve their cultural identity - the grant to stateless Palestinian refugees of citizenship in the new Palestinian state that would be created by a peace agreement.
The other solution, the grant to stateless Palestinian refugees of Israeli nationality, would violate the human rights of the Jewish people and should not be part of any human rights respecting peace agreement. There is no other Jewish state through which the right to self-determination and right to preservation of the cultural identity of the Jewish people can be respected. The choice is Israel or nothing.
Criticism: Israel is responsible for the victimization of the Palestinian people.
Response: The State of Israel, like the Jewish population in the days of Hitler, has become the scapegoat for a problem whose cause lies elsewhere, the accused for a violation whose perpetrators are elsewhere. Like the Jewish problem in the days of Hitler, enemies of the Jewish people today have created the Palestinian problem in order to justify Israel’s destruction. The victimization of the Palestinians comes from the very people who call the Law of Return of Israel racist, and then proceed to call for the right of return of the Palestinian people.
Leaders in support of the claimed Palestinian right of return, and in opposition to the Israeli Law of Return, are Tunisia, Algeria, Libya, Iran, Iraq, Syria, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen, all countries with abysmal human rights records. When these countries attack Israel, it should be obvious that their primary concern is not respect for human rights. Indeed, while these countries condemn Israel for their violations of Palestinian rights, these very same countries violate the rights of Palestinians with gusto.
The Arab world has victimized the Palestinians, denying them citizenship, failing to resettle them, and then transferring the blame to Israel. Many states in the Arab world want Israel to disappear from the map. In order to get sympathy for that goal, these states victimize their Palestinian populations and shift the blame to Israel. One can sympathize with the plight of the Palestinian people without faulting the existence of the State of Israel.
Criticism: Palestinians were not responsible for the Holocaust. They should not be made to suffer as a result of it. They are under no obligation to remedy the wrongs of the Nazis.
Response: The Holocaust was global, not just European. It had a Middle East dimension, because of the failure of the states of the Middle East to offer protection to Jewish refugees before, during and after the Holocaust. Jewish refugees were protected and resettled in the Middle East without hindrance only after the creation of the State of Israel.
Up until the creation of the State of Israel, it was the United Kingdom that was nominally responsible for shutting Jews out of Palestine. However, Britain, in saying no to Jews attempting to find refuge in Palestine and in running an anti-Jewish blockade, was carrying out the intransigent will of the local Arab leadership.xxx
The crimes committed against the Jews were crimes against humanity, not just crimes against Jews or Europeans. The notion that the Holocaust was a European crime that should be remedied in Europe is a denial of the universality of human rights, a rejection of the common humanity we all share. This attempt to Europeanize the Holocaust is an assertion that the harm that was done was inflicted on others, not on everybody. Humanity can not be compartmentalized into geographical components. The obligation to remedy these wrongs falls on the whole global community, not just on Europe.
Equating the creation of the State of Israel with the suffering of the Palestinian people is yet another euphemism for denial of the rights of the Jewish people, a rejection of their right to self- determination and cultural preservation, a masked form of racism. The suffering of the Palestinian people flows from their statelessness, the failure of the global community to provide a durable solution to the refugee population and the continuation of the war with Israel, and not from the existence of the State of Israel.
In the end, the suffering of the Palestinian people is caused by their refusal to recognize the existence of Israel and is not caused by that reality itself. If there were peace, and Palestinians were given nationality either in the new Palestinian state to be established by the peace agreement, or in the territories of the states where they are now living, or in refugee resettlement countries around the world, their suffering would end.
Criticism: International law prohibits forcible exile or expulsion of any one based on their group identity or ethnic origin. Israeli law has forcibly exiled or expelled Palestinians in violation of international law.
Response: There is no Israeli law stating that Palestinians are to be exiled or expelled. Nor is there any Israeli law that can be considered in substance to be a measure exiling or expelling Palestinians.
The Israeli Nationality Law states that every person who, immediately before the establishment of the state, was a Palestine citizen but who left Israel before the coming into force of the Israeli Nationality Law, is not an Israeli.xxxi Simply put, this provision, coupled with the Entry into Israel Law, means that a Palestinian who left the territory of what is now Israel immediately before or after Israel was created cannot now come back.
The status of these individuals is entangled with the question of whether Israel is their own country. In international law, every country has a right to deny entry to foreigners. If Israel is not the country of the Palestinians, then the State of Israel has the same right to deny them entry as any country does to deny entry to any foreigner.
Even if Israel were now completely empty territory with no inhabitants, it is impossible to describe those who never set foot in Israel as forcibly exiled or expelled from Israel. On the assumption that the land of Israel were empty, the right of return of Palestinian refugees, at its strongest, would exist only for those who had once lived in what is now Israel and their immediate families.
Of course, the land of Israel is not now empty. A country is not just land; it is, indeed, primarily people. The Jewish people who are now in Israel have rights that compete with the rights of those who once lived in what is now Israel. These competing rights are the right to self-determination and the right to cultural preservation that would be threatened or lost by the mass entry of Palestinians into Israel.
Because Israel already has a minority Palestinian Arab-speaking population, Israel could admit and integrate a small number of Palestinian refugees without changing its character or purpose, its raison dętre. However, the number of Palestinian refugees demanding entry into Israel according to the right of return is not small.
The notion that Israel is the country of the Palestinians focuses on the territory of Israel to the exclusion of its people. It is a rejection or denial of the Jewish reality of the State of Israel. It is impossible to accept that Jewish reality and, at one and the same time, to assert that Israel is the country of the Palestinians.
Criticism: In Israel, there is discrimination against Palestinians.
Response: The Israeli Declaration of Independence provides that the State of Israel will establish equal social and political rights for all its citizens without distinguishing on the basis of religion, race or gender. One of the five books of Moses, Leviticus, states: You shall have only one law, the stranger shall be as a citizen.xxxii Israel is therefore committed to equality in principle and the vocation of Israel as a Jewish state does not change or temper that commitment to equality.
Israeli Justice Aharon Barak, in a speech given in Toronto to the Canadian Friends of the Hebrew University in June 2000, stated:
Zionism was born to negate racism. It learned to know the extent to which racist treatment, dictated by religious or national belonging, can degrade human character. This Zionism is opposed to any patterns of discrimination on the basis or religion or nationality.
No state should be judged only by its professed ideals. It should as well be judged by its practice. It is legitimate to criticize discriminatory practices wherever they are found, whether in Israel or elsewhere.
However, to criticize alleged discrimination only in Israel and in no other country of the world becomes a political act of selective criticism, itself a form of discrimination against Israel.
The concluding document of the Asian preparatory meeting for the World Conference Against Racism, held in February 2001 in Tehran, was strident in its condemnation of Israel. Yet, the document said nothing about the recent imprisonment in Iran of Jewish community leaders, religious studies teachers and Rabbis, convicted in secret political trials of spying for Israel, nor about the endemic discrimination against Irans Bahai community. Nor did it condemn or comment on racism in any of the countries that actually attended the meeting. Delegates representing the Bahai faith and the Simon Weisenthal Centre, a Jewish human rights advocacy group, were effectively barred from participating, while Israel, though physically located within the region from which countries were invited to the Tehran meeting, was not allowed to attend.
Israel is the only Jewish state. For the regional gathering for the area that includes Israel to deny it admission, to condemn alleged racism of Israel and to say nothing about racism in any other country, is discrimination not only against Israel as a state, but against Jews generally. Including anti-Israel accusations in the concluding declaration of the World Conference would be an endorsement of this racism.
David Matas is a noted Canadian legal expert specializing in immigration and refugee issues.
The author acknowledges the helpful comments of Ruth Klein, National Director, Institute for International Affairs of Bnai Brith Canada; Ruth Lapidoth, Professor of International Law, Hebrew University of Jerusalem; Paul Michaels, Director of Communications, Canada Israel Committee.
Appendix A
The Nazi Nuremberg race laws described two types of Jews, full blooded Jews and mixed blooded Jews. Full blooded Jews consisted of two categories. The first category was every person who was descended from at least three grandparents, who were, racially, full Jews.xxxiii Full-blooded Jewish grandparents were those who belonged to the Jewish religious community.xxxiv The second category of full blooded Jews was every person who was descended from two full blooded Jewish grandparents if:
the person was a member of the Jewish religious community when the Nuremberg race laws were issued, or joined the community later;
when the Nuremberg race laws were issued, the person was married to a person who was a Jew, or was subsequently married to a Jew;
the person was the issue from a marriage with a Jew in the first category, which was contracted after the coming into effect of the Nuremberg race laws; or
the person was the issue of an extramarital relationship with a Jew in the first category, and was born out of wedlock after July 31, 1936.xxxv
A mixed blooded Jew was a person who was descended from one or two grandparents who, racially, were full Jews.xxxvi |
“To be successful you need 10 years, not two years, not six months, and one of the problems of our aid program is that there is so much pressure from the Pentagon and the State Department for immediate results in 6 months or a year that we distort the aid program.” More →
“We need a stronger development agency, some voice in the US government, a strong voice that can speak up for poverty reduction, global development, and carry that out in an effective way. We don’t have that right now.” More → |
Mr. Speaker, pursuant to Standing Order 34(1) I have the honour of presenting to the House, in both official languages, the report of the delegation of the Canada-Europe Parliamentary Association to the fifth Conference of Parliamentarians of the Arctic Region held in Tromsø, Norway from August 11 to August 13, 2002.
I should mention in passing, if I may be allowed to do so, that parliamentarians were extremely pleased that the Speaker of the House agreed to attend the meeting.
moved for leave to introduce Bill C-237, an act to amend the Immigration and Refugee Protection Act
Mr. Speaker, I am pleased to introduce my private member's bill designed to bring some simple but long-needed reforms to our immigration system with respect to refugees.
Currently the senior immigration officers' standards call for them to review each file. However, the SIOs' findings are not binding and all claimants go through a regular process regardless of the legitimacy of their claims. This can take anywhere from two to five years. My bill simply would give the senior immigration officers the authority to determine if a refugee has made a prima facie case. If not, they would be sent home rather quickly.
Canada has been a place of safety for refugees in the past and must remain so. My bill seeks to fulfill a need for SIOs to speedily remove obvious abusers of the system while still providing for genuine refugees that need our help.
moved for leave to introduce Bill C-238, an act to establish the rights of patients in relation to health, treatment and records.
Mr. Speaker, this bill would be commonly referred to as the patients' bill of rights, what rights patients are entitled to in Canada and the corresponding responsibilities of patients themselves in dealing with health care professionals.
moved for leave to introduce Bill C-239, an act to amend the Food and Drugs Act (process for approval of new drugs)
Mr. Speaker, this bill would effectively improve the process of drug approval in Canada. It would speed up the process.
The model that I am looking at in this bill would correspond very closely to the one in the European Community.
There would be an absolute benefit to Canada. The sooner that drugs get on the market and become available to Canadians, the sooner that diseases will be cured and people will not be hospitalized for as long a time. There would be real benefits to Canadians if this bill were passed by the House of Commons.
moved for leave to introduce Bill C-240, an act establishing A Day for Hearts: Congenital Heart Defect Awareness Day
Mr. Speaker, congenital heart disease affects approximately 4,600 newborn babies every year in Canada. In fact in one birth out of every 100 births in Canada, the baby suffers congenital heart disease.
This bill would be a recognition and awareness of that medical phenomenon. With this bill we would set aside February 14 as congenital heart disease day in Canada.
moved for leave to introduce Bill C-241, an act to assist in the prevention of wrongdoing in the Public Service by establishing a framework for education on ethical practices in the workplace, for dealing with allegations of wrongdoing and for protecting whistleblowers
Mr. Speaker, this is a very appropriate day to introduce this bill, given the fact that an ethics package was introduced today by the Prime Minister.
The bill would effectively establish a framework for education on ethical practices in the workplace and for dealing with allegations of wrongdoing and for protecting whistle-blowers.
We know that if there is wrongdoing in any government department, there is always a reluctance by the people who know of that wrongdoing to come forward. Obviously they have been punished from time to time by the government. There are many examples of that today in the country.
The bill would free people up from sitting back and not coming forward. We want openness and transparency in government and a sense of public servants working on behalf of Canadians.
The bill is commonly referred to as the whistle-blowers bill. I am looking forward to a debate in the House on the bill.
moved for leave to introduce Bill C-242, an act to provide for a referendum to determine whether Canadians wish medically unnecessary abortions to be insured services under the Canada Health Act and to amend the Referendum Act
Mr. Speaker, this bill would provide for a referendum to be held on the question of whether public funds should be used for medically unnecessary abortions. If electors agreed that this should not be the case, an amendment to the Canada Health Act would be brought into force which would allow a reduction in fiscal transfers to provinces that allow such funding.
I note for the record that prior to prorogation the bill was numbered Bill C-452. I request the consent of the House that that designation remain unchanged.
moved for leave to introduce Bill C-243, an act to amend the Criminal Code (abduction).
Mr. Speaker, I am reintroducing this legislation to amend the Criminal Code, specifically the section concerning the offence of the abduction of young persons.
Section 281 currently provides for the offence of abduction of persons under the age of 14 by a person other than the young person's parent or guardian. I am proposing to change the offence so that it applies to the abduction of all persons under the age of 16. My intent with this change is to provide law enforcement and the courts with just another tool to combat the sexual exploitation and the abuse of young people by those involved in the sex trade.
moved for leave to introduce Bill C-244, an act requiring the national flag of Canada to be flown at half-mast on Remembrance Day.
Mr. Speaker, I am pleased to reintroduce this bill. If the bill were to come before the House, I am sure there would be unanimous consent to it.
It will be November 11 in a few short days and we will meet across Canada. Up until now the only flag that flies at half-mast on a government building on that day is the one on the Peace Tower. This bill would require all government buildings from coast to coast to fly their flags at half-mast on November 11.
My colleague asked for unanimous consent of the bill in order for it to be effective by November 11, which is just around the corner. Therefore, I ask for unanimous consent of the House to approve the bill just introduced by the member. |
Derek Kehler and Helena Curic were killed as they slept in a converted shipping container. It is believed they were poisoned by carbon monoxide from an open fire.
Outpourings of grief have been shared by the family and friends of the young couple who were poisoned by carbon monoxide as they slept in a makeshift cabin in Australia.
Derek Kehler, 32, and Helena Curic, 31, are believed to have suffocated in their sleep as a woodchip fire burned through the night in the converted shipping container on what was meant to be an idyllic long weekend with family.
At about 7.30am the next morning, Curic's sister Natalie found the couple as they lay in the cabin on the Kurrajong property, about 75km north west of Sydney.
She called for help, but the paramedics could not revive them.
Curic was a marketing and design manager at a Sydney graphic design company and Kehler was a country music singer from Manitoba in Canada who went by the stage name Steel Audrey.
The pair met in Canada years earlier before settling in Australia.
Kehler's mother posted a photo of her son to her Facebook page hours after the tragic deaths.
"Always in my heart xx" she posted from her home in Manitoba according to her Facebook page.
Several friends of the pair had posted condolence messages.
"My heart is breaking," read one message under a photo of Kehler.
Police Inspector Suzanne Rode-Sanders said there was no ventilation in the cabin and believed the pair had died in a terrible accident.
The campsite where the Sydney couple died.
"[It's a] horrific incident especially for one of the relatives to walk into," Rode-Sanders said.
Police said it was a tragic reminder of how careful people needed to be with open fires and electrical heating.
"It appears they had some kind of makeshift heater inside the cabin and there wasn't any ventilation and as a result they may have asphyxiated carbon monoxide poisoning," she said.
"Our thoughts go out to the family, it's very very tragic."
It is understood the family were camping on the rural property for the long weekend, and were sleeping in three steel shipping containers that had been converted into cabin-style accommodation.
Curic's sister Natalie, her partner, and two children were believed to have been sleeping in one of the other steel containers close by. On Monday morning, remnants of the previous night's campfire dinner - camping chairs, a wine glass and cooking utensils - sat abandoned next to a fire pit.
"[The family] are quite devastated ... very, very emotional and upset."
Rode-Sanders hoped more deaths would be prevented.
"I just think that we always have to be mindful that when there is any sort of open fire it creates fumes and we need to have ventilation."
Police have set up a crime scene and forensic police will examine the area.
Stephen Bellamy, who has lived in Kurrajong for 30 years, said there were a couple of cabins in bushland where the police had gathered.
He said he was shocked to hear of the deaths.
"I always tell people, whatever you do, if you have anything going in the house, always leave a window or a door open where you are. It may be a bit chilly but ... it's dangerous," he said.
"That's a terrible thing to happen.
"[I'm] rather shocked up here, because it's such a simple thing that can happen." |
PROJECT SUMMARY Periodontitis, a microbial-driven, destructive disease of the tissues surrounding the teeth, occurs in approximately 50% of the population and is associated with several debilitating systemic conditions (including vascular and lung diseases, diabetes mellitus, and pre-term birth). Patients who smoke have increased susceptibility to periodontitis and are more likely than non-smokers to display severe disease and to be refractory to treatment. Indeed, the most recent epidemiological evidence suggests that tobacco smoking accounts for the majority of destructive periodontal disease cases in developed nations. Smoking enhances infection rates and enriches numbers of the keystone periodontal pathogen, Porphyromonas gingivalis. However, the mechanisms underlying this phenomenon are in need of elucidation. We plan to generate whole genome transposon sequencing (TnSeq) libraries for two P. gingivalis strains (ATCC 33277 and W83) to be employed in order to (i) identify genes that are putatively essential for P. gingivalis to survive cigarette smoke exposure in vitro; (ii) to validate that TnSeq-identified genes are indeed essential by generating single gene deletion mutants and monitoring their ability to grow planktonically and in biofilms under cigarette-induced stress; (iii) to determine the in vivo relevance of such mutations in a murine model of smoke-exacerbated periodontitis; (iv) to establish the distribution of essential genes in multiple low-passage clinical P. gingivalis isolates; (v) to characterize the function of those genes confirmed to be requisite for survival of tobacco-induced stress both in vitro and in vivo and (vi) to identify, in silico, essential gene orthologues in other bacteria whose virulence is also enhanced in tobacco smokers. There are several potential translational benefits to a successful R01, which include a better understanding of how P. gingivalis thrives in a tobacco-toxin rich environment; future therapeutic targeting of essential genes to control P. gingivalis infection in smokers; potential identification of novel vaccine targets for prevention or control of P. gingivalis infection; alternate treatment regimens for smokers based on mechanistic insight into smoke-induced and/or exacerbated periodontal diseases; and the establishment of an essential gene database for tobacco-enhanced pathogens that will facilitate the identification of common bacterial strategies for surviving tobacco smoke exposure, thus, broadening the significance of the research beyond the oral cavity. |
Rain Hat Ricky | Red/White
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Rain Hat Ricky | Red/White
Tired of carrying around our umbrella incase it rained. We wanted something to fit into a handbag or small enough to fit into a coat pocket, without being bulky. This little gem folds neatly into a small, flat package. Happy Rainy Days rain hats to keep you dry from the top down! It is so easy to be stylish in the rain! |
Evolution of the biochemistry of the photorespiratory C2 cycle.
Oxygenic photosynthesis would not be possible without photorespiration in the present day O2 -rich atmosphere. It is now generally accepted that cyanobacteria-like prokaryotes first evolved oxygenic photosynthesis, which was later conveyed via endosymbiosis into a eukaryotic host, which then gave rise to the different groups of algae and streptophytes. For photosynthetic CO2 fixation, all these organisms use RubisCO, which catalyses both the carboxylation and the oxygenation of ribulose 1,5-bisphosphate. One of the reaction products of the oxygenase reaction, 2-phosphoglycolate (2PG), represents the starting point of the photorespiratory C2 cycle, which is considered largely responsible for recapturing organic carbon via conversion to the Calvin-Benson cycle (CBC) intermediate 3-phosphoglycerate, thereby detoxifying critical intermediates. Here we discuss possible scenarios for the evolution of this process toward the well-defined 2PG metabolism in extant plants. While the origin of the C2 cycle core enzymes can be clearly dated back towards the different endosymbiotic events, the evolutionary scenario that allowed the compartmentalised high flux photorespiratory cycle is uncertain, but probably occurred early during the algal radiation. The change in atmospheric CO2 /O2 ratios promoting the acquisition of different modes for inorganic carbon concentration mechanisms, as well as the evolutionary specialisation of peroxisomes, clearly had a dramatic impact on further aspects of land plant photorespiration. |
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250 'Red Bulls' arriving home Sunday
The first group of Minnesota National Guard "Red Bull" soldiers is expected home Sunday.
The 250 troops will fly into Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport around 5 p.m. and will travel by bus to armories in Stillwater, Rosemount and Inver Grove Heights. Troops are expected to arrive at the armories around 6 p.m, the Guard said.
Twenty-three troops are headed back to Stillwater, 160 to Rosemount and 67 to Inver Grove Heights.
More than 1,000 Red Bulls were deployed to Iraq. They are returning home in four groups, each about a week apart. The first wave of soldiers arrived in Fort Lewis, Washington earlier this week where they spent a few days debriefing before flying back to their Guard armories in Minnesota Sunday.
No formal ceremony is planned for Sunday. That will take place when all troops are home, Guard Capt. John Hobot said.
"It's get off at the armory, hug their families and go home," he said of Sunday.
Members of the Washington County and Woodbury Yellow Ribbon military family support groups are encouraging local residents to show up at the armories to welcome the troops.
"It really is about (having) a presence," said Sen. Kathy Saltzman of Woodbury, who is involved in the Yellow Ribbon program.
Gov. Tim Pawlenty is scheduled to welcome the troops at the airport.
The 34th Infantry Division soldiers provided command and control of military forces in southern Iraq since May 2009.
The troops will begin a civilian reintegration program about a month after they return. |
North East among world’s most trouble spots – Dankwambo
Governor Ibrahim Hassan Dankwambo of Gombe State has described the North East region as ‘among the world’s most trouble spots’ considering the number of people being killed, attacked, displaced or are facing security challenges.
Governor Dankwambo stated this while receiving, in his audience at the Government House, AIG in charge of Zone 3 comprising Adamawa, Gombe and Taraba states, Mr. Cornelius Kayode Aderanti.
The governor said the North East could be compared to any of the unstable regions in the world.
“I’m sure when you see statistics of the NE, it can be compared to any unstable region in the world, in terms of the people being killed, number of people attacked and displaced as well as the number of being challenged in terms of security,” he said.
Governor Dankwambo, however, expressed hope that though the challenges were enormous, they were surmountable.
While commending President Muhammadu Buhari dispatching tried and tested security personnel to the zone as well as showing concern and interest in the problems of the zone, Governor Dankwambo urged the president not to relent until peace was restored to the region.
He said his administration would continue to support security agencies in the bid to provide one of the core objectives of government, which is the provision of peace and security.
The governor also disclosed plans to renovate police stations destroyed by the Boko Haram in Nafada, Dadin Kowa, Kwadon and Bojude, adding that government is awaiting designs from the police command to rebuild the Gombe Division also destroyed by the Boko Haram.
He said mechanisms have been put in place to ensure that interaction between farmers and herdsmen was reduced to a minimal.
“Interaction between farmers and herdsmen are minimal, where issues arise, we quickly intervene so that it does not escalate,” he said.
AIG Aderanti, who was on a working visit to the state as part of efforts to tackle insecurity in the North East region, told the governor that he was in the state to interact with officers and men in the Gombe command as well as all critical stakeholders.
Aderanti, however, drew the attention of Governor Dankwambo to the prevailing crisis involving herdsmen and farmers mostly during planting and harvesting seasons noting, however, that, so far, Gombe State has been able to effectively address the issue.
He commended the state government for its support to the police in terms of purchasing Armoured Personnel Carriers (APCs) as well as logistics to ease the work of policing the state among others.
While promising to ensure that everything was done to ensure that the state remains peaceful, Aderanti also expressed appreciation for the effort of government to refurbish police structures destroyed at the peak of the Boko Haram insurgency. The AIG and the governor thereafter went into a closed door meeting.
Earlier, while addressing critical stakeholders at the office of the Commissioner of Police, Aderanti described policing as being germane to any society, stressing that the backbone of any country is an efficient police service capable of delivering efficient and effective security.
According to AIG Aderanti, there would not be any development without security as investors would not be able to invest which would lead to unemployment.
He showed appreciation for the collaborative effort between sister agencies as well as all stakeholders and for making Gombe State the most peaceful in the North East.
Aderanti, however, enjoined the people of the state to always support the police by giving the command actionable intelligence. |
Signal Detection for Baclofen in Web Forums: A Preliminary Study.
Web forums are proposed as a new complementary source of knowledge to spontaneous reports by patients and healthcare professionals due to underreporting of adverse drug reactions (ADRs). Some authors suggest that signal detection could be a convenient method for gathering mentions of ADRs in patients' posts. Signal detection methods were proposed to mine pharmacovigilance databases, but little is known about their applicability to web forums. We describe a method implementing several traditional decision rules on signal detection with baclofen applied to a set of more than 6 million posts. We then cross-validated four unexpected signals applying a logistic regression method. Most adverse effects (AEs) described in the summary of product characteristics of baclofen were detected by signal detection methods. Some unexpected AEs were too. Therefore, web forums are confirmed as a complementary resource for improving current knowledge in pharmacovigilance by detecting unexpected adverse drug reactions. |
Rondo, Pierce named to All-Star team
Posted By
Paul Flannery
On
January 28, 2010 @ 7:31 pm
In
General |
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Rajon Rondo[1] and Paul Pierce[2] were officially added to the Eastern Conference All-Star team Thursday. Rondo and Pierce join teammate Kevin Garnett[3], who was voted in as a starter, to give the Celtics[4] three representatives; more than any other team.
This is Rondo’s first selection to the All-Star team. This is Pierce’s eighth All-Star nod. |
Q:
Google Cloud Firestore - URL was not found on this server
We have troubles accessing Google Firestore from our java application. We use the following library to access firestore: com.google.cloud:google-cloud-firestore:1:32:2
How we use it(kotlin):
class MyFirestore(private val firestore: Firestore) {
...
override fun findById(id: Long): Optional<Configuration> {
val documentSnapshot = awaitFuture(firestore.collection(docName()).document(id.toString()).get())
return if (documentSnapshot.exists()) {
Optional.ofNullable(documentSnapshot.toObject(docClass()))
} else {
Optional.empty()
}
}
}
The error we get:
2020-03-02 13:03:15,041 ERROR [http-nio-7300-exec-10] c.i.f.a.d.MyFirestore - Unable to execute firestore query for 'myconfiguration' document
2020-03-02 13:03:15,049 ERROR [http-nio-7300-exec-10] o.a.c.c.C.[.[.[.[dispatcherServlet] - Servlet.service() for servlet [dispatcherServlet] in context with path /myService threw exception [Request processing failed; nested exception is com.my.service.exception.FirestoreQueryException: Unable to execute firestore query for 'myconfiguration' document] with root cause
io.grpc.StatusRuntimeException: UNIMPLEMENTED: HTTP status code 404
invalid content-type: text/html; charset=UTF-8
headers: Metadata(:status=404,content-type=text/html; charset=UTF-8,referrer-policy=no-referrer,content-length=1608,date=Mon, 02 Mar 2020 12:03:15 GMT)
DATA-----------------------------
<!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang=en>
<meta charset=utf-8>
<meta name=viewport content="initial-scale=1, minimum-scale=1, width=device-width">
<title>Error 404 (Not Found)!!1</title>
<style>
{margin:0;padding:0}html,code{font:15px/22px arial,sans-serif}html{background:#fff;color:#222;padding:15px}body{margin:7% auto 0;max-width:390px;min-height:180px;padding:30px 0 15px} > body{background:url(//www.google.com/images/errors/robot.png) 100% 5px no-repeat;padding-right:205px}p{margin:11px 0 22px;overflow:hidden}insa img{border:0}@media screen and (max-width:772px){body{background:none;margin-top:0;max-width:none;padding-right:0}}#logo{background:url(//www.google.com/images/branding/googlelogo/1x/googlelogo_color_150x54dp.png) no-repeat;margin-left:-5px}@media only screen and (min-resolution:192dpi){#logo{background:url(//www.google.com/images/branding/googlelogo/2x/googlelogo_color_150x54dp.png) no-repeat 0% 0%/100% 100%;-moz-border-image:url(//www.google.com/images/branding/googlelogo/2x/googlelogo_color_150x54dp.png) 0}}@media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio:2){#logo{background:url(//www.google.com/images/branding/googlelogo/2x/googlelogo_color_150x54dp.png) no-repeat;-webkit-background-size:100% 100%}}#logo{display:inline-block;height:54px;width:150px}
at io.grpc.Status.asRuntimeException(Status.java:533)
at com.google.api.gax.grpc.GrpcDirectStreamController$ResponseObserverAdapter.onClose(GrpcDirectStreamController.java:149)
at io.grpc.PartialForwardingClientCallListener.onClose(PartialForwardingClientCallListener.java:39)
at io.grpc.ForwardingClientCallListener.onClose(ForwardingClientCallListener.java:23)
at io.grpc.ForwardingClientCallListener$SimpleForwardingClientCallListener.onClose(ForwardingClientCallListener.java:40)
at io.grpc.internal.CensusStatsModule$StatsClientInterceptor$1$1.onClose(CensusStatsModule.java:700)
at io.grpc.PartialForwardingClientCallListener.onClose(PartialForwardingClientCallListener.java:39)
at io.grpc.ForwardingClientCallListener.onClose(ForwardingClientCallListener.java:23)
at io.grpc.ForwardingClientCallListener$SimpleForwardingClientCallListener.onClose(ForwardingClientCallListener.java:40)
at io.grpc.internal.CensusTracingModule$TracingClientInterceptor$1$1.onClose(CensusTracingModule.java:399)
at io.grpc.internal.ClientCallImpl.closeObserver(ClientCallImpl.java:521)
at io.grpc.internal.ClientCallImpl.access$300(ClientCallImpl.java:66)
at io.grpc.internal.ClientCallImpl$ClientStreamListenerImpl.close(ClientCallImpl.java:641)
at io.grpc.internal.ClientCallImpl$ClientStreamListenerImpl.access$700(ClientCallImpl.java:529)
at io.grpc.internal.ClientCallImpl$ClientStreamListenerImpl$1StreamClosed.runInternal(ClientCallImpl.java:703)
at io.grpc.internal.ClientCallImpl$ClientStreamListenerImpl$1StreamClosed.runInContext(ClientCallImpl.java:692)
at io.grpc.internal.ContextRunnable.run(ContextRunnable.java:37)
at io.grpc.internal.SerializingExecutor.run(SerializingExecutor.java:123)
at java.base/java.util.concurrent.Executors$RunnableAdapter.call(Executors.java:515)
at java.base/java.util.concurrent.FutureTask.run(FutureTask.java:264)
at java.base/java.util.concurrent.ScheduledThreadPoolExecutor$ScheduledFutureTask.run(ScheduledThreadPoolExecutor.java:304)
at java.base/java.util.concurrent.ThreadPoolExecutor.runWorker(ThreadPoolExecutor.java:1128)
at java.base/java.util.concurrent.ThreadPoolExecutor$Worker.run(ThreadPoolExecutor.java:628)
at java.base/java.lang.Thread.run(Thread.java:835)
It doesn't matter if the collection exists in firestore or not. Also the same code works in other Google Projects. The error message is really weird since it is HTML...
Anyone know how to deal with that?
A:
Apparently this issue happens when a partner interconnect to Google Cloud is used and the API isn't enabled for you.
|
22 A.3d 1091 (2011)
In re: FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH OF SPRING MILL.
Appeal of: First Baptist Church of Spring Mill.
No. 1917 C.D. 2010
Commonwealth Court of Pennsylvania.
Argued February 7, 2011.
Decided June 10, 2011.
*1092 Steven B. Barrett, Lansdale, for appelant.
Claudia M. Tesoro, Senior Deputy Attorney General, Philadelphia, for appelee Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.
BEFORE: LEADBETTER, President Judge, and McGINLEY, Judge, and KELLEY, Senior Judge.
OPINION BY President Judge LEADBETTER.
First Baptist Church of Spring Mill (Church), a nonprofit corporation located at 80 Cedar Grove Road, Conshohocken, Pennsylvania, appeals from the order of the Court of Common Pleas of Montgomery County, Orphans' Court Division that, inter alia, disapproved the proposed payment of the substantial portion of proceeds of the sale of its property to its pastor, David M. Clinger (Rev. Clinger). The Church sold the property under its plan to dissolve itself pursuant to the Nonprofit Corporation Law of 1988 (Nonprofit Corporation Law), 15 Pa.C.S. §§ 5101-6145. We quash the Church's appeal as taken from a non-appealable interlocutory order.
The Church, established in 1902, has been operated as an independent church. On April 21, 2009, the Church filed a petition *1093 titled, "Petition for the Approval of Employee Compensation and the Distribution of the Assets of a Nonprofit Corporation, Pursuant to 15 P[a.] C.S.[ ] [§§ ] 5976(b), 5976(c) and 5547(b) in Anticipation of Dissolution and Distribution of Assets to 501(c)(3) Entities." The Church alleged that it had adopted a plan to dissolve itself due to decreased membership and financial difficulties and that it had sold its real property and received a net amount of $691,506.46. The Church proposed to distribute the proceeds of the sale as follows: $635,000 to Rev. Clinger for his service for the past ten years; $1035 to Kenneth A. Berg, Ph.D. for his maintenance work ($30 an hour); $8400 to Dr. Berg's wife, Shelley Berg, for her service as a music director ($20 an hour); and the remaining proceeds to nonprofit entities and individuals. The Church averred that it "owe[d] its pastor and other employees compensation for periods of time when they were uncompensated due to the church's financial struggles." Petition, ¶ 7; Certified Record, Item No. 16.
In an answer and new matter filed as parens patriae through the Attorney General, the Commonwealth objected to the petition. It alleged that the Church failed to seek the court's approval of the sale of its assets, and that by voting to approve the compensation package, Rev. Clinger and the other board members of the Church violated a fiduciary duty imposed by Section 5712(a) of the Nonprofit Corporation Law, 15 Pa.C.S. § 5712(a), and engaged in self-dealing to inure benefits to private individuals. The parties agreed that a separate hearing would be held on the distribution of the Church's remaining assets to the nonprofit entities and individuals. At the beginning of the hearing held on March 3, 2010 on the proposed compensation package, the Commonwealth advised the trial court of its decision not to object to the proposed payment to Dr. Berg and his wife. The parties presented the following evidence at the hearing.
In 1999, Rev. Clinger became the Church's permanent pastor at a starting weekly salary of $150, out of which $90 was treated as a non-taxable housing allowance. He subsequently received periodic salary increases and, eventually, his entire salary was treated as a housing allowance. He was also paid separately for his maintenance work. As of 2008, his annual salary was $17,930. There was no written employment agreement between the Church and Rev. Clinger. Since he graduated from the seminary in 1987, he has also worked full-time first for Hechinger's and then for Home Depot. As of the hearing, he was earning $19.40 an hour from Home Depot.
Dr. Berg, who had known Rev. Clinger since 1985, joined the Church in 2003 and became a member of the Church's board. At the informal board discussion in January 2006, Rev. Clinger, his wife, Lynn Clinger, and Dr. Berg "agreed that [Rev. Clinger] should be compensated in the form of Back pay & some type of retirement benefits in the event the church dissolves." Reproduced Record (R.R.) at 17a. In March 2007, thirteen members of the Church's congregation unanimously approved the revision to the Church's 1998 constitution, as proposed by Rev. Clinger. Article XII, Section 4.C of the constitution was revised to provide that "[i]n the event of the dissolution of this corporation, all of its debts shall be fully Satisfied, including any compensation and benefits due to its Pastor." R.R. at 186a (emphasis added). Article VII, Section 8 was also revised to include the pastor as a member of the Church's board. In addition, the pastor was no longer required to withdraw from a business session when he was the subject of the discussion. Article VII, Section 2.F. Rev. Clinger's nomination of his son, John *1094 Clinger, to a trustee position of the Church was also approved.
At the March 2008 annual congregational meeting, eight voting members of the Church, including Rev. Clinger, his wife, his two sons, Dr. Berg and Dr. Berg's wife, voted to sell the Church's real property. They also adopted a motion of Rev. Clinger's son, Jared Clinger, to "compensate" Rev. Clinger for his past service after the sale of the Church's property. R.R. at 22a. The committee formed to determine the amount of compensation for Rev. Clinger proposed to pay him up to $635,000. Between 1999 and 2008, the Church's annual income ranged from $26,474 to less than $35,000.
On July 20, 2008, Rev. Clinger, his wife and his son signed an agreement to sell the Church's real property to Disciple Community Church of Philadelphia for $750,000. A week later, six remaining voting members, the four Clingers and the Bergs, unanimously voted to dissolve the Church and approved the compensation package for Rev. Clinger and the Bergs. After receiving a net amount of $691,506.46 from the sale of the real property on March 27, 2009, the Church filed the instant petition seeking approval of, inter alia, the proposed payment of $635,000 to Rev. Clinger. The Church's vocational expert, Donald E. Jennings, Ed. D., stated in his report that the annual salary and benefits for a full-time pastor in the Philadelphia area with a nine-year experience at a church with fewer than 100 members ranged from $38,726 to $46,739.
The trial court phrased the issue to be decided as "whether the claim for compensation by David Clinger is a legal debt of the church." Trial Court's April 26, 2010 Opinion at 12. The court concluded that Rev. Clinger's claim for compensation for his past service would be unenforceable under contract law requiring a contract to be supported by a legal consideration to be valid. The court determined that a payment of additional sums to Rev. Clinger would constitute a gift, which would be inconsistent with the charitable purposes of the Church. The trial court authorized the Church's board to pay $1035 to Dr. Berg, $8400 to Dr. Berg's wife and $22,500 to Rev. Clinger to cover the costs of storing the Church's records for ten years. The court also authorized the board to pay legal fees and witness fees. The Church's appeal to this Court followed.
The Church argues that the proposed payment to Rev. Clinger is consistent with its charitable purposes. The Church asserts that its members desired to compensate Rev. Clinger appropriately and that the Church's constitution also expresses a desire to compensate him adequately. The Church also cites the provision of its revised constitution requiring payment of all debts, including any compensation and benefits owed to the pastor, upon dissolution.
Before addressing the merits of the Church's appeal, we will consider the Commonwealth's argument that the appeal should be quashed as an appeal from a non-appealable interlocutory order. The Commonwealth submits that the Church filed the petition in anticipation of the distribution of assets and its dissolution and that the court's order addressing only the compensation issue is not an appealable final order. The Church responds that it only sought the court's approval of the proposed compensation package in the petition and that the court's supervision over a final distribution of the Church's assets and its dissolution "is merely administrative housekeeping[ ] and does not constitute an outstanding claim that is undecided." Church's Reply Brief at 5. The appealability of the trial court's order is a question *1095 of law subject to our plenary review. Commonwealth v. Auto Mart, Inc., 910 A.2d 171 (Pa.Cmwlth.2006).
An appellate court's jurisdiction generally extends only to review a final order. Pa. R.A.P. 341(a); Northumberland County Children & Youth Servs. v. Dep't of Pub. Welfare, 2 A.3d 794 (Pa. Cmwlth.2010). A final order is any order which (1) disposes of all claims and of all parties, (2) is expressly defined as a final order by statute, or (3) is certified as a final order pursuant to Pa. R.A.P. 341(c). Pa. R.A.P. 341(b). The purpose of limiting appellate review to a final order is "to prevent piecemeal determinations and the consequent protraction of litigation." Hionis v. Concord Twp., 973 A.2d 1030, 1034 (Pa.Cmwlth.2009). The consolidation of "all contested rulings into a single appeal provides the [appellate] courts with an opportunity . . . to consider a trial judge's actions in light of the entire proceedings below, thereby enhancing the likelihood of sound appellate review." Rae v. Pa. Funeral Dirs. Ass'n, 602 Pa. 65, 71, 977 A.2d 1121, 1125 (2009) [quoting Riyaz A. Kanji, The Proper Scope of Pendent Appellate Jurisdiction in the Collateral Order Context, 100 Yale L.J. 511, 512-13 (1990) ]. In order to determine whether the trial court's April 26, 2010 order is a final order appealable as of right under Rule 341(a), it is necessary to examine the relevant provisions of the Nonprofit Corporation Law.
It is undisputed that the real property sold by the Church was committed to its charitable purposes.[1] Under Section 5547(b) of the Nonprofit Corporation Law, as amended, 15 Pa.C.S. § 5547(b), a "[p]roperty committed to charitable purposes shall not . . . be diverted from the objects to which it was donated, granted or devised, unless and until the board of directors or other body obtains from the court an order under 20 Pa.C.S. Ch. 61 (relating to estates) specifying the disposition of the property." Section 5976(b), as amended, 15 Pa.C.S. § 5976(b), further provides that "[i]f the assets of the corporation include any property committed to charitable purposes, the board of directors or other body shall apply to the court for an order . . . specifying the disposition of the property." At any time during the winding-up proceeding, the nonprofit corporation "may apply to the court to have the proceedings continued under the supervision of the court and thereafter the proceedings shall continue under the supervision of the court. . . ." Section 5976(a), as amended, 15 Pa.C.S. § 5976(a).
The assets of the corporation established for public worship, such as the Church, are distributed pursuant to Section 5976(c) of the Nonprofit Corporation Law, which provides:
In entering a decree providing for the disposition of the assets of a corporation organized for the support of public worship, the court shall, by its decree, provide for the disposition of the assets of the corporation, either by:
(1) vesting title thereto in such other corporation as may, by its articles, be organized for the purpose of holding title to the real estate held for public worship. . . .
(2) authorizing the sale of such assets by a master or trustee appointed for that purpose and the vesting of the proceeds. . . in such body as may be directed *1096 by the court, to be held in trust for carrying out the intent and purpose of public worship; or
(3) vesting the title to such assets in any incorporated or unincorporated body designated by the petitioners for the same uses and trusts as the assets were theretofore held by the dissolved corporation.
After all of liabilities have been discharged and remaining assets have been distributed, the nonprofit corporation must file an article of dissolution with the Department of State, pursuant to Section 5977(a), as amended, 15 Pa.C.S. § 5977(a).
In this matter, the Church voluntarily decided to dissolve due to the financial difficulties. A nonprofit corporation that has decided to voluntarily dissolve itself must first convert all of its corporate assets into cash and use the cash to discharge all of its liabilities. Section 5975(c) of the Nonprofit Corporation Law, as amended, 15 Pa.C.S. § 5975(c). The Church claimed that it owed Rev. Clinger compensation for his past service and sought approval of the proposed payment from the proceeds of the sale of its real property. The trial court's April 26, 2010 order disposing of the Church's proposed discharge of the alleged debts was just the first phase of the court's supervision over the Church's predissolution disposition, distribution of assets and dissolution. The parties agreed that the distribution of the Church's remaining assets would be determined later after a separate hearing. Because the voluntary dissolution process requires further proceedings and is subject to the court's supervision under the Nonprofit Corporation Law, the April 26, 2010, order was not a final order appealable as of right under Rule 341(a). See also In re Estate of Borkowski, 794 A.2d 388 (Pa.Super.2002) (the order of the orphans' court directing the administrator to sell the decedent's real estate was a non-appealable interlocutory order because the estate from which the sale would be carried out remained under administration).
The Pennsylvania Orphans' Court Rule 7.1(a) provides that "a party may file exceptions to any order, decree or adjudication which would become a final appealable order under Pa.R.A.P. 341(b) [definition of a final order] or Pa.R.A.P. 342 following disposition of the exceptions." Rule 342 provides:
An order of the Orphans' Court Division making a distribution, or determining an interest in realty or personalty or the status of individuals or entities, shall be immediately appealable;
(1) upon a determination of finality by the Orphans' Court Division, or
(2) as otherwise provided by Chapter 3 of these rules [Rules 301-342].
Rule 341(c) provides that "the trial court or other governmental unit may enter a final order as to one or more but fewer than all of the claims and parties only upon an express determination that an immediate appeal would facilitate resolution of the entire case." The Church did not seek an order making the trial court's April 26, 2010 order final. In addition, an order approving or disapproving the nonprofit corporation's predissolution disposition of property is not listed in Pa. R.A.P. 311 as one of the interlocutory orders appealable as of right. The Church also did not seek permission to appeal an interlocutory order pursuant to Rule 312.[2] Nor *1097 does the Church argue that the trial court's order constitutes a collateral order appealable as of right under Rule 313(a).[3]
Accordingly, the Church's appeal is quashed as an appeal from a non-appealable interlocutory order.
ORDER
AND NOW, this 10th day of June, 2011, the appeal filed by First Baptist Church of Spring Mill in the above-captioned matter is hereby QUASHED.
NOTES
[1] The term "charitable purposes" is defined as "[t]he relief of poverty, the advancement of education, the advancement of religion, the promotion of health, governmental or municipal purposes, and other purposes the accomplishment of which is beneficial to the community." Section 5103 of the Nonprofit Corporation Law, as amended, 15 Pa.C.S. § 5103.
[2] An appellee's failure to file an objection to the court's appellate jurisdiction "within such time as may be specified by general rule" operates to perfect appellate jurisdiction, unless the appellate court orders otherwise. Section 704 of the Judicial Code, 42 Pa.C.S. § 704. Under Pa. R.A.P. 741(a), the appellee is required to file an objection to the appellate court's jurisdiction "on or prior to the last day . . . for the filing of the record" to prevent appellate jurisdiction from being perfected. In this matter, the Commonwealth raised its objection to this Court's jurisdiction in its brief. The rule providing for a waiver of objections to appellate jurisdiction does not apply, however, where, as here, the appellant has "attempt[ed] to take an appeal from an interlocutory order which has not been made appealable by Rule 311 (interlocutory appeals as of right) or pursuant to Chapter 13 (interlocutory appeals by permission)." Rule 741(b)(2).
[3] A "collateral order" is "an order separable from and collateral to the main cause of action where the right involved is too important to be denied review and the question presented is such that if review is postponed until final judgment in the case, the claim will be irreparably lost." Pa. R.A.P. 313(b). Suffice it to note that the trial court's order is directly related to, not separate from, the court's supervision over the Church's predissolution disposition and distribution of its assets and dissolution. The order determined the size of the remaining assets to be distributed to the nonprofit entities and individuals. In addition, the challenge to the order will not be "irreparably lost and remained unresolved" by deferring our review because the order can be reviewed after the trial court enters final judgment in this voluntary dissolution proceeding. Northumberland County Children & Youth Servs., 2 A.3d at 798.
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//===-- Mapper.cpp - ClangDoc Mapper ----------------------------*- C++ -*-===//
//
// Part of the LLVM Project, under the Apache License v2.0 with LLVM Exceptions.
// See https://llvm.org/LICENSE.txt for license information.
// SPDX-License-Identifier: Apache-2.0 WITH LLVM-exception
//
//===----------------------------------------------------------------------===//
#include "Mapper.h"
#include "BitcodeWriter.h"
#include "Serialize.h"
#include "clang/AST/Comment.h"
#include "clang/Index/USRGeneration.h"
#include "llvm/ADT/StringExtras.h"
#include "llvm/Support/Error.h"
using clang::comments::FullComment;
namespace clang {
namespace doc {
void MapASTVisitor::HandleTranslationUnit(ASTContext &Context) {
TraverseDecl(Context.getTranslationUnitDecl());
}
template <typename T> bool MapASTVisitor::mapDecl(const T *D) {
// If we're looking a decl not in user files, skip this decl.
if (D->getASTContext().getSourceManager().isInSystemHeader(D->getLocation()))
return true;
// Skip function-internal decls.
if (D->getParentFunctionOrMethod())
return true;
llvm::SmallString<128> USR;
// If there is an error generating a USR for the decl, skip this decl.
if (index::generateUSRForDecl(D, USR))
return true;
auto I = serialize::emitInfo(
D, getComment(D, D->getASTContext()), getLine(D, D->getASTContext()),
getFile(D, D->getASTContext()), CDCtx.PublicOnly);
// A null in place of I indicates that the serializer is skipping this decl
// for some reason (e.g. we're only reporting public decls).
if (I)
CDCtx.ECtx->reportResult(llvm::toHex(llvm::toStringRef(I->USR)),
serialize::serialize(I));
return true;
}
bool MapASTVisitor::VisitNamespaceDecl(const NamespaceDecl *D) {
return mapDecl(D);
}
bool MapASTVisitor::VisitRecordDecl(const RecordDecl *D) { return mapDecl(D); }
bool MapASTVisitor::VisitEnumDecl(const EnumDecl *D) { return mapDecl(D); }
bool MapASTVisitor::VisitCXXMethodDecl(const CXXMethodDecl *D) {
return mapDecl(D);
}
bool MapASTVisitor::VisitFunctionDecl(const FunctionDecl *D) {
// Don't visit CXXMethodDecls twice
if (dyn_cast<CXXMethodDecl>(D))
return true;
return mapDecl(D);
}
comments::FullComment *
MapASTVisitor::getComment(const NamedDecl *D, const ASTContext &Context) const {
RawComment *Comment = Context.getRawCommentForDeclNoCache(D);
// FIXME: Move setAttached to the initial comment parsing.
if (Comment) {
Comment->setAttached();
return Comment->parse(Context, nullptr, D);
}
return nullptr;
}
int MapASTVisitor::getLine(const NamedDecl *D,
const ASTContext &Context) const {
return Context.getSourceManager().getPresumedLoc(D->getBeginLoc()).getLine();
}
llvm::StringRef MapASTVisitor::getFile(const NamedDecl *D,
const ASTContext &Context) const {
return Context.getSourceManager()
.getPresumedLoc(D->getBeginLoc())
.getFilename();
}
} // namespace doc
} // namespace clang
|
The present invention relates generally to an apparatus for dispensing individual plastic fasteners from fastener stock and, more particularly, to a needle lock for an apparatus for dispensing individual plastic fasteners from fastener stock.
Plastic fasteners of the type having a cross-bar at one end, a paddle at the other end and a thin filament or cross-link connecting the two ends are well known in the art and are widely used in commerce to attach labels, price tags or other items to articles in a manner which minimizes the risk of inadvertent detachment therefrom. Typically, such plastic fasteners are manufactured in the form of a supply of fastener stock, the fastener stock being produced by molding or stamping from flexible plastic materials, such as nylon, polyethylene, and polypropylene.
In one well known type of fastener stock, the cross bar end of each fastener is connected to a runner bar to form a clip of fasteners. In another known type of fastener stock, often referred to simply as ladder stock, a pair of elongated side members are interconnected by a plurality of cross links or filaments. One of the side members is shaped to define a plurality of cross bars which are joined together by short severable connectors, the connectors being defined by indentations or notches formed along the side member. The other side member is shaped to define either a plurality of paddles or cross bars which are similarly joined together by short severable connectors.
The dispensing of individual fasteners from fastener stock is often accomplished with an apparatus commonly referred to as a tagger gun. A tagger gun is a hand held trigger operated device which is constructed to accept fastener stock and dispense individual fasteners into one or more desired articles (i.e., items to be tagged).
A tagger gun commonly includes a gun-shaped housing and a needle which is slidably disposed within a cylindrical needle receiving bore formed in the front of the housing, the needle including a sharpened tip. Tagger guns also typically include an indexing mechanism for feeding the cross bar end of an individual fastener into the rear end of the hollow needle and an ejection mechanism for pushing the cross bar end of the individual fastener that has been fed into the hollow needle out through its sharpened tip.
In use, an operator can use a tagger gun of the type described above to attach an individual plastic fastener to one or more desired objects in the following manner. Specifically, the operator first loads the supply of fastener stock into the tagger gun. With the fastener stock loaded, the operator inserts the sharpened tip of the needle through the items to be tagged. The operator then activates the trigger of the tagger gun which, in turn, first feeds the cross bar end of an individual fastener into alignment with the rear end of the hollow needle and then urges the cross bar end of the individual fastener out through the sharpened tip of the hollow needle. Once the cross bar end of the individual fastener exits the sharpened tip of the hollow needle, the cross bar end and the paddle of the individual fastener are disposed on opposite sides of the tagged items, thereby completing the tagging process. Withdrawing the tagger gun away from the dispensed fastener causes the dispensed fastener to separate from the remainder of the fastener stock loaded into the tagger gun. The process can be repeated as deemed necessary by the operator. It should be noted that feeding and ejection mechanisms of some tagger guns are manually operated while the feeding and ejection mechanisms of some other tagger guns are powered by an electric motor or a pneumatic device.
Tagger guns have been developed and are in use with both of the above described types of fastener stock.
For example, in U.S. Pat. No. 4,456,123 to D. B. Russell, which is incorporated herein by reference, there is disclosed an apparatus for dispensing fasteners which is manufactured and sold by AVERY DENNISON CORPORATION(copyright) of Pasadena, Calif. as the SYSTEM 1000(copyright) SWIFTACHER(copyright) Tool. The apparatus can be used to store, feed and dispense fastener stock of the type which includes a plurality of connected fasteners, each fastener comprising a flexible filament and a transversely disposed end-bar at one end, end-bars of adjacent fasteners being joined end-to-end by severable connectors at a portion of their peripheries. The apparatus comprises a hollow casing and a dispensing needle mounted to the casing, the needle having a longitudinal bore for slidably receiving the end-bar and a slot communicating with the longitudinal bore slidably receiving the filament. The apparatus also comprises means for advancing a fastener from a first position remote from the needle bore to a second position adjacent the rear end of the bore with the end-bar transversely disposed to the longitudinal axis of the bore, means for aligning the end-bar with the bore and means for dispensing the end-bar through the bore.
Other types of tagger guns are disclosed in U.S. Pat. Nos. 5,772,073, 5,683,025, 5,024,365, 4,533,076, 4,456,161, 4,121,487, and 4,456,123.
Tagger guns of the type described above typically include a conventional needle which comprises a stem portion and a base portion. The stem portion, which may be made from stamped and rolled metal, is a generally cylindrical member terminating at one end in a sharp tip designed for insertion through a garment or like object. The stem portion also has a slotted bore which extends substantially longitudinally therethrough. The base portion may be made of a plastic that has been insert-molded onto that end of the stem portion that is distal to the tip. (Alternatively, the stem portion and the base portion may be a unitary structure made of metal or another suitable material.) The base portion is provided with a slotted longitudinal bore that is aligned with the bore of the stem portion and is also provided with a scalloped-shaped recess on its outer surface. The bores of the stem portion and the base portion of the needle are appropriately dimensioned so that the cross-bar of a fastener may be inserted thereinto from the rear of the base portion, traverse the length of the needle through the bore of the stem portion and then exit the needle through the sharpened tip. The slots of the stem portion and the base portion are appropriately dimensioned to permit the filament of the fastener to extend therethrough while its associated cross-bar is disposed within the needle.
It should be noted that, during the life of a tagger gun, the needle may require replacement. For example, the needle of a tagger gun may break, thereby precluding further use, which is highly undesirable. As another example, the sharpened tip of a needle may become dulled after considerable use which, in turn, can cause the needle to potentially rip or tear future items to be tagged, which is highly undesirable.
Accordingly, tagger guns are often constructed to allow for its needle to be removed and replaced, as deemed necessary. Specifically, tagger guns are commonly constructed so that the needle may be slidably disposed within a tagger gun housing. The needle, in turn, can then be fixedly secured (i.e., locked in place) within the tagger gun housing using a needle lock.
Needle locks (also commonly referred to as locking pins) are well known and widely used in the art to releasably lock a hollow needle in place within a tagger gun housing. A needle lock is typically slidably disposed within a needle lock bore formed into a side of the tagger gun housing, the longitudinal axis of the needle lock extending at approximately a right angle relative to the longitudinal axis of the hollow needle.
A needle lock typically comprises an elongated, generally cylindrical locking post having a first end and a second end. A scallop-shaped recess is formed on the outer surface of the locking post at about its midpoint. An enlarged button-shaped head is formed onto the first end of the locking post. The head is preferably constructed to facilitate rotation of the needle lock by the user. As an example, a slot may be formed onto the free end of the head which enables the user rotate the needle lock using a screwdriver or other similar instrument. As another example, an elongated handle may be formed onto the free end of the head which enables the user to rotate the needle lock with his/her fingers.
A needle lock of the type described above is typically disposed within the housing of a tagger gun in the following manner. The second end of the needle lock is inserted into a needle lock bore formed into the housing of the tagger gun. The needle lock is inwardly advanced into the needle lock bore until the enlarged, button-shaped head of the needle lock abuts against the tagger gun housing, thereby precluding further inward displacement.
It should be noted that the scalloped-shaped recess formed on the needle lock is appropriately dimensioned to receive the base portion of the hollow needle, and the scalloped-shaped recess formed on the base portion of the hollow needle is appropriately dimensioned to receive the needle lock. As such, the needle lock can be rotated between a first position in which the needle lock secures the needle in place within the tagger gun housing (said position being referred to herein simply as the locked position) and a second position in which the needle lock allows the needle to freely slide in and out of the needle receiving bore in the tagger gun housing (said position being referred to herein simply as the unlocked position). Specifically, with the needle lock disposed in its locked position, the locking post of the needle lock aligns within the scalloped-shaped recess formed in the needle which, in turn, causes the needle lock to lockably engage the base portion of the needle and preclude longitudinal displacement. To the contrary, with the needle lock disposed in its unlocked position, the locking post of the needle lock is rotated out from the scalloped-shaped recess in the needle which, in turn, causes the needle lock to disengage from the base portion of the needle, thereby enabling the needle to be axially displaced within the needle receiving bore formed in the tagger gun housing.
Although well-known and widely used in commerce, locking pins of the type described above suffer from a notable drawback. Specifically, locking pins of the type described above are not permanently retained within the tagger gun housing. Rather, locking pins of the type described above are removably mounted into the tagger gun housing. As such, it has been found that conventional needle locks are often inadvertently removed from the housing and subsequently lost. As can be appreciated, without the needle lock, there is no means for fixedly securing the needle within the housing of the tagger gun, thereby rendering the tagger gun incapable of being used, which is highly undesirable.
It is an object of the present invention to provide a new and improved apparatus for dispensing individual plastic fasteners from fastener stock.
It is another object of the present invention to provide an apparatus of the type described above which includes a gun-shaped housing and a hollow, slotted needle which is removably mounted within a cylindrical needle receiving bore.
It is yet another object of the present invention to provide an apparatus of the type described above which includes a needle lock for selectively locking said needle in place within the needle receiving bore.
It is still another object of the present invention to provide an apparatus of the type described above in which the needle lock is permanently mounted into a needle lock receiving bore.
It is another object of the present invention to provide an apparatus of the type described above which has a limited number of parts, which is easy to use, and which is inexpensive to manufacture.
Accordingly, as one feature of the present invention, there is provided an apparatus for dispensing plastic fasteners, each plastic fastener comprising a cross-bar end, said apparatus comprising a casing, a needle assembly disposed at least partially within said casing, said needle assembly comprising, a needle carrier slidably disposed at least partially within said casing, said needle carrier being shaped to include a needle receiving bore and a needle lock receiving bore, a needle removably disposed into the needle receiving bore in said needle carrier, and a needle lock for selectively locking said needle within the needle receiving bore, said needle lock being snap-mounted into the needle lock receiving bore in said needle carrier, said needle lock being adapted to engage said needle carrier upon the application of a withdrawal force on said needle lock from said needle carrier, and a mechanism for pushing the cross bar end of a plastic fastener through said needle.
As another feature of the present invention, there is provided a needle assembly for an apparatus for dispensing plastic fasteners, said needle assembly comprising a needle carrier shaped to include a needle receiving bore and a needle lock receiving bore, a needle removably disposed into the needle receiving bore in said needle carrier, and a needle lock for selectively locking said needle within the needle receiving bore of said needle carrier, said needle lock being snap-mounted into the needle lock receiving bore in said needle carrier, said needle lock being adapted to engage said needle carrier upon the application of a withdrawal force on said needle lock from said needle carrier.
As another feature of the present invention, there is provided a needle lock for selectively locking a needle within a needle receiving bore, said needle lock comprising a locking post having a first end and a second end, the first end of said locking post being shaped to include a slot, and an enlarged head formed onto the second end of said locking post.
Various other features and advantages will appear from the description to follow. In the description, reference is made to the accompanying drawings which form a part thereof, and in which is shown by way of illustration, various embodiments for practicing the invention. The embodiments will be described in sufficient detail to enable those skilled in the art to practice the invention, and it is to be understood that other embodiments may be utilized and that structural changes may be made without departing from the scope of the invention. The following detailed description is therefore, not to be taken in a limiting sense, and the scope of the present invention is best defined by the appended claims. |
Q:
Whatis the pi@raspberry exactly
When I want to connect on my raspberry with the terminal via SSH, I have to do :
ssh pi@raspberry
I know the raspberry is the hostname, but what is pi@?
Thanks!
A:
The format for the SSH command is:
ssh user@hostname
In this case, you're saying:
"Create an SSH session to hostname raspberry as user pi.
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Collections for JavaScript - stu_k
http://www.collectionsjs.com/
======
mackwic
This is gold, thanks for the submission.
The biggest part is made by the great kriskowal, which gave us Q.js. Warranty
of quality, if I may say.
~~~
cowbertvonmoo
Thank you.
|
Ohio State Follow Friday: Women's HockeyThe Ohio State women's hockey team kicks off its home WCHA schedule this weekend
Hokey Langan
Oct. 12, 2012
Every Friday, OhioStateBuckeyes.com features one of the many Ohio State social media outlets to follow. The Ohio State women’s hockey team kicks off its home WCHA schedule this weekend, hosting nationally-ranked North Dakota at the OSU Ice Rink: OhioState_WHKY
The No. 10 Buckeyes are looking for the program’s first 5-0-0 start this weekend, hosting No. 6 North Dakota. The squad is coming off an impressive sweep of then-No. 8/7 Minnesota Duluth on the road to open the WCHA season last weekend. It was Ohio State’s first-ever sweep of the Bulldogs in the program’s history.
Redshirt junior goalie Chelsea Knapp has a 1.25 goals-against average and was recently named the WCHA Defensive Player of the Week for her performances at UMD.
Friday and Saturday will each be promoting great causes at the OSU Ice Rink. On Friday, the team will be celebrating Sweetest Day and taking pop tabs and/or travel toiletries for Ronald McDonald House Charities. Saturday is Pink the Rink for Breast Cancer Awareness as pink buffs will be handed out with a post-game skate with some Ohio State players. |
Solvation of coumarin 314 at water/air interfaces containing anionic surfactants. I. Low coverage.
Through the use of molecular dynamics techniques, we analyze equilibrium and dynamical aspects of the solvation of Coumarin 314 adsorbed at water/air interfaces in the presence of sodium dodecyl sulfate surfactant molecules. Three different coverages in the submonolayer regime were considered, 500, 250, and 100 A(2)/SDS molecule. The surfactant promotes two well-differentiated solvation environments, which can be clearly distinguished in terms of their structures for the largest surfactant coverage considered. The first one is characterized by the probe lying adjacent or exterior to two-dimensional spatial domains formed by clustered surfactant molecules. A second type of solvation environment is found in which the coumarin appears embedded within compact surfactant domains. Equilibrium and dynamical aspects of the interfacial orientation of the probe are investigated. Our results show a gradual transition from parallel to perpendicular dipolar alignment of the probe with respect to the interface as the concentration of surfactant rho(s) increases. The presence of the surfactant leads to an increase in the roughness and in the characteristic width of the water/air interface. These modifications are also manifested by the decorrelation times for the probe reorientational dynamics, which become progressively slower with rho(s) in both solvation states, although much more pronounced for the embedded ones. The dynamical characteristics of the solvation responses of the charged interfaces are also analyzed, and the implications of our findings to the interpretation of available experimental measurements are discussed. |
[Cite as Alford v. Crutchfield, 2016-Ohio-7295.]
IN THE COURT OF APPEALS
TWELFTH APPELLATE DISTRICT OF OHIO
WARREN COUNTY
BRIAN KEITH ALFORD, :
CASE NO. CA2016-03-021
Petitioner-Appellant, :
OPINION
: 10/11/2016
- vs -
:
GEORGE CRUTCHFIELD, WARDEN, :
Respondent-Appellee. :
CIVIL APPEAL FROM WARREN COUNTY COURT OF COMMON PLEAS
Case No. 15CV87458
Brian Keith Alford, #A196744, London Correctional Institution, P.O. Box 69, London, Ohio
43140, appellant, pro se
Jonathan Khouri, Assistant Attorney General, Criminal Justice Section, 615 West Superior
Avenue, 11th Floor, Cleveland, Ohio 44113, for appellee
S. POWELL, J.
{¶ 1} Petitioner-appellant, Brian Keith Alford, appeals from the decision of the
Warren County Court of Common Pleas denying his petition for a writ of habeas corpus. For
the reasons outlined below, we affirm.
Facts and Procedural History
{¶ 2} On March 27, 1984, Alford was sentenced to serve an aggregate term of 14 to
Warren CA2016-03-021
70 years in prison after he was convicted in the Montgomery County Court of Common Pleas
for three counts of robbery and one count of aggravated robbery with a firearm specification.
After serving nearly 16 years in prison, Alford was granted parole and released from prison
on December 23, 1999.
{¶ 3} On June 6, 2000, a complaint was filed in the United States District Court for
the Southern District of Ohio, Western Division, charging Alford with armed bank robbery and
use of a firearm in a crime of violence. That same day, the Ohio Adult Parole Authority
("OAPA") declared Alford to be a "violator at large." Alford was subsequently arrested on
June 22, 2000 and later indicted on those charges by a federal grand jury approximately
three weeks later on July 11, 2000.
{¶ 4} On February 28, 2002, a jury returned a verdict finding Alford guilty as charged.
Several months later, on December 12, 2002, Alford was sentenced to serve a total of 144
months in federal prison with a tentatively scheduled release date for good behavior on
December 5, 2010.1 As a result of Alford's conviction, on January 28, 2003, OAPA declared
Alford a "violator in custody" and issued a state warrant for Alford's arrest as a "release
violator." Thereafter, on March 21, 2003, OAPA forwarded the state warrant to the federal
prison where Alford was incarcerated and requested that a detainer be placed in Alford's file.
{¶ 5} After he received notice of the state warrant and detainer, Alford contacted
OAPA several times between August 22, 2003 and March 13, 2005 requesting the warrant
and detainer be removed and that he be released from parole. In response, on April 5, 2005
and again on August 8, 2005, OAPA informed Alford that the state warrant and detainer
would remain in place until he completed his federal prison sentence and became available
to the state so that a parole revocation hearing could be conducted. Specifically, as OAPA
1. The United States Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals subsequently affirmed Alford's conviction on direct appeal in
Alford v. United States, 116 Fed.Appx. 706 (6th Cir.2004).
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Warren CA2016-03-021
stated in its August 8, 2005 letter to Alford:
When you have completed your period of incarceration with the
federal Bureau of Prisons, you will be returned to the State of
Ohio to face charges of violating supervision. Within days of
your return, you will receive a copy of the Notice of Hearing
which will include the time and date of your hearing and the list of
the alleged supervision violation(s) which will cite the conditions
of supervision that may have been violated. At the conclusion of
the hearing, a written notice of finding will [be] issued and if
applicable, a written sanction order will also be issued.
The State of Ohio does not conduct hearings in absentia,
therefore, the documents described above are produced only
during the hearing process. You must be available to the state of
Ohio before the hearing process can be initiated. As you are
presently serving a period of confinement and are out of the
state you are not available.
{¶ 6} On January 7, 2011, Alford was released from federal prison and returned to
the state under OAPA's supervision. That same day, OAPA restored Alford to "parole status"
with a new maximum sentence date of June 4, 2067. Approximately one week later, on
January 13, 2011, OAPA provided Alford with notice regarding his parole violation hearing
scheduled for February 7, 2011. Following this hearing, and due to his convictions in federal
court for armed bank robbery and use of a firearm in a crime of violence, Alford's parole was
revoked. Although proclaiming his innocence, the record indicates Alford readily
acknowledged that he had been convicted of these charges. The record also indicates Alford
"waived counsel at hearing based on denial of representation following Gagnon screening."2
Alford was then ordered to serve an additional 18 months in prison before he would again be
eligible for parole release consideration. Since that time, Alford has twice been denied
parole with his next parole hearing scheduled for May 1, 2017.
2. A "Gagnon screening" refers to the United States Supreme Court's decision in Gagnon v. Scarpelli, 411 U.S.
778, 93 S.Ct. 1756 (1973), which held that the decision regarding the need to appoint counsel for a parolee at a
parole revocation hearing "must be made on a case-by-case basis in the exercise of a sound discretion by the
state authority charged with responsibility for administering the probation and parole system." Id. at 790.
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Warren CA2016-03-021
{¶ 7} On July 9, 2015, Alford filed a petition with the trial court seeking a writ of
habeas corpus. In support, Alford argued that OAPA improperly denied him a parole
revocation hearing between June 22, 2000, the date he was arrested on federal charges of
armed bank robbery and use of a firearm in a crime of violence, and December 12, 2002, the
date the federal court sentenced him to serve a total of 144 months in federal prison.
According to Alford, OAPA's failure to hold a parole revocation hearing during this time
created an unreasonable delay that violated his due process rights and required his
immediate release from prison and reinstatement to his prior parole status. Alford also
argued that OAPA was incorrect in failing to provide him with appointed counsel at his
subsequent parole revocation hearing conducted on February 7, 2011.
{¶ 8} On August 10, 2015, respondent-appellee, George Crutchfield, the warden for
the Warren Correctional Institute where Alford was incarcerated, responded to Alford's
petition by filing a motion to dismiss, or, in the alternative, a motion for summary judgment.
As relevant here, on January 28, 2016, a magistrate issued a decision granting the warden's
motion for summary judgment, thereby denying Alford's petition for a writ of habeas corpus.
In so holding, the magistrate determined that even if the delay in holding the parole
revocation hearing was unreasonable, Alford could not demonstrate any resulting prejudice.
The magistrate also determined that Alford had no right to appointed counsel because the
parole revocation hearing did not involve any "especially difficult or complex issues" as it was
"merely a formal acknowledgment" that he had been convicted on the federal charges while
on parole. Alford then filed objections to the magistrate's decision, which the trial court
subsequently denied on March 14, 2016.
Alford's Appeal from the Trial Court's Decision
{¶ 9} Alford now appeals, raising three assignments of error for review that reiterate
the same arguments he alleged in his petition for a writ of habeas corpus; namely, (1) that
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Warren CA2016-03-021
OAPA created an unreasonable delay and violated his due process rights by not holding his
parole revocation hearing within a reasonable time after he was arrested on June 22, 2000
but before he was sentenced December 12, 2002; and (2) that OAPA was incorrect in failing
to provide him with appointed counsel during his subsequent parole revocation hearing
conducted on February 7, 2011.
Summary Judgment Standard of Review
{¶ 10} Although arguing that he is entitled to a writ of habeas corpus, Alford's appeal
arises from the trial court's decision affirming and adopting the magistrate's decision granting
the warden's motion for summary judgment. "A court of appeals reviews the decision on
whether to grant summary judgment in a habeas corpus proceeding as it would in any other
civil summary judgment action." Barnett v. Houk, 12th Dist. Madison No. CA2004-01-001,
2004-Ohio-6482, ¶ 7, citing Horton v. Collins, 83 Ohio App.3d 287, 291 (9th Dist.1992). This
court reviews summary judgment decisions de novo. Arnet v. Mong, 12th Dist. Fayette No.
CA2015-10-022, 2016-Ohio-2893, ¶ 6. In applying the de novo standard, this court is
required to "us[e] the same standard that the trial court should have used, and * * * examine
the evidence to determine whether as a matter of law no genuine issues exist for trial."
Bravard v. Curran, 155 Ohio App.3d 713, 2004-Ohio-181, ¶ 9 (12th Dist.).
Petition for a Writ of Habeas Corpus
{¶ 11} A writ of habeas corpus is an extraordinary remedy available where there is an
unlawful restraint of a person's liberty and no adequate remedy at law. Maxwell v. Jones,
12th Dist. Butler No. CA2009-07-179, 2010-Ohio-1633, ¶ 7. Habeas corpus is generally
appropriate in the criminal context only if the petitioner is entitled to immediate release from
prison. Powers v. Timmerman-Cooper, 12th Dist. Madison No. CA2013-01-002, 2013-Ohio-
2865, ¶ 10, citing Larsen v. State, 92 Ohio St.3d 69 (2001). In turn, habeas corpus is "not
the proper remedy to address every concern a prisoner has about his legal rights or status."
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Warren CA2016-03-021
Rodgers v. Capots, 67 Ohio St.3d 435, 436 (1993). However, habeas corpus will lie to
challenge a decision of the OAPA in extraordinary cases involving parole revocation. State
ex rel. Jackson v. McFaul, 73 Ohio St.3d 185, 187 (1995). This occurs most notably "when
the parole authorities fail to make a determination of the parole violation issue within a
reasonable time." Beach v. McAninch, 111 Ohio App.3d 667, 672 (4th Dist.1996).
Unreasonable Delay to Conduct a Parole Revocation Hearing
{¶ 12} As noted above, Alford initially argues that he is entitled to a writ of habeas
corpus because OAPA created an unreasonable delay and violated his due process rights by
not holding his parole revocation hearing within a reasonable time after he was arrested on
June 22, 2000 but before he was sentenced in federal court on December 12, 2002. We
disagree.
{¶ 13} As applicable here, at the time Alford was granted parole and subsequently
arrested on charges of armed bank robbery and use of a firearm in a crime of violence, R.C.
2967.15(B) stated:
Except as otherwise provided in this division, prior to the
revocation by the adult parole authority of a person's pardon,
parole, transitional control, or other release and prior to the
imposition by the parole board or adult parole authority of a new
prison term as a post-release control sanction for a person, the
adult parole authority shall grant the person a hearing in
accordance with rules adopted by the department of
rehabilitation and correction under Chapter 119. of the Revised
Code.
That provision also stated:
If the authority fails to make a determination of the case of a
parolee or releasee alleged to be a violator of the terms and
conditions of the parolee's or releasee's conditional pardon,
parole, other release, or post-release control sanctions within a
reasonable time, the parolee or releasee shall be released from
custody under the same terms and conditions of the parolee's or
releasee's original conditional pardon, parole, other release, or
post-release control sanctions.
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Warren CA2016-03-021
{¶ 14} Contrary to Alford's claim otherwise, "there is no ten-day or sixty-day rule
entitling parolees to habeas corpus relief upon expiration of such period; instead, the
applicable test is whether there has been an unreasonable delay in holding a parole-
revocation hearing." State ex rel. Spann v. Mitchell, 82 Ohio St.3d 416, 417, citing Seebeck
v. Zent, 68 Ohio St.3d 109, 110 (1993). Rather, as noted by the Ohio Supreme Court, "[a]
court should apply a two-part test in determining whether the delay of the [OAPA], in not
commencing a final parole revocation hearing, entitles an alleged parole violator to habeas
corpus relief." Coleman v. Stobbs, 23 Ohio St.3d 137, 139 (1986).
{¶ 15} First, it must be determined whether any delay was unreasonable. This
involves the consideration and balancing of three factors: (1) the length of the delay, (2) the
reasons for the delay, and (3) the alleged parole violator's assertion of his right to a hearing
within a reasonable period of time. Id. Second, if the delay is found to be unreasonable, it
must then be determined whether the delay somehow prejudiced the alleged parole violator.
The factors to be considered in determining whether the petitioner was prejudiced are (1)
prevention of oppressive prehearing incarceration, (2) minimization of anxiety and concern of
the alleged parole violator and, (3) limitation of the possibility that delay will impair the alleged
parole violator's defense at his final parole revocation hearing. State ex rel. Taylor v. Ohio
Adult Parole Auth., 66 Ohio St.3d 121, 128 (1993).
{¶ 16} After a thorough review of the record, we find Alford was not subject to an
unreasonable delay resulting from the OAPA not commencing his parole revocation hearing
until after Alford was released from federal prison. In so holding, we note that the United
States District Court for the Northern District of Ohio already rejected this very claim as part
of its decision denying Alford's petition for a writ of habeas corpus in Alford v. Shartle,
N.D.Ohio No. 4:08CV1963 (Nov. 4, 2008), a decision the United States Sixth Circuit Court of
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Warren CA2016-03-021
Appeals later affirmed.3 As part of that decision, the district court, citing to the United States
Supreme Court's decision in Morrissey v. Brewer, 408 U.S. 471, 92 S.Ct. 2593 (1972),
stated:
While the Court [in Morrissey] noted that this revocation hearing
must be held within a "reasonable time after the parolee is taken
into custody," Mr. Alford is not presently in the custody of the
State of Ohio. It is only at that time when he will be entitled to be
heard and present evidence showing he did not violate his parole
conditions, or, if he did, what circumstances in mitigation suggest
the violation does not warrant revocation. Due process is
satisfied if the procedures followed by the parole board comply
with the minimum standards set forth in Morrissey.
(Internal citations omitted.)
{¶ 17} This is the exact same notice OAPA provided to Alford on both April 5, 2005
and August 8, 2005 in response to Alford's requests that the state warrant and detainer be
removed and that he be released from parole. "The United States Supreme Court has held
that it is constitutional to wait to hold a parole revocation hearing until after a prisoner has
completely served an intervening sentence." Matter of Byrd, 12th Dist. Madison No. CA89-
08-015, 1990 WL 59222, *3 (May 7, 1990), citing Moody v. Daggett, 429 U.S. 78, 97 S.Ct.
274 (1976).
{¶ 18} Moreover, under both the former and current versions of R.C. 2967.15(B),
because Alford's parole revocation was based on his conviction in federal court for armed
bank robbery and use of a firearm in a crime of violence, OAPA was not required to grant
Alford a preliminary hearing on the matter. Specifically, as former R.C. 2967.15(B) stated:
The adult parole authority is not required to grant the person a
hearing if the person is convicted of or pleads guilty to an offense
that the person committed while released on a pardon, on parole,
transitional control, or another form of release, or on post-release
control and upon which the revocation of the person's pardon,
3. Although seemingly unavailable online, the state attached the district court's decision in Alford v. Shartle,
N.D.Ohio No. 4:08CV1963 (Nov. 4, 2008) as Exhibit C to its motion for summary judgment submitted to the trial
court.
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Warren CA2016-03-021
parole, transitional control, other release, or post-release control
is based.
Except for the removal of the term "transitional control" within this provision, the current
version of R.C. 2967.15(B) is identical to that of its predecessor. Therefore, we find the
delay, if any, simply cannot be characterized as unreasonable.
{¶ 19} Regardless, just as the trial court found, even if we were to assume Alford was
subjected to an unreasonable delay, Alford cannot demonstrate any resulting prejudice. This
case is analogous to our decision in Harrison v. Ohio Adult Parole Authority, 12th Dist.
Warren No. CA98-09-117, 1999 WL 160959 (Mar. 22, 1999). In that case, the petitioner was
sentenced to serve a term of five to 25 years in prison after he was convicted of three counts
of aggravated burglary. After serving four years in prison, petitioner was released on parole.
However, shortly after his release, petitioner was convicted and sentenced to serve an
additional prison term resulting from four new felony offenses he committed while on parole.
{¶ 20} Following his conviction for these new offenses, and while he was still
incarcerated on these new charges, petitioner filed a petition for a writ of habeas corpus
alleging he was entitled to be released from parole since OAPA failed to conduct a parole
revocation hearing within a reasonable time. The trial court denied the petition and the
petitioner then appealed. In affirming the trial court's decision, and even when assuming
petitioner was correct in his assertion that there was an unreasonable delay by the OAPA in
conducting his parole revocation hearing, this court stated:
Appellant was convicted of committing four new crimes while on
parole and was sentenced to four new and distinct terms of
incarceration. Thus, he was incarcerated during the period of
delay which he complains of as being unreasonable for more
than a simple parole violation. Notwithstanding any parole
revocation, appellant was also being lawfully held under separate
convictions for the crimes he committed [shortly after being
released on parole]. Accordingly, we fail to see how appellant
was prejudiced by the adult parole authority's failure, if any, to
timely consider whether he violated his parole.
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Warren CA2016-03-021
{¶ 21} In this case, just like the petitioner in Harrison, Alford was released on parole
and subsequently convicted of new charges that resulted in him being sentenced to federal
prison. In turn, just as the petitioner in Harrison, Alford was incarcerated for more than a
simple parole violation during the period of time he believes constitutes an unreasonable
delay. However, as noted above, the United States Supreme Court has held that it is
constitutional to wait to hold a parole revocation hearing until after a prisoner has completely
served an intervening sentence. Moreover, neither the former or current version of R.C.
2967.15(B) required OAPA to conduct a preliminary hearing under these circumstances.
{¶ 22} Alford also failed to allege sufficient facts to establish prejudice. As noted
above, although proclaiming his innocence, the record indicates Alford readily admitted that
he had been convicted in federal court for armed bank robbery and use of a firearm in a
crime of violence at his February 7, 2011 parole revocation hearing. The mere fact that he
was convicted of these charges constitutes a clear violation of the conditions of Alford's
parole. Although Alford claims otherwise, "a parolee cannot relitigate issues determined
against him in other forums, as in the situation presented when the revocation is based on
conviction of another crime." Morrissey, 408 U.S. at 490. Therefore, just as the trial court
found, and for which we agree, Alford was not "entitled to re-litigate the merits of his federal
case before the [OAPA]." See State ex rel. Stamper v. Ohio Adult Parole Authority, 62 Ohio
St.3d 85, 86 (1991). Accordingly, Alford's first argument is without merit.
Right to Appointed Counsel at Parole Revocation Hearing
{¶ 23} Next, Alford claims the OAPA was incorrect in failing to provide appointed
counsel during his parole revocation hearing conducted on February 7, 2011. However, as
the record indicates, Alford "waived counsel at hearing based on denial of representation
following Gagnon screening." Yet, even if Alford had not waived counsel, it is well-
established that the appointment of counsel may only be available in parole revocation
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proceedings that involve "substantial, complex, or difficult factors which would have entitled
him to counsel." McFaul, 73 Ohio St.3d at 187, citing Stamper at 87-88.
{¶ 24} In this case, the parole revocation hearing at issue did nothing more than
establish the mere fact that Alford had been convicted in federal court on new charges while
on parole. As noted by the United States Supreme Court:
In most cases, the probationer or parolee has been convicted of
committing another crime or has admitted the charges against
him. And while in some cases he may have a justifiable excuse
for the violation or a convincing reason why revocation is not the
appropriate disposition, mitigating evidence of this kind is often
not susceptible of proof or is so simple as not to require either
investigation or exposition by counsel.
Gagnon, 411 U.S. 778, 787, 93 S.Ct. 1756 (1973).
{¶ 25} That is certainly the case here, as nothing about this hearing involved
substantial, complex, or difficult factors that would have necessitated Alford being appointed
counsel. In other words, as the trial court properly found, the February 7, 2011 parole
revocation hearing did not involve any "especially difficult or complex issues" as it was
"merely a formal acknowledgment" that Alford had been convicted on the federal charges
while on parole. We find no error in the trial court's decision. Therefore, Alford's second
argument is likewise without merit.
Conclusion
{¶ 26} In light of the foregoing, and having found no merit to either of Alford's claims
raised herein, we find no error in the trial court's decision granting the warden's motion for
summary judgment, thereby denying Alford's petition for a writ of habeas corpus. Alford's
three assignments of error are overruled.
{¶ 27} Judgment affirmed.
PIPER, P.J., and RINGLAND, J., concur.
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|
import random
import torch
import os
import torch
import torch.nn as nn
import torch.nn.functional as F
import numpy as np
from torch.utils.data import RandomSampler, BatchSampler
from .utils import calculate_accuracy, Cutout
from .trainer import Trainer
from .utils import EarlyStopping
from torchvision import transforms
import torchvision.transforms.functional as TF
class Classifier(nn.Module):
def __init__(self, num_inputs1, num_inputs2):
super().__init__()
self.network = nn.Bilinear(num_inputs1, num_inputs2, 1)
def forward(self, x1, x2):
return self.network(x1, x2)
class GlobalLocalInfoNCESpatioTemporalTrainer(Trainer):
def __init__(self, encoder, config, device=torch.device('cpu'), wandb=None):
super().__init__(encoder, wandb, device)
self.config = config
self.patience = self.config["patience"]
self.use_multiple_predictors = config.get("use_multiple_predictors", False)
print("Using multiple predictors" if self.use_multiple_predictors else "Using shared classifier")
self.epochs = config['epochs']
self.batch_size = config['batch_size']
self.device = device
if self.use_multiple_predictors:
# todo remove the hard coded 11x8
self.classifiers = [nn.Linear(self.encoder.hidden_size, self.encoder.local_layer_depth).to(device) for _ in range(11*8)]
else:
self.classifier1 = nn.Linear(self.encoder.hidden_size, self.encoder.local_layer_depth).to(device)
self.params = list(self.encoder.parameters())
if self.use_multiple_predictors:
for classifier in self.classifiers:
self.params += list(classifier.parameters())
else:
self.params += list(self.classifier1.parameters())
self.optimizer = torch.optim.Adam(self.params, lr=config['lr'], eps=1e-5)
self.early_stopper = EarlyStopping(patience=self.patience, verbose=False, wandb=self.wandb, name="encoder")
self.transform = transforms.Compose([Cutout(n_holes=1, length=80)])
def generate_batch(self, episodes):
total_steps = sum([len(e) for e in episodes])
print('Total Steps: {}'.format(total_steps))
# Episode sampler
# Sample `num_samples` episodes then batchify them with `self.batch_size` episodes per batch
sampler = BatchSampler(RandomSampler(range(len(episodes)),
replacement=True, num_samples=total_steps),
self.batch_size, drop_last=True)
for indices in sampler:
episodes_batch = [episodes[x] for x in indices]
x_t, x_tprev, x_that, ts, thats = [], [], [], [], []
for episode in episodes_batch:
# Get one sample from this episode
t, t_hat = 0, 0
t, t_hat = np.random.randint(0, len(episode)), np.random.randint(0, len(episode))
x_t.append(episode[t])
# Apply the same transform to x_{t-1} and x_{t_hat}
# https://github.com/pytorch/vision/issues/9#issuecomment-383110707
# Use numpy's random seed because Cutout uses np
# seed = random.randint(0, 2 ** 32)
# np.random.seed(seed)
x_tprev.append(episode[t - 1])
# np.random.seed(seed)
#x_that.append(episode[t_hat])
ts.append([t])
#thats.append([t_hat])
yield torch.stack(x_t).float().to(self.device) / 255., torch.stack(x_tprev).float().to(self.device) / 255.
def do_one_epoch(self, epoch, episodes):
mode = "train" if self.encoder.training else "val"
epoch_loss, accuracy, steps = 0., 0., 0
accuracy1, accuracy2 = 0., 0.
epoch_loss1, epoch_loss2 = 0., 0.
data_generator = self.generate_batch(episodes)
for x_t, x_tprev in data_generator:
f_t_maps, f_t_prev_maps = self.encoder(x_t, fmaps=True), self.encoder(x_tprev, fmaps=True)
# Loss 1: Global at time t, f5 patches at time t-1
f_t, f_t_prev = f_t_maps['out'], f_t_prev_maps['f5']
# print(f_t.size(), f_t_prev.size())
sy = f_t_prev.size(1)
sx = f_t_prev.size(2)
N = f_t.size(0)
loss1 = 0.
classifier_index = 0
for y in range(sy):
for x in range(sx):
if self.use_multiple_predictors:
predictions = self.classifiers[classifier_index](f_t)
classifier_index += 1
else:
predictions = self.classifier1(f_t)
positive = f_t_prev[:, y, x, :]
logits = torch.matmul(predictions, positive.t())
step_loss = F.cross_entropy(logits, torch.arange(N).to(self.device))
loss1 += step_loss
loss1 = loss1 / (sx * sy)
self.optimizer.zero_grad()
loss = loss1
if mode == "train":
loss.backward()
self.optimizer.step()
epoch_loss += loss.detach().item()
epoch_loss1 += loss1.detach().item()
#preds1 = torch.sigmoid(self.classifier1(x1, x2).squeeze())
#accuracy1 += calculate_accuracy(preds1, target)
#preds2 = torch.sigmoid(self.classifier2(x1_p, x2_p).squeeze())
#accuracy2 += calculate_accuracy(preds2, target)
steps += 1
self.log_results(epoch, epoch_loss1 / steps, epoch_loss / steps, prefix=mode)
if mode == "val":
self.early_stopper(-epoch_loss / steps, self.encoder)
def train(self, tr_eps, val_eps):
# TODO: Make it work for all modes, right now only it defaults to pcl.
for e in range(self.epochs):
self.encoder.train()
if self.use_multiple_predictors:
for c in self.classifiers:
c.train()
else:
self.classifier1.train()
self.do_one_epoch(e, tr_eps)
self.encoder.eval()
if self.use_multiple_predictors:
for c in self.classifiers:
c.eval()
else:
self.classifier1.eval()
self.do_one_epoch(e, val_eps)
if self.early_stopper.early_stop:
break
torch.save(self.encoder.state_dict(), os.path.join(self.wandb.run.dir, self.config['env_name'] + '.pt'))
def log_results(self, epoch_idx, epoch_loss1, epoch_loss, prefix=""):
print("{} Epoch: {}, Epoch Loss: {}, {}".format(prefix.capitalize(), epoch_idx, epoch_loss,
prefix.capitalize()))
self.wandb.log({prefix + '_loss': epoch_loss,
prefix + '_loss1': epoch_loss1}, step=epoch_idx)
|
Q:
Unexpected foreign key generated for one to many relationship
I have declared two classes - Person and Vehicle as shown below
public class Person
{
public Person()
{
this.Vehicles = new HashSet<Vehicle>();
}
[Key]
public int PersonID { get; set; }
[Required, MaxLength(50)]
public string FirstName { get; set; }
[Required, MaxLength(50)]
public string MiddleName { get; set; }
[Required, MaxLength(50)]
public string LastName { get; set; }
[Required, MaxLength(10)]
public string MobileNo1 { get; set; }
[MaxLength(10)]
public string MobileNo2 { get; set; }
[MaxLength(50)]
public string Email1 { get; set; }
[MaxLength(50)]
public string Email2 { get; set; }
public virtual ICollection<Vehicle> Vehicles { get; set; }
}
public class Vehicle
{
[Key]
public int VehicleID { get; set; }
[MaxLength(20)]
public string VehicleNumber { get; set; }
[ForeignKey("VehicleOwner")]
public int? VehicleOwnerID { get; set; }
[ForeignKey("VehicleOwnerID")]
public virtual Person VehicleOwner { get; set; }
[ForeignKey("VehicleDriver")]
public int? VehicleDriverID { get; set; }
[ForeignKey("VehicleDriverID")]
public virtual Person VehicleDriver { get; set; }
[ForeignKey("Person")]
public int? PersonID { get; set; }
[ForeignKey("PersonID")]
public virtual Person Person { get; set; }
}
This generates two foreign keys on Vehicles table as
.ForeignKey("dbo.Person", t => t.PersonID)
.ForeignKey("dbo.Person", t => t.Person_PersonID)
whereas what i expect is only
.ForeignKey("dbo.Person", t => t.PersonID)
Initially i thought it might be because i missed out declaring the entities as virtual but that was not the case. I am not able to detect the problem with this code.
Like Vehicles, i have another class - Documents with somewhat the same structure and relationship with Person. But for Documents the foreign key is generated as expected.
A:
You've got 3 classes pointing at Person, so configure as:
public class Vehicle
{
[Key]
public int VehicleID { get; set; }
[MaxLength(20)]
public string VehicleNumber { get; set; }
public int? VehicleOwnerID { get; set; }
[ForeignKey("VehicleOwnerID")]
public virtual Person VehicleOwner { get; set; }
public int? VehicleDriverID { get; set; }
[ForeignKey("VehicleDriverID")]
public virtual Person VehicleDriver { get; set; }
public int? PersonID { get; set; }
[ForeignKey("PersonID")]
public virtual Person Person { get; set; }
}
While that is incorrect syntax, the 2nd foreign key comes from the collection of vehicles on the person and EF not being able to resolve which FK it belongs to.
So in your Person class on your collection you need to point to the corresponding nav in the vehicle:
[InverseProperty("Person")]
public virtual ICollection<Vehicle> Vehicles { get; set; }
http://www.entityframeworktutorial.net/code-first/inverseproperty-dataannotations-attribute-in-code-first.aspx
|
Background
==========
Fibromyalgia is a syndrome of unknown etiology characterized by chronic widespread joint and muscle pain and by pain on palpation of tender points \[[@B1]\]. The literature contains several population-based prevalence estimates, which have generally fallen in the range of 1--3% \[[@B2]-[@B5]\]. Chronic medical conditions are, in general, associated with an increased frequency of major depression \[[@B6]-[@B8]\], but the association with fibromyalgia may be particularly strong. One general population study reported an odds ratio of 2.85 for subjects with fibromyalgia equalling or exceeding a score of 4.0 on the depression scale of the Arthritis Impact Measurement Scales \[[@B2]\]. Another study, using the Present State Examination to detect ICD-10 defined depressive disorders in a general population sample, reported a doubling of prevalence in subjects with chronic widespread pain \[[@B9]\].
Some studies have focussed on co-aggregation of these conditions in families \[[@B10]\], whereas other studies have examined possible pathophysiological linkages between depression and fibromyalgia. It has been reported, for example, that people with fibromyalgia have elevated levels of alexithymia and anger \[[@B11]\], that depression risk factors such as work stress \[[@B12]\] and childhood traumatic events \[[@B13]\] may contribute to fibromyalgia etiology, and that antidepressants are efficacious treatments for fibromyalgia \[[@B14]\]. Other studies have identified an influence of social support and emotional context on pain thresholds in fibromyalgia \[[@B15]\]. These results, and others, have caused some authors to conclude that there is an intrinsic connection, or perhaps on some level an equivalency, between depressive disorders and fibromyalgia \[[@B10],[@B16]-[@B18]\]. Other authors have conceptualized fibromyalgia and depressive disorders as members of a broad category of stress disorders \[[@B19]\].
Based on an analysis of case-control data, it has been argued that the comorbidity between mood disorders and fibromyalgia is an artefact of bias resulting from treatment-seeking behaviour \[[@B20]\]. This assertion highlights the importance of population-based data and the need to further characterise the epidemiology of this comorbidity in the general population. Epidemiological data are of considerable importance for describing and understanding public health problems. A study conducted in the United States using administrative health care and disability claims data compared the economic burden associated with co-morbid depression and fibromyalgia. It was found that mean employer payments per patient were \$11,899, \$8,073 and \$5,163 for employees with co-morbid depression and fibromyalgia, depression alone, and fibromyalgia alone, compared to \$2,486 for the total sample \[[@B21]\]. These results suggest that the two conditions may have effects that are independent in the multiplicative sense: the two conditions alone increased costs by a factor of 2--3, and in combination by an amount resembling the product of these increases.
One objective of this study was to describe the association between co-morbid depression and fibromyalgia in the general population in more detail than has been done previously. Another objective was to examine major depression-fibromyalgia comorbidity in relation to a key functional outcome: labour force participation.
Methods
=======
The data source for this study was the Canadian Community Health Survey (CCHS), iteration 1.1, a cross-sectional general health survey of household residents conducted by Statistics Canada (the Canadian Government\'s national statistical agency) in 2000 and 2001. The sample size for the CCHS 1.1 was 131,535 subjects aged 12 years and older. However, as the instrument used to identify depressive episodes has not been validated in adolescents, we restricted the current analysis to subjects 18 years and older, n = 115,160.
The Composite International Diagnostic Interview (CIDI) short form for major depression (CIDI-SFMD) \[[@B8]\] was used to identify episodes of major depression in this survey. The CIDI-SFMD is a brief version of the CIDI diagnostic interview. Five or more of the DSM-IV-TR symptom-based criteria for major depression (at least one of which must be depressed mood or loss of interest) were required. According to the CIDI-SFMD validation data, this would result in a 90% positive predictive value for DSM-IV major depression \[[@B9]\].
The CCHS 1.1 also collected self-report diagnostic information about chronic medical conditions. In each case, survey items enquired about the presence of long-term medical conditions that had been \"diagnosed by a health professional.\" One of the conditions evaluated was fibromyalgia. The CCHS 1.1 also included items evaluating labour force participation. As subjects over the age of 75 are unlikely to be members of the labour force, analyses of this variable excluded subjects over the age of 75. The sample size for this part of the analysis was 105,538.
Household income was dichotomized after adjustment for the number of people in each \[[@B22]\]. Lowest and lower-middle income categories were collapsed into a \"low income\" group and upper-middle and highest income quartiles were grouped into a \"high income\" group. Education was dichotomized into a \"low education\" group that included high school graduation or less and a \"high education\" group containing those with at least some post secondary education. Marital status was classified using two categories: those who were married/common-law were placed into a \"married\" category and those who were single (never married), widowed, separated and divorced comprising the \"unmarried\" group.
Analysis was conducted using SAS^®^version 8.0. Due to multi-staged sampling procedures, unequal selection probabilities and non-response, sampling weights adjusting for these factors were used in the analysis. A bootstrap variance estimation procedure was used for statistical analysis of the weighted estimates.
Results
=======
The CCHS achieved a 91.4% household response rate, and a 91.9% individual-respondent response rate. This resulted in a survey sample that was highly representative of the national target population, even before the application of sampling weights (see Table [1](#T1){ref-type="table"}). Table [1](#T1){ref-type="table"} presents a description of the sample, and reproduces expected patterns of association. Fibromyalgia is significantly more common in women and in older age groups, whereas major depression is more common in women, in the younger age category and in unmarried subjects. Both major depression and fibromyalgia were more common in low income subjects.
The association between fibromyalgia and major depression may have been confounded by other variables that are associated with major depression. In order to explore this possibility, the prevalence of major depression in subjects with and without fibromyalgia was stratified by a set of demographic variables. As seen in Table [2](#T2){ref-type="table"}, the prevalence of major depression was found to be consistently higher in those with fibromyalgia than in those without, irrespective of demographic category.
Non-participation in the labour force was reported by 40,630 subjects (weighted frequency estimate 35.0%). A logistic regression model incorporating both major depression and fibromyalgia as predictors of labour force participation identified no interaction between these two variables (Wald Statistic = 0.17, p = 0.68) suggesting an independent multiplicative contribution to the outcome, so the interaction term was removed from the model. Odds ratios were then estimated from the reduced model both for fibromyalgia (OR = 2.7, 95% CI 2.3 -- 3.2) and major depression (OR = 1.4, 95% CI 1.3 -- 1.5).
In a series of additional analyses, the logistic regression model described above was expanded to include each of the demographic variables listed in Table [1](#T1){ref-type="table"}, along with associated interaction terms. The associations between major depression and fibromyalgia remained significant in all of these models, and in no cases did major depression by fibromyalgia interactions emerge.
Finally, the subset of respondents who reported that they were permanently disabled and unable to work was identified. The weighted estimate for this proportion was 2.6% (95% CI 2.5 -- 2.8) in the general population (2.2% in those without major depression or fibromyalgia). Among subjects with major depression but not fibromyalgia, 5.7% (95% CI 4.9 -- 6.5) fell into this category, as did 15.9% (95% CI 12.2 -- 19.6) of subjects with fibromyalgia but not major depression. In subjects with both conditions, 23.0% (95% CI 15.2 -- 30.9) fell into this category. Again a multiplicative pattern indicative of an independent effect is observed in the sense that an approximately 2-fold and 5-fold increase in subjects with one of these conditions combines in the comorbid group to an approximately 10 fold increase over the baseline frequency.
A similar pattern was found when data from a more general item referring to restriction of activities (at work, at home or in other categories) due to a physical or mental health problems was examined. Subjects without major depression or fibromyalgia reported activity restrictions 10.0% of the time (95% CI 9.7 -- 10.2), having major depression alone increased this to 20.0% (95% CI 18.7 -- 21.5), fibromyalgia alone to 28.4% (95% CI 32.3 -- 41.4) and both conditions together to 57.6% (95% CI 48.5 -- 66.8).
Discussion
==========
A strong association between fibromyalgia and major depression was observed in this study, and it remained evident after stratification for sex, age, marital status, education and income. This finding replicates and solidifies earlier results. One of the previous studies used a depressive symptom measure, rather than a diagnostic instrument \[[@B2]\] and another used ICD-10 criteria for depression and the concept of chronic widespread pain was used rather than a fibromyalgia diagnosis \[[@B9]\]. It is worth noting that chronic pain in general is associated with depression, and that pain and depression may be linked through a variety of biological mechanisms, see review \[[@B23]\]. From the perspective of labour force participation, subjects with either or both of these conditions are less likely to be participating in the workforce. They appear to have an independent effect on the probability of workforce participation.
While the large sample size of the CCHS is advantageous for statistical analysis, the use of such data is subject to limitations. As a general health survey, the CCHS uses a variety of brief measures. Both the major depression measure (CIDI-SFMD) and the self-report of fibromyalgia may be subject to error. For this reason, the findings should be replicated in studies using more detailed measures. Because the data source for this study was a general health survey, the capacity to evaluate the impact of confounding variables was somewhat limited, although the extent of stratified analysis possible exceeded that of earlier general population studies because of the large sample size.
In this analysis, the association between major depression, fibromyalgia and labour force participation was examined using three different perspectives: a traditional definition of labour force participation, not working due to illness or disability and, most broadly, activity limitations. The results were broadly consistent across the various definitions, suggesting that both conditions impair functioning across a broad spectrum of occupational activities. An interesting finding was that the strength of association was stronger for fibromyalgia than for major depression. This result emphasizes the potential importance of fibromyalgia as a contributor to impairment in occupational functioning.
Conclusion
==========
From the public health perspective, these data demonstrate that major depression and fibromyalgia frequently co-occur and, when they do, both syndromes appear to contribute to a reduced frequency of labour force participation. From the perspective of service planning, these results suggest that the availability of services addressing both problems may lead to better occupational and functional outcomes. Potentially, existing services can be more effective if they are integrated in a way that fosters the delivery of such care. Integration of cognitive-behavioural strategies for pain (see review, \[[@B24]\]) with those for depression, for example, may lead to intervention strategies that are useful a very high proportion of patients.
List of Abbreviations
=====================
CCHS Canadian Community Health Survey
CIDI Composite International Diagnostic Interview
CIDI-SFMD Composite International Diagnostic Interview Short Form for Major Depression
ICD-10 International Classification of Disease, 10^th^Edition
Competing interests
===================
Neither author has competing interest to declare. The analyses reported here are based on data collected by Statistics Canada, the Canadian Government\'s statistical agency. The analysis itself does not reflect the opinions of Statistics Canada.
Authors\' contributions
=======================
Both AK and SP participated in conceptualization of the project, and in preparation of the research proposal. Both authors worked together in carrying out the analyses, interpretation of the results, and in preparation of the manuscript.
Disclaimer
==========
The analyses reported here are based on data collected by Statistics Canada, the Canadian Government\'s statistical agency. The analysis itself does not reflect the opinions of Statistics Canada.
Pre-publication history
=======================
The pre-publication history for this paper can be accessed here:
<http://www.biomedcentral.com/1471-2474/7/4/prepub>
Acknowledgements
================
Dr. Patten is a Health Scholar with the Alberta Heritage Foundation for Medical Research and a Research Fellow with the Institute of Health Economics (Edmonton, Canada)
Figures and Tables
==================
######
Demographic & Clinical Features of the Sample.
Sample Characteristics Prevalence (95% CI)
---------------------- ------------ ------------------------ --------------------- ------------------ -------------------
Sex Men 52772 (45.8) 49.1 0.4 (0.3--0.4) 5.3 (5.0--5.6)
Women 62388 (54.2) 50.9 2.0 (1.9--2.1) 9.4 (9.1--9.7)
Age 50 years + 48707 (42.3) 36.5 1.7 (1.5--1.9) 4.9 (4.6--5.2)
18 to 49 66430 (57.7) 63.5 0.3 (0.2--0.3) 8.8 (8.5--9.1)
Income\* High 85851 (80.6) 86.8 1.0 (0.9--1.1) 6.5 (6.2--6.7)
Low 20626 (19.4) 13.2 1.5 (1.3--1.7) 9.7 (9.3--10.1)
Education\*\* High 60986 (53.5) 57.1 1.2 (1.0--1.3) 7.2 (6.9--7.4)
Low 53008 (46.5) 42.9 1.3 (1.1--1.4) 7.7 (7.4--8.0)
Marital Status\*\*\* Married 66888 (58.2) 64.2 1.2 (1.1--1.4) 5.6 (5.3--5.8)
Unmarried 48113 (41.8) 35.8 1.1 (1.0--1.3) 10.7 (10.3--11.1)
Total 115137 (100) 100 1.2 (1.1 -- 1.3) 7.4 (7.2 -- 7.6)
\* n = 106477 because of missing income data from 7.5% of subjects.
\*\* n = 113994 because of missing data from 1% of subjects.
\*\*\* n = 115001 because of missing data from 0.1% of subjects.
######
Annual Major Depression Prevalence With and Without Fibromyalgia, Stratified by Demographic Variables
Prevalence in Subjects with Fibromyalgia % (95% CI) Prevalence in Subjects without Fibromyalgia % (95% CI)
---------------- ------------ ----------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------
Sex Men 13.7 (8.3 -- 19.1) 5.3 (5.0 -- 5.6)
Women 23.6 (20.6 -- 26.7) 9.1 (8.8 -- 9.4)
Age 50 years + 15.0 (11.9 -- 18.1) 4.9 (4.6 -- 5.2)
18 to 49 29.9 (25.4 -- 34.5) 8.8 (8.5 -- 9.1)
Income High 20.8 (16.8 -- 24.8) 6.5 (6.2 -- 6.7)
Low 27.1 (22.7 -- 31.4) 9.7 (9.3 -- 10.1)
Education High 24.2 (20.2 -- 28.2) 7.2 (6.9 -- 7.4)
Low 19.7 (25.7 -- 23.8) 7.7 (7.4 -- 8.0)
Marital Status Married 17.7 (14.5 -- 20.9) 5.6 (5.3 -- 5.8)
Unmarried 30.7 (25.8 -- 35.7) 10.7 (10.3 -- 11.1)
|
Kotake Station
is a railway station on the Chikuho Main Line operated by JR Kyushu in Kotake, Kurate District, Fukuoka, Japan.
History
The privately run Chikuho Kogyo Railway had opened a track from to on 30 August 1891. In the next phase of expansion, the track was extended southwards with Kotake being opened as the new southern terminus on 28 October 1892. Kotake became a through-station on 3 July 1893 when the track was further extended to . On 1 October 1897, the Chikuho Kogyo Railway, now renamed the Chikuho Railway, merged with the Kyushu Railway. After the Kyushu Railway was nationalized on 1 July 1907, Japanese Government Railways (JGR) took over control of the station. On 12 October 1909, the station became part of the Chikuho Main Line With the privatization of Japanese National Railways (JNR), the successor of JGR, on 1 April 1987, control of the station passed to JR Kyushu.
Passenger statistics
In fiscal 2016, the station was used by an average of 700 passengers daily (boarding passengers only), and it ranked 205th among the busiest stations of JR Kyushu.
References
Category:Railway stations in Fukuoka Prefecture
Category:Railway stations opened in 1892 |
Industrial and commercial storage tanks facilitate trade and are an integral part of modern commerce. From water processing and dry commodities to oil and frac sand, storage tanks are an essential component of a variety of industries. Yet despite the widespread use and impact of storage tanks, tank production remains much the same as it was 100 years ago. Sheets are cut from steel plates of varying thickness and manipulated to match the desired tank dimensions.
One of the first steps in building a storage tank is to properly position the metal panels that will be welded together to form the tank itself. The metal panels are often large, heavy steel sheets that are moved into place by a crane. While the metal sheet is still attached to the crane, workers help guide the sheet into the proper location so that the metal sheets may be welded together. To stay on schedule, workers must position the metal sheets quickly so that the crane can lift more metal sheets to be laid in position. Because most tank building takes place outdoors, workers are subjected to nature's elements. Wind, rain, and other weather conditions make the positioning of metal sheets difficult and unsafe. For example, high winds often cause metal sheets suspended from a crane to sway. Additionally, heavy rain can cause the workers' tools to slip.
Even in good weather, the metal panel will rarely be correctly positioned after it is released from the crane. Workers must therefore exert great force and strength to move the panels into place. Workers currently use various types of crowbars to align the large steel panels. This process is extremely labor intensive and time consuming. It requires workers to bend down and exert great amounts of pressure on their backs, legs, and arms as they push and pry the metal sheets. In inclement weather, the task of moving the large metal sheets becomes even more difficult because the crowbars are slippery.
Crowbars are the most common method of metal plate alignment in the storage tank industry. Dowel pins, or locating pins, provide another method of plate alignment. The pins are strategically placed so two pieces of sheet metal are aligned properly until they are welded or bolted together. After the tank is assembled, the dowel pins are removed and the holes are sealed with a weld. Although dowel pins are useful for more exact metal sheet positioning, workers still must use crowbars or similar methods to position the metal in place before inserting the dowel pins. Furthermore, the dowel pins must be removed and the holes welded over before the tank is finished. Additionally, the weight of the large metal sheets may bend or break the dowel pins. Dowel rods thus slow the process of tank building, and the dowel rods themselves are useful only for holding the sheets together, not for positioning the sheets in place.
Embodiments of the invention will not be limited to storage tank production. A version of the invention will generally find utility in any application that requires incremental positioning. One embodiment of the invention is aimed at incrementally moving large and heavy pieces of metal, and a version of the invention may be utilized in many applications in which the incremental positioning of metal is desired. Such applications include, but are not limited to, ship and vessel building, defense building applications, aerospace and airplane construction, and the like. In all industries, the current method of metal positioning is based on the highly labor intensive use of crow and pry bars.
Thus, a need exists in the art for a device that eases the process of positioning large metal sheets. Furthermore, a device that utilizes tools already in use is preferred, and, as in all fields, advancements in the art are desired. |
Heart failure afflicts greater than 5 million people in the U.S. Alarmingly, heart failure contributes to more than 300,000 deaths per year in the U.S., with a five-year mortality of approximately 50%. Heart failure is associated with reproducible cellular changes in calcium-dependent and beta-adrenergic (beta-AR) receptor-mediated signaling pathways, which occur as the body attempts to respond to the pathophysiologic changes occurring in the failing heart. Changes in beta-AR signaling and a decrease in functional coupling of remaining beta-ARs to regulatory G-proteins occurs in heart failure. However, the extent to which beta-2-AR signaling is protective or causative in chronic heart failure (HF) is unclear. Although much is known about mechanisms of pathological remodeling in HF (re-shaping of the heart), much of the information derives from small animal models with HF produced surgically, and then defined as "chronic" after several weeks. Alternatively, investigators utilize genomic perturbation models (deletion or overexpression). The objective of this application is to define the contribution of beta-2-adrenergic- receptor signaling in the development of progressive heart failure in a chronic (greater than a year), non- ischemic, large animal model. These chronic maladaptive beta-2-ARs changes affect sarcoplasmic calcium release and ryanodine receptors;and lead to a decrement in contractile function, and an increase in caspase signaling. These subsequent changes lead to pathological remodeling and heart failure. Innovative aspects of the study include the large animal model of heart failure greater than a year in duration;the capability to combine whole-animal physiology and molecular and genetic techniques;investigation of mechanisms of maladaptive isolated, chronic beta-2-AR signaling in HF;and an investigation, in part, targeted at elucidating mechanisms of reverse remodeling in cardiac resynchronization therapy. The scientific approach will be focused on an intensive cell and molecular approach that will be combined with systems physiology. In a prolonged model of HF, we will physiologically assess these animals using methodologies utilized to evaluate human patients with chronic HF;and thereafter will be able to recreate this same pathology in isolated myocytes (ex vivo). After, identifying beta-2-ARs mediated mechanisms of HF, therapeutic strategies including cardiac resynchronization therapy (CRT), beta-1 adrenergic blockade or nonspecific beta-1-and-2 blockade will be implemented. The goal will be to attenuate pathological remodeling, maladaptive signaling, and gene regulation by correcting abnormal adrenergic signaling and calcium regulation. These interventions should lead to a reversal of pathological remodeling, and facilitate recovery from progressive heart failure. The successful completion of this research will contribute to our understanding of beta-2-ARs signaling and reverse remodeling in chronic HF, and provide a better insight into the mechanisms of CRT and beta- blocker therapy. |
Ajmer: Three members of a family from Allahabad died of starvation while observing "chilla kashi" – a 40-day fast – to "ward off black magic", at the 14th century saint Khwaja Moinudeen Chishti's mausoleum in Ajmer, on Monday, Indian media reported.
Meanwhile, 10 others, including two children aged two and three, have been admitted to hospital in a critical condition because of the fast.
Mohammad Salam (14), Nausar (17) and Kaiser (28) were declared dead at a local hospital. The family had been fasting for 38 days, claiming that they were doing it "on the Khwaja's orders".
Head of the family, Mohammad Mustafa (59), said, "We were fasting to ward off black magic that my brother had performed on me and my family about four years ago".
A retired merchant navy official, Mustafa said they started fasting after he had a dream "ordering" him to do so during a visit to Ajmer dargah. "Everything was going wrong with my family ever since the witchcraft was performed," he added.
However, even after three deaths in the family, the other ailing members were unrepentant as they refused to accept treatment and pulled out the needles from their wrists.
They claimed the treatment was disobeying god's commands. The hospital staff had to struggle to persuade the family members to receive first aid.
Mustafa regretted that they were just two days short of finishing the 40-day fast on the Khwaja's "order".
Mustafa's son, Rizwan Shaikh, said the family spent most of its time at the shrine, where they had been staying for over two years.
"After coming to Ajmer, I again had a dream about a month-and-a-half ago, that if the whole family observed fast for 40 days, normality would return to the family. After that, all of us did not eat or drink anything," said Mustafa.
"My father told us about the dream and the whole family started fasting. Most of the time we sat near astane' in the dargah for 20 to 23 hours a day," said Rizwan, his brother.
When local people noticed the condition of the fasting family members, they asked them to eat, but all were adamant on their vows.
"I requested and sat for an hour near them on Sunday and asked them to eat something but they refused," said Muzaffar Bharati, a social worker.
The incident has left residents from the area, especially Muslim religious leaders, shocked as they were united in their opinion that such a harsh practice was against the teachings of Garib Nawaz.
"Chilla Kashi means going into retreat for 40 days. During this period, the believer goes into remembrance of Allah through deep meditation to attain spiritual heights.
However, there are no restrictions on having meals, but a practitioner shouldn't
indulge in any worldly affairs during this period," said Salman Chishty, an Ajmer-based sufi scholar.
He added that the practice is not supposed to be practiced by the common man. "A disciple is never allowed to practice Chilla Kashi until he spends a decade with his Sufi master," he added. |
(defproject vvvvalvalval/scope-capture "0.3.2"
:description "Easier REPL-based debugging for Clojure by saving and restoring snapshots of the local environment."
:url "https://github.com/vvvvalvalval/scope-capture"
:license {:name "MIT"
:url "https://opensource.org/licenses/MIT"}
:dependencies [[org.clojure/clojure "1.8.0"]]
:profiles
{:lab
{:source-paths ["src" "lab"]
:dependencies [[org.clojure/clojurescript "1.9.908"]]}})
|
[Prostaglandin H synthetase as a multisubstrate enzyme. Fluorimetric study of enzyme kinetics].
The kinetics of a multisubstrate enzymatic reaction catalyzed by prostaglandin H synthase (PGH-synthase, EC 1.14.99.1) was studied, using homovanillic acid, a new electron donor for the given system. Homovanillic acid was shown to be a participant in a reaction with arachidonic acid/O2 stoichiometric ratios and is oxidized to a readily fluorescing product with an absorbance maximum (excitation) at 315 nm and fluorescence maximum at 425 nm. This allows for determination of the rate of enzymatic reaction with the sensitivity exceeding by one order of magnitude that of polarographic or spectrophotometric assays. Using fluorescent techniques, the dependence of the rate of PGH-synthase reaction on substrate (arachidonic acid, O2 and homovanillic acid) concentrations was studied, and the corresponding Km values were determined. The effect of Tween-20 and Lubrol PX concentrations on the reaction rate were examined. It was shown that with a decrease in the surfactant concentration the reaction rate increases. |
The present invention relates to a semiconductor device, a moving image processing system, and a method of controlling a semiconductor device. For example, the present invention can be preferably used for a semiconductor device that processes a moving image.
In recent years, a 360-degree camera that captures a whole image around the camera by one-time image capturing has been well developed and the number of cases where a reproduction side device decodes and displays a 360-degree moving image captured by the 360-degree camera has increased. However, the reproduction side device is a smartphone or the like, so that a screen of a display unit is small and an entire moving image may not be displayed.
Therefore, there is a reproduction side device that cuts out a part of an area of a moving image as a display area and displays an image in the display area. Further, there is a reproduction side device that can move a display area that is cut out from a moving image.
As a related art, there is Japanese Unexamined Patent Application Publication. No. 2009-194920. A technique described in Japanese Unexamined Patent Application Publication No. 2009-194920 divides a panoramic image into a plurality of small screen images (tiles) and independently encodes each of the plurality of small screen images. |
Ger - I am not sure what code this is related to. I am guessing it is the Netlogo filter mentioned at http://moodle.org/mod/data/view.php?d=13&rid=742; however, the code is not maintained on the Moodle CVS server and there is no component in the tracker for it. Your best bet may be to try and contact Jochen (http://moodle.org/user/view.php?id=107018&course=1) via Moodle message. I do not have access to the code but if Jochen wants to add it to CONTRIB I would welcome it. Let me know how I can be of help. Peace - Anthony
Anthony Borrow
added a comment - 03/Jan/10 11:14 PM Ger - I am not sure what code this is related to. I am guessing it is the Netlogo filter mentioned at http://moodle.org/mod/data/view.php?d=13&rid=742 ; however, the code is not maintained on the Moodle CVS server and there is no component in the tracker for it. Your best bet may be to try and contact Jochen ( http://moodle.org/user/view.php?id=107018&course=1 ) via Moodle message. I do not have access to the code but if Jochen wants to add it to CONTRIB I would welcome it. Let me know how I can be of help. Peace - Anthony
I'm resolving this as "Won't Fix" since I have no access to the code and cannot otherwise assign to the contributor of the netlogo filter (Jochen). That said, please feel free to comment if there is anything I can do to be helpful. Peace - Anthony
Anthony Borrow
added a comment - 03/Jan/10 11:16 PM I'm resolving this as "Won't Fix" since I have no access to the code and cannot otherwise assign to the contributor of the netlogo filter (Jochen). That said, please feel free to comment if there is anything I can do to be helpful. Peace - Anthony |
Introduction {#s1}
============
A substantial number of patients are compulsorily admitted to psychiatric inpatient care throughout Europe ([@B1]--[@B7]) and many of them experience repeated compulsory admissions. Data of the Federal Office of Statistics suggest that between 15 and 21% of all psychiatric admissions in Switzerland were compulsory (years 2002--2009; Canton of Zurich: between 23 and 29%) ([@B8]).
Compulsory hospitalisation affects an individual\'s personal interests and autonomy profoundly, thus touching basic human rights, and should be considered only as a measure of last resort for persons who cannot be helped by other means in a less restrictive setting. The comparatively high rates observed in some countries underline the need to scrutinise the use of compulsory measures in psychiatry. This is what has been advocated by professionals, politicians, patients\' and human rights organisations for years, campaigning to reduce the number of compulsory psychiatric admissions.
On that account it is important to identify risk factors for compulsory hospitalisation, especially factors which could be addressed proactively by preventive measures or treatment. However, our knowledge of the factors determining the clinical need for compulsory treatment, is still limited. Serious endangerment of self or others is the main prerequisite for compulsory admission to psychiatry in all Western countries, as it is in Switzerland, too. Nevertheless, it is difficult to predict in which cases endangerment of self or others will lead to compulsory hospitalisation. Moreover, in acute psychiatry no specific prognostic tools exist that might help guide decisions regarding post-discharge monitoring, treatment or rehabilitation planning to prevent further compulsory re-hospitalisation.
The preconditions for compulsory admission to psychiatric care are multifaceted, comprising not only a person\'s current violent or suicidal behaviour, but also aspects of their patient history, treatment motivation, and social and other contextual factors ([@B9]--[@B11]). Among the patient-related factors known to be associated with increased endangerment of self or others is the type of disorder: high rates of compulsory admission have been reported most consistently for psychotic, schizophrenic or delusional, disorders ([@B12]--[@B14]), but also for persons with a history of substance abuse ([@B15]). Regarding sociodemographic background factors, an increased risk has been repeatedly reported for ethnic minorities ([@B16]), in particular non-white or Black people ([@B17]). Several studies have found that male gender ([@B14]--[@B16]) and being unmarried or living alone ([@B12]--[@B15], [@B18]) are associated with a higher risk of compulsory hospitalisation. But there are also other studies in which these factors were not confirmed or have been attributed to underlying mediators ([@B14]--[@B16], [@B18], [@B19]).
It is obvious that a comparison of findings across different countries and mental health care systems is difficult, considering that inconsistencies also might in part mirror population composition, configurations of mental health services, as well as professionals\' ethics and attitudes ([@B20], [@B21]). Beyond this, research on compulsory hospitalisation has some limitations so far:
1. \- To explore risk factors, psychiatry usually has to recourse to non-experimental designs and most research in this field also rests on cross-sectional data. Lessons that may be learned by retrospectively searching for predictors therefore are almost inevitably limited, revealing correlates rather than "true" risk factors. To assess the incidence of compulsory admissions and risk (or protective) factors prospective studies are necessary. However, only few studies have adopted a longitudinal (cohort) perspective (e.g., Amsterdam Study of Acute Psychiatry ([@B22]--[@B24]).
2. \- Many analyses focused on specific patient groups, as e.g., (first admitted) subjects with psychosis ([@B25], [@B26]), narrow age categories ([@B25], [@B27]) (adolescents; \<50 years old), specific service settings, as e.g., compulsory community treatment ([@B28]) or selected countries or areas ([@B14], [@B26], [@B29]).
3. \- Moreover, many studies are based solely on routinely collected hospital data or retrospective chart reviews ([@B12], [@B27]--[@B29]), thus restricting the range of potentially important factors, direct risk factors as well as confounders.
4. \- Studies exploring the subjective perspective of psychiatric patients are scarce and if at all, often adopted a narrow focus on the patients\' retrospective view on their involuntary hospitalisation ([@B30]--[@B32]). It is unclear whether the patients\' subjective symptom distress or their perceived social support might contribute to the prediction of further severe crises rendering these patients more likely to experience compulsory re-admissions.
In this situation long-term studies closely monitoring the clinical course of mental patients might help define the risk and guide treatment planning so as to prevent further coercive measures.
We therefore re-analysed data from a prospective clinical trial in which a group of patients with serious mental disorder and compulsory hospitalisation(s) in the past were followed over 24 months after discharge. We used a comprehensive multiaxial assessment (clinicians, study staff, patient ratings) at discharge from the hospital to determine predictors of compulsory re-admission.
Specifically, we address the following questions:
1. \- Do patients\' ratings reflecting their subjective view on symptom distress and perceived social support predict compulsory re-admission after discharge from psychiatric inpatient care and
2. \- which are the most important predictors within this multiaxial personal (patient) and external (clinicians/study staff) assessment?
Beyond that, we aimed to find out to which extent the patients\' self-ratings of their mental health functioning correspond to clinical staff ratings.
Materials and Methods {#s2}
=====================
Sample
------
The sample for this study is drawn from a randomised trial to evaluate an intervention programme targeting the prevention of compulsory admission to psychiatric inpatient care. Participants were recruited from a naturalistic user sample of inpatient mental health care in four psychiatric hospitals mandated to provide psychiatric care to adults in the Canton of Zurich, Switzerland. Patients aged 18--65 years who had been compulsorily admitted to psychiatric inpatient care at least once during the past 24 months were included in this study. Participation was not limited to a specific mental disorder, but patients diagnosed with an organic mental disorder (ICD-10: F0), mental retardation (F7) or a behavioural syndrome associated with physical factors (F5) were not included. Furthermore, individuals who could not be contacted by telephone and those with insufficient language skills were not eligible for inclusion either.
Procedure and Clinical Assessments
----------------------------------
After having given informed consent, patients were randomised to the intervention group or a treatment as usual (TAU) comparison group. The intervention programme is described in detail elsewhere ([@B33]). In brief, it consisted of: (a) individualised psycho-education focusing on behaviours prior to and during an illness-related crisis, (b) working out a crisis card with the patient and, after discharge from psychiatric inpatient care, (c) a 24-month preventive monitoring based on an individualised checklist. This checklist covered the personal risk factors for relapse (e.g., familial, work or financial problems), personal and social resources as well as information on treatment-related behaviour and use of mental health care services.
Baseline assessment included retrospective data on the patient\'s history, current psychopathology, individual risk factors and protective factors for further compulsory readmission. Baseline interviews were carried out during a participant\'s inpatient stay (generally over several sessions), before discharge from the hospital. After discharge from the hospital, mental health care use was assessed in regular telephone contacts. Twelve and 24 months after baseline a comprehensive follow-up assessment was carried out again by means of face-to-face interviews. Interviews were conducted by the members of the study staff, all of them graduated clinical psychologists.
Measures
--------
Clinical diagnoses as well as data on sociodemographic status, occupational and living situation were retrieved from the patients\' medical files. Psychiatric diagnoses were made by the hospital physicians in charge at the participating study centres.
Patients\' file data on social background and patients\' history were supplemented by information obtained from a structured patient interview. We used the German adaptation of the Client Sociodemographic and Service Receipt Inventory CSSRI-EU ([@B34], [@B35]) to assess detailed information about patients\' lifetime service utilisation. If a patient\'s statement conflicted with information in the patient\'s file ambiguities were clarified during the baseline assessment. In the same way, mental health care use was determined prospectively by retrieving care-related data from the patients\' files (review of medical records over the entire study period) and by information from the study participants using the CSSRI-EU. Thus, the frequency and duration of voluntary and compulsory psychiatric inpatient care episodes (and psychiatric outpatient care) were determined.
The Global Assessment of Functioning Scale GAF of the DSM-IV ([@B36]) was applied to assess the patient\'s global level of psychological, social and occupational functioning. The GAF measures how much a person\'s symptoms affect his or her daily life on a scale ranging from 1 (severely impaired) to 100 (extremely high functioning).
Moreover, the baseline interviews covered specific problem areas which were considered important for the further course of the disorder, as they might relate to symptom aggravation and compulsory admission. These items were rated using all available information from the participant and (responsiveness to treatment) from the medical files. Ratings were dichotomised (1 = severe problems; 0 = no or only minor problems in this area), "severe problem behaviour" being operationalised as follows:
*Partner relationship*: Unstable, very conflictual relationship (including severe or continued violence); or rapidly changing partnerships; or age \>30 y and no permanent relationship to date.
*Working*: Severe or continued problems at work; or person (capable of work) refuses to apply for a job; or left employment or was fired within short periods of time. For persons unemployable on the regular labour market, rating was based on sheltered employment, occupational therapy or other respective types of occupation.
*Responsiveness to treatment*: Lack of response to current or recent treatment (for whatever reason; includes patients who did not accept the recommended treatment measures or dropped out of medical treatment).
To assess the patient\'s symptomatic distress the Outcome Questionnaire OQ-45 ([@B37]) was applied. This self-report questionnaire is widely used in clinical settings to estimate the patient\'s current mental health functioning and changes over the course of treatment. It comprises 45 items to be rated on a five-point scale (0 = "never"; 1 = "rarely"; 2 = "sometimes"; 3 = "frequently"; 4 = "almost always"). The scale provides an index of mental health functioning (total score) and three subscale scores: symptomatic distress or subjective discomfort (SD), interpersonal relationships with intimate others (IR), and functioning in social roles such as work, homemaking, and leisure activities (SR).
The patients were also asked to rate their perceived social support. The Berlin Social Support Scales BSSS ([@B38]), a battery of self-report questionnaires, was applied to measure (1) perceived available support; this scale refers to the anticipated possibility of receiving emotional (4 items) and instrumental support (4 items) in the future; (2) need for support (4 items) and (3) support-seeking (5 items). Patients rate their agreement with the statements on a 4-point scale (1 = "strongly disagree" to 4 = "strongly agree").
Statistical Methods
-------------------
We analysed the time to the first compulsory re-admission after discharge from psychiatric inpatient care as the main outcome measure. Time to compulsory admission was calculated from the retrieved re-admission dates on an exact monthly basis. Observation time was limited to 24 months, after that observations were censored.
The baseline variables specified in [Table 1](#T1){ref-type="table"} were considered as "explanatory" variables. In a first step we examined these variables in a bivariate analysis using Pearson correlations. In order to quantify the impact of clinical and social characteristics of patients on the outcome, we carried out Cox (proportional hazard) regression analyses. To model the relationship with "age" we added a quadratic term to allow for non-linearity. The significance level was fixed at 0.05 (two-tailed) in all tests.
######
Sample characteristics and univariate associations between baseline variables and compulsory re-admission within 24 months (Cox regression analyses; *N* = 168).
***N* (%) or**
------------------------------------------------- ---------------- ------ ------------ -------
Intervention group 75 (44.6) 0.61 0.36−1.03 0.065
TAU group (*reference*) 93 (55.4)
**Socio-demographic data**
Age (years)[^a^](#TN1){ref-type="table-fn"} 44.7 ± 11.5 1.12 0.94−1.32 0.205
Sex: female (*reference*) 96 (57.1)
Male 72 (42.9) 0.60 0.35−1.03 0.065
Living situation: Alone (*reference*) 82 (48.8) 0.550
With child(ren) 12 (7.1) 1.25 0.48−3.22 0.650
With partner/children 40 (23.8) 0.77 0.39−1.51 0.450
With others/unknown 34 (20.2) 1.32 0.71−2.46 0.387
Occupation: Unemployed/home-maker (*reference*) 107 (63.7) 0.121
Sheltered employment 17 (10.1) 1.33 0.62−2.83 0.462
Regular labour market 44 (26.2) 0.55 0.28−1.07 0.079
Swiss national (*reference*) 143 (85.1)
Foreign national 25 (14.9) 1.19 0.60−2.34 0.616
**Patient history/clinical data**
Duration of illness (years) 17.6 ± 12.7 1.00 0.98−1.02 0.773
First compulsory admission (*reference*) 66 (39.3)
Compulsory admission(s) in patient history 102 (60.7) 2.81 1.52−5.20 0.001
Compulsory admission due to:
Danger to self (reference) 121 (72.0)
Danger to others 47 (28.0) 2.05 1.23−3.43 0.006
Substance use disorder 33 (19.6) 0.67 0.34−1.42 0.319
Schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, mania 70 (41.7) 1.98 1.19 −3.28 0.008
Personality disorder 21 (12.5) 1.73 0.90−3.33 0.099
Other disorders 44 (26.2) 0.30 0.14 −0.67 0.003
**Global clinical ratings**
GAF 39.4 ± 10.7 1.00 0.97−1.02 0.750
Relationship-severe problems 20 (12.3) 0.78 0.34−1.81 0.564
Employment-severe problems 70 (42.4) 1.58 0.95−2.63 0.081
Poor response to psychiatric treatment 28 (16.7) 2.07 1.15−3.71 0.015
**Patient ratings**
OQ-45 Symptom distress 1.53 ± 0.68 0.75 0.51−1.07 0.137
OQ-45 Interpersonal relations 1.45 ± 0.59 1.15 0.75−1.76 0.525
OQ-45 Social role 1.40 ± 0.64 0.90 0.60−1.35 0.621
OQ-45 Total score 1.46 ± 0.56 0.88 0.56−1.38 0.581
BSSS Perceived support 3.06 ± 0.55 0.76 0.48−1.19 0.230
BSSS Need for support 2.61 ± 0.63 0.86 0.58−1.28 0.466
BSSS Support seeking 2.63 ± 0.57 1.13 0.73−1.76 0.580
*TAU, Treatment as usual; SD, Standard deviation; HR, Hazard ratio for being compulsorily re-admitted; CI, confidence interval*.
*The age model included a quadratic term to allow for non-linearity*.
To identify a set of explanatory variables that contribute significantly to the risk of compulsory re-admission we fitted a Cox regression model using backward stepwise variable selection based on likelihood ratio statistics. As candidate variables we considered covariates with coefficient *P*-values of \<0.1 in the bivariate regression analyses. Moreover, we checked whether an extended Cox-model including a time-dependent intervention effect fitted the data. Since the effect of this time-varying covariate was statistically not significant, it was not further considered in our regression models.
To compare the frequency distribution of the "explanatory" variables included in the Cox regression models ([Table 3](#T3){ref-type="table"}) between the two treatment groups in the follow-up sample (*n* = 168) we performed Chi-square tests using exact significance levels.
We computed Kaplan-Meier product limit estimates of survival to illustrate the effects of particular significant predictors. The survival curves displaying the estimated survival probabilities (estimated percentages of subjects not compulsorily re-admitted after discharge from psychiatric inpatient care) thus are compared for subjects with vs. those without compulsory admissions in their patient history ([Figure 1](#F1){ref-type="fig"}) and for different diagnostic groups ([Figure 2](#F2){ref-type="fig"}). Statistical analyses were carried out using SPSS 25.
{#F1}
{#F2}
Results {#s3}
=======
Sample Characteristics
----------------------
Of the 238 participants included in this study, 168 (70.6% of the baseline sample) remained in the study up to the 24 month follow-up. [Table 1](#T1){ref-type="table"} provides the baseline sample characteristics of the 168 participants with follow-up assessments over 24 months. The participants suffered from a broad range of mental diseases, of which psychotic disorders were most prevalent: 46 were diagnosed with a schizophrenic disorder (ICD-10: F2), 24 with a mania or bipolar disorder (F30; F31). Across all diagnostic groups psychiatric comorbidity was common and most of the participants showed serious and /or persistent behaviour problems. For the majority of this sample (60.7%) it was not the first compulsory admission, and roughly one in three participant (54; 32.1%) had already experienced four or more compulsory admissions to psychiatric inpatient care in the past.
Regarding their sociodemographic background the sample (mean age: 45 years; 56.0% between 35 and 55 years) is characterised by a high rate of participants living alone and not employed on the regular labour market.
Corresponding to the severity of the disorders, the level of functional impairments was high: according to the Global Assessment of Functioning (staff ratings) the patients showed major impairment in several areas, such as work or school, family relations, judgment, thinking, or mood (mean GAF score: 39.4 ± 10.7).
OQ-45 mean scale scores (patient ratings) ranged between 1 and 2 in all domains. This suggests that the patients themselves described their current mental health functioning at discharge as "rarely" or "sometimes" experiencing symptomatic distress, or distress with respect to interpersonal relationships or social roles.
According to the Berlin Social Support Scale "perceived support" they perceived some degree of social support (mean score 3.1; equal to "somewhat agree"). Regarding the aspects "need for support" and "support-seeking" (with average scale values of 2.6) the patients\' ratings are in the middle of the scale, ranging between "disagree" and "agree."
Relationship Between Baseline Measures
--------------------------------------
Pearson\'s correlation coefficients indicate high correlations between all OQ-45 measures (subscale scores SD, IR, SR, and OQ-total) and moderate to high correlations between the BSSS subscale scores ([Table 2](#T2){ref-type="table"}). Likewise, the (staff) Global Assessment of Functioning was consistent with the staff ratings of specific problem areas (significant negative correlations). Low level of functioning (GAF), e.g., was significantly associated in particular with severe or continued problems at work, but also with inadequate response to treatment.
######
Relationship between ratings by patients, ratings by study staff and patient characteristics at baseline.
**Age** **Duration of illness** **OQ** **OQ** **OQ** **OQ** **BSSS** **BSSS** **BSSS** **GAF** **Relation-ships problems** **Employ-ment problems** **Response to treatment**
------------------------ ----- --------- ------------------------- -------- -------- -------- -------- ---------- ---------- ---------- --------- ----------------------------- -------------------------- ---------------------------
Age *r* 1 0.382 −0.106 −0.031 −0.086 −0.086 −0.095 −0.161 −0.179 0.083 −0.039 −0.041 −0.006
*P* 0.000 0.173 0.693 0.272 0.270 0.226 0.038 0.021 0.283 0.623 0.600 0.935
Duration of illness *r* 1 0.106 0.182 0.108 0.148 −0.040 −0.047 −0.027 −0.220 −0.012 0.078 −0.075
*P* 0.177 0.020 0.172 0.060 0.615 0.551 0.731 0.005 0.882 0.325 0.338
OQ SD *r* 1 0.670 0.713 0.908 −0.284 0.267 −0.122 −0.217 0.175 0.182 0.168
*P* 0.000 0.000 0.000 0.000 0.001 0.119 0.005 0.026 0.020 0.031
OQ IR *r* 1 0.617 0.855 −0.414 0.082 −0.219 −0.067 0.134 0.132 0.165
*P* 0.000 0.000 0.000 0.295 0.005 0.390 0.090 0.094 0.034
OQ SR *r* 1 0.883 −0.238 0.195 −0.054 −0.149 0.117 0.206 0.138
*P* 0.000 0.002 0.012 0.489 0.056 0.140 0.008 0.076
OQ total *r* 1 −0.349 0.210 −0.146 −0.167 0.162 0.198 0.178
*P* 0.000 0.007 0.062 0.031 0.040 0.011 0.022
BSSS PS *r* 1 0.183 0.454 0.085 −0.189 −0.113 −0.143
*P* 0.018 0.000 0.277 0.017 0.152 0.065
BSSS NS *r* 1 0.531 −0.033 0.066 0.042 0.011
*P* 0.000 0.671 0.407 0.593 0.888
BSSS SS *r* 1 −0.033 −0.016 0.008 −0.133
*P* 0.674 0.844 0.921 0.088
GAF *r* 1 −0.210 −0.303 −0.255
*P* 0.007 0.000 0.001
Relationships problems *r* 1 0.232 0.078
*P* 0.003 0.325
Employment problems *r* 1 0.363
*P* 0.000
Response to treatment *r* 1
*N* 168 164 166 166 166 166 166 166 166 168 163 165 168
*r, Pearson correlation coefficient; P, P-value*.
Between staff ratings and patients\' self-report ratings, however, only limited correspondences were found. The GAF level of functioning showed a significant negative correlation with (OQ-) symptom distress and the OQ-total score, but no significant association was apparent with regard to the other OQ domains (interpersonal relations; social role functioning) or the BSSS ratings ("perceived support"; "need for support"; "support-seeking").
Remarkably, we found no evidence of a significant correlation between the duration of the illness and the patients\' perceived mental health functioning (OQ-45 subscales) or perceived social support (BSSS subscales).
Likewise, there was no indication of sex-specific differences in the perception of social support (BSSS subscale means: no significant differences). There were slight (statistically significant) differences, however, depending on the patients\' living situation: the 40 patients who were "living together in a family or with a partner" reported the lowest support-seeking scores (BSSS subscale "support-seeking": mean 2.44 ± 0.53), whereas the highest scores were found in the single-parent group (mean 2.83 ± 0.65; Living situation: *F* = 3.303; 3 df; *p* = 0.022).
Compulsory Re-admissions Over 24 Months
---------------------------------------
During the 24 month follow-up period after discharge from psychiatric inpatient care, 61 of the 168 participants were compulsorily re-admitted to psychiatry: 21 from the intervention group and 40 from the TAU group. A detailed analysis of intervention effects which is not the subject of the present paper is given in Lay et al. ([@B39]). In individual cases up to 5 compulsory re-admissions were registered during the 24-month follow-up period.
At 9 compulsory re-admissions within the first month, the number peaked immediately after discharge from psychiatric inpatient care; the likelihood of a first compulsory re-admission then gradually declined over time. The Kaplan-Meier survival curves given in [Figures 1](#F1){ref-type="fig"}, [2](#F2){ref-type="fig"} clearly show this risk curve.
Predicting Compulsory Re-admission
----------------------------------
\(1\) The results of univariate Cox regression analyses revealed that a series of patient characteristics are related to the risk of compulsory re-admission ([Table 1](#T1){ref-type="table"}). The factors increasing the risk most strongly originated in the patients\' history and psychopathology: in particular subjects already with compulsory admissions in their patient history (HR 1.78), with compulsory admissions due to severe danger to others (HR 2.05), the diagnosis of a psychotic disorder (HR 1.98) or a personality disorder (HR 1.73) were at a significantly increased risk of compulsory re-admission.
As to sociodemographic patient characteristics, we did not find statistically significant effects. Nor did the patients\' subjective ratings of mental health functioning (OQ-45) or social support (BSSS), predict compulsory re-admission. Among the clinical ratings by the staff, "poor treatment response" was the only significant indicator of an increased risk of compulsory re-admission (HR 2.07).
\(2\) Results of a multivariate analysis controlling for effects of the intervention showed two significant predictors ([Table 3](#T3){ref-type="table"}, model 1): "Compulsory admission(s) in the patient history," suggestive of a 2.48 times higher hazard, as compared to "no previous compulsory admissions," and "endangerment of others" as compared to "endangerment of self" (1.82 times higher hazard).
######
Risk factors for compulsory re-admission within 24 months (Cox regression).
**Model 1** **Model 2**
--------------------------------------------- ------------- ------------- ------- ------ ----------- -------
First compulsory admission (reference)
Compulsory admission(s) in patient history 2.48 1.32−4.65 0.005
Compulsory admission due to:
Danger to self (reference)
Danger to others 1.82 1.05-- 3.15 0.032 1.79 1.01−3.16 0.045
Schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, mania 2.16 1.14−4.09 0.018
Personality disorder 2.55 1.15−5.63 0.021
Poor response to psychiatric treatment 1.93 1.04−3.58 0.037
TAU group (reference)
Intervention group 0.55 0.32−0.95 0.030 0.56 0.32−0.96 0.036
*TAU, Treatment as usual; HR, Hazard ratio; CI, confidence interval*.
*Model 1: Chi^2^ = 19.225; df 3; P \< 0.001; −2Log-Likelihood = 560.518*.
*Model 2: Chi^2^ = 26.383; df 5; P \< 0.001; −2Log-Likelihood = 575.761*.
Considering that "compulsory admission(s) in the patient history" is a variable, in itself in need of an explanation, rather than explaining the outcome, we fitted a second regression model, omitting this "proxy" variable in order to bring out deeper-seated factors associated with the outcome. According to this Cox regression model 2 an increased risk of compulsory re-admission is associated in particular with specific mental disorders: the highest hazards were observed for personality disorders (HR 2.55) and psychotic disorders (HR 2.16). Beyond the nature of the mental disorder, poor response to treatment emerged as a further significant predictor (HR 1.93). Moreover, "endangerment of others" (again) was included in the model, suggesting a further risk increase by factor 1.79 given all other variables controlled in the model.
Aside from these patient characteristics, model 1 and model 2 both suggest that participants from the intervention group were less likely to be compulsorily re-admitted than those from the TAU group.
By way of example, the impact of two of the predictors is illustrated by means of the Kaplan-Meier survival curves: [Figure 1](#F1){ref-type="fig"} compares the Kaplan-Meier plot for patients with a first compulsory admission (baseline assessment) and patients with previous compulsory admissions in their patient history. [Figure 2](#F2){ref-type="fig"} shows the survival curves for different diagnostic groups, i.e., the proportion "surviving" without further compulsory re-admission in each group.
\(3\) Our regression models are based on patients who achieved the 24 month follow-up (70.6% of the baseline sample). We lost in this RCT significantly more patients in the intervention group (44; 37.0%) than in the TAU group (26; 21.8%). Therefore, dropout effects could have biased our models. To investigate whether the predictor variables given in [Table 3](#T3){ref-type="table"} were differentially affected by sample attrition, we tested whether the frequency distribution of the predictor variables is equally distributed across the two groups.
Results did not show statistically significant differences in any of these variables (First compulsory admission chi^2^ = 0.022, *p* = 1.00; Compulsory admission due to danger to self/others chi^2^ = 1.930, *p* = 0.172; Schizophrenia chi^2^ = 1.790, *p* = 0.209; Personality disorder chi^2^ = 0.582, *p* = 0.488; Poor response to treatment chi^2^ = 0.043, *p* = 1.00; all variables df = 1). This suggests that the different attrition rate in the intervention and the TAU group over 24 months had no significant impact on the distribution of the predictor variables in the regression models.
Discussion {#s4}
==========
This study is a prospective long-term follow-up of 168 psychiatric in patients with severe mental illness who already had experienced compulsory admission(s) to psychiatric inpatient care. During the 24 months the study participants were followed after discharge, 36.3% had compulsory re-admissions. The present findings suggest that the risk of compulsory re-hospitalisation is particularly high immediately after discharge from psychiatric inpatient care, then gradually decreases, but is noticeably lower only after 12 months.
To determine risk factors of compulsory re-admission we investigated clinical and social information from the patients\' perspective, in addition to standard disease-related and socio-demographic data (assessed by clinicians, study staff).
Predictors of Compulsory Re-admission
-------------------------------------
\(1\) *Clinical measures*. According to our regression models the strongest predictors were "clinical" measures: patients with compulsory psychiatric admissions (already) in their patient history were most likely to experience a compulsory re-admission, in particular those for whom serious endangerment of others, i.e., aggressive, violent behaviour, was the reason for hospitalisation. Regarding the psychiatric diagnosis, patients diagnosed with a personality disorder or a psychotic disorder were at the highest risk. The predictors of the present analysis are largely consistent with previous findings: "A history of involuntary admissions proved to be the only independent predictor of involuntary re-admission" in the prospective follow-up study reported by Setkowsky et al. ([@B23]) and van der Post et al. ([@B40]). Likewise, functional psychoses ([@B12], [@B13], [@B16], [@B19], [@B29]) and more severe symptoms ([@B15], [@B16]) have been repeatedly reported to increase the risk of compulsory hospitalisation.
Personality disorders, in the present study emotionally unstable (ICD F60.3) or mixed personality disorders (F61.0), however, did not appear to be associated with the incidence of compulsory re-admission in previous research. It is not clear whether this is due to the fact that personality disorders are rarely analysed separately, rather typically subsumed under an "other disorder"-category, or whether they are underdiagnosed in medical charts or whether these studies did not have enough power to prove a statistical significant effect. Not least, it might reflect varying admission decision-making processes as regards the indication of hospitalisation in personality disorders ([@B10]).
Nevertheless: there is a problem with "predictors" like "higher number of previous compulsory admissions," "major mental disorder" or "more severe symptoms," even if they are indeed well confirmed: Though they are plausible and might be useful for descriptive purposes, they are not free from tautology. Previous hospitalisations, e.g., are exactly the result of a process the prevention of which is at issue. They are limited therefore in terms of explanatory power and practical information.
\(2\) *Ratings by the study staff*. Among the set of ratings made by the study staff only the rating referring to the "response to treatment" was a significant predictor in the present study: patients rated as non-responsive to the current (inpatient) treatment were more likely to experience a compulsory re-admission after discharge from psychiatric inpatient care. This effect might be attributed to lack of motivation and difficulties relating thereto in treating these people, a factor that has been reported to be directly associated with involuntary admission ([@B10], [@B15]). In this context, however, it also should be taken into account that the diagnoses found to be associated with a significantly increased risk are precisely those regarded as gravely interfering with insight into the illness. In terms of the diagnostic spectrum (as well as their social backgrounds) it appears that the present sample has much in common with "high utilizers" of psychiatric services: persons characterised by comparatively disturbed behaviour, aggression, suicidality, manipulative behaviour, with low social adjustment and limited personal relationships ([@B11]). A further point to be considered is the therapeutic alliance, which is well known to be related to various types of outcomes ([@B41]). The quality of the therapeutic alliance is likely to play a crucial role in whether a patient refuses to accept the recommended treatment, thereby moderating the non-response-outcome association.
\(3\) *Patient ratings*. A special focus of our study was on the subjective patient view. In particular, we pursued the question of whether the patient-reported symptom distress (symptomatic distress or subjective discomfort, interpersonal relationships with intimate others, functioning in social roles; measured by the OQ-45) and the perceived social support (perceived available emotional and instrumental support, need for support, support-seeking; BSSS) contribute to the prediction of compulsory re-admission. The underlying idea was that these factors might be associated with further serious crises. None of these measures, however, was found to be linked in any clinically meaningful or statistically significant way to the risk of compulsory readmission.
Regarding the OQ-45 the patient ratings suggested an unproblematic level of mental health functioning. Considering that this assessment was made before discharge from psychiatric inpatient care, a relatively high level of adjustment might not quite be unexpected. The self-reported ratings, however, do not match very well to the assessment by the study staff: the ratings of both interpersonal relationships and social role functioning did not correlate significantly with the respective staff ratings, and only weak associations (statistically significant, but low correlations) were found between symptom distress, OQ total score (patient ratings) and the GAF score (staff rating). Of course, the weak association between self-ratings and clinical ratings does not argue against self- assessments. Rather, it might be explained by different perspectives: the yardstick for the clinician\'s rating of social and psychological functioning usually ranges between superior functioning and severe impairment. Nonetheless, the patients will make an assessment against the background of their individual biography and (implicitly) compare the current state against how they were doing in the past. Moreover, one should bear in mind that the different instruments used for self-assessment and external ratings basically restrict direct comparisons.
Notwithstanding this, neither the patients\' self-ratings nor the clinical staff ratings of functional impairment (GAF as well as the assessment of specific problem areas: partner relationship, working) appear to be useful predictors of compulsory readmission. The present findings, therefore, more likely suggest that the type of the mental disorder and the severity of behavioural problems are the factors decisive as to whether a patient returns to compulsory hospitalisation, rather than the patient\'s functional (social) impairment.
The second domain the patients had to evaluate were cognitive and behavioural aspects of "perceived social support." There is compelling evidence that social support is importantly associated with mental health status in various ways (coping with stress, quality of life, mortality risk ([@B42]--[@B44]). Low social support also has been reported to be a factor that increases the likelihood of emergency compulsory admission ([@B9]).
The patients\' ratings on the BSSS subscale "support-seeking" corresponded quite understandably to their living situation (alone, with partner, with children, with others). This suggests that the respondents indeed provided a differentiated assessment of their help-seeking behaviour. Even so, the results of the present study did not provide evidence that any of the BSSS domains of perceived social support is associated with the risk of compulsory re-hospitalisation.
The differing results as regards the impact of social support might partly be due to differences in the health and welfare systems in which the studies were embedded and which might carry a different weight (relative to private support) from one country to another. In the present study, e.g., a relatively high number of subjects stated that their only or closest contact person was a "professional." Besides, a fundamental conceptual difference should be borne in mind: whereas the BSSS subscales measure the *perceived* quality of support, other studies assessed objective social indicators ([@B24]) or analysed "social exclusion" from the perspective of a mental health officer ([@B9]).
\(4\) *Sociodemographic patient characteristics* had no further predictive value in the present study. Holding an occupation on the regular labour market showed at least a tendency to provide some protection against compulsory re-hospitalisation (bivariate analysis; statistically not significant). This is in line with findings reported from Norway suggesting that patients who received social benefits, not in paid work, have a higher risk of compulsory admission ([@B15], [@B16]). The role of sociodemographic factors for the risk of compulsory hospitalisation is certainly not straightforward. It is obvious that sociodemographic factors are not independent of disease-related features. Considering that the present study included mostly chronically ill patients, it is therefore plausible that sociodemographic factors such as living situation or occupational integration are only of limited explanatory power. Bearing in mind that the present sample comprised patients from different hospitals responsible for the delivery of acute mental health care services, it is unlikely, however, that the given distribution of sociodemographic characteristics is the result of a sheer sample selection effect.
Limitations and Strengths
-------------------------
This study has several limitations. Firstly, the sample included in this study is not representative of psychiatry patients in total, insofar as all had already experienced compulsory hospitalisations in their patient history thus representing a selected inpatient sample. Secondly, because the subjects in this study originate from a RCT, the study is not a naturalistic follow-up of psychiatry patients. This is crucial for the interpretation of the frequency of compulsory readmission: seeing that participants were involved in a programme addressing the reduction of compulsory readmission, one must not take re-admission rates to be incidence rates.
A further limitation relates to the analysis, which reflects the outcomes only of those study participants who have remained in this study for 24 months (70.6% of the baseline sample). As with all as-treated analyses, bias might be associated with dropout. In a previous analysis, however, it was shown that type and severity of the mental disorder or the nature of endangerment (of self/of others) at admission were not significantly associated with dropout ([@B39]). Moreover, there was no indication of a differential dropout effect in the two treatment groups. It is therefore unlikely that the clinical characteristics, which have been identified as the main risk factors, are artefacts due to attrition effects (irrespective of any accordance with the literature).
Furthermore, the potential risk factors analysed in this study are all on the individual patient-level or the patient\'s close social environment. Factors on a service-system level which are likely to have a share in the use of compulsory hospitalisation were not investigated. To clarify the contribution of such factors further research adopting a broader perspective is necessary (addressing e.g., organisational characteristics, referral procedures, use of crisis intervention practices).
The strengths of this study are its prospective design, which allows the timely assessment of data, avoiding limitations of retrospective investigations (ambiguous/missing data; recall errors), and its long-term perspective, enabling informative modelling of time to event data. The study sample, recruited from a naturalistic user sample of four psychiatric hospitals and including a broad spectrum of disorders, supports generalisation of findings. Moreover, this study is based on a comprehensive assessment and explicitly considered the subjective patient perspective, personal information that rarely has been studied in previous research.
Conclusions {#s5}
===========
The present analysis clearly suggests that on the patient-level, the risk of compulsory re-admission is mainly influenced by disease-related factors. Therefore, no effort should be spared to ensure compliance with treatment and treatment success in this special patient group: subjects with serious mental disorder (in particular, people with psychotic disorders or emotionally unstable personality disorders), recurrent severe behavioural problems (aggression, impulsivity, suicidal behaviour) with compulsory admissions in their patient history. These patients should be closely monitored after discharge from psychiatric inpatient care in order to timely detect early signs of a crisis and to optimise use of services. Aftercare already should be arranged during the inpatient stay, providing patients with a list of available low-threshold services and contact persons in the community in order to take account of the fact that risk of a compulsory re-admission is highest immediately after discharge.
Further research is also clearly needed to study service system aspects that determine referral or crisis intervention procedures, in order to work out promising concepts and investigate the conditions under which coercive admission can be prevented. In addressing such questions, psychiatry should set the focus on the needs of those with the most problematical behaviours at the more severe end of the spectrum of mental disorders.
Ethics Statement {#s6}
================
Ethical approval for the study was obtained from the Ethical Review Board for Clinical Studies of Canton of Zurich, Switzerland, and the study was registered with Current Controlled Trials ISRCTN63162737. All subjects gave written informed consent in accordance with the Declaration of Helsinki.
Author Contributions {#s7}
====================
WR and BL designed the study and coordinated the data collection. BL performed the statistical analysis and wrote the first draft of the manuscript. WR and WK contributed to the manuscript revision. All authors read and approved the final manuscript.
Conflict of Interest Statement
------------------------------
The authors declare that the research was conducted in the absence of any commercial or financial relationships that could be construed as a potential conflict of interest.
We are grateful to all patients who participated in this study. We would also like to thank all members of the study team involved in data collection who made this research possible.
**Funding.** This work was supported by the Zurich Program for Sustainable Development of Mental Health Services.
[^1]: Edited by: Tilman Steinert, Center for Psychiatry Weissenau, Germany
[^2]: Reviewed by: Jaap Peen, Arkin Mental Health Care, Netherlands; Andrew Molodynski, University of Oxford, United Kingdom
[^3]: This article was submitted to Public Mental Health, a section of the journal Frontiers in Psychiatry
|
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With the tweet of the editor of Israeli newspaper Haaretz’s English edition, Ami Scharf, about a private jet landing in Islamabad from Tel Aviv, Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI) government faced uproar by all opposition parties. The government categorically rejected the claim of Mr Scharf, and the opposition failed to discredit the government, as the editor of the paper in another tweet admitted that he had only made a guess.
Israel’s illegal and immoral occupation of Palestinian lands strike a deep hurt in all Pakistani hearts and minds. Pakistan’s refusal to acknowledge Israel as a state is simply because of its attitude towards Palestinian Muslims. Israeli policies are unacceptable for Pakistan. That is the only reason for the refusal to acknowledge Israel diplomatically.
Whether an Israeli plane lands in Pakistan or not, is immaterial. The fact that an Israeli newspaper tried to portray this as a thawing of Pakistan’s stand on Palestine, is a sign that our principled stand on the rights of the people of Palestine, hits Israel where it counts. Israel must accept that the people of Palestine will find support across the globe in the hearts of Muslims. Not just from Pakistan, but from all over the Muslim world. Planes can land a-plenty, that will make no change to Pakistan’s stand on Gaza, and the rights of the Palestinian people to Jerusalem. |
UV photoelectron and theoretical characterization of 2'-deoxyguanosine-5'-phosphate valence electronic properties: changes in structure associated with the B to Z-DNA conformational transition.
He(I) UV photoelectron spectroscopy and ab initio SCF molecular orbital calculations with the 4-31G basis set have been employed to characterize the valence electronic structures of 2'-deoxyguanosine-5'-phosphate (5'-dGMP-). In 5'-dGMP-, the electron distributions of the upper occupied orbitals are localized and similar to those appearing in 1,9-dimethylguanine (1), 3-hydroxytetrahydrofuran (2) and CH3HPO4- (3). Theoretical ionization potentials (IP's) of 5'-dGMP- (4) have been obtained by applying Koopmans' Theorem to the 4-31G SCF results. The IP's of seven orbitals in the base and sugar groups in 4, predicted from the 4-31G SCF calculations, have been individually corrected by comparison to results from 4-31G SCF calculations on neutral 5'-dGMP, and to Hel photoelectron spectra of the model compounds, 1 and 2. The IP's of six of the highest occupied orbitals of the phosphate group in 4 and in the model anion 3, predicted from 4-31G SCF calculations, have been corrected by comparing 4-31G SCF results for PO2- to theoretical IP's obtained from second-order Møller-Plesset perturbation calculations on PO2-. For 4 in the conformation occurring in B-DNA, the first IP's associated with the phosphate, base, and sugar groups occur at 5.1, 5.6 and 6.6 eV, respectively. A comparison of the valence electronic structures of 4 in geometries associated with the B and Z-DNA conformations indicates that in B-DNA the base and sugar orbitals have lower IP's than in Z-DNA, while the phosphate orbitals have higher IP's. |
Xander Bogaerts connects for a base hit against the St. Louis Cardinals during the fifth inning in Game 5 of the World Series.
Photo By:
Jacoby Ellsbury (2) strokes his RBI single in the 7th as the Red Sox take on the Cardinals in game 5 of the World Series.
Photo By:
David Ross (3) slides into the tag of St. Louis Cardinals catcher Yadier Molina (4) for the final out of the 7th on the RBI single of Boston Red Sox center fielder Jacoby Ellsbury (2) as the Red Sox take on the Cardinals in game 5 of the World Series.
Dustin Pedroia (15) is congratulated after scoring on a double by designated hitter David Ortiz (34) in the first as the Red Sox take on the Cardinals in game 5 of the World Series.
Photo By:
Stephen Drew (7) tosses the ball to second baseman Dustin Pedroia (15) on the double play ball hit by Cardinals first baseman Allen Craig (21) in the second as the Red Sox take on the Cardinals in game 5 of the World Series. |
A gene encoding a novel extremely thermostable 1,4-beta-xylanase isolated directly from an environmental DNA sample.
Small-subunit (SSU) rRNA genes (rDNA) were amplified by PCR from a hot pool environmental DNA sample using Bacteria- or Archaea-specific rDNA primers. Unique rDNA types were identified by restriction fragment length polymorphism (RFLP) analysis and representative sequences were determined. Family 10 glycoside hydrolase consensus PCR primers were used to explore the occurrence and diversity of xylanase genes in the hot pool environmental DNA sample. Partial sequences for three different xylanases were obtained and genomic walking PCR (GWPCR), in combination with nested primer pairs, was used to obtained a unique 1,741-bp nucleotide sequence. Analysis of this sequence identified a putative XynA protein encoded by the xynA open reading frame. The single module novel xylanase shared sequence similarity to the family 10 glycoside hydrolases. The purified recombinant enzyme, XynA expressed in E. coli exhibited optimum activity at 100 degrees C and pH 6.0, and was extremely thermostable at 90 degrees C. The enzyme showed high specificity toward different xylans and xylooligosaccharides. |
Cocaine abuse remains a serious public-health concern in the United States. The propensity to binge use cocaine, and to combine it with other abused drugs, such as alcohol, heighten the health risks associated with cocaine use. Cocaine can impair several cognitive and mental processes, including those that control behavior. Thus, it is important to understand how such disturbances also can reduce control over cocaine intake once cocaine use has begun. The proposed project aims to determine how an inability to control cocaine consumption is linked to cocaine-induced impairment of inhibitory and activiational processes involved in the self-control and regulation of behavior. The project will test acute and chronic cocaine effects in adult cocaine abusers. The research combines measures of cocaine effects on cognitive inhibitory processes with conventional indices of abuse potential, based on subjective rewarding effects of the drug and its ability to reinforce self-administration. Initial studies will determine dose-response functions of cocaine on inhibitory control, and compare effects of different routes of administration. Subsequent studies will determine how inhibitory processes contribute to abuse potential by testing the degree to which acute cocaine-induced impairment of inhibitory control contributes to cocaine self-administration. The research also will determine how alcohol contributes to cocaine abuse potential by testing the degree to which its concomitant administration exacerbates cocaine-induced impairments of inhibitory control. Finally, the research will provide information on how long-term cocaine use could contribute to cognitive deficits that resemble attentional disorders, by producing a chronic deficit in basal levels of inhibitory control. The research has several long-term objectives. First, the findings and research strategies used to examine the role of cognitive mechanisms in cocaine abuse will allow the investigators to further develop and refine drug-testing protocols that measure the ability of medications to block the cognitive-impairing effects of cocaine which could play a role in its abuse potential. Second, the proposed research strategies and measures will provide initial methods and protocols for studying the combination of cocaine with other drugs of abuse that might also disrupt cognitive functions, such as opiates, which are also commonly co-administered with cocaine. Finally, the procedures for assessing inhibitory processes can be used to assess drug-free, basal levels of cognitive inhibitory functioning in drug abusers. Such studies would provide information on the degree to which these basic cognitive mechanisms play a role in the etiology of a general disinhibitory psychopathology which is considered to be a common phenotypic characteristic among drug abusers. |
Q:
Including HTML arrow in a button
I am designing an HTML email and would like to include a right arrow on a HTML button, and I resorted to using special character and transform-rotate it.
My question is, right now they appear on different lines. How do I wrap the text and the arrow to appear only in one line? I tried using whitespace:no-wrap on the td element, but that does not seem to do the trick. Below is the code snippet.
<tr>
<td class="call-to-action" align="center">
<button type="button" class="call-to-action1" value="Schedule Online Here" style="white-space:nowrap">SCHEDULE ONLINE HERE
<h1 class="little-arrow" style="-ms-transform: rotate(270deg);transform: rotate(270deg);-webkit-transform: rotate(270deg); /* Chrome, Safari, Opera */; color: white; font-size:14px">∇</h1></button>
</td>
</tr>
A:
Arrow is breaking in next line - because you are using h1 for the arrow which is a block element. Simply use span and it will be in one line.
<tr>
<td class="call-to-action" align="center">
<button type="button" class="call-to-action1" value="Schedule Online Here" style="white-space:nowrap">SCHEDULE ONLINE HERE
<span class="little-arrow" style="-ms-transform: rotate(270deg);transform: rotate(270deg);-webkit-transform: rotate(270deg); /* Chrome, Safari, Opera */; color: white; font-size:14px; display: inline-block">∇</span></button>
</td>
</tr>
Using h1 The same layout can be achieved by using same h1 tag. simply use display:inline-block to bring them in one line -
.button,
.little-arrow {
display: inline-block
}
.little-arrow {
-ms-transform: rotate(270deg);
transform: rotate(270deg);
-webkit-transform: rotate(270deg);
/* Chrome, Safari, Opera */
;
color: white;
font-size: 14px;
color: red
}
<tr>
<td class="call-to-action" align="center">
<button type="button" class="call-to-action1" value="Schedule Online Here">SCHEDULE ONLINE HERE
<h1 class="little-arrow">∇</h1></button>
</td>
</tr>
|
Q:
Pandas: Filter a data-frame, and assign values to top n number of rows
import pandas as pd
df = pd.DataFrame({'col1':[1,2,3,4,2,5,6,7,1,8,9,2], 'city':[1,2,3,4,2,5,6,7,1,8,9,2]})
# The following code, creates a boolean filter,
filter = df.city==2
# Assigns True to all rows where filter is True
df.loc[filter,'selected']= True
What I need, is a change in the code so that it assigns True to given n number of rows.
The actual data frame has more than 3 million rows. Sometimes, I would want
df.loc[filter,'selected']= True for only 100 rows [Actual rows could be more or less than 100].
A:
I believe you need filter by values defined in list first with isin and then for top 2 values use GroupBy.head:
cities= [2,3]
df = df1[df1.city.isin(cities)].groupby('city').head(2)
print (df)
col1 city
1 2 2
2 3 3
4 2 2
If need assign True in new column:
cities= [2,3]
idx = df1[df1.city.isin(cities)].groupby('city').head(2).index
df1.loc[idx, 'selected'] = True
print (df1)
col1 city selected
0 1 1 NaN
1 2 2 True
2 3 3 True
3 4 4 NaN
4 2 2 True
5 5 5 NaN
6 6 6 NaN
7 7 7 NaN
8 1 1 NaN
9 8 8 NaN
10 9 9 NaN
11 2 2 NaN
|
function DeepRect(cfg) {
this.id = cfg;
this.labels = {};
this.labelColorIdx = 0;
this.labelColors = ['red', 'green', 'blue', 'orange', 'purple', 'deeppink',
'cyan', 'yellow', 'brown'];
}
const dr = new DeepRect("my_image_wrapper");
// Draw Rectangle
DeepRect.prototype.draw = function deepRectDraw(x, y, w, h, label) {
let labelColor = null;
if (label in this.labels) {
labelColor = this.labels[label];
} else {
labelColor = this.labelColors[this.labelColorIdx];
this.labelColorIdx = (this.labelColorIdx + 1) % this.labelColors.length;
this.labels[label] = labelColor;
}
const width = w - x;
const height = h - y;
$('<div/>', {
class: 'deep-rect',
style: 'position: absolute; '
+ `top: ${y}px; `
+ `left: ${x}px; `
+ `width: ${width}px; `
+ `height: ${height}px; `
+ `border: 2px solid ${labelColor}; `
+ `display: inline; `,
}).appendTo('#my_image_wrapper');
$('<div/>', {
class: 'deep-rect',
style: 'position: absolute; '
+ `top: ${y}px; `
+ `left: ${x}px; `
+ 'font-weight: bold; '
+ `color: ${labelColor}; `
+ `display: inline; `,
html: label,
}).appendTo('#my_image_wrapper');
};
DeepRect.prototype.clear = function deepRectClear() {
$('.deep-rect').remove();
this.labelColorIdx = 0;
this.labels = {};
};
function set_resp(val){
console.log(val)
const resp = val;
dr.clear();
if (resp) {
for (let i = 0; i < resp.length; i++) {
const entry = resp[i];
dr.draw(entry[0], entry[1], entry[2], entry[3], entry[4]);
}
}
}
|
/// Extension traits for slices
use super::*;
use std::ptr;
/// An extension trait for slice to get its _const_ pointer and length.
///
/// If the length is zero, then the pointer is null. This trait is handy when
/// it comes to converting slices to pointers and lengths for OCalls.
pub trait SliceAsPtrAndLen<T> {
fn as_ptr_and_len(&self) -> (*const T, usize);
}
impl<T> SliceAsPtrAndLen<T> for Option<&[T]> {
fn as_ptr_and_len(&self) -> (*const T, usize) {
match self {
Some(self_slice) => self_slice.as_ptr_and_len(),
None => (std::ptr::null(), 0),
}
}
}
impl<T> SliceAsPtrAndLen<T> for Option<&mut [T]> {
fn as_ptr_and_len(&self) -> (*const T, usize) {
match self {
Some(self_slice) => self_slice.as_ptr_and_len(),
None => (std::ptr::null(), 0),
}
}
}
impl<T> SliceAsPtrAndLen<T> for &[T] {
fn as_ptr_and_len(&self) -> (*const T, usize) {
if self.len() > 0 {
(self.as_ptr(), self.len())
} else {
(ptr::null(), 0)
}
}
}
impl<T> SliceAsPtrAndLen<T> for &mut [T] {
fn as_ptr_and_len(&self) -> (*const T, usize) {
if self.len() > 0 {
(self.as_ptr(), self.len())
} else {
(ptr::null(), 0)
}
}
}
/// An extension trait for slice to get its _mutable_ pointer and length.
///
/// If the length is zero, then the pointer is null. This trait is handy when
/// it comes to converting slices to pointers and lengths for OCalls.
pub trait SliceAsMutPtrAndLen<T> {
fn as_mut_ptr_and_len(&mut self) -> (*mut T, usize);
}
impl<T> SliceAsMutPtrAndLen<T> for Option<&mut [T]> {
fn as_mut_ptr_and_len(&mut self) -> (*mut T, usize) {
match self {
Some(self_slice) => self_slice.as_mut_ptr_and_len(),
None => (std::ptr::null_mut(), 0),
}
}
}
impl<T> SliceAsMutPtrAndLen<T> for &mut [T] {
fn as_mut_ptr_and_len(&mut self) -> (*mut T, usize) {
if self.len() > 0 {
(self.as_mut_ptr(), self.len())
} else {
(ptr::null_mut(), 0)
}
}
}
|
RSS Content
COLUMBUS, Ohio, May 31, 2018 (GLOBE NEWSWIRE) -- L Brands, Inc. (the “Company”) (NYSE:LB) announced today the commencement of offers to eligible holders of the Company’s outstanding senior notes listed in the table below (collectively, the “Outstanding Notes”) to exchange Outstanding Notes for up to (x) $700,000,000 aggregate principal amount (the “New Issue Cap”) of the Company’s new notes due January 2027 (the “New Notes”) and (y) cash (the “Offers”).
The purpose of the Offers is to extend the maturity of the debt obligations associated with the Outstanding Notes.
The Offers are being conducted by the Company upon the terms and subject to the conditions set forth in a confidential offering memorandum, dated May 31, 2018 (the “Confidential Offering Memorandum”).
The following table sets forth the Outstanding Notes that are subject to the Offers:
Composition of Total ExchangeConsideration(1)(2)
CUSIP
Title ofSecurity
PrincipalAmountOutstanding
Acceptance Priority Level
Series Tender Cap
ReferenceU.S. TreasurySecurity
BloombergReferencePage
FixedSpread(BasisPoints)
EarlyParticipation Premium(New Notes)
New Notes Component
HypotheticalCash Component(3)
HypotheticalTotalExchangeConsideration(4)
532716AS6
7.000% Senior Notesdue 2020
$400,000,000
1
N/A
1.375% dueApril 30, 2020
PX5
50
$50.00
$850.00
$174.30
$1,074.30
532716AT4
6.625% Senior Notesdue 2021
$1,000,000,000
2
N/A
2.250% dueMarch 31, 2021
PX5
80
$50.00
$850.00
$187.78
$1,087.78
532716AU1
5.625% Senior Notesdue 2022
$1,000,000,000
3
$100,000,000
2.000% dueFebruary 15, 2022
PX5
190
$50.00
$950.00
$37.73
$1,037.73
(1)
For each $1,000 principal amount of Outstanding Notes validly tendered, not validly withdrawn and accepted by us for exchange.
(2)
The Total Exchange Consideration will be paid in a combination of (a) a principal amount of New Notes (the “New Notes Component”), (b) an amount of cash equal to the cash component (the “Cash Component”) and (c) a principal amount of New Notes equal to the Early Participation Premium (exclusive of accrued interest).
(3)
The value of the hypothetical Cash Component equals the hypothetical Total Exchange Consideration minus the New Notes Component minus the Early Participation Premium. The hypothetical Cash Components shown in the table above are shown for illustrative purposes only. The actual Cash Components will be known on the price determination date when the actual Exchange Consideration and Total Exchange Consideration are determined.
(4)
The hypothetical Total Exchange Consideration for each note is shown for illustrative purposes only. The Total Exchange Consideration will be calculated in accordance with the formula included in the Confidential Offering Memorandum.
Upon the terms and subject to the conditions of the Offers set forth in the Confidential Offering Memorandum, the Company is making three separate exchange offers to eligible holders to exchange the Company’s outstanding (1) 7.000% Senior Notes due 2020, (2) 6.625% Senior Notes due 2021 and (3) 5.625% Senior Notes due 2022 for up to (x) $700,000,000 aggregate principal amount of New Notes and (y) cash, provided that no more than $100,000,000 aggregate principal amount of New Notes will be issued in exchange for outstanding 5.625% Senior Notes due 2022.The Outstanding Notes will be accepted for exchange based on the “acceptance priority level” (in numerical priority order) as set forth in the table above and proration as described in the Confidential Offering Memorandum. In addition, all Outstanding Notes that are tendered for exchange in an Offer on or before the early participation date will have priority over Outstanding Notes that are tendered for exchange after the early participation date, regardless of their acceptance priority level. Accordingly, if accepting all Outstanding Notes validly tendered on or before the early participation date would result in us issuing New Notes in excess of the New Issue Cap, the Company will not accept any Outstanding Notes tendered after the early participation date.
L Brands reserves the right to upsize the new issue cap or the 2022 cap at its discretion.
The total exchange consideration for the Outstanding Notes will be based on a fixed-spread pricing formula using the bid-side yield applicable on the applicable Reference U.S. Treasury Security set forth in the table above and the applicable fixed spread set forth in the table above, and will be calculated at 11:00 a.m., New York City time, on June 14, 2018, unless the early participation date (as described below) is extended by more than two full business days, in which case a new date and time may be established with respect to the Offers, and will be paid in a combination of New Notes and cash in an aggregate principal amount determined as set forth in the Confidential Offering Memorandum. The Total Exchange Consideration includes an Early Participation Premium in an amount set forth in the table above payable in principal notes only to eligible holders who validly tender and who do not validly withdraw their Outstanding Notes on or prior to the early participation date of 5:00 p.m., New York City time, on June 13, 2018, subject to any extension by the Company.
The New Notes will mature on January 15, 2027 and will bear interest at a rate per annum equal to the sum of (i) the bid-side yield on the 10-Year Treasury on the price determination date (based on the bid-side price indicated on the Bloomberg reference page PX1 at such date and time) and (ii) 3.750% (375 basis points).
The Offers will expire at 11:59 p.m., New York City time, on June 27, 2018, unless extended by the Company. Tenders of Outstanding Notes in the Offers may be validly withdrawn at any time at or prior to 5:00 p.m., New York City time, on June 13, 2018, subject to extension by the Company, but not thereafter, except in certain limited circumstances where additional withdrawal rights are required by law.
The Offers are subject to certain conditions, including (i) the condition that, with respect to all the offers on an aggregate basis, we receive valid tenders on or prior to the early participation date that are not validly withdrawn of enough Outstanding Notes so that at least $300,000,000 aggregate principal amount of New Notes will be issued in exchange for Outstanding Notes, (ii) the condition that, on the price determination date, the combination of the yield of the New Notes and the Total Exchange Consideration or Exchange Consideration for the applicable series of Outstanding Notes would result in the New Notes and such Outstanding Notes not being treated as “substantially different” under ASC 470-50 and (iii) with respect to any Outstanding Notes validly tendered and not validly withdrawn pursuant to any offer that will be exchanged on the final settlement date, the condition that we determine that the New Notes to be issued on the final settlement date in such offer will be treated as part of the same issue as the New Notes, if any, issued on the early settlement date for U.S. federal income tax purposes pursuant to specified tests.
The New Notes have not been registered under the Securities Act of 1933 (as amended, the “Securities Act”) or any state securities laws. Therefore, the New Notes may not be offered or sold in the United States absent registration or an applicable exemption from the registration requirements of the Securities Act and any applicable state or foreign securities laws. The New Notes may not be offered or sold in the United States or to any U.S. persons except pursuant to an exemption from, or in a transaction not subject to, the registration requirements of the Securities Act. Accordingly, the offers are being made, and the New Notes are being offered and will be issued, only to (1) “qualified institutional buyers” as defined in Rule 144A under the Securities Act (“QIBs”), and (2) outside the United States, to persons other than “U.S. persons” as defined in Rule 902 under the Securities Act in compliance with Regulation S under the Securities Act (such holders, the “eligible holders”). Only eligible holders who have completed and returned an eligibility certification (the “eligibility certification”), available from D.F. King & Co., are authorized to receive and review the offering memorandum and to participate in the offers. The Company will enter into a registration rights agreement with respect to the New Notes.
Documents relating to the Offers will only be distributed to holders of the Outstanding Notes that complete and return a letter of eligibility confirming that they are eligible holders. Holders of the Outstanding Notes that desire a copy of the eligibility letter may contact D.F. King & Co., Inc., the information agent for the Offers, by calling toll-free at (212) 269-5550 or toll free at (888) 548-6498 or e-mailing lb@dfking.com. Holders of the Outstanding Notes may also complete and submit a letter of eligibility online at www.dfking.com/lb.
This press release is not an offer to sell or a solicitation of an offer to buy any security. The Offers are being made solely pursuant to the Confidential Offering Memorandum and only to such persons and in such jurisdictions as is permitted under applicable law.
ABOUT L BRANDS:
L Brands, through Victoria’s Secret, PINK, Bath & Body Works, La Senza and Henri Bendel, is an international company. The company operates approximately 3,070 company-owned specialty stores in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, Ireland and Greater China, and its brands are sold in more than 800 additional franchised locations worldwide. The company’s products are also available online at www.VictoriasSecret.com, www.BathandBodyWorks.com, www.HenriBendel.com and www.LaSenza.com.
We caution that any forward-looking statements (as such term is defined in the Private Securities Litigation Reform Act of 1995) contained in this press release or made by our company or our management involve risks and uncertainties and are subject to change based on various factors, many of which are beyond our control. Accordingly, our future performance and financial results may differ materially from those expressed or implied in any such forward-looking statements. Words such as “estimate,” “project,” “plan,” “believe,” “expect,” “anticipate,” “intend,” “planned,” “potential” and any similar expressions may identify forward-looking statements. Risks associated with the following factors, among others, in some cases have affected and in the future could affect our financial performance and actual results and could cause actual results to differ materially from those expressed or implied in any forward-looking statements included in this press release or otherwise made by our company or our management:
general economic conditions, consumer confidence, consumer spending patterns and market disruptions including severe weather conditions, natural disasters, health hazards, terrorist activities, financial crises, political crises or other major events, or the prospect of these events;
the seasonality of our business;
the dependence on mall traffic and the availability of suitable store locations on appropriate terms;
our ability to grow through new store openings and existing store remodels and expansions;
our ability to maintain the security of customer, associate, third-party or company information;
our ability to comply with regulatory requirements;
legal and compliance matters; and tax, trade and other regulatory matters.
We are not under any obligation and do not intend to make publicly available any update or other revisions to any of the forward-looking statements contained in this press release to reflect circumstances existing after the date of this press release or to reflect the occurrence of future events even if experience or future events make it clear that any expected results expressed or implied by those forward-looking statements will not be realized. In evaluating those statements, you should specifically consider various factors, including risks and uncertainties discussed in the Confidential Offering Memorandum. Additional information regarding these and other factors can be found in Item 1A. Risk Factors in our 2017 Annual Report on Form 10-K. |
Q:
Bind Requested DNS Server IP Log
I have a DNS Server which runs on a virtual linux box with several IPs. Bind provides some pretty detailed debug logs, however, one piece of information that doesn't seem to be logged is the requested IP address.
For example, if I operated google's DNS servers 8.8.8.8 and 8.8.4.4 on the same box, I would be looking to see if the user requested the DNS record via 8.8.8.8 or 8.8.4.4.
Ideally, I would like not to involve other network traffic monitoring tools, and stick solely with BIND. Another interest of mine is to vary the response based on the requested server ip similar to the view clause in bind, but if the former can be achieved, that seems like it would be much simpler.
Thanks!
A:
The logging options in Bind 9 are pretty comprehensive, you will need to set up a channel like this:
channel resolving {
file "data/named.resolve" versions 10 size 5m;
severity info;
print-time yes;
};
Then a category to force the queries into the channel
category queries {
resolving;
};
This all goes inside the logging {}; section.
Caveats, if you are logging all queries, you will be spending a lot of time writing those to disk, and they will get big. The options versions 10, size 5m are the way I keep the logs under control, it keeps 10 versions, with the maximum size of 5 MB. I then have a cron job that parses out info before they're deleted by bind.
This is the sort of info I get in that log:
15-Apr-2014 16:15:15.041 client 192.168.xxx.xxx#40978: view That-one : query: XXXXX IN A + (192.168.xxx.xx)
The IP address inside the () is the BIND server IP that responded.
|
Have you seen Firefly? I have. I love that show. Whedon's "used future" conceptions are second only to the Star Wars universe. In this world, the two dominant language cultures are Chinese and English, space ships can be cheap junkers like someone's first Honda is today, and crime bosses can toss around amazing, full-color, flexible displays like they're nothing. This is the future I want. To be very clear, PaperTab, while a great-looking concept, is not going to be taking us there. |
The passing of time hasn’t been kind on these walls. Just a few hours’ drive away, along the benign Mediterranean coast, sit 2,500- to 3,000-year-old temples, dedicated to long-forgotten gods, which are so perfectly preserved they appear to have been built just months earlier. Here though, on this harsh mountain plateau, things are different. Enormous walls that withstood anything the armies of the ancient world could throw at them are now just hilltop boulders, almost indiscernible from nature’s hand. Perhaps it’s the climate, which is nothing if not extreme, that has rendered these ruins mere hazily recalled memories of the past. For half the year, the sun beats down with enough energy to sap the lifeblood from rocks, and in winter the landscape hibernates under a tomb of ice and snow. Year-round the wind blows here with anger and clouds tempt with rain, but rarely deliver. The result is a highland desert steppe where trees are an unlikely blessing and a life of nomad tents is only a few generations past.
When I’d first contemplated coming to Turkey, I’d decided I wanted to experience a different side than that of glossy beach resorts and Istanbul’s architectural wonders. I wanted to see a part of Turkey often overlooked by other visitors. An area where I would be forced to bend my tongue into trying to communicate in very broken Turkish. On the high plateaus of central Turkey, I found exactly what I was looking for. Even in Ankara, the unlikely capital of the country and an almost entirely modern creation of the last 80 years (although a small settlement has, in some form or another, existed here for at least 3,000 years), I hadn’t come across more than a handful of other visitors. It was a big change from Turkey’s “other” city, where I’d often found myself enduring queues an hour or more long to enter the more famous tourist sites. Of course, one of the reasons coachloads of other tourists don’t swarm over the sites of central Turkey is because, on paper at least, they can come across as less impressive than in other parts of the country. The ruins here are just that: ruins, rather than perfectly preserved complexes, but what these hillsides of half-buried monuments have, which other ancient sites in Turkey often lack, is an abundance of romance.
If you need some kind of indication as to just how thick the pages of history have been layered across central Turkey, then a half-day in Ankara’s Museum of Anatolian Civilizations will leave you feeling like an insignificant dot in the passage of time. Its halls and galleries are bursting with statues, jewels, monuments and everyday items from days long since past. That this museum, which is easily one of the best in Turkey, is so treasure-packed is hardly a surprise when you consider the history of central Turkey. This is the land where the Hittites and Phrygians stood proud, where King Midas turned nothing into gold, where Alexander the Great (or the Accursed, depending on your point of view) proved that the famously impossible to untangle Gordian knot could be undone by merely using a sword to chop it in half, which, in our lowly opinion, makes him a cheat, not a divine ruler of half the known world. It is here that one of the world’s oldest wooden structures can be found, along with some of Turkey’s finest Islamic architecture, outside of Istanbul. It’s even where the still-revered figure of Atatürk forged the idea of the modern secular state of Turkey. In summary, this overlooked area of Turkey is the very soul of the country.
Of all the ancient sites dotting central Turkey, the one that left the strongest impression on me was isolated and mountainous Hattusa, the former capital of the much-feared Hittites. Back in its long-distant glory days, Hattusa was home to about 15,000 people and controlled a swath of territory that stretched from Syria to Europe.
Modern Hattusa, though, is just a small farming village, home to a few hundred souls and plenty of thick-wool sheep. Leaving the warmth of my guesthouse early in the morning, I walk alone over a cold, wind-scarred plateau, where the first spring flowers are just starting to call bumblebees to attention, to arrive at the tumbledown gates of a city guarded by the stone-carved faces of a pair of snarling lions. Passing through this monumental gateway, I find a hillside littered with the remnants of fortresses and traders’ houses, temples, ceremonial walkways and long sections of city walls, the scale of which still dazzles even 3,000 years after they were first erected. For a full day I explore this vast site. I shelter from the cold in the leftovers of palaces, which might once have hosted royal banquets, and run my fingers over the faded reliefs of rock-carved gods and goddesses. All the while, bar the odd shepherd with his flock, I see no other visitors and could let my imagination run wild with thoughts that these ruins belong to me and me alone.
Not all of central Turkey is bleak and ruined, though. In the north of the region, buckled mountains lead to warm and wet valleys busy with apple, cherry and apricot orchards. This is one of the most fertile parts of the country and home to some of the most picturesque villages, including Safranbolu. This small and now slightly twee town consists of delightfully restored, half-timbered Ottoman-era konaks, or mansions, and quaint sweet shops with window displays bursting with rainbow-coloured Turkish delight and the local speciality yaprak helvasi (layers of gooey white halva with walnuts). The beauty of the town’s buildings indicate that this must have once been a wealthy place, and there’s a clue to where this wealth came from in its name.
Safranbolu, which once sat on important trade routes from the nearby Black Sea coast, was long famed for the excellence of the saffron that grew in these parts. When tastes moved on, and other suppliers of this rarest of spices appeared, Safranbolu’s days of import started to fade. In recent years, though, it has started to benefit from something of a resurgence in interest with the wealthy of Ankara making a beeline for the town over the weekends. They come today not for the spice, but for the laid-back vibes, the beauty and the food, because Safranbolu is as pretty as a chocolate-box picture and its offerings taste just as good.
In its lazy cafes and restaurants, you can enjoy some of the best food in all of central Turkey, including a few other local specialities to go alongside the yaprak helvasi – treats such as cevizli yayum (macaroni with walnuts) and zerde (saffron dessert).
The southern city of Konya, which is just two hours by high-speed train from Ankara, is yet another change of pace. This large city that feels so small is a forward-looking economic powerhouse, overlaid in tradition and often devoutly religious. Everything here is focused on the Mevlâna Museum, which turned out to be less a dusty museum and more a magnet of religious belief and centre of pilgrimage. It was here that the 13th-century mystic philosopher, poet, writer and teacher of tolerance, Rumi, otherwise known as mevlâna, helped establish a brotherhood called the Mevlevi, or whirling dervishes, whose endless spinning top “dance” represents a divine union. Today, over 1.5 million pilgrims and interested visitors come to the Mevlâna Museum each year to pay their respects to Rumi, and the complex in which his tomb is found is soaked in a constant awe of devotion and respect. Around the complex, I find a vast plaza filled with hawkers and pilgrims. Beyond stretch noisy bazaars and parks filled with springtime tulips, all of which help give the city a carnival-like atmosphere.
As inspiring as Hattusa is though, as cuddly gorgeous as Safranbolu might be and as humbling as Konya can be, it is in the quiet hills and valleys surrounding the latter that I really discover Turkey at its most exotic. I hire a bright yellow taxi for the day and go to a hilltop village called Gökyurt, an hour or so out of Konya. At first glance there is nothing special about the place, and donkeys and goats seem to outnumber humans. I walk the cobbled lanes of the village for a while before one grey-mustachioed old man in a flat cap calls me over. He is sat in the doorway of his house, and the moment the greetings are over he invites me to drink Turkish tea with him. Afterwards I am led out of the village, over a muddy field or two and pointed, with pride, down to the valley floor. Here the cliffs have been, over aeons of time, weathered into turrets and spires and then carved by his ancestors’ hands into a series of cave dwellings and medieval churches. It is like a miniature Cappadocia, one of Turkey’s most popular draws, but without the tour buses and hot-air balloons. In fact, there is nothing much whatsoever here. Just me, an old farmer and a donkey or two, but this simplicity is fine with me, because finally it feels as if I have arrived in the Turkey I had been searching for.
Read this and more stories in Ultratravel magazine, out with The National on Thursday, May 19.
travel@thenational.ae |
- 3*h + 0*h**2 - 1/12*h**4 + 0. What is the second derivative of z(l) wrt l?
-2
Let r(n) = -4*n**2 - 4*n + 14. Let x(o) = o**2 - o + 1. Let y(h) = -r(h) + 4*x(h). Differentiate y(w) with respect to w.
16*w
Find the third derivative of -9*s**2 - s**2 - 12*s**5 - 6*s**2 wrt s.
-720*s**2
Let c(u) = 2*u**2 - 2*u + 4. Let i(w) = 3*w**2 - 2*w + 5. Let o be (0 - -1) + (-12)/(-3). Let k(a) = o*c(a) - 4*i(a). Find the second derivative of k(z) wrt z.
-4
Let p(l) be the first derivative of 17*l**6/6 - 2*l**3 - 3. What is the third derivative of p(t) wrt t?
1020*t**2
Let o = 10 - 5. What is the third derivative of 2*t**2 + 0*t**4 - o*t**2 - t**4 wrt t?
-24*t
Let c(d) = -3*d**3 + 5*d**2 - 7*d + 5. Let w(i) = i**3 - 3*i**2 + 4*i - 3. Let g = 5 - 8. Let f(s) = g*c(s) - 5*w(s). Find the second derivative of f(u) wrt u.
24*u
Let s(y) = 35*y**5 - 6*y**2 + 4*y - 8. Let i(q) = 105*q**5 - 17*q**2 + 13*q - 23. Let k(o) = -6*i(o) + 17*s(o). What is the second derivative of k(t) wrt t?
-700*t**3
Let i(t) = 10*t**4 + 11. Let l(g) = -29*g**4 - 33. Let p(v) = -11*i(v) - 4*l(v). Let a(h) = -3*h**4 - 6. Let y(m) = 7*a(m) + 4*p(m). Differentiate y(o) wrt o.
12*o**3
Let j = 13 - 11. Let a(f) be the first derivative of 0*f**4 + 3/5*f**5 + 3 + 0*f + 0*f**j - f**3. What is the third derivative of a(x) wrt x?
72*x
Let s(m) be the first derivative of 8*m**5/5 - 15*m**2/2 + 15. What is the second derivative of s(g) wrt g?
96*g**2
Let o(r) = -4*r - 1. Let z be o(-1). What is the second derivative of z*y**5 - y**5 + 1 - 2*y - 1 wrt y?
40*y**3
Suppose -1 = -2*u + 13. Find the second derivative of y + y + y**3 + y**3 - u*y wrt y.
12*y
Suppose 0*b + 9 = 3*b. Find the second derivative of -4*u + u + 0*u**3 + u**b wrt u.
6*u
Let p = -12 - -17. Suppose p*l - 14 = 4*b, -l + 2*b + 14 = 4*b. What is the third derivative of -2*c**l - 3*c**2 + 0*c**6 + 4*c**2 wrt c?
-240*c**3
Let c be 17/(-3) - (-6)/9. Let p be (c - -8)/(-1 - -2). Find the first derivative of -1 + u**4 + 0 + p wrt u.
4*u**3
Let c(b) be the second derivative of -13*b**3/2 + 7*b**2/2 + 31*b. What is the derivative of c(l) wrt l?
-39
Suppose 0 = g + y, 0 = -5*g + y + y + 14. What is the third derivative of 0*c**2 + 2*c**2 + g*c**2 + 2*c**3 wrt c?
12
What is the third derivative of 2*w**4 - 2*w**4 + 12*w**2 + 6*w**4 + 5*w**4 wrt w?
264*w
Let f(v) = 9*v**3 - 17*v**2 + 5. Let z(s) = -14*s**3 + 25*s**2 - 8. Let n(u) = 8*f(u) + 5*z(u). Find the third derivative of n(p) wrt p.
12
Let g(u) be the second derivative of -11*u**6/15 + u**3/3 + 9*u**2/2 + 5*u. Find the second derivative of g(o) wrt o.
-264*o**2
Let h(x) = x**3 + 4*x - 1. Let g = -3 + 5. Let o(a) = a - 2*a + g*a. Let u(d) = h(d) - 4*o(d). Find the first derivative of u(m) wrt m.
3*m**2
Suppose 9 - 24 = -5*h. What is the derivative of 5 + d**4 - 3*d**4 - 3*d**4 + h*d**4 wrt d?
-8*d**3
Let m be -6 + 6 + (-4)/(-8). Let u(j) be the second derivative of -1/12*j**4 + 0 - j - m*j**3 + 0*j**2. What is the second derivative of u(l) wrt l?
-2
Suppose 10 + 5 = 5*l. Suppose -5*d - 2*a = -a + 1, -3*a - l = -4*d. Find the second derivative of 0 + d + z**2 + z wrt z.
2
Let r(f) = -f. Let u(d) = -8*d**3 + d**2 + 4*d. Let h(o) = -4*r(o) - u(o). What is the third derivative of h(t) wrt t?
48
Find the third derivative of 2*z**3 + 5*z**2 - 3*z**3 - 2*z**3 + 4*z**3 wrt z.
6
Let b(y) be the third derivative of 0 - 5/6*y**3 + 1/12*y**4 + y**2 + 0*y. Differentiate b(x) wrt x.
2
Suppose -3*h - 4 = -4*h. Find the third derivative of -h*l**3 + 2*l**2 + 2*l**3 - 2*l**3 + 7*l**2 wrt l.
-24
Let i(k) be the second derivative of k**8/1344 + 7*k**5/120 + k**4/4 - 2*k. Let y(p) be the third derivative of i(p). What is the derivative of y(u) wrt u?
15*u**2
Differentiate 6 + 13*l - 9 - 9 wrt l.
13
What is the second derivative of 6*d**4 + 4*d - d + 3*d + 12*d wrt d?
72*d**2
Let h be 0 - (-5)/((-20)/(-16)). Differentiate -2*w + w + 7 + h*w - 2*w wrt w.
1
Suppose 0*k - k - z = -3, -5*k = -3*z - 23. Find the third derivative of h**k + 0*h**4 - 4*h**4 - 4*h**2 wrt h.
-72*h
Let m(q) be the third derivative of q**6/180 + q**5/60 + q**3/3 + 3*q**2. Let r(d) be the first derivative of m(d). Find the second derivative of r(h) wrt h.
4
Let x(j) = j**4 - 3*j**3 + 3*j - 23. Let w(s) = -s**3 + s - 1. Let b(n) = -3*w(n) + x(n). Find the first derivative of b(i) wrt i.
4*i**3
Let g(j) = -19*j**2 + 14*j + 5. Let n(y) = -161*y**2 + 119*y + 42. Suppose 21 = -2*p - 63. Let v(x) = p*g(x) + 5*n(x). Find the second derivative of v(a) wrt a.
-14
What is the third derivative of 51*j + 14*j**6 - 3*j**2 - 103*j + 52*j wrt j?
1680*j**3
Let i(r) be the second derivative of -r**5/5 - 5*r**3/3 + 7*r. Find the second derivative of i(d) wrt d.
-24*d
Let j(s) be the first derivative of -7*s**5/5 + 4*s**2 - 8. What is the second derivative of j(o) wrt o?
-84*o**2
What is the third derivative of -4*g**2 - g**2 + 2*g**3 - 3*g**3 - g**2 wrt g?
-6
Let a be -3 + (-10)/(1 + -3). Differentiate 0 - 2*w**4 + a - w**4 + w**4 with respect to w.
-8*w**3
Let j(t) be the first derivative of -7*t**6/6 + 2*t**2 - 4. What is the second derivative of j(w) wrt w?
-140*w**3
Let h(s) be the third derivative of s**7/210 - 41*s**3/6 + 18*s**2. What is the derivative of h(t) wrt t?
4*t**3
Suppose 5*v - v = 0. Let z(g) = g**2 + g + 3. Let c be z(v). Find the second derivative of 2*k**3 - 2*k**3 + k + k**c wrt k.
6*k
Let r(n) = n**2 - 3. Let j(z) = -2*z**2 + 3. Let d(q) = -5*j(q) - 6*r(q). Let h(l) = 3*l**2 + 2. Let v(i) = 4*d(i) - 5*h(i). Differentiate v(g) wrt g.
2*g
Let w be 4/(-16) - (-17)/4. Suppose -6*i + 9 = -3*i, l - w*i = -6. What is the third derivative of l*b**5 + 0*b**5 - 3*b**5 - 2*b**2 wrt b?
180*b**2
Let t(s) = s**4 + s**2 - 1. Let r(c) = -39*c**4 - 33*c**2 + 42. Let o(a) = -2*r(a) - 66*t(a). Differentiate o(v) wrt v.
48*v**3
Suppose 2*z = -0*f - 3*f + 11, f - 2*z = 1. Find the second derivative of -5*s + s + s**4 + 2*s**4 + f*s wrt s.
36*s**2
Let t = -22 - -19. Let w(r) = r**3 + 3*r**2 + 0*r**3 + 4 - 9. Let z(v) = 4*v**2 - 6. Let x(l) = t*z(l) + 4*w(l). What is the first derivative of x(a) wrt a?
12*a**2
Let k(l) be the second derivative of 2*l**5/5 - 23*l**4/12 - 25*l. Find the third derivative of k(f) wrt f.
48
Let b(h) be the second derivative of 3*h**5/20 + 17*h**4/12 - 22*h. Find the third derivative of b(k) wrt k.
18
Let k(o) be the second derivative of 5*o**7/21 + 2*o**4 - 23*o. Find the third derivative of k(p) wrt p.
600*p**2
Let x(i) be the second derivative of i**9/5040 - i**7/315 - 2*i**4/3 - 2*i. Let l(v) be the third derivative of x(v). Find the third derivative of l(z) wrt z.
72*z
What is the third derivative of 13*r**2 - 23*r**6 - 12*r**6 - 4*r**2 - 7*r**2 wrt r?
-4200*r**3
Let d be (7 - (8 + -4)) + -1. Find the second derivative of 6*n**2 - 10*n**d + 2*n + n**2 - n wrt n.
-6
Let t(j) = j. Let k be t(5). What is the first derivative of -k*f**3 + 2*f**4 + 5*f**3 - 2 - 1 wrt f?
8*f**3
Suppose 2 = -w - 7*i + 2*i, -4*w - i = -11. What is the third derivative of 6*v**2 - 3*v**6 - w*v**2 + 2*v**2 + 0*v**6 wrt v?
-360*v**3
Let u(j) be the second derivative of j**7/14 + 31*j**4/12 + 9*j. What is the third derivative of u(q) wrt q?
180*q**2
Let z(y) be the third derivative of y**7/840 - y**4/8 + y**3/2 - 2*y**2. Let d(i) be the first derivative of z(i). Differentiate d(h) wrt h.
3*h**2
Suppose 5*w - 4*n - 26 = 0, 12 = -2*w - 2*n - 2*n. Differentiate 48*f**w - 49*f**2 - 4 + 11 with respect to f.
-2*f
Find the second derivative of 21*w**2 + 25*w + 53 - 53 wrt w.
42
Let g(p) = p**3 + 13*p**2 - 14*p + 8. Let t be g(-14). Find the second derivative of -5*u**5 + 4*u**5 + u - t*u - 6*u**5 wrt u.
-140*u**3
Suppose -3*z + 4*z = 0. Differentiate z + 0 - 1 - 2*p**4 - 2 with respect to p.
-8*p**3
Let t(n) be the second derivative of 2*n + 0 + 1/3*n**3 + 0*n**2 - 1/30*n**6 + 0*n**5 + 0*n**4. What is the second derivative of t(o) wrt o?
-12*o**2
Let a(y) = -2*y - 6. Let k be a(-5). Suppose f - 2*w = -f + 4, 10 = 5*f + 3*w. What is the third derivative of -i**4 + i**2 - 4*i**f - 2*i**k wrt i?
-72*i
Let x = 110 - 107. Let g(l) be the first derivative of 0*l**2 - l**4 + 0*l + 4/3*l**x - 4. What is the third derivative of g(i) wrt i?
-24
Let j be (6 + 0)/(-10 + 12). What is the third derivative of -5*p**4 - 7*p**2 - j*p**4 + 14*p**4 wrt p?
144*p
Let h = -1 |
Polish president dies in Russia plane Crash
Poland’s president, his wife and some of the country’s most prominent military and civilian leaders died this morning when their plane crashed while coming in for a landing in thick fog in western Russia.
How this all happen :
“The Polish presidential plane did not make it to the runway while landing. Tentative findings indicate that it hit the treetops and fell apart,” Smolensk’s governor, Sergei Anufriev, told Russian TV. “Nobody has survived the disaster.”
Russian officials said the plane was carrying 96 people, while Poland’s foreign ministry put the figure at 88.
I think that there was a mistake of Air Craft.. well that’s for all now! we will update you more soon! |
Rep. Dana Rohrabacher (R-CA) says he is “outraged beyond words” after a left-wing mob knocked unconscious a 71-year-old staffer at his Huntington Beach office during a protest on Valentine’s Day. Activists from a group called Indivisible OC said they were simply delivering Valentine’s Day cards when the “unfortunate” accident occurred.
“Indivisible” is a nationwide protest movement launched by disgruntled ex-Democratic aides after the devastating 2016 election. According to Politico, their goal was to “channel their post-election heartbreak into a manual for quashing President Donald Trump’s agenda.”
On Tuesday, the president’s agenda wasn’t the only thing that was “quashed.”
According to CBS News, the alleged assault on Rohrabacher’s district director, Kathleen Staunton, happened as she was trying to exit through the front door of his office to visit the restroom.
The police were called to the scene but made no arrests.
A video posted by the group on YouTube shows the door opening and knocking over a 2-year-old child who had been placing a “valentine” in front of the door. Lola, the child who was hit by the door, was not injured. The video cuts off before Mrs. Staunton is knocked over and hits her head.
ICYMI: @DanaRohrabacher's staff opened a door into a two year old "political thug" yesterday afternoon. Happy Valentine's Day.#resist pic.twitter.com/p1esPXWsIl — Indivisible OC (@indivisible_oc) February 15, 2017
Staunton, who has managed Rohrabacher’s office since his first term in 1989, was treated by paramedics and taken to a local hospital, Rohrabacher said. “I am outraged beyond words that protesters who mobbed my Huntington Beach office violently knocked down my faithful district director, Kathleen Staunton, causing her to be hospitalized,” Rohrabacher said in a statement. “And, yes, deliberate or not, the incident came as part of a mob action that not only intimidates but coerces. Though the protesters think of themselves as idealists, they engaged in political thuggery, pure and simple.”
Rohrabacher said the group went to his office to demand a town hall meeting with him even though he was working in Washington, D.C., with the House of Representatives.
Invisible OC issued a statement on its website:
When Megan Blash and her 2-year-old daughter, Lola, arrived at Rep. Dana Rohrabacher’s office to hand deliver a Valentine’s Day card, they were met with a shut and locked door. Rep. Rohrabacher’s disdain for visiting constituents led to Lola sliding her card under his door, which led to a staffer, Kathleen Staunton, accidentally opening the door on Lola’s head and Ms. Staunton’s unfortunate fall. Police were present and no arrests were made. The accidents that occurred to Lola and Ms. Staunton would not have happened had Rep. Rohrabacher’s office simply been open for his constituents, plain and simple.
Democrats believe Rohrabacher holds one of the most vulnerable seats in Congress, which is why they’re already launching an aggressive campaign to unseat him. The St. Valentine’s Day Debacle at Rohrabacher’s office in Huntington Beach certainly won’t help in that effort. |
When Arya sees the offer of a large reward for the safe return of the lost prince Gendry Baratheon, she sees it as the perfect time to pull off the biggest con. What she’s searching for the perfect copy to pass off as the prince, she finds it in Gendry Waters.
“Shall We Dance?”
Seth doesn’t know personal space. Also he is suddenly interested in pandora all of a sudden?? (imeanidon’tblamehim)
Man, pandora is so pretty. I wanted to draw her with seth interating and turns out they have a lot in common design wise. Both hiding their left sides of their faces, sorta two-face and both back stabbers, seth being the more literal of the party.
Seth might get slugged or pushed or he may even get a dance or two out of pandora, it’s a gamble. Let us hope.
Seth, you only have one hand, how you going to pull ballroom dancing off?? SHEER WILL POWER THAT’S HOW (answered my own question–)
lmao like the only time i EVER see hard disney fans even mention ghibli and miyazaki in comparison to disney films is in light of disney’s own mistakes and laziness like damn y’all need to calm down
lemme teach you a lil’ somethin’ somethin’ about stylistic choices in animation and sheer laziness
STYLISTIC choices is about having the full capability of creating characters separate from the previous protagonists while at the same time tying them to the studio that produced them.
And that’s not even scratching the surface.
Considering that a good portion of Ghibli’s library consists of LEAD FEMALE PROTAGONISTS who are usually very young, they need to find a set balance between recognizable and unique.
Ghibli was founded on traditional art and the studio still holds many of those values with it. This is of course including hand-drawn animation in which there is no single model, only the same character drawn over and over again. Is this about CGI vs traditional? No, both can and have provided beautiful films and scenes but it’s not about which one deserves more recognition. It’s about the methods used and how the choices for each one vary. I only bring up the animation methods because it’s part of the reason as to WHY these characters are so simplistic in design.
Still though, they need each lead character to stick to the Ghibli/Miyazaki style to a certain extent. They need to share certain qualities to make them fall in line with the rest of Ghibli’s library.
I mean, they have their differences but they’re obviously Ghibli characters so okay they all have relatively small eyebrows (though considering that they are Japanese that ties in with their ethnicity but OKAY moving on), they all have the eye highlight thing going on, and they all have very non-pronounced noses. I suppose yeah those are all the same. They do shift but those characteristics are roughly the same.
Still though, that isn’t a problem nor is it blatant same-facing. All LAIKA characters have skewed noses, all Dreamworks characters have thin noses, and all Aardman characters have bulgy eyes. Does that mean they’re same-facing? No. It means they’re sticking to stylistic choices to keep themselves separate from the competition.
Don Bluth MADE the choice to stick to a style closely resembling Disney. You know what happened? A whole generation grew up thinking that Anastasia and Thumbelina were both DISNEY films, not Bluth and Fox animation.
There’s a reason why studios tend to go for their own set style.
But hey! Want even more evidence that it’s a stylistic choice?
Because THE VERY SAME CHOICES CAN BE SAID FOR THE DUDES
Save for Haku because he’s a fuckin’ dragon.
While gender is never really brought up in Ghibli films, masculinity and femininity are both neutral here, it’s safe to say that their designs and treatment are both equal. Ghibli isn’t out to make exclusively beautiful/handsome characters, they make them as simple as possible to keep them relatable and much more easier to manage.
The difference here is that Disney has always set out to make their MALES different while sticking their females to the same “doe eyed, small nose, thin lips” ideal. Yes, there is a set Disney style and it has always focused on those features and that necessarily isn’t a bad thing. It’s the Disney style. HOWEVER it seems to only apply to their females. Even worse is their marketing of said females.
External image
GOTTA KEEP THEM GURLS PURTY
The Disney style has shifted from time to time and it shows evidence that it CAN include more diverse female designs. Both Kida and Calhoun are wonderful examples of this. It’s not as if Disney hasn’t evolved or changed their views on female characters to a certain extent. Unfortunately, said shifts haven’t always worked out in our favor or headed in the right direction. It wasn’t until Tangled that Disney came out with it’s true “get richer quicker” scheme with their female leads.
watch as i shift into MAXIMUM PUNZEL-DRIVE
As of late it’s Disney’s sheer laziness when it comes to female design and their own avarice that has caused SUUUUCH a dramatic shift in how fans are taking the Disney style now. When Ghibli audiences and fans never look at a new movie and go “oh it’s Chihiro but tiny” or “oh it’s Chihiro but on a broom.” That is the set style, not a lazy copy-paste.
But hey, let’s bring in OTHER females to see how this works out. I mean, the Ghibli style is prevalent to ALL of their characters so surely they all the parents look exactly like their children.
Let’s look at these lovely lady leads and compare them to their parents.
Congrats, kids, you’re all adopted!
WEIRDLY ENOUGH all of the characters and their parents (if they have any) share same characteristics while at the same time remaining completely unique to each other. It’s almost as if they also take after their father and/or previous generations of their familly. Haha, genetics!
But okay, let’s be a little more fair with Disney.
Let’s look at two families with two daughters.
Mitosis or go home
There is having stylistic choices and there is being lazy.
There is creating a character with similarities to their parent and there is making a recolor of your lead character.
There is creating simple designs for a traditionally animated film and there is reusing the same model because it worked so well the first time.
There is being a small Tokyo-based studio with 300 employees and there is being a large American animation studio with 800+ employees.
THAT is why no one ever complains about Ghibli’s approach to character design and THAT is why Disney doesn’t even come close to Miyazaki.
Let’s finish this off with some MORE wonderful Ghibli characters (most of which being my personal favorites so they belong on here too.) |
Directions
1. Bake empty pie crust according to package directions –OR– Preheat oven to 350°. In small bowl, mix cookie crumbs with melted butter. Add cookie crust mixture to greased pie pan. Flatten crust with spatula until smooth. Bake in the oven for 15 minutes to strengthen the crust.
2. Meanwhile, in large bowl add all the filling ingredients to bowl. Beat with wire whisk until well blended, about 2 minutes. The mixture will be thick.
3. Spread 2/3 of the the pudding mixture onto bottom of crust; set aside. Add half the whipped topping to remaining pudding; stir gently until well blended. Spread over pudding layer in crust.
4. Place marshmallows in large microwaveable below. Add 2 Tbsp milk; stir. Microwave on high 1-1/2 minutes or until marshmallows are completely melted, stirring after 1 min. Stir until well blended. Refrigerate 15 min. or until cooled. Gently stir in whipped topping; spread over pudding mixture.
5. Chill in refrigerator for 3 hours or until completely cooled. Top pie with leftover marshmallows and lemon zest if desired.
Mix up this recipe with your favorite pudding flavors and fresh berries. Enjoy!
One Response to Easy Gluten Free Lemon Meringue Pie
I love this site! Real recipes for real people. I’m not a great cook, and I love that many of these can be done with a few ingredients. Thanks for the amazing site and the info on which candybars have gluten. I’m intolerant and feeling so much better these days.
GlutenRight is a resource of helpful tips, quality advice and tasty recipes for living gluten-free. All the recipes in this website have been tested, perfected and approved in my gluten free kitchen, so you can rest assured that all the recipes at GlutenRight will work for your family as well. Visit our Getting Started guide or Meet Megan. |
PHONE: The student handed in a phone he found /Pic posed by model
Paul Leicester, 18, played the Good Samaritan when he discovered the handset lying in the street.
He rang the last number dialled and told a friend of the owner he would leave the phone at a nearby police station. But officers arrested him for “theft by finding”, held him for four hours and took a DNA sample.
Yesterday Paul said: “I thought I was doing the right thing and had it thrown back in my face. I wouldn’t go to the police in future. All I was doing was the honest thing. It was a shocking experience.”
The A-level student at Southport College, Merseyside, had been out celebrating his 18th birthday last month when he found the phone.
Paul added: “Being arrested isn’t a good way to celebrate your birthday. What are you supposed to do when you find a phone?”
Merseyside Police dropped the case but Paul’s father Vinnie, 37, of Seaforth, Merseyside, is still angry over his arrest. |
I had Burnout 1 and 2 on Gamecube and loved them. Then my cousin (who live a couple hours away) bought this game and I went to his place for a weekend. We played it non-stop, and I was pissed because they never released Burnout 3 on Gamecube. Before all that my first PS2 was having problems so I sold it for cheap (and sold all my PS2 games, too), and I never rebought one, but I thought about it for this game.
This game is indeed a wonderful way to convert people to gaming. It is the game that made my father a gamer, and the last game he enjoyed before this was Super Mario Bros. 3.
MacLur1 said:
Never a huge fan of racing games myself, bur Takedown definitely sits amongst one of my favorite games of all time.
Click to expand...
That is where I am myself. The only racing games I bought for the PS2 was Burnout 3: Takedown and Burnout Revenge. I still have both of them, and I don't own a racing game for the PS3 as none of the ones I've played yet appeal to me enough to warrant a purchase.
Burnout needs to back to the winning base of Takedown. Even just doing it again (with some more Crash mode) in Revenge was still great, so if they do a Takedown like game with some next-gen oomph then we're bound to have an amazing game on our hands. |
Another SWAT OP gone astray? How will this cookie crumble in federal court?
Family of slain Dundalk woman sues Baltimore County police
Luke Broadwater, The Examiner
Aug 10, 2006 5:00 AM (2 days ago)
BALTIMORE - The police never knocked on her door.
They threw a flash-bang grenade and used a battering ram instead.
Then they shot the startled 44-year-old Dundalk mother to death in her bedroom without reason.
That’s the argument laid out in a federal wrongful death lawsuit filed Wednesday by family members of Cheryl Noel, 44, whom police shot and killed during a Jan. 19, 2005 SWAT team raid of her residence.
The 11-page lawsuit seeks compensatory and punitive damages for the family in connection with the loss of Noel’s life and the “companionship” and “care” she provided to her husband, mother and two sons.
“This was a tragedy that should never have happened,” said Terrell Roberts III, an attorney for the Noel family.
Roberts claims in a suit filed in U.S. District Court in Baltimore that five police officers and Baltimore County violated Noel’s constitutional rights by killing her.
Officer Carlos Artson “made an unreasonable seizure of the person of Cheryl Lynn Noel by shooting and killing her, violating her rights under the Fourth and Fourteenth Amendments of the United States Constitution ...” the suit states.
At 4:30 a.m. on Jan. 21, 2005, Noel and her husband, Charles, were asleep in the master bedroom of their row house when the heavily-armed Baltimore County SWAT team stormed through her home. According to the suit, officers had found “trace amounts of drugs” in trash cans outside of the home.
Cheryl Noel feared criminal intruders had broken into her home and grabbed a lawfully registered gun and held it pointed at the floor, the suit states.
Artson kicked in her bedroom door with his boot and, without identifying himself or telling Noel to drop her weapon, shot her three times, including once after she already had slumped to the floor, according to the suit.
“The use of a SWAT team to execute a routine drug warrant was excessive and overkill,” Roberts said. “The woman never knew the police had entered her home. She was doing everything that could be expected of a law-abiding citizen to protect her own life. She was shot and killed without any warning that the police were present or to drop her gun.”
Roberts said his clients “vigorously dispute” arguments that Noel was pointing her gun at the police officer when the officer shot her.
“Clearly, a third shot was wholly unnecessary and grossly excessive,” he said.
Baltimore County Police spokesman William Toohey said police did nothing wrong and the Baltimore County State’s Attorney’s backs the officers.
“The State’s Attorney’s Office ruled that the shooting was justified,” he said.
That’s the argument laid out in a federal wrongful death lawsuit filed
Quote:
“This was a tragedy that should never have happened,” said Terrell Roberts III, an attorney for the Noel family.
Quote:
Roberts claims in a suit filed in U.S. District Court in Baltimore that five police officers and Baltimore County violated Noel’s constitutional rights by killing her.
Quote:
Officer Carlos Artson “made an unreasonable seizure of the person of Cheryl Lynn Noel by shooting and killing her, violating her rights under the Fourth and Fourteenth Amendments of the United States Constitution ...” the suit states.
Quote:
According to the suit, officers had found “trace amounts of drugs” in trash cans outside of the home.
Quote:
Artson kicked in her bedroom door with his boot and, without identifying himself or telling Noel to drop her weapon, shot her three times, including once after she already had slumped to the floor, according to the suit.
Quote:
“The use of a SWAT team to execute a routine drug warrant was excessive and overkill,” Roberts said. “The woman never knew the police had entered her home. She was doing everything that could be expected of a law-abiding citizen to protect her own life. She was shot and killed without any warning that the police were present or to drop her gun.”
Quote:
Roberts said his clients “vigorously dispute” arguments that Noel was pointing her gun at the police officer when the officer shot her.
So much indisputable evidence from so many unimpeachable witnesses, how could the cops be anything but guilty.
What she did or did not do, what her family saw, or did not hear, what the police did or did not say is immaterial.
The police department secured a search warrant based on THE TRASH. If I am the only cop that sees this as wrong as hell, then I am sorry. I am not about to dig through someone's trash to get into their house. If they are not doing anything other than that, they arent that big of a fish to fry, in my opinion.
Again, I fail to see the correlation with a crime with no victim, i.e., the dope in the trash can, to a crime with a true victim.
If there is dope and kids in the house how could you not see that as child abuse. Not to mention if you are addicted to illegal drugs there is no such thing as a legal gun in your posession. I don't believe that is what the cops were thinking in this case, but I'm talking about your comment now and not the article. Or did the neighbor throw their dope in these peoples trash can?
I suppose that's possible. But I'd hope the traces of dope found in the trash wasn't an instance of once. I'm also sitting here wondering why a police department would be going through residential garbage/trash. There had to be a reason for suspicion. They don't have the time and resources to go around town going through everyone's trash, do they?
I'm trying to think this through without the obvious slant from the article, which I can understand. I am not a defender of dynamic entry at a residential address in the middle of the night, but ... if this was not an outright, "Oops, wrong address!" again, then I wonder what the reason was for the original suspicion.
"By using this logic then, you would wait until a murder is committed instead of intervening while it is in the planning stage?
I stand behind my previous comment that this is one side of the story told by the family. The cops may be guilty as hell of using poor judgment, but they are still inoccent until proven guilty."
I agree. In this case, the murder could have been stopped by having arrested all the cops before the incident happened, or by throwing a flashbang into their "planning room" session, then shooting each of them three times, just to make sure that they didn't go forward with their murder.
I was not attempting to pass judgement on this isolated incident. The family may very well have been big time cartel members, or tweakers. The police may very well have been justified, and I hope they are, for their sake. I was not there, nor do I attempt to pass judegement based on one biased article based on comments by a money hungry attorney.
I was simply making a comment on the degradation of civil rights as a whole, and the depths which we, as police, have gone to to secure a drug arrest. It is a symptom of the larger problem, in my opnion.
I was not attempting to pass judgement on this isolated incident. The family may very well have been big time cartel members, or tweakers. The police may very well have been justified, and I hope they are, for their sake. I was not there, nor do I attempt to pass judegement based on one biased article based on comments by a money hungry attorney.
I was simply making a comment on the degradation of civil rights as a whole, and the depths which we, as police, have gone to to secure a drug arrest. It is a symptom of the larger problem, in my opnion.
I'll give you that one lillysdad. That is all I was saying. How about we get the whole story then decide if they should be crucified.
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Smith and Wesson, Sturm Ruger to stop selling guns in California due to new law
Gun manufacturers Smith and Wesson and Sturm Ruger have decided to nix selling firearms in the Golden State after the implementation of a state law that would require the company to essentially make guns specifically for California.
According to Fox News, the law would require gun manufacturers to put a device inside some handguns that would imprint a tiny stamp on the bullet so that the bullet can be traced back to the gun if necessary.
The companies, and many gun enthusiasts, both believe that this so-called “microstamping” technology is “unworkable in its present form” and can actually hinder a gun’s performance.
“Smith & Wesson does not and will not include microstamping in its firearms,” the Massachusetts-based manufacturer said in a statement.
“A number of studies have indicated that microstamping is unreliable, serves no safety purpose, is cost prohibitive and, most importantly, is not proven to aid in preventing or solving crimes.”
“The microstamping mandate and the company’s unwillingness to adopt this so-called technology will result in a diminishing number of Smith & Wesson semi-automatic pistols available for purchase by California residents,” the statement continued.
While the original law requiring the firearm microstamping was first passed in 2007, then-Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger promptly placed a hold on its implementation. Bloomberg reported that the provision was supposed to take effect in 2010, however it was delayed until the state felt the manufacturers had the technology available to them to carry out the law without dealing with patent infringement. Calguns Foundation, a pro-Second Amendment organization, paid to extend the existing patent on the technology to delay the law’s implementation.
California’s law is the first to be implemented in the nation, however Connecticut, Massachusetts and New York are also reportedly considering similar measures, Fox News reported.
Critics of the law argue that tracing a bullet back to the registered gun owner doesn’t necessarily stop gun violence, as it is very common for criminals to use stolen handguns while committing a crime. As a result many people, like Chuck Michel, the West Coast Council for the National Rifle Association, believe that having the ability to trace bullets was never the real intent of the law in the first place.
“This is the latest attempt to undermine the Second Amendment in California by politicians with little to no knowledge of firearms, who seek to impose their liberal values upon those who choose to protect their families with the constitutional right to own a handgun,” he told Fox News.
The state assembly member who introduced the bill, current Los Angeles City Attorney Mike Feuer, argues that the case against the microstamping boils down to “baloney” and “posturing” by gun rights supporters.
“This law is about solving gun crimes, and it’s a law that would be effective in doing that if only the gun lobby would step aside,” he told the Los Angeles Times. “Their posturing doesn’t surprise me. We all know that the gun lobby has no problem innovating when it comes to making guns more lethal,” he added.
Firearms used by law enforcement officials are exempt from the microstamping requirements. |
The effect of hydrogen gas on a mouse bilateral common carotid artery occlusion.
In recent studies, molecular hydrogen selectively reduced the levels of hydroxyl radicals in vitro and exerted a therapeutic anti-oxidant activity in a rat middle cerebral artery occlusion model. The aim of this study was to investigate the effect of hydrogen gas on a mouse bilateral common carotid artery occlusion (BCCAO) model. Male C57BL/6J mice were subjected to transient BCCAO with a nontraumatic aneurysm clip. The mice were divided into three groups: sham, BCCAO, and BCCAO treated with 1.3 % hydrogen gas. Cerebral blood flow (CBF) in the cortex was measured sequentially for both hemispheres with a non--invasive and noncontact laser Doppler blood perfusion imager during the procedure. Vital signs were also recorded. Oxidative stress evaluated by measuring the level of 8-hydroxy-2'-deoxyguanosine (8-OHdG), neuronal injury in the hippocampal CA1 sector, and brain water content were assessed 24 h after ischemia. The hydrogen gas treatment had no significant effect on vital signs or CBF values. However, the reduction of the expression of 8-OHdG, the decrease in the neuronal injury in the hippocampal CA1 sector, and the attenuation in brain water content were observed in hydrogen-treated mice. In conclusion, hydrogen gas might be effective in a mouse BCCAO model. |
Part 1 : Sensei and I
I ALWAYS called him "Sensei." [note1] I shall therefore refer to him simply as "Sensei," and not by his real name. It is not because I consider it more discreet, but it is because I find it more natural that I do so. Whenever the memory of him comes back to me now, I find that I think of him as "Sensei" still. And with pen in hand, I cannot bring myself to write of him in any other way. It was at Kamakura, during the summer holidays, that I first met Sensei. I was then a very young student. I went there at the insistence of a friend of mine, who had gone to Kamakura to swim. We were not together for long. It had taken me a few days to get together enough money to cover the necessary expenses, and it was only three days after my arrival that my friend received a telegram from home demanding his return. His mother, the telegram explained, was ill. My friend, however, did not believe this. For some time his parents had been trying to persuade him, much against his will, to marry a certain girl. According to our modern outlook, he was really too young to marry. Moreover, he was not in the least fond of the girl. It was in order to avoid an unpleasant situation that instead of going home, as he normally would have done, he had gone to the resort near Tokyo to spend his holidays. He showed me the telegram, and asked me what he should do. I did not know what to tell him. It was, however, clear that if his mother was truly ill, he should go home. And so he decided to leave after all. I, who had taken so much trouble to join my friend, was left alone. There were many days left before the beginning of term, and I was free either to stay in Kamakura or to go home. I decided to stay. My friend was from a wealthy family in the Central Provinces, and had no financial worries. But being a young student, his standard of living was much the same as my own. I was therefore not obliged, when I found myself alone, to change my lodgings. My inn was in a rather out-of-the-way district of Kamakura, and if one wished to indulge in such fashionable pastimes as playing billiards and eating ice cream, one had to walk a long way across rice fields. If one went by rickshaw, it cost twenty sen. Remote as the district was, however, many rich families had built their villas there. It was quite near the sea also, which was convenient for swimmers such as myself. I walked to the sea every day, between thatched cottages that were old and smoke-blackened. The beach was always crowded with men and women, and at times the sea, like a public bath, would be covered with a mass of black heads. I never ceased to wonder how so many city holiday-makers could squeeze themselves into so small a town. Alone in this noisy and happy crowd, I managed to enjoy myself, dozing on the beach or splashing about in the water. It was in the midst of this confusion that I found Sensei. In those days, there were two tea houses on the beach. For no particular reason, I had come to patronize one of them. Unlike those people with their great villas in the Hase area who had their own bathing huts, we in our part of the beach were obliged to make use of these tea houses which served also as communal changing rooms. In them the bathers would drink tea, rest, have their bathing suits rinsed, wash the salt from their bodies, and leave their hats and sunshades for safe-keeping. I owned no bathing suit to change into, but I was afraid of being robbed, and so I regularly left my things in the tea house before going into the water.
* Sensei had just taken his clothes off and was about to go for a swim when I first laid eyes on him in the tea house. I had already had my swim, and was letting the wind blow gently on my wet body. Between us, there were numerous black heads moving about. I was in a relaxed frame of mind, and there was such a crowd on the beach that I should never have noticed him had he not been accompanied by a Westerner. The Westerner, with his extremely pale skin, had already attracted my attention when I approached the tea house. He was standing with folded arms, facing the sea; carelessly thrown down on the stool by his side was a Japanese summer dress which he had been wearing. He had on him only a pair of drawers such as we were accustomed to wear. I found this particularly strange. Two days previously I had gone to Yuigahama and, sitting on top of a small dune close to the rear entrance of a Western-style hotel, I had whiled away the time watching the Westerners bathe. All of them had their torsos, arms, and thighs well-covered. The women especially seemed overly modest. Most of them were wearing brightly colored rubber caps which could be seen bobbing conspicuously amongst the waves. After having observed such a scene, it was natural that I should think this Westerner, who stood so lightly clad in our midst, quite extraordinary. As I watched, he turned his head to the side and spoke a few words to a Japanese, who happened to be bending down to pick up a small towel which he had dropped on the sand. The Japanese then tied the towel around his head, and immediately began to walk towards the sea. This man was Sensei. From sheer curiosity, I stood and watched the two men walk side by side towards the sea. They strode determinedly into the water and, making their way through the noisy crowd, finally reached a quieter and deeper part of the sea. Then they began to swim out, and did not stop until their heads had almost disappeared from my sight. They turned around and swam straight back to the beach. At the tea house, they dried themselves without washing the salt off with fresh water from the well and, quickly donning their clothes, they walked away. After their departure, I sat down, and lighting a cigarette, I began idly to wonder about Sensei. I could not help feeling that I had seen him somewhere before, but failed to recollect where or when I had met him. I was a bored young man then, and for lack of anything better to do, I went to the tea house the following day at exactly the same hour, hoping to see Sensei again. This time, he arrived without the Westerner, wearing a straw hat. After carefully placing his spectacles on a nearby table and then tying his hand towel around his head, he once more walked quickly down the beach. And when I saw him wading through the same noisy crowd, and then swim out all alone, I was suddenly overcome with the desire to follow him. I splashed through the shallow water until I was far enough out, and then began to swim towards Sensei. Contrary to my expectation, however, he made his way back to the beach in a sort of arc, rather than in a straight line. I was further disappointed when I returned, dripping wet, to the tea house: he had already dressed, and was on his way out.
* I saw Sensei again the next day, when I went to the beach at the same hour; and again on the following day. But no opportunity arose for a conversation, or even a casual greeting, between us. His attitude, besides, seemed somewhat unsociable. He would arrive punctually at the usual hour, and depart as punctually after his swim. He was always aloof and, no matter how gay the crowd around him might be, he seemed totally indifferent to his surroundings. The Westerner, with whom he had first come, never showed himself again. Sensei was always alone. One day, however, after his usual swim, Sensei was about to put on his summer dress which he had left on the bench, when he noticed that the dress, for some reason, was covered with sand. As he was shaking his dress, I saw his spectacles, which had been lying beneath it, fall to the ground. He seemed not to miss them until he had finished tying his belt. When he began suddenly to look for them, I approached, and bending down, I picked up his spectacles from under the bench. "Thank you," he said, as I handed them to him. The next day, I followed Sensei into the sea, and swam after him. When we had gone more than a couple of hundred yards out, Sensei turned and spoke to me. The sea stretched, wide and blue, all around us, and there seemed to be no one near us. The bright sun shone on the water and the mountains, as far as the eye could see. My whole body seemed to be filled with a sense of freedom and joy, and I splashed about wildly in the sea. Sensei had stopped moving, and was floating quietly on his back. I then imitated him. The dazzling blue of the sky beat against my face, and I felt as though little, bright darts were being thrown into my eyes. And I cried out, "What fun this is!" After a while, Sensei moved to an upright position and said, "Shall we go back?" I, who was young and hardy wanted very much to stay. But I answered willingly enough, "Yes, let us go back." And we returned to the shore together. That was the beginning of our friendship. But I did not yet know where Sensei lived. It was, I think, on the afternoon of the third day following our swim together that Sensei, when we met at the tea house, suddenly asked me, "Do you intend to stay in Kamakura long?" I had really no idea how much longer I would be in Kamakura, so I said, "I don't know." I then saw that Sensei was grinning, and I suddenly became embarrassed. I could not help blurting out, "And you, Sensei?" It was then that I began to call him "Sensei." That evening, I visited Sensei at his lodgings. He was not staying at an ordinary inn, but had his rooms in a mansion-like building within the grounds of a large temple. I saw that he had no ties of any kind with the other people staying there. He smiled wryly at the way I persisted in addressing him as "Sensei," and I found myself explaining that it was my habit to so address my elders. I asked him about the Westerner, and he told me that his friend was no longer in Kamakura. His friend, I was told, was somewhat eccentric. He spoke to me of other things concerning the Westerner too, and then remarked that it was strange that he, who had so few acquaintances among his fellow Japanese, should have become intimate with a foreigner. Finally, before leaving, I said to Sensei that I felt I had met him somewhere before but that I could not remember where or when. I was young, and as I said this I hoped, and indeed expected, that he would confess to the same feeling. But after pondering awhile, Sensei said to me, "I cannot remember ever having met you before. Are you not mistaken?" And I was filled with a new and deep sense of disappointment.
* I returned to Tokyo at the end of the month. Sensei had left the resort long before me. As we were taking leave of each other, I had asked him, "Would it be all right if I visited you at your home now and then?" And he had answered quite simply, "Yes, of course." I had been under the impression that we were intimate friends, and had somehow expected a warmer reply. My self-confidence, I remember, was rather shaken then. Often, during my association with Sensei, I was disappointed in this way. Sometimes, Sensei seemed to know that I had been hurt, and sometimes, he seemed not to know. But no matter how often I experienced such trifling disappointments, I never felt any desire to part from Sensei. Indeed, each time I suffered a rebuff, I wished more than ever to push our friendship further. I thought that with greater intimacy, I would perhaps find in him those things that I looked for. I was very young, it is true. But I think that I would not have behaved quite so simply towards others. I did not understand then why it was that I should behave thus towards Sensei only. But now, when Sensei is dead, I am beginning to understand. It was not that Sensei disliked me at first. His curt and cold ways were not designed to express his dislike of me, but they were meant rather as a warning to me that I would not want him as a friend. It was because he despised himself that he refused to accept openheartedly the intimacy of others. I feel great pity for him. I intended of course to visit Sensei when I returned to Tokyo. There were still two weeks left before the beginning of lectures, and I thought I would visit him during that time. A few days after my return, however, I began to feel less inclined to do so. The atmosphere of the great city affected me a great deal, bringing back memories. Every time I saw a student in the streets, I found myself awaiting the coming of the new academic year with a feeling of hope and tense excitement. For a while, I forgot all about Sensei. A month or so after the start of lectures, I became more relaxed. At the same time, I began to walk about the streets discontentedly, and to look around my room with a feeling that something was lacking in my life. I began to think of Sensei, and I found that I wanted to see him again. The first time I went to his home, Sensei was out. I remember that I went again the following Sunday. It was a lovely day, and the sky was so blue that I was filled with a sense of well-being. Again, he was not at home. In Kamakura, Sensei had told me that he spent most of his time at home; indeed, he had even told me that he disliked to go out. Remembering this, I felt an unreasonable resentment at having twice failed to find him. I therefore hesitated in the front hall, staring at the maid who had informed me of her master's absence. She seemed to remember that I had called before and left my card. Asking me to wait, she went away. A lady then appeared, whom I took to be the mistress of the house. She was beautiful. Very courteously, she told me of Sensei's whereabouts. I learned that every month, on the same day, it was Sensei's custom to take flowers to a certain grave in the cemetery at Zoshigaya. "He left here," said the lady regretfully, "hardly more than ten minutes ago." I thanked her and left. Before I had gone very far towards the busier part of town, I decided that it would be a pleasant walk to Zoshigaya. Besides, I might meet Sensei, I thought. I turned around and started to walk in the direction of Zoshigaya. From the left side of a field I entered the cemetery and proceeded along a broad avenue bordered on each side by maple trees. There was a tea house at the end of the avenue, and I saw coming out of it someone that looked like Sensei. I walked towards him until I could see the sunlight reflected on the frame of his spectacles. Then, suddenly, I cried out aloud, "Sensei!" Sensei stopped, and saw me. "How in the world...?" he said. Then again, "How in the world... ?" His words, repeated, seemed to have a strange echo-like effect in the stillness of the afternoon. I did not know what to say. "Did you follow me? How...?" He seemed quite relaxed as he stood there, and his voice was calm. But there was on his face a strangely clouded expression. I explained to Sensei how I happened to be there. "Did my wife tell you whose grave I was visiting?" "Oh, no." "Well, I suppose there was no reason why she should. After all, she met you today for the first time. No, of course not, there was no need for her to tell you." At last, he appeared satisfied. But I could not understand the reason for his remarks. We walked between tombstones on our way out. Next to those with inscriptions such as "Isabella So-and-so..." and "Login, Servant of God," were those with Buddhist inscriptions such as "All living things bear within themselves the essence of Buddha." There was one tombstone, I remember, which was written "Minister Plenipotentiary So-and-so." I stopped before one that was particularly small and, pointing at the three Chinese characters on it, I asked Sensei, "How does one read that?" "I presume they are meant to be read as 'Andrew'," said Sensei, smiling stiffly. Sensei did not seem to find the way in which different customs were reflected in the tombstones amusing or ironical, as I did. Silently, he listened to me for a while as I chattered on, pointing to this tombstone and that. But finally he turned to me and said, "You have never thought seriously of the reality of death, have you?" I became silent. Sensei said no more. Towards the end of the cemetery, there stood a gingko tree, so large that it almost hid the sky from view. Sensei looked up at the tree and said, "In a little while, it will be beautiful here. The tree will be a mass of yellow, and the ground will be buried beneath a golden carpet of fallen leaves." Every month, I learned, Sensei made a point of walking by the tree at least once. Not far from us in the cemetery, a man was leveling off a piece of rough ground. He stopped and, resting on his hoe, he watched us. Turning to our left, we soon reached the main road. Having no particular destination in mind, I continued to walk along with Sensei. Sensei was less talkative than usual. I felt no acute embarrassment, however, and I strolled unconcernedly by his side. "Are you going straight home?" "Yes. There is nothing else I particularly want to do now." Silently, we walked downhill towards the south. Again I broke the silence. "Is your family burial ground there?" I asked. "No." "Whose grave is it, then? Some relation of yours perhaps?" "No." Sensei would say no more about it. I decided to mention the matter no further. But after he had walked a hundred yards or so, Sensei suddenly reopened the conversation. "A friend of mine happens to be buried there." "And you visit his grave every month?" Sensei told me no more that day.
* After that day, I began to visit Sensei at regular intervals. I found him always at home. And the more I visited Sensei, the more eager I became to see him again. Despite this, however, there was no great change in Sensei's manner towards me. He was always quiet. At times, he seemed so quiet that I thought him rather lonely. I felt from the start his strangely unapproachable quality. Yet, at the same time, there was within me an irresistible desire to become close to Sensei. Perhaps I was the only one who felt thus towards him. Some might say that I was being foolish and naive. But even now, I feel a certain pride and happiness in the fact that my intuitive fondness for Sensei was later shown to have not been in vain. A man capable of love, or I should say rather a man who was by nature incapable of not loving; but a man who could not wholeheartedly accept the love of another--such a one was Sensei. As I have already said, Sensei was always quiet. Moreover, he seemed to be at peace with himself. But sometimes I would notice a shadow cross his face. True, like the shadow of a bird outside the window, it would quickly disappear. The first time I noticed it was at the cemetery at Zoshigaya, when I suddenly spoke to him. I remember that I felt then, though only for a passing moment, a strange weight on my heart. Soon after, the memory of that moment faded away. One evening, however, towards the end of the Indian summer, it was unexpectedly brought back to my mind. As I was talking to Sensei, I happened for some reason to think of the great gingko tree that he had pointed out to me. And I remembered that his monthly visit to the grave was only three days away. Thinking that it would fall on the day when my lectures ended at noon, and that I should be relatively free, I turned to Sensei and said: "Sensei, I wonder if the gingko tree at Zoshigaya has lost all its leaves by now?" "I doubt that it will be quite bare yet." Sensei was watching me carefully. I said quickly: "May I accompany you, when you next visit the grave? I should like to take a walk around there with you." "I go to visit a grave, not for a walk, you know." "But surely, we can go for a walk at the same time?" Sensei was silent for a while, then said, "Believe me, visiting the grave is for me a truly serious matter." He seemed quite determined to distinguish between his pilgrimage to the grave and an ordinary walk. I began to wonder whether he was making this excuse because he did not wish me to accompany him. I remember that I thought him oddly childish at the time. I became more forward. "Well, then," I said, "please allow me to accompany you as a fellow visitor to the grave." I really did think Sensei's attitude rather unreasonable. A shadow crossed his brow, and his eyes shone strangely. I cannot say whether it was annoyance or dislike or fear that I saw in his expression. But whatever it was, there was beneath it, I felt, a gnawing anxiety. And I was suddenly reminded of the way he looked that day at Zoshigaya when I called to him. "I cannot tell you why," Sensei said to me, "but for a very good reason I wish to go to that grave alone. Even my wife, you see, has never come with me."
* I thought his behavior very strange. But I did not visit Sensei with the purpose of studying him. And I decided to think no more about it. My attitude towards Sensei then is one of those things that I remember with a certain amount of pride. Because of it, I believe, we were able to become so close to each other. Had I been curious in an impersonal and analytical way, the bond between us would surely not have lasted. I was, of course, not aware of all this at the time. I hate to think what might have happened had I acted differently. Even in his relationship with me, he was in constant dread of being coldly analyzed. I began to visit Sensei two or even three times a month. One day, seeing that my visits were becoming more and more frequent, Sensei suddenly said to me: "Why should you want to spend so much time with a person like me?" "Why? I don't think there's any particular reason...Am I a nuisance, sir?" "I did not say that." Indeed, he never seemed to regard me as a nuisance. I was aware that the number of his acquaintances was rather limited. As for those who had been in the same class with him at the university, I knew there were no more than two or three in Tokyo. Sometimes, I would find at his house students who were from the same part of the country as Sensei, but it seemed to me that none of them were as close to him as I was. "I am a lonely man," Sensei said. "And so I am glad that you come to see me. But I am also a melancholy man, and so I asked you why you should wish to visit me so often." "But why should you want to ask?" Sensei did not answer me. Instead, he looked at me and said, "How old are you?" The conversation seemed to me to be rather purposeless. Without pursuing it any further, I left. Four days later, I was back again at his house. As soon as Sensei appeared, he began to laugh. "You're back again," he said. "Yes, I'm back," I said, and I laughed with him. Had anyone else spoken in such a way to me, I think I should have been annoyed. With Sensei, it was somehow different. Far from being annoyed, I was happy. "I am a lonely man," he said again that evening. "And is it not possible that you are also a lonely person? But I am an older man, and I can live with my loneliness, quietly. You are young, and it must be difficult to accept your loneliness. You must sometimes want to fight it." "But I am not at all lonely." "Youth is the loneliest time of all. Otherwise why should you come so often to my house?" Sensei continued: "But surely, when you are with me, you cannot rid yourself of your loneliness. I have not it in me to help you forget it. You will have to look elsewhere for the consolation you seek. And soon, you will find that you no longer want to visit me." As he said this, Sensei smiled sadly.
* Fortunately, Sensei was mistaken. Inexperienced as I was then, I could not even understand the obvious significance of Sensei's remarks. I continued to see Sensei as before. And before long, I found myself dining at his house occasionally. As a result, I was obliged to speak to Sensei's wife also. Like any other young man, I was not indifferent to women. But being young and my experience of the world being what it was, I had so far not had any opportunity to form any friendship with a woman. My interest in women had been limited to glances thrown at those who were completely unknown to me. The first time I met Sensei's wife in the front hall, I thought her beautiful. And each time I saw her after that, I was similarly impressed by her beauty. But I felt, at first, that there was nothing of any interest that I could speak to her about. Rather than to say that she possessed no special qualities worthy of note, it would perhaps be more correct to say that she had never been given an opportunity to show them. My feeling was always that she was little more than a necessary part of Sensei's household. And it would seem that she regarded me, albeit with goodwill, simply as a student who came to talk with her husband. Apart from Sensei, there was no bond of sympathy between us. My memory of the early part of our acquaintance, then, consists of nothing more than the impression of her beauty. One evening, I was invited by Sensei to join him in a cup of saké. Sensei's wife came to serve us. Sensei seemed more cheerful than usual. Offering his empty cup, he said to his wife, "You have some too." "No, I don't really . ..," she began to say, then accepted the cup somewhat unwillingly. Frowning slightly, she raised to her lips the cup that I had half-filled for her. A conversation then followed between her and Sensei. "This is so unusual," she said. "You hardly ever ask me to drink saké." "That's because you don't like saké. But it does you good to drink occasionally. This will cheer you up." "It certainly will not. It makes me feel uncomfortable. You, however, seem to have become quite gay. And you haven't had much." "Yes, sometimes it seems to cheer me up. But you know, it doesn't always." "And how do you feel tonight?" "Oh, tonight I feel good." "Then from now on, you should drink--just a little--every evening." "That, I cannot do." "Please do. Then you will stop being melancholy." Apart from them, there was only the maid in the house. Every time I went there, the house seemed to be absolutely quiet. I never heard the sound of laughter there, and some-times it seemed almost as if Sensei and I were the only people in it. "It would be so nice if we had children," Sensei's wife said to me. "Yes, wouldn't it?" I answered. But I could feel no real sympathy for her. At my age, children seemed an unnecessary nuisance. "Would you like it if we adopted a child?" "An adopted child? Oh, no," she said, and looked at me. "But we'll never have one of our own, you know," said Sensei. Sensei s wife was silent. "Why not?" I asked. "Divine punishment," Sensei answered, and laughed rather loudly.
* Sensei and his wife seemed to me to be a fond enough couple. Not being a member of the family, I could not of course know how they truly felt towards each other. But whenever I was with Sensei, and if he happened to want anything, instead of the maid, he would call his wife. (The lady's name was Shizu.) "Shizu," Sensei would call, turning towards the door. The tone of his voice, when he did so, always sounded gentle to me. And her manner, when she appeared, seemed always willing and obedient. And whenever they kindly invited me to dinner, and I had occasion to see them together at the table, my pleasant impression of their feelings towards each other would be confirmed. Sometimes, Sensei would take his wife to a concert or to the theatre. Also, I remember that they went away together for a week's holiday at least two or three times during the period I knew them. I still have with me a postcard that they sent me from Hakone. And I remember that the time they went to Nikko, I received from them a letter with a maple leaf enclosed. There was, however, one incident that marred my general impression of their married life. One day, I was standing as usual in their front hall, and was about to announce myself. I heard voices coming from the living room. An argument, rather than an ordinary conversation, seemed to be taking place. The living-room was immediately adjoining the front hall, and I could hear well enough to know that it was a quarrel, and that one of the voices, which was raised now and then, belonged to Sensei. The other voice was lower in tone than Sensei's, and I could not be sure whose it was. But I was almost certain that it was his wife's. She seemed to be weeping. I stood there for a short while, not knowing what to do. Then I left, and returned to my lodgings. A dreadful anxiety filled my heart. I tried to read, but found that I could not concentrate. An hour later, I heard Sensei calling from beneath my window. Surprised, I looked out. "Let us go for a walk," he said. I looked at my watch and saw that it was past eight o'clock. I had not bothered to take off my dress trousers when I returned. I left my room immediately. That evening, Sensei and I drank beer together. Sensei was not a heavy drinker. He was not the sort of person to go on drinking if a reasonable amount did not have any cheering effect on him. "It just won't work this evening," Sensei said, with a wry smile. "Can't you feel gay?" I asked, feeling sorry for him. I could not forget what had happened earlier that day. It bothered me terribly, like a fish bone in my throat. I could not decide whether I should tell him about it or not. Sensei noticed my anxiety. "There seems to be something the matter with you this evening," he said. "To tell you the truth, I am not my usual self either. Have you noticed?" I could not say anything in reply. "As a matter of fact, I quarreled with my wife a short while ago. And I allowed myself to become stupidly excited." "But why did you ... ?" I began, but could not bring myself to say "quarrel." "You see, sometimes my wife misunderstands me. And when I tell her so, she refuses to listen. That is why today, for instance, I unwittingly lost my temper." "In what way does she misunderstand you, Sensei?" Sensei did not answer my question. He said: "If I were the sort of person she thinks I am, I would not suffer so." How he suffered, my imagination then could not conceive. On our way back, we walked for a while in silence. Then he began to speak again. "I did a terrible thing. I should not have left home in such a fit of temper. My wife must be worried about me. When we think about it, women are unfortunate creatures. My wife, for instance, has no one in this world but me to depend upon. He was silent for a while. He seemed not to expect a reply from me. He then continued: "Of course, my last remark would lead one to suppose that the husband is self-reliant. Which is laughable. Tell me, how do I appear to you? Do you think me a strong or a weak person?" "Somewhere in-between," I answered. My reply, it would seem, was a little unexpected. He became silent again, and we continued our walk. The road leading to Sensei's house passed very near my own lodgings. When we reached the corner of my street and I was about to bid him goodnight, I began to feel that it would somehow be heartless to leave him then and there. "Shall I walk you home?" I said. He made a quick, negative gesture with his hand. "You had better go home. It's late. I must go home too. For my wife's sake..." "For my wife's sake . . ."; these last words of Sensei's strangely warmed my heart. Because of them I was able to enjoy an untroubled sleep that night. And for a long time after, those words stayed with me: "For my wife's sake...." I knew then that the disagreement which had occurred between them was not very serious. I continued to visit them regularly, and I could see that it had been an exceptional occurrence. Moreover, he took me into his confidence one day and said: "In all the world, I know only one woman. No woman but my wife moves me as a woman. And my wife regards me as the only man for her. From this point of view, we should be the happiest of couples." I cannot remember clearly why it was that he took the trouble of telling me this. But I do remember that his manner at the time was serious, and that he was calm. What struck me then as being odd was his last remark: "...we should be the happiest of couples." Why "should be"? Why did he not say, "We are the happiest of couples"? Was Sensei indeed happy? I could not but wonder. But very soon, I brushed aside my doubts concerning Sensei's happiness. One day, for the first time since I met her, I had a good talk with Sensei's wife. I had previously asked Sensei to discuss a book with me, and he had kindly invited me to visit him that day for that purpose. I arrived at nine o'clock in the morning, as arranged. I found Sensei out. A friend of his, I learned, was sailing from Yokohama, and Sensei had gone to see him off at Shimbashi. In those days, the boat train to Yokohama customarily left Shimbashi at eight-thirty in the morning. Sensei had left a message for me, however, saying that he would be back soon and that I should wait. While waiting for Sensei, therefore, I talked to his wife.
* By then, I was already a university student. [note2] I felt that I had become more mature since my first visit to Sensei's house. I had also become quite familiar with Sensei's wife. Therefore, when I found myself alone with her, I did not feel at all ill at ease. We talked of this and that. I should not have remembered the conversation at all, had it not been for the fact that, in the course of it, we talked of one matter which was of particular interest to me. Before I go on to say what this was, I should perhaps explain a few things about Sensei. Sensei was a graduate of the university. I knew this from the first. But it was only after my return to Tokyo from Kamakura that I discovered he had no particular employment. I wondered at the time how he managed to support himself. Sensei lived in complete obscurity. Apart from myself, there was no one who knew of Sensei's scholarship or his ideas. I often remarked to him that this was a great pity. But he would pay no attention to me. "There is no sense," he once said to me, "in such a person as myself expressing his thoughts in public." This remark struck me as being too modest, and I wondered whether it did not spring from a contempt of the outside world. Indeed, he was sometimes not above saying rather unkind things about those of his classmates who had since their graduation made names for themselves. This apparent inconsistency in his attitude, which was at once modest and contemptuous, I quite frankly pointed out to him once. I did not do this in a rebellious spirit. I simply regretted the fact that the world was indifferent to Sensei, whom I admired so much. In a very quiet voice, Sensei answered me: "You see, there is nothing we can do about it. I do not have the right to expect anything from the world." There was, as he said this, an expression on his face which affected me profoundly. I did not know whether what I saw was despair, regret, or grief. I had not the courage to say any more. As Sensei's wife and I sat and talked, our conversation drifted naturally to the subject of Sensei. "Why does Sensei," I asked, "not go out into the world and find himself some position that is worthy of his talents, instead of spending all his time studying and thinking at home?" "There is no hope of that, I am afraid. He would hate it."' "I suppose he sees that it would be a vain thing to do?" "Being a woman, I wouldn't know. But I doubt that that is the reason. I am sure he would like to do something, really. But somehow, he can't. I am very sorry for him." "But he is in good health, is he not?" "Certainly. He is perfectly well." "Well then, why doesn't he do something?" "I wish I knew. Do you think that I would be worrying so much, if I did? I feel so sorry for him." Her tone of voice held a great deal of sympathy. Her lips, however, were smiling slightly. As far as our outward manner was concerned, I must have seemed the more anxious of the two. I sat there, silent and serious. She looked up, as though she suddenly remembered something, and said: "You know, when he was young, he wasn't at all the sort of person he is now. He was quite different. He has changed so." "When was he different?" I asked. "Oh, in his student days." "Then you knew him when he was a student?" Sensei's wife blushed a little.
* She was a Tokyo woman. Both Sensei and she herself had told me this before. Her father had actually come from some such place as Tottori, while her mother had been born in Ichigaya, when Tokyo was still known as Yedo. For this reason, she once said, half-jokingly, "I am, as a matter of fact, of mixed blood." Sensei, on the other hand, was from the province of Niigata. It was clear to me, therefore, that her place of origin could not explain how she had come to know Sensei when he was a student. But seeing the blush on her face when I touched on the subject of their youthful acquaintance, I asked no more about it. In the years between my first meeting with Sensei and his death, I came to know much of what he thought and felt, but, concerning the circumstances of his marriage, he told me almost nothing. I was inclined, sometimes, to regard this reserve on Sensei's part in a favorable light. After all, I would tell myself, he quite naturally would consider it indiscreet and in bad taste to speak of his early courtship to a youth such as myself. But sometimes I was inclined to regard his reserve unfavorably. I liked then to think that his reluctance to discuss such a matter was due to timidity born of the conventions of a generation ago. I thought myself more free, in this respect, and more open-minded, than either Sensei or his wife. Whatever my thoughts regarding Sensei's reserve might have been, they were, of course, only speculations. And there was always, at the back of my speculations, the assumption that their marriage had been the flowering of a beautiful romance. My assumption was not proved entirely wrong. But I was imagining only a small part of the truth that lay behind their love story. I could not know that there had been in Sensei's life a frightening tragedy, inseparable from his love for his wife. Nor did his own wife know how wretched this tragedy had made him. To this day she does not know. Sensei died keeping his secret from her. Before he could destroy his wife's happiness, he destroyed himself. I shall not speak here of the tragedy in Sensei's life. And, as I have said before, Sensei and his wife told me almost nothing of their courtship, which had come into being as though for the sake of the tragedy. Sensei's wife said little about it for modesty's sake, but there was a far profounder reason for Sensei's silence. One day, during the flower-viewing season, Sensei and I went to Ueno. I remember that day well. While we were going there, we happened to see a good-looking couple walking close together, beneath the flowering trees. The place being rather public, they, rather than the flowers, seemed to be the object of interest for many people. "They look like a newly married couple," said Sensei. "They seem to be pretty fond of each other, don't they?" I said, in an amused tone of voice. There was not even a trace of a smile on Sensei's face. He began deliberately to walk away from the couple. He then said to me: "Have you ever been in love?" I said no. "Don't you want to be in love?" I said nothing in reply. "It isn't that you don't want to fall in love, is it?" "No." "You made fun of that couple, didn't you? But actually, you sounded to me like a person who is dissatisfied because he has not yet been able to fall in love, though he wants to." "Did I sound like that?" "Yes, you did. A person who has been in love himself would have been more tolerant and would have felt warmer towards the couple. But--but do you know that there is guilt also in loving? I wonder if you understand me." I was surprised, and said nothing.
* There was a large crowd around us, and every face in it looked happy. We had little opportunity to talk until we reached the woods, where there were no flowers and no people. "Is there really guilt in loving?" I asked suddenly. "Yes, surely," Sensei said. He seemed as certain as he did before. "Why?" "You will soon find out. In fact, you ought to know already. Your heart has been made restless by love for quite some time now." Vainly, I searched my heart for an answer. "But there is no one whom you might call the object of my love," I said. "I have not hidden anything from you, Sensei." "You are restless because your love has no object. If you could fall in love with some particular person, you wouldn't be so restless." "But I am not so restless now." "Did you not come to me because you felt there was something lacking?" "Yes. But my going to you was not the same thing as wanting to fall in love." "But it was a step in your life towards love. The friendship that you sought in me is in reality a preparation for the love that you will seek in a woman." "I think that the two things are totally different." "No, they are not. But being the kind of man that I am, I cannot help you to rid your heart of that feeling of want. Moreover, peculiar circumstances have made me even more useless than I might have been as a friend. I am truly very sorry. That you will eventually go elsewhere for consolation is a fact I must accept. Indeed, I even hope that you will. But...." I began to feel a strange kind of sorrow. "Sensei, if you really think that I shall drift away from you, there is nothing I can do about it. But such a thought has so far never crossed my mind." Sensei did not listen to me. "But you must be careful," he continued. "You must remember that there is guilt in loving. You may not derive much satisfaction from our friendship, but at least, there is no danger in it. Do you know what it feels like to be tied down by long, black hair?" I could imagine what Sensei meant, but inexperienced as I was, his words held no reality for me. Also, I had no notion of what Sensei meant by "guilt." I felt a little discontented. "Sensei, please explain more clearly what you mean by 'guilt'. Otherwise, please let us not discuss this matter again, until I have myself found out what this 'guilt' is." "It was wrong of me. I had intended to make you aware of certain truths. Instead, I have only succeeded in irritating you. It was wrong of me." Sensei and I walked slowly in the direction of Uguisudani, past the back of the museum. Through the gaps in the fencing, we could see dwarf bamboos growing thickly in one part of the garden. There was about the scene an air of deep, secluded peace. "Do you know why I go every month to my friend's grave in Zoshigaya?" Sensei's question was totally unexpected. He should, of course, have known that I did not know. I remained silent. Then, as though realizing what he had just said, Sensei went on: "I have said the wrong thing again. I was trying to explain my earlier remarks because I thought they had irritated you. But in trying to explain, I find that I have upset you once more. Let us forget the whole matter. But remember, there is guilt in loving. And remember too that, in loving, there is something sacred." I was more mystified than ever by Sensei's talk. But I never heard him mention the word "love" again.
* Being young, I was rather inclined to become blindly devoted to a single cause. At least, so I must have appeared to Sensei. I considered conversation with Sensei more profitable than lectures at the university. I valued Sensei's opinions more than I did those of my professors. Sensei, who went his solitary way without saying very much, seemed to me to be a greater man than those famous professors who lectured to me from their platforms. "You must try to be more sober in your opinions about me," Sensei once said to me. "But I am being sober," I cried, confidently. Sensei, however, refused to take me seriously. "You are like a man in a fever. When that fever passes, your enthusiasm will turn to disgust. Your present opinion of me makes me unhappy enough. But when I think of the disillusionment that is to come, I feel even greater sorrow." "Do you think me so fickle? Do you find me so untrustworthy?" "I am simply sorry for you." "I deserve your sympathy but not your trust. Is that what you mean, Sensei?" He seemed vexed as he turned his face towards the garden. Not long before, the garden had been full of camellias. But now, the flowers, which had brightened the scenery with their rich, red color, were all gone. It had been Sensei's custom to look out from his room and gaze at them. "It is not you in particular that I distrust, but the whole of humanity." I could hear the cry of a goldfish vendor from the lane on the other side of the hedge. There was no other sound. The house was some distance from the main road, and we seemed to be surrounded by a complete calm. All was quiet, as usual, inside the house itself. I knew that Sensei's wife was in the next room, busy at her sewing or some such work. And I knew also that she could hear what we were saying. But I momentarily forgot this, as I said: "Then you have no trust in your wife either?" Sensei looked a little uneasy. He avoided giving a direct answer to my question. "I don't even trust myself. And not trusting myself, I can hardly trust others. There is nothing that I can do, except curse my own soul." "Surely, Sensei, you think too seriously about these things." "It is not a matter of what I think. It is what I have done that has led me to feel the way I do. At first, my own act shocked me. Then, I was terribly afraid." I wanted to pursue the conversation, but we were interrupted by the voice of Sensei's wife, calling him from behind the door. What is it?" Sensei said. "Can you come here a minute?" his wife said. I had hardly begun to wonder why Sensei had been called to the next room when he returned. "At any rate," he continued, "don't put too much trust in me. You will learn to regret it if you do. And if you ever allow yourself to feel betrayed, you will then find yourself being cruelly vindictive." "What do you mean?" "The memory that you once sat at my feet will begin to haunt you and, in bitterness and shame, you will want to degrade me. I do not want your admiration now, because I do not want your insults in the future. I bear with my loneliness now, in order to avoid greater loneliness in the years ahead. You see, loneliness is the price we have to pay for being born in this modern age, so full of freedom, independence, and our own egotistical selves." I could not think of anything to say.
* After that day, I used to wonder each time I saw Sensei's wife whether Sensei's attitude towards her reflected his inner thoughts and, if so, whether she could be satisfied with her condition. But I could discern neither satisfaction nor dissatisfaction in her manner. Of course, I was not close enough to her to know what her real feelings were. I rarely saw her away from Sensei: besides, in my presence, her behavior was always that of the conventional hostess. I wondered also why Sensei felt the way he did towards mankind. Was it, I would ask myself, the result of a coldly impartial scrutiny of his own inner self and the contemporary world around him? And if one were as naturally reflective, intelligent; and as removed from the world as Sensei, would one inevitably reach the same conclusions? Such tentative explanations, however, which suggested themselves to my mind, did not completely satisfy me. Sensei's opinions, it seemed to me, were not merely the result of cloistered reflection. They were not, as it were, like the skeleton of a stone house which has been gutted by fire. They were more alive than that. True, Sensei, as I saw him, was primarily a thinker. But his thoughts, I felt, were based firmly on a strong sense of reality. And this sense of reality did not come so much from observation of the experience of others removed from himself, as from his own experience. Such speculations, however, added little to my understanding of Sensei. Sensei, as a matter of fact, had already given me reason to believe that his thoughts were indeed forced upon him by the nature of his experience. But he had hinted only, and his hints were to me like a vast threatening cloud hanging over my head, vague in outline and yet frightening. The fear within me, nevertheless, was very real. I tried to explain to myself Sensei's view of life by imagining a love affair in his youth--between Sensei and his wife, of course--involving violent passion at first, and perhaps regret later. Such an explanation, I liked to think, would more or less take into account the association in Sensei's mind of guilt with love. Sensei, however, had admitted to me that he was still in love with his wife. The cause of Sensei's pessimism, then, could not reasonably be traced to their relationship with each other. It seemed that Sensei's misanthropic views which he had expressed to me applied to the modern world in general, but not to his wife. The memory of the grave in the cemetery at Zoshigaya would come back to me from time to time. That this grave was of some profound significance to Sensei, I knew well. I, who had come so close to Sensei and yet understood him so little, regarded the grave as something that held, in a sense, a fragment of his life. But whatever was buried in it was dead for me, and I knew that I would not find in it the key to Sensei's heart. Indeed, the grave stood like some monstrous thing, forever separating us. Meanwhile, it so happened that I had another occasion to have a conversation with Sensei's wife. It was at the time of the year when the days grow shorter and there is everywhere a feeling of restless activity. There was already a chill in the air. During the previous week, there had been a series of burglaries in Sensei's neighborhood. They had all taken place in the early hours of the evening. Nothing of great value had been stolen. The houses had been broken into nevertheless, and Sensei's wife was uneasy. Unfortunately, Sensei was obliged to be away from the house one evening. A friend of his from the same part of the country as himself, and who was a doctor in some provincial hospital, had come up to Tokyo. Sensei and two or three others were taking him out to dinner that evening. Explaining the situation, Sensei asked me to stay with his wife until he returned. I agreed to do so willingly.
* It was dusk when I reached the house. Sensei, who was a punctilious man, had already left. "My husband did not want to be late. He left only a minute ago," said Sensei's wife, as she led me to her husband's study. The study was furnished partly in the Western style, with a desk and some chairs. A great number of books, bound beautifully in leather, gleamed through the glass panes of the book cases. Sensei's wife bade me sit down on a cushion by the brazier. "There are plenty of books here for you to read, if you so wish," she said, and left the room. I could not help feeling ill at ease, rather like a chance visitor waiting for the master of the house to return. sitting stiffly, I began to smoke. I could hear Sensei's wife talking to the maid in the morning room, which was along the same corridor as the study. The study, however, was at the end, and was therefore in a very quiet part of the house. When Sensei's wife stopped talking, I was surrounded by complete silence. Expecting the burglar to appear any minute, I sat very still and listened for any suspicious sound that might break the silence. About half an hour later, Sensei's wife appeared at the door, "Well!" she said. She seemed both surprised and amused when she saw me sitting there, stiff and serious like a strange guest. "You seem very uncomfortable," she said. "Oh, no, I am not at all uncomfortable." "Then you must be bored." "Oh, no. I am all tense, waiting for the burglar, and so I am not at all bored." She remained standing, with a European teacup in her hand, and laughed. "This room, being in a rather remote corner of the house, is not an ideal place for a watchman," I said. "Well, in that case, come along to the morning room, if you wish. I brought you some tea, thinking you must be bored. You can have it there." I followed Sensei's wife out of the study. An iron kettle was singing on a handsome, long brazier in the morning room. There, I was given black tea and cakes. Sensei's wife refused to drink tea herself, saying that she would not be able to go to sleep if she did. "Does Sensei often go out to dinner parties?" I asked. "No, hardly ever. It seems that, of late, he has become less inclined than ever to see people." Sensei's wife seemed to betray no anxiety as she said this, so I became more bold. "You must then be the only person Sensei likes to be with," I said. "Certainly not. I am like all the rest in his eyes." "That is not true," I said. "And you know very well that that is not true." "What do you mean?" "Well, I think that he has tired of the company of others because of his fondness for you." "I see that higher education has made you adept at empty rationalization. You might as well have reasoned that he cannot be fond of me, since I am a part of the world that he dislikes." "True. But in this case, I am right." "Let us not argue. You men certainly will argue about anything, and with such obvious pleasure too. I have often wondered how it is that you men can, without becoming bored, forever exchange empty saké cups with one another." Her words, I thought, were a little harsh. But they did not seem offensive to me. Sensei's wife was not so modern a woman as to take pride and pleasure in being able to display her mental prowess. She valued far more that thing which lies buried in the bottom of one's heart.
* I wanted to say more. But I was afraid of being taken for one of these argumentative men, and so I became silent. "Would you like more tea?" Sensei's wife said to me, tactfully, when she saw that I was staring foolishly into the empty teacup. I quickly handed the cup over to her. "How many? One lump? Two lumps?" She had picked up a lump of sugar with a strange instrument, and was looking at me when she said this. She was not exactly trying to be ingratiating, but she was undoubtedly trying to eradicate the effect on me of her harsh words by her charming manner. I drank tea silently. I remained silent even when I had finished the cup. "You seem to have become very quiet," she said. "Well, I don't want to be scolded for being argumentative," I answered. "Come, come," she said. We began to talk again. The conversation naturally wandered back to the subject of Sensei. "Won't you allow me to go on with what I was saying?" I said. "It might have seemed to you that I was indulging in meaningless rationalization, but, truly, I was being sincere." "Well, all right." "You don't think that Sensei's life would be the same without you, do you now?" "I certainly wouldn't know. Why don't you ask Sensei? It would be more sensible to ask him." "Please, I am being serious. You mustn't try to evade my question so frivolously. I wish you would be more honest with me." "But I am being honest. I honestly don't know." "Then let me ask you a question that you, rather than Sensei, will be in a position to answer. You are very fond of Sensei, aren't you?" "Surely, there's no need to ask a question like that. And with such a grave face, too!" "You mean that the answer is obvious? That it's a silly question to ask?" "More or less." "Then what would happen to Sensei if such a loyal companion as yourself were suddenly to leave him? He seems to take little enough pleasure in this world as it is. What would he do without you? I don't want to know how he would answer this question. I want to know what you honestly think. Would he be happy, do you think, or unhappy?" "Actually, I know the answer. (Though Sensei might not think that I do.) Sensei would be far more unhappy without me. Why, he might not even want to go on living, without me. It may seem very conceited of me, but I do really believe that I am able to make him as happy as is humanly possible. I believe that no one else would be able to make him as happy as I can. Without this belief, I would not be as contented as I am." "Such a conviction must surely be known to Sensei." "That is another matter entirely." "You still wish to maintain that Sensei dislikes you?" "Oh, no, I don't think for a moment that I am disliked. There is no reason why I should be. But you see, he seems to be rather weary of the world. Indeed, it would be more correct to say of Sensei these days that he is weary of people. And seeing that I am one of those creatures that inhabit this world, I can hardly hope to be regarded as an exception." I began to understand Sensei's wife better.
* I was deeply impressed by her capacity for sympathy and understanding. What also impressed me was the fact that, though her ways were not those of an old-fashioned Japanese woman, she had not succumbed to the then prevailing fashion of using "modern" words. I was a rather simple-minded young man; women, for example, were total strangers to the kind of world I knew or had experienced. True, being a man, I felt an instinctive yearning for women. But the yearning in me was little more than a vague dream, hardly different from the yearning in one's heart when one sees a lovely cloud in the spring sky. Often, when I found myself face to face with a woman, my longing would suddenly disappear. Instead of being drawn to the woman, I would feel a kind of repulsion. Such, however, was not my reaction to Sensei's wife. I did not even feel, when I was with her, that intellectual gulf which so often separates men from women. Indeed, I soon forgot that she was a woman, and came to regard her as the one person with whom I could share my sincere and sympathetic interest in Sensei. "Do you remember," I said, "that time when I asked you why Sensei did not go out into the world more, and you replied that he was not always so much of a recluse?" "Yes, I remember. And really, he was not." "Then what was he like?" "The kind of person you wish him to be, the kind of person I wish him to be ... There was hope and strength in him then." "What caused him to change so suddenly?" "The change was not sudden. It came gradually." "And you were with him all the time that this change was taking place?" "Of course. I was his wife." "Surely, then, you must know the cause of the change." "Unfortunately, no. I am embarrassed to admit this, but no matter how much I think about it I don't seem to be able to find the answer. You have no idea how often I have begged him to tell me the reason for the change." "What does he say when you ask him?" "That there is nothing for him to tell, and that there is nothing for me to worry about. He says that it was simply in his nature to change so." I said nothing. Sensei's wife also became silent. Not a sound came from the maid's room. I forgot all about the burglar. "You don't think that I am to blame, do you?" she asked me suddenly. "No," I said. "Please tell me what you really think. The thought that you might secretly think me responsible is unbearable," she said. "You see, I like to tell myself that I do whatever I can to help Sensei." "I am sure that Sensei knows that," I said. "Please don't worry. Believe you me, Sensei knows." She leveled off the cinders in the brazier and poured more water from a jug into the iron kettle. The kettle stopped singing. "Finally, I could not stand it any longer, and so I asked him to tell me frankly whether he found fault with anything I did. if he would only tell me what my faults were, I said, I would try if possible to correct them. His reply was that I had no faults and that it was himself that was to blame. His answer made me very sad. It made me cry and made me want to be told more than ever what my faults were." As Sensei's wife said this, I noticed that there were tears in her eyes.
* At first, I thought of Sensei's wife as a woman of understanding. But in the course of our conversation her manner began gradually to change, and I found that she had ceased to appeal to my mind and that she had begun to move my heart. There was no ill-feeling between her and Sensei. Indeed, there was no reason why there should be. Yet, there was something that separated her from Sensei. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not find what this thing was that separated them. This, in short, was her predicament. She claimed that since Sensei disliked the world so much, it was inevitable that she should become a part of the object of Sensei's dislike. But she could not convince herself that this was the correct explanation. The poor lady could not avoid thinking that perhaps the very opposite of this was true: namely, that Sensei had become weary of the world because of her. But again, she could find no way of confirming her suspicion. Sensei's manner towards her was that of a loving husband. He was kind and thoughtful. Such, then, was her secret which she had kept in her heart all these years in gentle sorrow, and which she revealed to me that night. "What do you think?" she said. "Is it because of me that he has become like that, or is it because of his view of life or whatever you men call it? Please don't hide anything from me." I had no intention of hiding anything from her. But since I knew that there were things in Sensei's life that I did not understand, I could not, in my ignorance, hope to comfort Sensei's wife. "I really don't know," I said. A look of disappointment appeared on her face, and I felt pity for her. I said quickly: "But I can assure you that Sensei does not dislike you. I am only repeating what he himself has told me. And you know that Sensei never lies." Sensei's wife said nothing. After a while, she began to speak again. "I remember something..." "You mean something that might explain why Sensei changed?" "Yes. If it was indeed the cause, then I was not responsible. There would be at least a little consolation in knowing that much, if l could be sure..." "Won't you tell me?" She hesitated, and gazed at her hands which lay folded on her lap. "I will tell you," she said, "and you must tell me what you think." "I will do my best." "I can't tell you all. If I do, Sensei will be very angry. I will tell you only those parts of the story which he would not mind my telling you." I felt a growing tension inside me. "When Sensei was still at the university, he had a very good friend. Just before this friend was due to graduate, he died. He died suddenly." Then almost in a whisper, she added, "Actually, his death was not natural." She said this in such a way that I could not help asking immediately, "How?" "I can't tell you any more about it. At any rate, it was after this friend's death that Sensei began to change gradually. I don't know why he died. I doubt that Sensei does either. On the other hand, when one remembers that the change came after the death, one wonders if Sensei really doesn't know." "Is it this friend that is buried at Zoshigaya?" "That again I'm not allowed to say. But can a man change so because of the death of one friend? I should very much like to know. That is what I want you to tell me." I was forced to admit that I did not think so.
* I tried, as far as I was able, to comfort Sensei's wife. And it seemed that she was trying to find some comfort in my company. We continued to discuss the death of Sensei's friend and the change in Sensei that followed it. However, I knew too little about the matter to be of much help. Sensei's wife did not seem to know very much about it either, and her uneasiness concerning it amounted to little more than a few grave doubts. Moreover, she was not free to tell me all that she knew. In a sea of uncertainty, then, the comforter and the comforted floated about helplessly. At about ten o'clock we heard Sensei's footsteps approaching the front gate. Seeming to forget all that we had been taking about, Sensei's wife quickly stood up and rushed out to meet him. I was left behind, as though my presence had been completely forgotten. I followed Sensei's wife. The maid, who was probably dozing in her room, failed to appear in the front hall to greet her master. Sensei seemed to be in a rather good mood. But his wife was in even better spirits. I remembered the tears in her eyes and the anxiety in her face, and I could not but notice the quick change in her mood. I did not really doubt her sincerity. But had I been so inclined, I might with some justification have thought that she had been playing on my sympathy during our conversation, as is the way with some women. I was not in a critical frame of mind, however, and I was, if anything, rather relieved to see her so cheerful. There had been no need, I thought to myself, for such concern on my part. Sensei grinned at me and said, "Thank you for your trouble. So the burglar didn't come after all?" Then he added, "Are you disappointed?" "Sorry to have caused you so much inconvenience," said Sensei's wife, as I was about to leave. She seemed not to be apologizing for having taken up so much of a busy student's time, but rather to be apologizing, in a joking fashion, for the fact that the burglar did not appear. She then gave me the rest of the cakes, wrapped in a piece of paper, to take home. I put them in my pocket and went out into the cold night. I hurried along the winding and almost deserted alleys towards the busier streets. I have written in great detail of the happenings of that evening because now, I see their significance. But that evening, by the time I had left Sensei's house with the cakes in my pocket, I attached little importance to the conversation I had with Sensei's wife. After lectures the following day, I went back to my lodgings, as usual, for lunch. On my desk was the package that Sensei' s wife had given me. I opened it and, choosing a cake covered with chocolate, I began to eat it. I thought of the couple that had given it to me and decided that they must surely be happy with each other. Autumn passed uneventfully. I began to take my clothes to Sensei's wife to be mended, and it was then too that I began to be more careful in my dress. She was even kind enough to say that being childless, she welcomed such work as a means of occupying her time. "This is hand-woven," she once said, pointing to a kimono of mine. "I have never worked on such beautiful material. But it's awfully difficult to sew. I have already broken two needles on it." But even when she complained thus, there seemed to be no real resentment in her voice.
* That winter, I was obliged to go home. A letter had come from my mother, saying that my father's illness had taken a turn for the worse, and that though there was no immediate danger, I should come home if possible. As the letter reminded me, my father was, after all, an old man. My father had been suffering from kidney trouble for some time. As is often the case with people who are past middle age, my father's disease was chronic. But he and the rest of the family had believed that with good care, the disease could be held in check, and my father had often boasted to his visitors that only through careful living had he managed to survive so far. His condition, however, was worse than we had imagined. According to my mother's letter, he had fainted while pottering about in the garden. At first, it was believed that he had suffered a mild stroke, but the doctor, who later examined him, decided that the fainting fit had been brought on by his kidney disease. The winter vacation was not far off and, thinking that there was no need for me to return immediately, I decided to stay on till the end of term. A day or two after the arrival of my mother's letter, however, I began to worry. I thought of my father lying in bed, and of my mother worrying, and I decided that I should return at once. I did not have enough money with me for the train fare and, in order to avoid the inconvenience of having to write home for it and wait for its arrival, I decided to go to Sensei for a loan. I wanted, in any case, to pay him a farewell visit. Sensei was suffering from a cold. As he did not wish to come out into the sitting room, I was asked to see him in his study. Soft sunlight, such as we had rarely seen that winter, filled the study. Into this sunny room, Sensei had brought a large brazier. A metal basin, filled with water, had been placed on it so that the steam rising from it might ease Sensei's breathing. "I would rather be truly ill than suffer from a trifling cold like this," Sensei said, and smiled unhappily at me. Remembering that Sensei had never in his life been seriously ill, I was amused. "I can bear a common cold," I said, "but I certainly don't want anything more serious than that. I am sure you will feel the same way about it as I do, Sensei, when you yourself have been really ill." "I suppose so. As a matter of fact, my feeling is that if I must be ill, then I should like to be mortally ill." I did not pay much attention to Sensei's words. I brought out my mother's letter, and I asked him for a loan. "Certainly," he said. "if that is all you want, I am sure we can give it to you right away." Sensei called his wife and asked her to bring the money. She returned and, politely placing the money on a sheet of white paper, said, "You must be worried." "How often has he fainted?" Sensei asked. "My mother didn't say. But is it usual in such cases to faint often?" I was then told that Sensei's mother-in-law had died from a similar kidney ailment. "At any rate," I said, "my father cannot be very well." "I think not," Sensei said. "I would take his place if I could.... Does he suffer from nausea?" "I don't know. Probably not. At least, there is no mention of it in the letter." "He is all right," said Sensei's wife, "so long as there is no nausea." I left Tokyo by train that night.
* My father was not as ill as I had expected. When I returned, I found him sitting up in bed. "I've been in bed like this," he said, "to keep the others from worrying. I'm really well enough to get up." The next day, he left his bed, much against my mother's wishes. "Because you are here, your father has convinced himself that he is better," my mother said. But it did not seem to me that he was putting up a brave front for my sake. My elder brother worked in distant Kyushu, and therefore could not visit my parents, unless he felt that there was a pressing need for him to do so. My elder sister was married, and lived in another province. She also could not easily come home. I, being a student, was therefore the only one of the three children that my parents could call home freely. My father was nevertheless very pleased that I should have returned so soon after receiving my mother's letter, without waiting for the end of term. "I am sorry that your studies had to be interrupted," said my father. "There has been altogether too much fuss about my slight illness. Your mother writes too many letters." He seemed to have recovered his normal health. "You will be ill again," I said, "unless you take better care of yourself." He brushed aside my admonition and said cheerfully: "Don't you worry. I shall be all right so long as I look after myself as I always have done." Indeed, my father seemed well enough. He wandered about the house with no sign of strain whatsoever. He looked very pale, it is true, but since this was not a new symptom, we paid little attention to it. I wrote to Sensei, thanking him for the loan. I said that I would be returning to Tokyo in January and that, if he did not mind, I would wait till then to repay him. I told him that my father was better than I had expected, that there seemed little cause for immediate anxiety, and that he had suffered neither fainting fits nor nausea. I concluded the letter with a polite inquiry about his cold, which I was inclined to regard as a matter of little concern. I wrote the letter with no expectation of receiving a reply from Sensei. After I had posted it, I told my parents about him. And as I did so, I found myself thinking of Sensei in his study. "When you go back to Tokyo, why don't you take him some dried mushrooms?" "Thank you. But I wonder if Sensei eats such things as dried mushrooms?" "They may not be a delicacy, but surely, no one dislikes them." Somehow, I could not bring myself to associate dried mushrooms with Sensei. I was rather surprised when a letter from Sensei arrived. I was even more surprised when I read it, for it seemed to have been written for no particular purpose. Sensei had kindly written, I decided, in reply to my letter. That he should have troubled to do so made me very happy. In case I have unwittingly given the impression that there was much correspondence between Sensei and myself, I should like to say here that in all the time I knew Sensei, I received from him only two pieces of correspondence that might strictly be called "letters." One of them was the simple letter that I have just mentioned, and the other was a very long letter which he wrote me shortly before his death. My father, not being allowed to be very active, hardly ever left the house after he got up. Once, on a rather sunny day, he stepped out into the garden. I was worried, and kept close to his side. And when I tried to persuade him to lean on my shoulder, he laughed, and would not listen to me.
* To help my father forget his boredom, I often played chess with him. We were both by nature very lazy. We would sit on the floor with a footwarmer between us, and a large quilt covering the footwarmer and our bodies from the waist down. We would then place the chessboard between us on the frame of the footwarmer. After every move, we would put our hands back under the quilt, determined not to sacrifice comfort for the sake of the game. Sometimes, we would lose a pawn or two and not discover the loss until we were ready to start another game. It amused us all when once my mother found the lost pieces among the cinders in the footwarmer, and had to retrieve them with a pair of tongs. "One good thing about chess is that we can play it in this comfortable position," my father once said. "It's an ideal game for lazy people like us. The trouble with go [note3] is that the board is too high--and it has legs too--and we couldn't very well put it between us on the foot warmer and play on it... How about another game of chess?" Whether he won or lost, my father always wanted to play another game. It seemed that he would never tire of playing chess. At first, I was willing enough to play with him. It was a novel experience for me to while away the time thus, as if I were an old man in retirement. But as the days went by, I began to weary of this inactive life. I was too full of youthful vigor to be contented with the role of playmate for my father. At times, in the middle of a game, I would find myself yawning heavily. I thought of Tokyo. And it seemed that with each heartbeat, the yearning within me for action increased. In a strange way, I felt as if Sensei was by my side, encouraging me to get up and go. I compared my father with Sensei. Both were self-effacing men. Indeed, they were both so self-effacing that as far as the rest of the world was concerned, they might as well have been dead. They were, from the point of view of the public, complete nonentities. But while my chess-loving father failed even to entertain me, Sensei, whose acquaintance I had never sought for amusement's sake, gave me far greater intellectual satisfaction as a companion. Perhaps I should not have used the word "intellectual," for it has a cold and impersonal sound. I should perhaps have said "spiritual" instead. Indeed, it would not have seemed to me then an exaggeration to say that Sensei's strength had entered my body, and that his very life was flowing in my veins. And when I discovered that such were my true feelings towards these two men, I was shocked. For was I not of my father's flesh? At about the time that I began to feel restless at home, my father and mother also began to tire of me. The novelty of having me was wearing off. This kind of situation is probably experienced by most people who return home after a long absence. For the first week or so there is a great deal of fuss, but, when the initial excitement is over, one begins to lose one's popularity. My stay at home had passed the initial stage. Moreover, each time I returned, I brought back with me a little more of Tokyo. This, my father and mother neither liked nor understood. As someone in days gone by might have put it, it was like introducing the smell of a Christian into the home of a Confucianist. I tried, of course, to hide whatever changes Tokyo might have wrought in me. But Tokyo had become a part of me, and my parents could not but notice that I had changed. I ceased to enjoy being at home. I wanted to hurry back to Tokyo. Fortunately, my father's condition did not seem to grow worse. To reassure ourselves, we had an eminent doctor, who lived some distance from us, come and examine my father carefully. The doctor was as well satisfied as we were. I decided to leave a few days before the end of the winter vacation. Human nature being the perverse thing that it is, my parents opposed my decision. "Leaving so soon? But you haven't been home very long!" said my mother. "Surely, you can stay four or five days longer!" said my mother. But I did not change my mind.
* When I returned to Tokyo, I discovered that all the New Year decorations had already been taken down. I detected little of the New Year spirit as I walked about the cold, windy streets. Soon after my arrival, I visited Sensei to return the money I had borrowed. I also took with me the dried mushrooms. I thought it might seem odd to produce the mushrooms without some explanation, so, as I put them down in front of Sensei's wife, I carefully explained that my mother had wished me to present them to her and Sensei. The mushrooms had been put in a new cake-box. Sensei's wife thanked me politely, and picked up the box as she rose to go to the next room. She was probably surprised by its lightness, for she said to me: "What kind of cake is this?" The more familiar I became with Sensei's wife, the more often she seemed to show the innocent and childish side to her character. They were both kind enough to ask after my father. "It would seem," Sensei said, "that your father is well enough at the moment. But he must be careful and not forget that he is a sick man." Sensei seemed to know all sorts of things about kidney diseases that I did not know. "The trouble with your father's disease," Sensei continued, "is that the person who has it is often not aware of it. An officer I used to know died of it quite suddenly in his sleep. His wife, who was sleeping next to him, had no time to do anything for him. He woke her up once during the night, saying that he was not feeling well. The next morning, he was dead. The unfortunate thing was that his wife had been under the impression that he had gone back to sleep." I, who had been inclined to be optimistic until then, suddenly became anxious. "Do you think the same thing will happen to my father? One can't say that it won't happen, can one?" "What does the doctor say?" "He says that my father will never be cured. But he says also that there is no need to worry for a while." "Well, if the doctor says so, then it's all right. The man I was telling you about was after all a careless sort of man. Besides, he was a soldier, and lived rather immoderately." I was somewhat comforted by Sensei's last remarks. Sensei watched me for a while, observing my relief, and then said: "But men are pretty helpless creatures, whether they are healthy or not. Who can say how they will die, or when?" "You, of all people, think this?" "Of course. I may be healthy, but that does not prevent me from thinking about death." Sensei smiled faintly. "Surely, there are many men who die suddenly, yet quietly, from natural causes. And then there are those whose sudden, shocking deaths are brought about by unnatural violence." "What do you mean by unnatural violence?" "I am not quite sure; but wouldn't you say that people who commit suicide are resorting to unnatural violence?" "Then I suppose you would say that people who are murdered die also through unnatural violence?" "I had never thought of that. But you are right, of course." Shortly afterwards, I left Sensei and went home. I did not worry very much about my father's illness that night, nor did I spend much time thinking back over what Sensei had said about death. I was more concerned with the problem of my graduation thesis, which I had tried to begin many times before but unsuccessfully. I should, I told myself, really get down to work on it very soon.
* I was due to graduate in June that year and, according to the rules, my thesis had to be finished by the end of April. I counted the number of days that were left to me, and I began to lose confidence. While the others, it seemed, had been busy for some time collecting their material and accumulating notes, I alone had done nothing except promise myself that I would start work on my thesis in the New Year. I did indeed begin in the early part of the year, but it was not long before I found myself in a state of mental paralysis. I had fondly imagined that, by merely thinking vaguely about a few large problems, I was building up a solid and almost complete framework for my thesis. I discovered my folly as soon as I began to work seriously. I was in despair. I began to narrow down my thesis topic. And in order to avoid the trouble of having to present in a systematic manner my own ideas, I decided to compile relevant material from various books, and then add a suitable conclusion. The topic that I had chosen was closely related to Sensei's field of specialization. When I asked Sensei whether he thought such a topic was suitable, he said that it would probably be all right. I was in a state of panic, and I soon rushed back to Sensei to ask what books I should read. He willingly gave me all the information he could, and then offered to lend me two or three books that were necessary for my work. But he steadfastly refused to give me any further guidance. "I have not been reading very much lately. I am not acquainted with up-to-date scholarship. You should ask the professors at the university." When Sensei said this, I remembered the remark his wife once made to me that though Sensei was once an avid reader, he had since lost his old interest in books. Forgetting my thesis for the moment, I said to Sensei: "Why is it, Sensei, that you are not as interested in books as you once were?" "There is no particular reason ... Well, perhaps it is because I have decided that no matter how many books I may read, I shall never be a very much better man than I am now. And ..." "And?" "This is not very important, but to tell you the truth, I used to consider it a disgrace to be found ignorant by other people. But now, I find that I am not ashamed of knowing less than others, and I am less inclined to force myself to read books. In short, I have grown old and decrepit." Sensei's manner was calm, as he said this. I was not much affected by what he said, perhaps because his tone held none of the bitterness of one who had turned his back on the rest of the world. I left the house thinking him neither decrepit nor particularly impressive. From then on, my thesis hung over me like a curse, and with bloodshot eyes, I worked like a madman. I rushed to friends who had graduated the year before for advice on all matters. One of them told me that only by catching a rickshaw to the university offices did he succeed in handing in his thesis before the deadline. Another told me that he handed in his thesis fifteen minutes late, and it would not have been accepted but for the intervention of his principal professor. Such stories made me uneasy, but at the same time they gave me confidence. Every day, I worked as hard and as long as I could. If I was not at my desk, I was in the gloomy library, hurriedly scanning the titles on the high shelves, as though I were some kind of curio-hunter. First, the plum trees bloomed, and then the cold wind veered towards the south. After a while, I heard that the cherry trees were beginning to flower. But I thought of nothing but my thesis. I did not visit Sensei once before the latter part of April, by which time I had finally completed my thesis.
* I was free at last, when the double cherry blossoms had all fallen and in their place misty green leaves had begun to grow. It was the beginning of summer. I enjoyed my freedom like a little bird that has flown out of its cage into the open air. I soon paid Sensei a visit. On my way to his house, I noticed the young buds on the twigs of the quince hedges bursting into leaf, and I saw too the shiny brown leaves of the pomegranate trees softly reflecting the sunlight. I relished these sights as though I were seeing them for the first time in my life. Seeing my happy face, Sensei said, "So you have finally finished your thesis. I'm glad." "Yes, thanks to you, I have finished it at last," I said. "I have nothing more to do now." I felt very happy and I did think then that, since I had done what was expected of me, there was indeed nothing left for me to do but relax and enjoy myself. I viewed my thesis with a great deal of confidence and satisfaction. I chattered endlessly to Sensei about what I had said in it. Sensei listened to me in his usual way, and except for an occasional "I see" or "Is that so?" he refused to make any comment. I felt not so much dissatisfied as deflated. However, I was so full of spirit that day that I wanted to shake Sensei out of his apathy. I tried to lure him out into the fresh green world outside. "Sensei, let us go for a walk. It's such a nice day." "Walk? Where?" I did not care where we went. I simply wanted to go outside with Sensei. An hour later, we had left the center of the city and were walking in a quiet neighborhood that seemed almost rural. I picked a young, tender leaf from a hawthorne hedge and began to whistle on it. I was a rather accomplished leaf-whistler, having once been taught the trick by a friend from Kagoshima. I proudly persevered with my whistling for a while, but Sensei kept on walking without paying the slightest attention to me. After a while, we came to a little path which seemed to lead up to a house on a small hill. The hill was covered with a mass of green foliage. At the foot of the path was a gate, and on one of the columns was a sign telling us that we were at the entrance to a tree nursery. We knew then that the path did not lead to a private estate. Looking up at the gate, Sensei said, "Shall we go in?" I answered quickly, "Yes. They sell trees here, don't they?" We followed the winding path through the grove until we reached the house, which was on our left. The sliding doors had been left open, and we could see right into the house. There seemed to be no one about. In a large bowl in front of the house we could see some goldfish. "It certainly is quiet around here," said Sensei. "I wonder if we should have come in without permission?" "I am sure it's all right." We walked on, and still we came across no one. All about us azaleas flamed in all their splendor. Sensei pointed to an azalea which grew taller than the others and was reddish-yellow in color. "That is what we call 'Kirishima,' [note4] I think," he said. There were also peonies covering all area of about ten tsubo. [note5] It was too early in the summer for them to be in bloom. At the edge of this field of peonies was an old bench. Sensei stretched himself out on it. I sat down on the end and began to smoke. Sensei gazed at the sky, which was so blue that it seemed transparent. I was fascinated by the young leaves that surrounded me. When I looked at them carefully, I found that no two trees had leaves of exactly the same color. The leaves of each maple tree, for instance, had their own distinctive coloring. Sensei's hat, which he had hung on top of a slender cedar sapling, was blown off by the breeze.
* I picked up the hat immediately. Flicking off the bits of red soil from it, I said: "Sensei, your hat fell down." "Thank you." Sensei half rose to take his hat. Then remaining in that position--neither sitting nor lying down--he asked me a strange question. "This may seem rather abrupt, but tell me, is your family very wealthy?" "Well, I don't suppose what we have could be described as a fortune." "About how much do you have? I don't mean to be rude." "I really don't know. We own some woods and a few fields, but I suspect that we have hardly any money at all." This was the first time that Sensei questioned me directly about my family's finances. And I had never asked Sensei about his source of income. Of course, I did wonder how Sensei managed to live in idleness. But I had thus far restrained myself from asking Sensei about his means of support, thinking that it would be crude to do so. Sensei's questions made me forget the trees that I had been peacefully contemplating, and I suddenly found myself asking: "And you, Sensei? What kind of wealth do you possess?" "Do I look like a rich man to you?" Sensei was never expensively dressed. He had only one maid, and his house was by no means a large one. But even I, who was not of the family, could see clearly that he lived comfortably. One could hardly say that he lived in luxury, it is true, but on the other hand there was obviously no necessity for him to stint himself. "You are rich, aren't you?" I said. "I have some money, of course. But I am by no means rich. If if I were, I would build myself a larger house for one thing." Sensei was by this time sitting up on the bench and, as he finished talking, he began to trace a circle on the ground with his bamboo cane. When he had completed the circle, he drove his cane straight into the ground. "I was a rich man, once." Sensei seemed to be talking as much to himself as to me. I was at a loss as to what I should say. I kept quiet. "I was once a rich man, you know," he said again. This time, he looked at me and smiled. Still, I remained silent. I felt awkward and I could not think of anything to say. Sensei then changed the subject. "How is your father these days?" I had received no news of my father's illness since January. My father had continued to write me a short letter every month when he sent me my money order, but he had said very little about his illness. Also, his handwriting had remained firm, and showed none of the hesitancy which one might have expected. "He never tells me how he is. But I think he is quite well now." "I hope you are right. But with his disease, you can never tell." "I don't suppose there is much hope for him, is there? I do believe however, that he will stay as well as he is for a while yet. At any rate, I have so far received no bad news." "Is that so?" I assumed then that Sensei's questions about my family's wealth and my father's illness expressed no more than a normal interest in my affairs and, not knowing much about Sensei's life history, I could not guess that they implied much more than appeared on the surface.
* "If there is any property in your family, then I do think you should see to it that your inheritance is properly settled now. I know that all this is none of my business. But don't you think that, while your father is alive, you should make sure that you will receive your proper share? When a man dies suddenly, his estate causes more trouble than anything else." "Yes, sir." I did not pay much attention to Sensei's words. It was my conviction that, in all my family, there was no one that bothered about such matters. I was a little shocked, too, to see Sensei being so intensely practical. I said nothing, however, as I did not wish to seem impertinent. "If I have annoyed you by seeming to anticipate your father's death, please forgive me. But we all have to die some time, you know. Even the healthy ones---how do we know when they will die?" Sensei's tone seemed unusually bitter. "I don't mind at all," I said, almost in apology. "How many brothers and sisters did you say you had?" asked Sensei. He went on to ask me about my other relatives, such as my uncles and aunts. "Are they all good people?" "Well, they aren't exactly bad. They are, after all, country people mostly." "Why shouldn't country people be bad?" I began to feel very uncomfortable. Sensei gave me no time to answer his last question. "As a matter of fact, country people tend to be worse than city people. You said just now that there was no one amongst your relatives that you would consider particularly bad. You seem to be under the impression that there is a special breed of bad humans. There is no such thing as a stereotype bad man in this world. Under normal conditions, everybody is more or less good, or, at least, ordinary. But tempt them, and they may suddenly change. That is what is so frightening about men. One must always be on one's guard." Sensei looked as if he wanted to continue. And I wanted to Say something at this point. But suddenly a dog began to bark behind us. Surprised, we turned around. Behind the bench, and next to the cedar saplings, dwarf bamboos grew thickly over a small patch of ground. The dog was looking at us over the bamboos, barking furiously. Then a boy of about ten appeared on the scene. He ran to the dog and scolded it. He then turned around towards Sensei and, without taking off his black schoolboy's cap, bowed. "Sir," he said, "was there no one in the house when you came by?" "No, there was no one." "My elder sister and my mother were in the kitchen, you know." "Is that so?" "Yes, sir. You should have called out 'Good-afternoon' and then come in." Sensei smiled faintly. He pulled out his purse and, finding a five-sen piece, gave it to the boy. "Go to your mother and say that we would like her permission to rest here for a while." With laughter in his intelligent eyes, he nodded. "At the moment, I am chief of the army scouts," he said, and then rushed down the hill through the azaleas. The dog, with his tail held up, rushed after him. A moment or two later, two or three children of about the same age as the chief of scouts ran past us and disappeared down the hill.
* Sensei would have made the purpose of his remarks clearer to me, had it not been for the sudden appearance of the dog and the boy. And I was left, for the moment, somewhat uncertain as to why Sensei should have spoken to me thus. Indeed, I did not share Sensei's interest in such matters as money, inheritance, and so on, partly because of my relatively easy circumstances, and partly because of my nature. Now, when I think of myself at that time, I see how unworldly I was. If I had known the meaning of material hardship then, I would have listened to Sensei more carefully. At any rate, money seemed to me a very distant problem. Among the things that Sensei said, what interested me most was his remark that no man was immune to temptation. I knew, more or less, what Sensei meant, of course. But I wanted Sensei to talk more about the matter. After the departure of the dog and the children, the large garden became quiet once more. We sat still for a moment or two, as though made immovable by the silence around us. The beautiful sky began slowly to lose its brightness. And before us, the delicate, green maple leaves, which looked like drops of water just about to fall from the branches, seemed to grow darker in color. From the road below, the sound of cart wheels reached our ears. I imagined that a man from the village had loaded his cart with plants or vegetables and was on his way to some fair to sell them. Sensei stood up, as though the sound had aroused him from his meditation. "Let us go home," he said. "The days are becoming longer, but dusk seems to fall quickly when we are sitting about lazily like this." The back of Sensei's coat was dirty, and I brushed it clean with my hand. "Thank you. You don't see any resin marks, do you?" "No. It's perfectly clean now." "I had this coat made only recently. If I get it too dirty, my wife will scold me. Thank you." On our way down the gently sloping path, we passed the house once more. This time, we saw the lady of the house on the front porch, winding thread onto a spool with the help of a young girl of about fifteen or sixteen. Stopping by the large goldfish bowl, we said: "Thank you for your hospitality." "Not at all," said the woman, and then thanked us for the coin that her boy had received. After we had walked a few hundred yards beyond the gate, I suddenly said to Sensei: "What did you mean, Sensei, when you remarked that if tempted, any man may suddenly become evil?" "What did I mean? There was no profound meaning in my remark. I was not theorizing, you understand. I was merely stating an obvious fact." "I do not wish to deny that it is a fact. What I want to know is exactly what kind of temptation you were referring to." Sensei began to laugh, as if he no longer wished to discuss the matter seriously. "Money, of course. Give a gentleman money, and he will soon turn into a rogue." Sensei's trite answer disappointed me. Sensei refused to be serious, and my pride was hurt. With a nonchalant air, I began to walk more quickly, leaving Sensei behind. "Hey!" he called to me. "You see?" he said. "What, sir?" "One simple remark, and your whole attitude towards me, you see, has changed." I had turned around to wait for Sensei and, as he spoke, he looked straight into my eyes.
* At that moment I hated Sensei. And after we had resumed our walk, side by side, I refrained from asking the questions I wanted to ask. I could not tell whether or not Sensei knew how I felt; at any rate, he seemed not to pay much attention to my behavior. He was his usual relaxed self as he walked silently by my side. I became spiteful. I wanted to say something that would humiliate him. "Sensei," I said. "Yes, what is it?" "You became a little excited, didn't you, Sensei, when we were resting in the tree nursery? You are very rarely excited, and I feel that today, I was permitted to observe a rather unusual occurrence." Sensei did not reply immediately. I thought that perhaps my remarks had had their effect on him, but at the same time I could not help being slightly disappointed. I decided to say no more. Then suddenly, Sensei left my side and, walking up to a neatly trimmed hedge, began to urinate. I stood by foolishly and waited for him. "Pardon me," he said, as we set off again. I gave up all thought of trying to humiliate him. Gradually, the road became busier. The open fields that had been visible to us before were now almost completely hidden by rows of houses. Even then, there were sights that reminded us of the quiet countryside, such as peas growing around bamboo stakes in private gardens, and hens being kept in enclosures of wire netting. We passed an endless procession of cart horses, returning from the city. I, who was inclined to become absorbed in all such details of the scene around me, soon ceased to worry about what Sensei had said. Indeed, I had totally forgotten my last words to him, when he suddenly said to me: "Did I seem so excited to you back there in the nursery?" "Not very; perhaps a little..." "I don't mind at all your saying that I was very excited. You see, I really do become excited when I start speaking of inheritances, and so on. It may not seem so to you, but I have a very vindictive nature. The indignities and injuries I suffered ten years ago--even twenty years ago--I have not yet forgotten." There was even less restraint in Sensei's words than there had been previously that day. What shocked me was not the tone of his voice so much as what he had actu |
A novel function for HEG1 in promoting metastasis in hepatocellular carcinoma.
Hepatocellular carcinoma (HCC) remains one of the leading causes of cancer-related deaths around the globe. For patients receiving liver tumour resection, the risk of reoccurrence and metastasis is high. Cancer metastasis can occur as a consequence of a physical change known as epithelial to mesenchymal transition (EMT). In this instance, cancer cells acquire migratory and invasive characteristics that allow the cells to move into adjacent tissue or enter the bloodstream to reach a secondary site, where they begin to form a new tumour. Targetting proteins involved in the signalling pathways that induce the mesenchymal phenotype has been an ongoing field of research. A recently published study has described a novel role for the heart development protein with EGF-like domains (HEG1) in promoting EMT. This research provides new insights into the biological function of this protein in HCC. Furthermore, the research indicates a new target for future prognostic and therapeutic research in HCC. |
TCE Appoints Four Experts in Building Health and Equity for All to Board
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The California Endowment Appoints Four New Experts in Building Health and Equity for All to Board of Directors
Los Angeles CA (March 7, 2019) – The state’s largest health foundation today announced the appointment of four new board members who are experts in their respective fields of small business finance, economic development, health care delivery, medical research and education, policy and movement building, and Native American health.
“The Endowment is thrilled to have such an accomplished group of experts reflective of California’s diversity and dedicated to building healthy communities joining its Board of Directors,” said Zac Guevara, board chair of The California Endowment.
Kurt Chilcott joins the board as a recognized leader in economic development and small business finance, with his service effective May 15, 2019. For more than 35 years, Chilcott has led innovative successful organizations and programs in the public and non-profit sectors, and for more than 20 years has served as the Chief Executive Officer of the San Diego-headquartered CDC Small Business Finance. The non-profit organization has experienced tremendous growth, establishing offices throughout California, Arizona and Nevada, and maintaining its rank as the top-volume CDC in the nation under Chilcott’s leadership.
Katherine A. Flores, MD, joins the board as a national leader in primary health care and the development of a diverse health workforce, with her service effective May 20, 2020. Dr. Flores spent her early years as a farm worker until the age of 16, and currently serves as a family physician in private practice in an all-woman, bilingual medical group in Fresno, CA. She will begin her service on the board effective May 20, 2020. Dr. Flores is also an Associate Clinical Professor in Family Medicine at the UCSF School of Medicine and the Director of the UCSF Fresno Latino Center for Medical Education and Research (LaCMER), an organization that works with disadvantaged students to help prepare them to become healthcare professionals who will ultimately return to the Central Valley to provide culturally competent healthcare to the medically underserved.
Britta Guerrero joins the board as Chief Executive Officer of the Sacramento Native American Health Center, Inc., a AAAHC accredited Patient Centered Medical Home (PCMH) and non-profit urban health center, with her service effective May 15, 2019. SNAHC has emerged as a leader in the provision of quality health care delivered through a culturally competent, family-centered and wrap-around delivery system. To further demonstrate their commitment health leadership and to the patient centered philosophy, SNAHC was the first organization in the state of California to receive recognition as a AAAHC-Patient Centered Health Home.
Vien Truong, Esq., President of the Dream Corps, joins the board, effective May 15, 2019. The Dream Corps brings people together to solve America’s toughest problems by supporting initiatives that close prison doors and open doors of opportunity for all. The Dream Corps includes Green For All, which works to build an inclusive green economy strong enough to lift people out of poverty, #Cut50, which works to reduce crime and incarceration in all 50 states, and #YesWeCode, which works to help 100,000 young women and men of diverse backgrounds find success in the tech sector. Truong is a policy expert and movement builder who has been a key architect in building an equitable and sustainable economy in underserved communities.
The California Endowment, a private, statewide health foundation, was established in 1996 to expand access to affordable, quality health care for underserved individuals and communities, and to promote fundamental improvements in the health status of all Californians. The Endowment challenges the conventional wisdom that medical settings and individual choices are solely responsible for people’s health. The Endowment believes that health happens in neighborhoods, schools, and with prevention. For more information, visit The Endowment’s website at www.calendow.org. |
Four CRPF jawans in Dibrugarh were suspended on Thursday when a jawan's rifle accidentally went off, leading to commotion in the Chowkidingee area of the district. The incident occurred during an altercation between two jawans of the 52nd battalion.
Fourteen militants belonging to the Ulfa, the Karbi Longri North Cachar Hills Liberation Front, the Dima Halam Daoga and the Kuki Revolutionary Army surrendered with weapons before the army in Tezpur on Thursday. The weapons included US M-16 rifles, AK-47 rifles, 7.62 mm rifles, revolvers, pistols and radio sets.
According to a fresh round of exploration by the Geological Survey of India, there are 909 million tonnes of coal reserve in the northeastern states of Mehgalaya, Assam, Arunachal Pradesh and Nagaland.
The All Arunachal Pradesh Workers' Union has suspended its agitation following assurance from the state government that it will consider the demands of casual labourers regarding raise of the daily minimum wage. |
Bread-making is a very old art. Over the centuries, a great number of techniques has been developed to impart a specific flavor and taste to the typical product of fermentation of flour mixed with water and certain yeast and bacteria. It has long been known, for example, to utilize the nutritional value and flavor qualities of milk in bread making processes.
Improving and enhancing the flavor of bakery products is still a great concern for cereal scientists. Bread processes have significantly shortened and fermentation times as well as mixing times are kept at minimum. Therefore, microorganisms involved in panary fermentation do not have time to produce much flavoring materials in dough. In recent years, some bread-making processes have undergone numerous changes to satisfy the consumer who is now more open to diversified products such as bagels, muffins and sourdough bread. The latter is a bakery product with a very unique flavor. The product is particularly popular in the San Francisco area. A traditional process of making sourdough bread consists of providing wheat flour (rye may be used) and varying proportions of water, and allowing the mixture to ferment at room temperature until optimum flavor and acidity develops. The "starter" mixture is reworked regularly by adding flour and water to ensure that it contains sufficient amounts of fermentable compounds. Fermentation can therefore take several days and the resulting leavening agent is incorporated into the dough in quantities varying from 15 to 80% on the basis of flour. This multistage process is still widely used today despite its deficiencies, i.e., duration, inconsistency of product quality and difficult process control.
A number of approaches have been proposed to modify the sourdough process, or, in general, to develop bakery products with different taste, or flavorants for the bread making process. Adding flavoring compounds (commercial bases) to the dough is one strategy employed to reduce fermentation time (Ziemke and Glabe, U.S. Pat. No. 4,034,125). The latter proposal serves to reduce the production time and assure better control over the finished product, the trade-off being the taste of bread produced in this fashion. Kline (U.S. Pat. No. 4,140,800) proposes to use a freeze-dried culture of lactobacilli (L. sanfrancisco) to better control sourdough production and to reduce sourdough preparation time to approximately 18 to 10 hours. Others have tried to imitate the sourdough process by adding acid whey power and vinegar to the dough (Shenkenberg, et al., 1972, Food Prod. Dev. 6(1), 29-30, 32). Another means of enhancing the flavor of bread is to use 4-6% (flour basis) non-fat milk solids (NFMS) during bread-making. To cut costs, NFMS may be replaced, at least in part, with whey powder which is less expensive and also improves to some extent the color, aroma and taste of the finished product.
Jaeggi, et al., U.S. Pat. No. 4,001,437, propose to manufacture aroma substances, or flavorants, by heating a liquid product, obtained from carbohydrate-containing milk products by enzymatic proteolysis and/or by lactic acid fermentation. The final product has a bread-crust flavor reminiscent of roasted cheese.
Hill, U.S. Pat. No. 3,846,561, incorporates yogurt in the dough from which baked products are prepared.
Jaeggi and Hill processes involve bacteria of the genera Lactobacillus or Streptococcus. For yoghurt (Hill process), Lactobacillus delbrueckii subsp. bulgaricus and Streptococcus thermophilus are the specific bacteria to be used. |
Detection of active sorbitol-6-phosphate phosphatase in the haloacid dehalogenase-like hydrolase superfamily.
Sorbitol-6-phosphatase (EC 3.1.3.50) catalyzes sorbitol production from sorbitol-6-phosphate in certain organisms, but has not been identified unequivocally. We screened the activity of the haloacid dehalogenase-like hydrolases (HAD) superfamily and identified four HAD proteins from Escherichia coli as sorbitol-6-phosphatase. Of these proteins, HAD2 (YfbT) exhibited catalytic activity (kcat/Km) that was better than that of the previously reported "preferred" substrate. HAD1 (YniC) and HAD2 exhibited higher sorbitol-6-phosphatase activity than that of HAD12 (YbiV) and HAD13 (YidA). Therefore, genes of HAD may be useful for metabolic engineering of effective sorbitol production. |
Suicide in Ireland
Suicide in Ireland has the 17th highest rate in Europe and the 4th highest for the males aged 15–24 years old which was a main contributing factor to the improvement of suicides in Ireland (World Health Organisation, 2012).
On average, adjusted for age, The Central Statistics Office provided the overall suicide rate has a decreasing trend, which is from 13.5 per 100,000 population in 2001 to 8.5 in 2016 (The National Suicide Research Foundation, 2016).
The suicide rate was significantly higher in males than females (OECD, 2018). Also, Irish young men and women suicide rate also had recorded the highest rate in Europe (Richardson et al., 2013; European Child Safety Alliance, 2014).
Hanging is the most common suicide method that people in Ireland used (Departments of Public Health, 2001). The second common method is drowning (Departments of Public Health, 2001). Then, shooting, and overdose respectively (Departments of Public Health, 2001).
WHO stated that strong partnership such as media, school, and the government should be working together and giving support to prevent suicide (WHO, 2014).
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Statistics
The National Suicide Research Foundation (NSRF) has kept a record on the Irish suicide rate.
Overall, Ireland has the trend of decreasing suicide rate in recent years. From 2011, the population has decreased from 12.1 per 100,000 population to 8.5 per 100,000 population in 2016 (NSRF, 2016). Youth suicide as a main contributing factor to the Irish suicide rate increased. A report (Richardson et al., 2013) stated that Irish young males had the highest number of suicides in Europe from the EU context, while another report showed Irish young females also experienced the highest suicide rate in Europe in 2018 (European Child Safety Alliance, 2014).
The National Suicide Research Foundation (2016) indicated the highest rate of suicide in Ireland for male was 30 per 100,000 population, aged 20–24, while that of female was approximately 7 per 100,000 population aged 50–54 between 2007 and 2015. Male suicide rate was significantly higher than female, especially in 2011, where it was around 5 times higher in male than female (NSRF, 2016). A report in 2018 indicated that in 400 suicides, 8 of 10 are men (Orla, 2018).
Common Methods
A national study in Ireland in 2001, showed the most common method that people used to suicide in Ireland is hanging (Departments of Public Health, 2001; Biddle et al., 2010).
Other suicide methods commonly used in Ireland included drowning, shooting, and overdose respectively (Departments of Public Health, 2001).
Gender
For gender, males were more likely to kill themselves in a more violent way such as hanging or shooting, while females were more apparent to drown, overdose or poison themselves in order to suicide (Departments of Public Health, 2001).
Age
For ages, younger people aged 15–24 were more likely to use hanging to suicide, while adults aged 25–34 years old were found more common in drug overdose and self-poisoning (Arensman et al., 2016). Therefore, the population of suiciding by hanging would reduce when people got older, and yet increased in firearms suicide (Arensman et al., 2016).
Risk Factors
Unemployment
Unemployment was strongly associated with Ireland suicide rate. According to the studies, the unemployment rate in Ireland had a decreasing trend from January 2012 of 16% to January 2016 which is 9% (Eurostat, 2019). At this period, the Ireland suicide rate was also decreasing from 2012 (11.8 per 100,000 population) to 2016 (8.5 per 100,000 population) (NSRF, 2016). The result showed a higher unemployment rate contributed to a higher suicide rate in Ireland. People who were unemployed usually experienced health problems that made them unable to work, thereby increased their stress of life and financial difficulties, leading to deceleration of self-esteem (Preti & Miotto, 1999). Moreover, high levels of stress and financial difficulties might pose negative impacts on their mental health, which caused attempt to commit suicide and self-harm (MFHA, 2016). However, limitations do exist. It was difficult to understand whether unemployment contributed to the promotion of committing suicide (Departments of Public Health, 2001). Between 2002-2008, the unemployment rate is significantly lower than in other years, but the suicide rate was not influenced by the unemployment rate (Eurostat, 2019; NSRF, 2016). Therefore, other risk factors should also be considered in promoting suicide intentions in Ireland.
Mental illness
Mental illness is another main contributing factor that increased the risk of suicide. A report showed that Ireland was one of the countries of highest rates of mental illness in Europe, and the problem of mental illness cost over €8.2 billion a year in Ireland (Cullen, 2018). 18.5% of the population in Ireland reported that they were suffering from mental illness in 2016, and the rate of depression in both males and females were above the European average (Cullen, 2018). 28% of Irish children aged between 11 and 15 years had reported that they had experienced bullying in school, in which 14% were cyberbullying. This might contribute to mental illness and promote suicide intentions (Cullen, 2018). Moreover, females were more likely to experience mental illness and attend mental health services than males (Gavigan & McKeon, 2007). This could be explained by slower recognition of depression and lower intention to seek help for males (Gavigan & McKeon, 2007). As a result, this might be another significant factor why males have contributed to higher suicide rate than females.
In addition, a large number of people who experienced mental illness would take drug or medicine such as antidepressant to reduce the pressure that might also lead to increase the risk of suicide (Departments of Public Health, 2001).
Alcohol Consumption
Alcohol consumption also is significantly linked with the morality of suicide. The studies showed more than half of the people who committed suicide were also related to alcohol, also more than one-third of those who drank alcohol had hurt themselves (GRIFFIN, 2014). The World Health Organisation stated that people who experienced alcohol abuse were 8 times more likely to do things unconsciously than people who didn't (WHO, 2004). Also, males seemed to drink more than female especially the younger ones (Departments of Public Health, 2001). Therefore, leading the young males aged 15–24 turned up the greatest suicide rate compared to the rest of the age groups (NSRF, 2016).
Evidence showed that there was a high amount of alcohol consumption by young people usually in the weekend and public holiday as they might drink when hanging with friends or having a party (Arensman et al., 2016). Young people who drank at an earlier age might also make them drink regularly and more in the future (Departments of Public Health, 2001).
Heavy drinking or alcohol abuse had a negative influence on people's mental health, especially for the young people, which increased their feeling of depression and anxiety leading to increase self-harm and suicide (Departments of Public Health, 2001).
Suicide prevention
Suicide thought is often a temporal thought of mind which is possible to help and provide emotional support to those people who had strong depression and anxiety, in order to reduce the risk of suicide (Health Service Executive, 2011). A focused campaign indicated that the suicide rates among 25–34 years old men decreased (Health Service Executive, 2011).
WHO stated that strong partnership works together as a core element to prevent suicide (WHO, 2014). Media, school, and the government are the three major sectors which play a significant role in suicide prevention and giving support.
Media
The media, including the news, television, film and the internet, play a significant role in suicide prevention, especially for the younger people (Biddle et al., 2012). A study shows that teenagers are more easily affected by social media (Lin et al., 2010). The media might spread out the information to the public about the impact and the lethality rate of suicide, as well the characteristics of the suicide method especially hanging (Arensman et al., 2016). Media also takes part in promoting suicide prevention awareness, reporting suicide and providing information for assistance if someone who is thinking about committing suicide (Arensman et al., 2016).
Hanging is the most common suicide method that the Irish used, especially for young people (Departments of Public Health, 2001). The suicide method that people choose is significantly related to how they perceived the information of suicide cases (Cantor & Baume, 1998). Thus, media is an important sector that linked to reducing people's cognitive availability of hanging. For example, the media should report fewer details of the suicide cases that involve hanging, such as pictures and videos (Arensman et al., 2016). The media should also follow the media guideline that avoids using profanity and sensationalism (Samaritans, 2013).
School
The studies showed that the suicide rate was higher in young people. Hence, the school should infuse positive mental health to their students for suicide prevention among this age group. There are different programs that can be supported by the school. For example, MindOut training is a program which was developed in 2004 by the Health Promotion Research Centre in NUI Galway and the HSE's Health Promotion and Improvement Department (HSE, 2018). This program is based on the feedback from the teacher and the young people, and elaborated by the researchers. It has been proven to improve young people's overall mental health and wellbeing, strengthen their emotional competence, and the ability to cope with their own personal difficulties (HSE, 2018). Teachers and parents are the most important stakeholders for the school to promote these approaches (HSE, 2018).
In addition, the school should educate their students on how drinking alcohol and taking drug might impact their mental health and increase the feeling of depression (Arensman et al., 2016). Moreover, they should as well explain how drugs and alcohol contribute to suicide intentions (Arensman et al., 2016).
Government
The Government of Ireland proposed to decrease the mortality rate of suicide and improve national overall mental health and wellbeing by several approaches. These include providing society better suicide awareness, giving support to the communities, improving safety, access and quality of the service, better research and use target approaches to identify the specified priority group of suicide, etc. (HSE, 2017). The government also aimed to reduce the overall suicide rate and self-harm rate of the whole population by the project "Connecting of life" (Department of Health, 2015).
Connecting for life, which is the national office's project, aimed to reduce the suicide rate in 2015-2020 (Department of Health, 2015). This project provides free and evidence-based suicide and self-harm training which aimed to increase public awareness and governmental support for suicide prevention. In 2017, over 12000 Irish people have completed programs such as Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training (ASIST) (Department of Health, 2015). Currently, all 17 local action plans are placed for supporting suicide prevention (Department of Health, 2015). The National Office had funded more than €11.9 million in 2017, and approximately 60% of the fund was used in agencies and front-line services for meeting the target of Connecting for life and researching (Department of Health, 2015).
References
Arensman, Ella & Bennardi, Marco & Larkin, Celine & Wall, Amanda & Mcauliffe, Carmel & McCarthy, Jacklyn & Williamson, Eileen & J. Perry, Ivan. (2016). Suicide among Young People and Adults in Ireland: Method Characteristics, Toxicological Analysis, and Substance Abuse Histories Compared. PLOS ONE. 11. e0166881. 10.1371/journal.pone.0166881.
Biddle, L., Gunnell, D., Owen-Smith, A., Potokar, J., Longson, D., Hawton, K., ... Donovan, J. (2012). Information sources used by the suicidal to inform choice of method. Journal of Affective Disorders, 136(3), 702–709.
Burke, S., & McKeon, P. (2007). Suicide and the reluctance of young men to use mental health services. Irish Journal of Psychological Medicine, 24(2), 67-70. doi:10.1017/S0790966700010260
Central Statistics Office. (2013). Vital Statistics Fourth Quarter and Yearly Summary
Child Safety Europe. (2014). What are European countries doing to prevent intentional injury to children?
Cullen, P. (2018). Ireland has one of the highest rates of mental health illness in Europe, report finds. THE IRISH TIMES
Department of Health. (2015). Connecting for life : Ireland's national strategy to reduce suicide 2015-2020. Ireland, Dublin : Department of Health
Departments of Public Health. (2001). Suicide in Ireland. Departments of Public Health.
eurostat. (2019). Unemployment by sex and age - monthly average.
GRIFFIN, E., ARENSMAN, E., PAUL CORCORAN, P., CHRISTINA B DILLON, C., WILLIAMSON, E., PERRY, I. (2014). NATIONAL SELF-HARM REGISTRY IRELAND ANNUAL REPORT 2014, The National Suicide Research Foundation.
Lin, Jin-Jia & Chang, Shu-Sen & Lu, Tsung-Hsueh. (2010). The leading methods of suicide in Taiwan, 2002-2008. BMC public health. 10. 480. 10.1186/1471-2458-10-480.
Mental Health First Aid (2016) HELPING SOMEONE WITH MENTAL HEALTH PROBLEMS AND FINANCIAL DIFFICULTIES: GUIDELINES FOR THE SUPPORT PERSON
OECD/European Union. (2018). “Promoting mental health in Europe: Why and how?”, in Health at a Glance: Europe 2018: State of Health in the EU Cycle, OECD Publishing, Paris/European Union, Brussels. doi: https://doi.org/10.1787/health_glance_eur-2018-4-en
Orla, R. (2018). Men account for eight in 10 suicides in Ireland. TheJournal.ie
Preti, A., & Miotto, P. (1999). Suicide and unemployment in Italy, 1982-1994. Journal of epidemiology and community health, 53(11), 694–701. doi:10.1136/jech.53.11.694
Richardson, N., Clarke, N., & Fowler, C. (2013). A report on the all-Ireland young men and suicide project. Carlow: Men's Health Forum in Ireland.
Samaritans. (2013) MEDIA GUIDELINES for Reporting Suicide. Samaritans.
The Health Service Executive. (2011). Suicide. The Health Service Executive.
The Health Service Executive. (2017). National Office for Suicide Prevention Annual Report 2017. The Health Service Executive.
The Health Service Executive. (2018). Launch of newly revised MindOut Programmes for schools. The Health Service Executive.
The National Suicide Research Foundation. (2016). Suicide. The National Suicide Research Foundation.
World Health Organisation. (2012). Programmes and Projects, Mental Health, Suicide Prevention, Country Reports and Charts. World Health Organization.
World Health Organisation. (2004). Global Status Report on Alcohol. World Health Organization.
World Health Organization. (2014). Preventing suicide: a global imperative. World Health Organization.
Category:Suicide
Category:Ireland |
1952 W 22nd Place, ChicagoIL, 60608
LOCATION LOCATION LOCATION! Right in the Heart of Pilsen, these 2 brick buildings; single-family home and a 3-unit coach house, make up one very desirable property. Main building features 3 bedrooms, 1 bath, vast living room, separate dining room, kitchen, a second living room/den and partially finished basement. Coach house features a total of 3 living areas; 1st and 2nd floors each have 2 beds & 1 bath, while the 3rd floor has 1 large bedroom & 1 bath. Coach house has all separate utilities. Entire property will be vacated before closing. SOLD AS-IS. Huge income opportunity in Hot Market! MAKE YOUR APPOINTMENT BEFORE IT'S GONE!
Price
Price:$299,900
County:
Cook
Beds: 3
Baths: 1 Full/1 Half
Sq ft:4,645 (approx)
#: 09356466
Status: Active
Listing Information
Property Type: Single Family, 1 Story
Bedrooms:3
Bathrooms:1 Full/1 Half
Total Rooms:7
Square Feet:4,645 (approx)
Year Built:1894
Theatre
Stories:1
Construction:Brick Exterior, Stone
Town/Range/Sec:WEST CHICA//
Water:Public Water Service
Sewer:Public Sewer
Neighborhood
Room Information
Main Floor
Master Bedroom:
12X12
Bedroom:
10X12
Bedroom:
10X12
Dining Room:
12X14
Family Room:
12X16
Kitchen:
12X15
Living Room:
12X14
Bathrooms
Full Baths: 1
1/2 Baths: 1
Interior Features
Cooling:Window/Wall Unit
Heating:Gas Heat
Basement:Full, Walkout
Exterior / Lot Features
Exterior:Brick, Stone
Lot Dimensions:25' X 124'
Driving Directions
North on S Damen Ave, East on W 22nd Pl to property
Financial Considerations
Tax/Property ID:
17302000240000
Tax Amount:$8,209
Tax Year:
2015
Listing Price History
Chicago Real Estate
Chicago is located in Illinois.
Chicago, Illinois 60608 has a population of 2,702,471.
The median household income in Chicago, Illinois 60608 is
$47,408.
The median household income for the surrounding county is $54,648
compared to the national median of $53,046.
The median age of people living in Chicago 60608 is
33.1 years. |
#include <resolv.h>
int res_init()
{
return 0;
}
|
FileDeer
Ann Arbor City Council is seeking a solution for the city's whitetail overpopulation.
(File Photo | MLive.com)
The Ann Arbor City Council voted unanimously Monday night to direct the city administrator to evaluate the city's options for controlling the local deer population and to report back to council by the end of July.
Though there has been some talk of a contraceptive method of rendering deer infertile to stop what some fear is an overpopulation problem, it's more likely to involve hunting and killing deer, said Council Member Stephen Kunselman, D-3rd Ward.
"We have to face the fact that we are going to be culling the herd," he said. "And the best way to cull the herd is with bow and arrow, with hunters up in tree stands pointing down so that arrows don't go off far away in the distances and cause any fear."
Kunselman said a lot of hunters in Ann Arbor would volunteer for that effort, and the city doesn't need to spend too much time studying the issue.
"It's basically going to come down to a management plan that we hire hunters during the hunting season and be ready to take action this fall," he said.
Some other council members tended to agree, and they acknowledged it's likely to be a controversial and emotional issue for the community.
"It's going to be heated — it's going to be a difficult debate," said Council Member Chuck Warpehoski, D-5th Ward, who said the management plan ultimately approved is likely to be along the lines of what Kunselman described.
"Reintroducing wolves into Ann Arbor is probably not going to be an approved management plan," joked Council Member Chuck Warpehoski, D-5th Ward.
"For me, the motivating concern is the natural area degradation — that deer at this concentration are not sustainable and they're a threat to our native plants and other native fauna," Warpehoski said.
Council Member Jack Eaton, D-4th Ward, who noted he saw "a large buck with a huge rack" in his backyard, said it's not a difficult decision for him.
"I don't think letting deer breed to the point where they starve or suffer otherwise by disease is preferable to shooting them," he said.
The only data that council members had to share about the city's urban deer population, other than anecdotal perceptions that deer are growing in numbers, was an aerial deer survey of the Marshall Nature Area in northeast Ann Arbor in the winter of 2013 that indicated a deer density of 76 per square mile for that specific area.
That's far too many, said Council Member Jane Lumm, an independent from the 2nd Ward, who brought forward the resolution co-sponsored by Council Members Sabra Briere, Sumi Kailasapathy and Sally Hart Petersen. Lumm said they've heard from dozens of residents about the issue.
"The concerns and frustrations being expressed are primarily related to the damage the deer are causing to our natural environment — flowers, shrubs, trees, native species," Lumm said. "But there are also significant concerns about public safety, deer crashes and public health, ticks and Lyme disease."
Lumm said residents who want to keep their yards attractive are stymied both economically and physically because of damage caused by deer, and that is "compelling justification" for moving toward addressing the problem.
"I will point out several people have written to me suggesting that if there is culling that any resultant meat be dressed and given to those who are hungry," said Council Member Sabra Briere, D-1st Ward.
"This resolution is just the first step," she said. "It does not presuppose any outcome, but instead just recognizes a real growing problem and kicks off a process to address it."
It's expected the city will partner with the Washtenaw County Parks and Recreation Department, the University of Michigan, the Humane Society of Huron Valley and other interested parties to develop information and strategies needed for deer management, including conducting deer counts, researching damage caused by deer, and obtaining assistance from the Michigan Department of Natural Resources.
Tanya Hilgendorf, executive director of the Humane Society of Huron Valley, noted her agency handles sick and injured wildlife for Washtenaw County.
"As such, I am sensitive to the frustrations and risks that can come from living in an area overrun by any particular species," she said.
But she said money and effort that otherwise might be used for killing would be better directed toward non-lethal methods.
For urban deer, she said, there are many communities across the country now testing humane, non-lethal population control methods, namely chemical sterilization.
"As we have seen with the overpopulation of other species, we as humans create a problem and then tend to jump to extermination as a cheap and easy remedy," she said. "Such a remedy is not only unacceptable to animal lovers and an example of brutality for our children, it is also an exercise in futility."
Creating large holes in a population, Hilgendorf said, only creates a "vacuum effect," allowing the entrance of animals from other areas, spurring more rapid reproduction of the species under attack, and ultimately accomplishing nothing.
"Our experience and the research shows that stopping reproduction, while keeping the animals in their habitat, facilitates a slow but steady population decline," she said. "There is ample evidence showing that the most humane and balanced methods related to human/wildlife conflicts are also the most effective ones."
"I have not seen any deer in the 3rd Ward yet, but I'm delighted to nevertheless support the resolution," said Council Member Christopher Taylor, D-3rd Ward.
Kunselman said it's unlikely that the city is going to be able to use any kind of birth control for deer in Ann Arbor.
"The state of Michigan doesn't allow putting birth control in deer because you don't know if we're going to end up eating those deer, and the drugs that would be used for birth control in deer are not legal for human consumption," he said.
Briere, D-1st Ward, said she has been talking about the issue of deer in the city since she joined council in 2007.
"By the time I joined council, the one rare sighting of a deer in my yard had turned into a routine visit by two does with their accompanying fawns, which has now turned into a deer herd," she said. "This doesn't scare or upset me. I'm one of those tolerant folks who simply changed what I planted in my yard."
But if the city is going to do something to try to reduce the deer population, she said it's her hope that the city will be humane about it.
"I will point out several people have written to me suggesting that if there is culling that any resultant meat be dressed and given to those who are hungry," she said.
Briere said that likely would require having somebody inspect the meat and somebody properly dress the meat in order to ensure it's consumable, and that is a level of governmental bureaucracy the city is not yet ready to create.
According to MichiganTrafficCrashFacts.org, there have been 39 traffic crashes per year on average in Ann Arbor that have involved deer in recent years — 35 in 2005, 28 in 2006, 35 in 2007, 30 in 2008, 44 in 2009, 54 in 2010, 42 in 2011, and 45 in 2012.
The numbers of car-deer crashes that involve personal injuries are much smaller — two in 2005, one in 2006, zero in 2007, one in 2008, three in 2009, four in 2010, two in 2011, and two in 2012. None have been fatal.
Ryan Stanton covers Ann Arbor city hall for The Ann Arbor News. Reach him at ryanstanton@mlive.com or 734-623-2529 or follow him on Twitter. |
Neurotological findings after electrical injury at the workplace.
Neurotological findings secondary to electrical injuries have rarely been reported in the world literature. We attempt to characterize the neurotological findings following electrical injury and to determine the role head injury and loss of consciousness play in this population's clinical presentation. Retrospective cohort study. A database containing 3,438 patients with work-related injuries was scanned for individuals who sustained and survived electrical injuries at work. Detailed analysis of the frequencies of presenting features and test results was performed. A comparative analysis was made between the subsets of patients with and without loss of consciousness and/or head injury. A cohort of 42 patients was identified. All patients had multiple symptoms. Dizziness was a significant complaint in all workers with electrical injuries. Other common complaints included tinnitus and imbalance. Characterization of these symptoms is provided in detail according to statistical frequency. In this cohort, 25 workers had a concomitant head injury and 17 workers had an associated loss of consciousness. There was no statistically significant difference when clinical presentation, examination, and balance testing results were compared between the subsets. Frequency and characterization of symptoms following electrical injury are provided. Dizziness is the most common presenting neurotological feature. Loss of consciousness and/or associated head injury do not affect the clinical presentation in this particular population. 2b. Laryngoscope, 127:2126-2131, 2017. |
Q:
Aurelia PHP Post request empty $_POST
I'm having trouble making POST requests to a server, my data is not send back to me.
I have a very simple PHP script:
Server script
<?php
header('Access-Control-Allow-Origin: *');
header("Access-Control-Allow-Headers: Origin, X-Requested-With, Content-Type, Accept");
echo json_encode("{user-id:" . $_POST["user_id"] . "}");
?>
I want to make a POST request to this script, and get some JSON data as response.
Working request
If I make a POST request from HTML, this works perfectly:
<form method="post" action="http://url/post.php">
<input type="hidden" name="user_id" value="123" />
<button>Go to user 123</button>
</form>
This also works:
$.post( "url/post.php", this.data)
.done(function( data ) {
console.log( data );
});
Response
"{user-id:123}"
Not working script (desire): Aurelia Fetch Client (JS2016)
submit(){
let comment = { user_id: "234" };
this.http.fetch('post.php', {
method: 'post',
body: json(comment)
})
.then(response => response.json())
.then(data => console.log(data));
}
Fetch client configuration
config
.useStandardConfiguration()
.withBaseUrl('url')
.withDefaults({
mode: 'cors',
headers: {
'Accept': 'application/json'
}
});
});
Response
{user-id:}
php alternative
I've tried to see what's inside the array in PHP, but I got the same result using implode:
echo json_encode("{user-id:" . (string)implode(" ",$_POST) . "}");
The question
It looks like Aurelia does not post the data the right way. Do I make a mistake here, or is it some configuration setting I'm not aware of?
A:
Instead of "_POST["user_I'd"]" do this
$input = file_get_contents('php://input');
$input = json_decode($input);
//access user_id like this:
$input->{'user_id'}
|
Cryptolepis dubia
Cryptolepis dubia is a species of flowering plant in the family Apocynaceae that can be found in South and Southeastern Asia, as well as the southern region of China.
References
External links
International Plant Names Index
Category:Periplocoideae
Category:Flora of Indo-China
Category:Flora of the Indian subcontinent
Category:Flora of China |
Sailing across the covelands, one can find the Observatory that gathers data of the cosmos and is also the main entrance to the floating Ministry of Knowledge. The observatory is a wonderful place to study the constellations of the realm. |
Investigating the role of calcium/calmodulin-dependent protein kinases in Stagonospora nodorum.
Three genes encoding different Ca2+/calmodulin-dependent protein kinases have been characterized in the wheat phytopathogenic fungus Stagonospora nodorum. The kinases were identified from the S. nodorum genome sequence on the basis of sequence homology to known Ca2+/calmodulin-dependent protein kinases. Expression analysis determined that each of the kinases was expressed during growth in vitro and also during infection. The onset of sporulation triggered increased transcript levels of each of the kinases, particularly CpkA where an 11-fold increase in expression was observed during sporulation in planta. The role of the kinases was further determined via a reverse genetics approach. The disruption of CpkA affected vegetative growth in vitro and also sporulation. The cpkA strains produced 20-fold less spores on complex media and were unable to sporulate on defined minimal media. Infection assays showed that CpkA was not required for lesion development but was essential for sporulation at the completion of the infection cycle. Microscopic analysis revealed that the disruption of CpkA resulted in Stagonospora nodorum being unable to differentiate the mycelial knot into immature pycnidia during sporulation. A metabolite analysis of infected leaves during sporulation excluded the possible involvement of mannitol, a compound previously shown to be involved in the sporulation of Stagonospora nodorum. The disruption of CpkB did not effect growth in vitro or pathogenicity. Stagonospora nodorum strains lacking CpkC appeared unaffected during growth in planta but showed delayed lesion development and sporulation during infection. |
Q:
Protractor/Jasmine - Calling done() after assertions on a list
I have written protractor tests with a format similar to below where I map an assertion over an list of elements (In this case an ElementArrayFinder).
it("all dropdowns should be enabled", done => {
....
elemArrayFinder.map((elem, idx) => {
expect(elemArrayFinder.get(idx).isEnabled()).toBeTruthy();
done();
})
});
My question is around the calling of done() - It appears this is called on the first assertion, instead of after all the assertions have been completed. Does this mean Jasmine/Protractor will move to the next test even though assertions continue to be made on the list of elements? Is there a way to call done() only when all assertions on the list items complete?
A:
Because map is a loop, given your code, done() should be called on the first loop. You should be able to just omit the done() and it should work. That said, to answer your question, you'd do something like this (though please don't do this :) ):
it("all dropdowns should be enabled", done => {
....
elemArrayFinder.map((elem, idx) => {
expect(elemArrayFinder.get(idx).isEnabled()).toBeTruthy();
}).then(done);
});
|
Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem are expecting their second child, OTRC.com has confirmed.
Reports that the 38-year-old Oscar-winning actress is pregnant surfaced earlier this month. On Tuesday, the Spanish TV station TVE reported that Cruz was unable to attend the Goya Awards on February 17 because she was expecting. Her spokesperson confirmed to OTRC.com on Wednesday, February 13, that the actress is indeed pregnant.
Cruz and Bardem, 43, met while filming the Spanish movie "Jamon, Jamon" in 1992. They began dating more than five years ago and also starred together in Woody Allen's 2008 movie "Vicky Cristina Barcelona," which earned the actress an Oscar, and married in 2010. The actress gave birth to their first child, son Leo, in January 2011.
Cruz's sister, actress Monica Cruz, is also pregnant. She announced in early January that she is expecting her first child. Monica was open about using an anonymous sperm donor to conceive her child, which she wrote about in a blog for the Spanish newspaper El Pais. |
SLIDE
JILL HATHAWAY
Dedication
For my mother,
who instilled in me a love of words,
and my daughter,
for whom I hope to do the same
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
_Acknowledgments_
_About the Author_
_Credits_
_Copyright_
_About the Publisher_
Chapter One
I'm slumped at my desk, fighting to keep my eyes open. A drop of sweat meanders down my back. It's got to be eighty-five degrees in here, though it's only October. When we complained, Mrs. Winger mumbled something about waiting for a custodian to come fix the thermostat.
Beside me, hunched over his desk, Icky Ferris stumbles through the words in Julius Caesar. We're supposed to be reading in partners—but his monotonous tone, paired with the unintelligible Shakespearean language that gets English teachers all hot and bothered, makes me feel unbearably sleepy.
Heat is one of my major triggers—and, apparently, so is Shakespeare. Warmth crawls up my spine like a centipede. It reminds me of the time I was sitting in my dad's car in August with the seat warmer accidentally on.
All the words in my book mush into blurry gray lines, and I know it won't be long before I lose consciousness. The room starts to turn inside out, the seams pulling apart. I pick something in the room to focus on and end up staring at an inspirational poster with a picture of a kitten hanging off of a tree branch. The caption reads: HANG IN THERE, BABY! As I watch, the kitten's face starts to melt. I slip down in my chair.
There are certain signs I'm about to pass out: drooping eyelids, muscles gone slack like spaghetti, a blank look on my face. My classmates have seen it enough times to be able to tell what's happening.
"Sylvia," Icky hisses, and then he claps in front of my face. "Snap out of it." I blink and focus on him. Icky has a mullet and an unhealthy obsession with firearms, but I like him. He certainly shows more compassion than most of the kids at my school. "You okay?"
By now, everyone's staring. It's not really a big deal anymore, me passing out in the middle of class, but it is something to break up this boring October day. There hasn't been any new gossip since the drug dogs found a bag of weed in Jimmy Pine's locker—and that was two weeks ago. I'd like to avoid losing myself completely in front of these vultures if at all possible.
I hoist myself out of the chair and approach Mrs. Winger, my English teacher. She's totally engrossed in something on her computer—probably solitaire. She's the only one who didn't notice me almost pass out. Her big desk is tucked in the very back of the room so she can ignore us. Pair by pair, my classmates' eyes drop away from me and go back to their reading.
"Can I go to the bathroom?" I make my words small and humble.
She doesn't bother to remove her eyes from the computer screen. If she did, she might see that it's me, Sylvia Bell with the narcolepsy issue, and remember she's been asked to let me leave the classroom whenever I need to.
Come on. Just let me go. LEMME GO.
The room spins and my knees start to buckle.
"Can't it wait until class is over?" Mrs. Winger's voice is snippy, cutting me into tiny pieces she can easily brush into the trash. She moves a stack of cards with her mouse.
"Can't your game wait until class is over?" I push a lock of pink hair behind my ear. I know it's a bitchy thing to say, but screw it. It's the only way to get her attention.
She finally looks my way, irritation deepening the lines around her eyes. "Fine. Go. Five minutes."
I don't respond because I'm already out the door. I should go to the nurse, but she's required to notify my father of any episodes, and I don't feel like dealing with the questions. Not today. I'm so tired. Sleep might stalk me throughout the day, but it evades me at night. Last night, I might've gotten a total of four hours of sleep.
On my way to the bathroom, I pray it's empty. No such luck—when I push open the door, I see a girl on her knees in the last stall, alternately sobbing and retching. I recognize the silver flip-flops. It's Sophie Jacobs, the only one of my little sister's friends I can stand. At least she won't tell anyone about my episode. She has her own secrets to keep, anyway, like the breakfast she was probably just getting rid of.
I lean against the wall and search the pockets of my hoodie for the little orange bottle—the one that's labeled PROVIGIL. My doctor prescribed it to keep me awake, but in actuality it doesn't do crap. I've dumped out the Provigil and filled the bottle with cheap caffeine pills, the only drug that seems to work for me—and then only if I take about six of them at once. The Provigil makes me feel like I'm fighting my way through a fog, but the caffeine brings everything into focus. My hands shake as I fish out a few of the ovals and pop them into my mouth, even though I have a feeling it's too late.
The toilet flushes, and the stall door behind me swings open. Sophie just stands there, glassy-eyed, wiping her mouth with the back of a trembling hand. Her glossy black hair has a chunk of something yellow in it. I have to look away.
"Gah, I'm glad it's you," she says. She comes forward and twists the one knob above the sink. Our school doesn't so much have hot or cold water, just one temperature: arctic. She scoops some water into her hands and splashes her face. "I've been feeling sick lately."
I open my mouth to respond, but all that comes out is this weird rasp. My head aches. The room darkens, and I press my palms into my forehead, sinking to the floor.
I can never get used to the feeling of looking through someone else's eyes. It's as if each person sees the world in a slightly different hue. The tricky part is figuring out who the person is. It's like putting together a jigsaw puzzle—what do I see, hear, smell? Everything is a clue.
What I smell now: mildew and hair spray.
I'm in the girls' locker room. Hideous pink lockers line the walls. The girl I've slid into pulls black ballet flats onto her orangey, fake-tanned feet. Her toes are painted robin's-egg-blue with little daisies in the center.
Gym class must be over. Half-naked girls rush around, wiggling out of shorts way too skimpy for October, brushing their hair, discreetly swiping on powdery-smelling deodorant.
A few feet away, I recognize a blond girl sliding a pair of skinny jeans over her hips. She has a little white patch in the shape of the Playboy bunny on her hip, where she puts a sticker when she tans. The girl is Mattie. She is my sister and my exact opposite in every way. If she's the pink glitter on your valentine, I'm the black Sharpie you use to draw mustaches on the teachers in your yearbook.
I feel my mouth open, and out comes the voice of Amber Prescott, my least favorite person in the galaxy. "Ugh. I just got the worst headache. It came out of nowhere. Do you have any aspirin?"
My mind races. How could I have slid into Amber? I wasn't touching anything of hers. Was I?
Mattie fastens her silky ponytail with an elastic band. "Nope. Sorry. Anyway, it's really none of my business if Sophie wants to hook up with Scotch. She can go around acting like a whore if she wants."
"Personally, I think it's disgusting the way she's throwing herself at him. I mean, that's not what a good friend does. She knew you had a crush on him."
Scotch? As in Scotch Becker? The biggest prick in the junior class? The mere mention of his name makes me feel like puking. When did Mattie start liking Scotch, first-string quarterback and douche extraordinaire?
Mattie's face puckers as if she's eaten a whole box of Lemonheads, which it always does when she's trying to act like something doesn't bother her.
"Well, what am I supposed to do? I can't force him to want me. And, duh, why wouldn't he like Sophie? She's . . . like . . . amazing-looking." Mattie drops onto the bench and covers her face with her hands.
Amber slithers closer to Mattie and pats her back. "Don't give me that shit, Mattie. Scotch is crazy for choosing that heff over you. I mean, Sophie can't go five minutes without sticking her finger down her throat. Just because she's lost about half her body weight doesn't mean she's not still fat inside. She's still Porky Pie from the sixth grade."
Porky Pie. Sophie's old nickname brings back memories, none of them good. Kids throwing oatmeal cream pies at her on the bus. The time in the computer lab when Scotch Becker pulled up the dictionary website and made the robotic voice say "hippopotamus" at her, over and over. I can't believe Sophie would even speak to Scotch after the things he did to her in middle school. In fact, I can't believe she speaks to Mattie or Amber. They only started hanging out with her after she lost weight, and even now Amber's favorite pastime is thinking of new ways to torture Sophie. Amber is forever pulling crap like telling Sophie her (nonexistent) ass looks fat or asking if Sophie should really be eating that slice of pizza. It's obvious she's completely jealous that Mattie and Sophie have become such close friends. She's seizing this opportunity to drive the two apart.
Mattie peeks at Amber through her fingers. "Do you really think so?"
"Don't worry," Amber says, pulling out a hot-pink cell phone. "I've got a plan to put her back in her place."
"Sylvia? Vee! Are you all right? Should I get the nurse?" Sophie hovers over me, twisting her hands in worry.
The bathroom tile is cool against my cheek. I wonder when they last mopped it. Pushing myself into a sitting position, I banish the visions of squirming bacteria from my thoughts.
"Ugh, no. I'm fine."
"Oh, God. Your forehead!"
I reach up and feel a huge lump.
Sophie tears several paper towels from the dispenser and holds them under the faucet. She gently compresses the cool, wet paper to my head. She's so freaking maternal. Last fall, when she and Mattie shared a birthday party, she made a chocolate cake from scratch. She covered it with chocolate icing and spelled out "Mattie" with M&M's. Mattie gave Sophie a Twinkie on a paper plate.
Just thinking about that party depresses me. Sophie is so sweet, really, despite her friends—including my sister, who used to be innocent and kind but in the last year has turned into such a bitch. I blame it on Amber.
Poor Sophie. She has no idea that, right this second, her two so-called BFFs are talking shit about her. And evidently planning something to "put her in her place." I want to warn her to be careful around those two, but how would that look—me bad-mouthing my own sister? Would she even believe me?
Sophie pulls me to my feet. I lean against the sink and pull the paper towel away to assess the damage in the mirror. My forehead doesn't look too bad. I feel the bump gingerly. A minor contusion. Maybe my father won't notice.
Sophie meets my eyes in the mirror. "Are you sure you're okay?"
I turn to face her. Her shoulders are hunched, her head bowed. Her legs are two sticks beneath her cheerleading skirt. She can't weigh more than a hundred pounds.
"Yeah, I'm okay. Really. How are you?"
She gets this funny look on her face, and I'm not sure if she's about to start laughing or bawling.
"It's my birthday," she says finally, shrugging. "Mattie hasn't said anything. You can give this to your sister. I made it." Sophie holds out a braided friendship bracelet, the kind you make at summer camp. It's red and gold to match their cheerleading uniforms.
I can guarantee with near certainty that Mattie hasn't done anything special for Sophie's birthday. Again, I'm struck with the urge to tell Sophie to wise up and get some better friends. Thinking of how to phrase my words, I push the bracelet onto my wrist so I won't lose it.
"Sophie . . ." I say, taking a step toward her, but she ducks into the hallway before I can reach her, tears streaming from her eyes. I crumple the paper towel in frustration and aim for the garbage can. It misses by a mile. When I lean over to retrieve it, a dollar bill falls out of the pocket of my hoodie.
Crap. That must be why I slid into Amber.
Suddenly it all comes rushing back—Amber running up to me before first period, waving the crumpled dollar bill in my face.
"The stupid pop machine isn't taking my money," she'd wailed. "Caffeine is urgent. Do you have change?" She was completely freaking out, enough to leave an emotional imprint on the money she was holding, enough for me to pick up on less than an hour later.
I'd found a few coins for her and accepted the dollar in return, which I stuck in my pocket. I must have brushed against it when I reached for the Provigil bottle—just when I was feeling faint, just when I was vulnerable. If I put the money back in my pocket, I could accidentally slide into Amber again later.
Unwilling to take the chance, I use a paper towel to pick up the dollar, and then I toss it into the trash. I never want to be inside Amber Prescott's head again.
Chapter Two
I speed-walk past the student entrance and almost run into Rollins, my best friend, who has a tendency to show up at school about halfway through first period.
"Vee!" He laughs and grabs my arm. "Where you off to in such a hurry?"
"Back to class," I say, turning my face away from him so he won't see the bump on my forehead. It's no use, though. Rollins sees everything.
"Hey," he says. "Hey. Stop."
I let him look me over, waiting for the inevitable questions. Things between us have seemed strained lately. It's as if Rollins senses that I'm hiding something. He keeps pushing, and I keep pulling away. If only he'd just let me be. . . .
Rollins shakes his long brown hair out of his eyes. "Are you okay? Did you just—"
"Mr. Rollins," a smug voice calls out. "Little late today, I see." Mr. Nast—"Nasty," to the students—strolls toward us, his thumbs tucked casually through his belt loops like he's in some kind of Western. It's the last face-off—Nasty, the principal, and us, the delinquents.
Nasty glares at Rollins, whose face has settled into a smirk. Rollins's snarky attitude hasn't won him any favors with the administration—that's for damn sure. He gets busted once a week on average. It's pretty much Nast's hobby, trying to nail Rollins for smoking in the parking lot or cutting class.
When Nast sees me, his face kind of wavers. I'm a tricky one. With my strange disability and permanent hall pass, there's not much he can do to me. Rollins, however, is a totally different story. I know for a fact he's only one tardy away from suspension.
Rollins's grip on my arm tightens for a moment, and then he lets go. He prepares himself for battle, crossing his arms over his chest and tightening his jaw.
I throw myself between them. "Mr. Nast, Rollins was just walking me to the nurse. I'm feeling faint." I make my voice wobbly and grasp Rollins for support.
Mr. Nast looks from me to Rollins and back again. I see in his face that he doesn't believe me, but there's nothing he can do. Finally he narrows his eyes and mutters to hurry up.
Rollins and I bustle away from him, arms linked, heading toward the nurse's office. When we round the corner, we burst into laughter, and any tension there might have been between us before has dissipated.
"I never knew you were such a fine actress," Rollins says, snorting.
"Oh, that wasn't an act. I really am feeling faint," I say, pretending to swoon. "I'm such a delicate flower."
"My ass," Rollins says, nudging me with his elbow. "You're about as delicate as an AK-47." His snicker fades as he catches sight of my forehead. "Seriously, though, what happened?"
I shake my pink hair so it covers my wound. "It's nothing. I just passed out in the bathroom. But I'm fine. No big deal."
Rollins can't hide his worries, though he tries. His eyes narrow. "If you say so."
I squirm. Concern makes me itchy.
"Look, I gotta get to class. See you later?"
Rollins nods. "Later, Vee."
When I get back to English, it looks like someone released sleeping gas in the classroom. Almost everyone is draped over their desks, holding their copies of Julius Caesar at odd angles in front of their faces so it's not completely obvious they're asleep. Mrs. Winger is still absorbed in her game. She doesn't look up when I ease into my seat.
Samantha Phillips, her hair framing her face in straight red sheets, eyeballs me from across the room. Her cheerleading skirt is yanked up to show off her fake-baked thighs. I can't believe I once wore one of those skirts. I can't believe I was ever friends with the girl who is now captain of the squad. Sophomore year seems like a lifetime ago.
She looks at my Oasis T-shirt and sneers. "Nice outfit. What is it, like, 1994?"
I give her a death glare until she looks away and goes back to inconspicuously tapping buttons on her iPhone.
My gaze falls on the crisp, clean copy of Astronomy: The Cosmic Perspective, which peeks out from my black schoolbag. I had to order it brand-new to avoid the possibility of sliding when I flipped through the pages. People have emotional ties with books more often than you think, and I try to play it safe.
With Mrs. Winger so enthralled by her computer game, it would be easy to pull my book out and continue the section on black holes I was reading the night before. There probably won't be any questions about black holes on the Julius Caesar test, though, sadly enough.
I turn to Icky. "What'd I miss?"
"Hmmm . . . Well, the conspirators stabbed Caesar. You missed about the only good part in this play."
"Aw, crap," I say in mock annoyance. I lean over his desk, careful not to touch the book, and scan the part I missed. Yada yada yada, the conspirators surround him, Caesar is history.
One of the questions on the study guide: What were Caesar's last words?
I look back at the book, searching for the answer. Aha! Right after Brutus plunges the knife in, Caesar says, "Et tu, Brute?—Then fall, Caesar."
I think of Caesar going to the Capitol, surrounded by men he thought were his friends, only to be stabbed repeatedly in the back. And there's Brutus, holding the bloody freaking knife. The only thing left for Caesar to do is die, thinking he's such a shitty person even his best friend wants him dead.
Sophie's face pops into my head. What will she think when she finds out her two best friends are plotting against her? On her birthday, no less?
People suck.
I shake my head, writing down the answer.
"Pretty sick stuff, eh?" Icky grins.
"I'll say."
The bell rings, and everyone jumps to life.
Lunchtime.
I sit in my usual place, underneath the bleachers, and wait for Rollins. From my spot, I spy an empty Coke can, half a Snickers bar, and a Trojan wrapper. Fumbling in my backpack for my lunch, I wonder who in their right mind would want to have sex under the bleachers. Maybe they did it on the football field and the wrapper just blew over here—not that that's much better.
The brown sugar Pop-Tarts I packed this morning have crumbled to bits, so I eat the big pieces and then tilt my head back and dump the rest of the crumbs into my mouth.
I expect Rollins to sneak up on me and make a snarky comment about my ladylike table manners, but he doesn't show. This is the third lunch he's stood me up for. After a few minutes, I pull out my astronomy book and read about black holes in between swigs of warm Mountain Dew.
I'm in the middle of a really great paragraph about how nothing—not even light—can escape a black hole once it's reached the event horizon when something above me clangs. Two people are working their way down the bleachers. I stick my finger in the book to hold my place and tilt my head up, annoyed by the interruption.
A familiar voice floats down to where I'm sitting. It makes me want to puke.
Scotch.
They sit down above me, and I hear another guy's voice. "Dude, you have to check this out." His tone is conspiratorial, like he's got some drugs or a Penthouse magazine.
Quietly, I stuff my book into my backpack. Maybe I can sneak away without them noticing me.
"What is this? Where did you get this?" I hear Scotch ask.
"One of the cheerleaders sent it out this morning. Hey. Didn't you bang this chick?"
Scotch snorts. "Yeah, once."
Feeling like I'm going to be sick, I crawl toward the opening beneath the bleachers. Something sharp slices into my knee, and it takes everything in me to stifle my yelp of pain. When I look down, I realize I've cut myself on a broken Budweiser bottle. My jeans are torn, and blood oozes through the opening. I bite my lip and move toward the exit.
After emerging from my hiding spot, I risk one quick backward glance. Scotch and another football player are both staring down at a cell phone, smirking. My heart clenches for the poor girl they're discussing, whoever she is.
In the bathroom, I clutch a wad of paper towels to my knee, but the blood doesn't seem to be slowing. Though I've been avoiding the school nurse, it's clear I'll have to stop by her office. The beer bottle wasn't exactly clean, and she'll have some antiseptic cream to smooth on the wound.
Mrs. Price is sitting at her desk, rifling through papers, when I arrive. Her gray hair is falling out of a loose bun, and she's wearing these glasses on a chain that make her look more like a librarian than a school nurse. She's so engrossed in her work, she doesn't even notice me come in.
A boy I've never seen before sits in a folding chair in the corner. He looks me up and down, his gaze pausing on the bloody paper towels I'm holding, making me feel suddenly self-conscious. He doesn't look like the type of guy who goes for chicks with pink hair. In fact, with his perfectly tousled blond hair and green T-shirt stretched tight over his biceps, he looks like the type of guy who dates girls who resemble Victoria's Secret models. Still, he sits there smiling as if he knows me or something.
"Uh," I say.
Mrs. Price looks up, her eyebrows jumping when she spots the blood. "Vee! Another accident?"
"No biggie," I mutter, avoiding eye contact with the guy. "It's a shallow cut. Just needs to be cleaned."
Mrs. Price frowns and pushes back her chair. She glides over to me and stoops down to examine my wound. "Did you get this during another episode, Vee?"
"No," I say, shaking my hair over my face so she won't notice the bump. If she realizes I've been passing out, she'll have to call my father and he'll have to call my doctors and they'll ask about the Provigil and the whole thing will be a big pain in my ass.
Mrs. Price snaps on some latex gloves and tells me to sit down and pull up my pant leg. She wipes my knee with an alcohol pad, dabs on some Neosporin, and then wraps it with a clean bandage. The whole time, I am intensely aware of the hot guy staring at my bare leg.
Mrs. Price strips off her gloves and tosses them into the trash. She stands and turns to the guy. "All your records seem to be in order, Zane. What class do you have now? Vee here can show you the way. Sylvia, this is Zane Huxley. This is his first day."
The guy steps forward and shakes my hand. "Nice to meet you." He pulls a crinkled paper from his pocket and squints at it. "I've got AP psych with Golden."
"Oh, good." Mrs. Price claps her hands. "That's where you're going. Right, Vee?"
"Um, yeah."
As we walk to Mr. Golden's room, I keep my eyes straight ahead, though I can feel Zane's eyes on me.
"So, Sylvia. Got any advice for the newb in town? Cool places to hang out? Teachers to avoid?" He reaches out and trails his finger along a poster that says STAR in bubble letters. Safe, Tolerant, Accountable, Respectful—all the things teachers wish students were, but we can't always be because we're human beings and not robots.
"Not really. Get salad bar on Chef's Choice days."
He laughs. "Well, that's a given." He unfolds his schedule. "I've got Winger first period. Have you had her?"
I risk a glance at Zane. His face is open and friendly and interested. To him, I'm a perfectly normal girl. Well, a perfectly normal girl with Pepto-colored hair. But still.
"Yeah. Actually, I've got her first period, too. Just don't bother her when she's playing solitaire, and you should be fine. She gets cranky."
"Solitaire, eh? What about this guy? Golden? He cool?"
"Yeah, he's really cool," I say. "He's young, which means he hasn't burned out yet. And he always tells these weird stories, like the time he helped a woman give birth at the Omaha zoo."
"Ew," Zane says, but he looks fascinated.
"Yeah. So where are you from?"
A girl in a flippy skirt skips down the hall toward us, her eyes lingering on Zane, but he doesn't even look her way. His eyes are fixed on me.
"Actually, I used to live here when I was little. But then my dad died and we moved to Chicago to live with my grandma."
Awkward. It's always so awkward when someone mentions death, especially when you don't know them very well. Strangers always say they're soooooo sorry when they hear my mother is gone, but it's wrong that death is a loss. It's something you gain. Death is always there, whispering in your ear. In your memories. In everything you think and say and feel and wish. It's always there.
I know there's nothing you can say to make death okay. It is what it is.
"That sucks," I say.
He nods silently.
We're standing in front of the door to Mr. Golden's classroom.
"Well, here we are," I say feebly.
"Try to contain your excitement," he says, smiling as he pushes open the door.
The room we walk into looks more like a lounge than a classroom. Mr. Golden likes to rescue and reupholster couches and bring them in for us to sit on during class discussions. He's decorated the walls with seemingly no rhyme or reason. Mixed in with the posters of Freud and diagrams of the human brain are old concert posters for The Doors and Jimi Hendrix. He even has a black light he turns on for special occasions. A large green plant that looks like it could swallow me hulks in the corner.
"Looks like we have a newcomer," Mr. Golden booms. "Take a seat wherever. I'm not into seating charts."
Zane folds himself into a beanbag chair. He's so tall, his knees almost hit his chin. The girls who aren't sneaking looks at him are openly gaping. A little seed of pleasure bursts within me when he looks my way and grins.
Rollins sits on an orange sofa in the corner, doodling in the margin of his textbook. I plop down next to him and pull out my notebook. Mr. Golden may let us sit wherever we want, but he draws heavily from his lectures when writing his exams. I got a C on the last one, so I figure I'd better actually try to follow what Mr. Golden is saying about classical conditioning.
"Who's that?" Rollins asks under his breath, nodding in Zane's direction. Rollins doesn't bother to take notes. He's got some kind of photographic memory; he remembers not only what he sees, but also what he reads, hears, and even smells. Ask him what was for lunch last Tuesday, and he'll remember just how nasty the burned meatloaf smelled in the hallways.
"Uh, Zane Huxley," I whisper back when Mr. Golden pauses to blow his nose. "He's new. I met him in the nurse's office. Sliced my knee open pretty good."
Rollins's eyes dart down to my leg. "You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I just kneeled on a beer bottle under the bleachers. No. Big. Deal. Anyway, where were you during lunch?"
Rollins pauses before answering. I can tell he knows there's more to the story, but I don't want to rehash the conversation I overheard under the bleachers. It's just too depressing.
He tugs his lip ring. "I was printing off the latest installment of Fear and Loathing in High School. My finest work, if I do say so myself." Pride creeps into his voice. Rollins makes his own zine, in which he reviews concerts and writes articles about the suckiness that is high school. It's completely do-it-yourself, literally cut and pasted from Rollins's journals and drawings.
"Ooooh, can I have one?"
"They're in my locker. I'll give you one later."
Mr. Golden launches back into his lecture. By the end of the period, I've covered a whole page with my loopy handwriting.
When the bell rings, Mr. Golden raises his voice. "Remember to read the section on the different theories of motivation tonight. There might be a quiz Monday, just so you know."
I'm stuffing my notebook back into my backpack when Mr. Golden turns to address me.
"Sylvia, can I speak with you for a moment?"
Rollins pokes me in the back. "See you later."
When we're alone, Mr. Golden perches on a sofa and crosses his arms over his chest. I hover in the middle of the room, wondering what he could possibly want with me. I'm pulling an overall B in his class, despite the C I received on the last exam. I would be an utterly unremarkable student if it weren't for my so-called narcolepsy.
"Sylvia, is everything okay?" he asks, his voice full of concern.
"Yeah," I say, racking my brain for any reason for him to think things are not okay. I must be sending out some really not okay vibes today. "Why?"
"It's just that I noticed you got a C on the test last week. The work you turned in prior to that test was of much higher quality. I don't mean to pry, but is there something wrong? Did you not study for the test?"
If I wanted to, I could probably play the narcolepsy card and say I wasn't able to concentrate on my studies. I've been having such a rough time, I tried my best, really I did . . . but that would be a lie. And there's something about Mr. Golden that makes me want to be honest with him.
"Sorry, Mr. Golden. Guess I just forgot to study. I'll try harder."
He leans forward and lowers his voice. "Listen, Sylvia, if you ever need some extra help, I'd be happy to oblige. Why don't you come in after school some day?"
I look down and shuffle my feet, trying to think of a polite way to say I don't really need his help—the problem was that I didn't open my psychology book for like a month.
"Oh, um. Thanks, Mr. Golden. I'm usually pretty busy after school, though. I'm sure I'll do better on the next test if I just study a little more."
Mr. Golden straightens up. "Well, just keep it in mind. I'm here for you, after all."
I smile and nod before turning to leave. He follows me to the door and closes it behind me with a firm click.
Chapter Three
After school, Rollins stands waiting at my locker, holding a stack of xeroxed booklets.
"So what did Goldy want?"
"Oh," I say, waving my hand. "He just wanted to know why I'm such a slacker. I told him I'm naturally lazy. Can I have one?" I gesture to the zines.
He pulls out a copy wrapped in plastic. "I know what a germaphobe you are," he says teasingly. That's Rollins's explanation for why I don't like to touch things other people have handled—I'm totally OCD.
I unwrap the zine and examine it. On the cover it says Fear and Loathing in High School No. 7. There's a hand-drawn picture of a grotesque dog making its way down a hall lined with lockers, bags of weed and capsules hanging from its drooling jaws—a reference to Jimmy Pine's arrest, I'm guessing.
"Nice artwork," I say, admiring the cover.
He does all the drawing and writing in Sharpie, then goes to Copyworld to make dozens of copies. Every couple of months he comes out with a new issue. He sells them for a dollar apiece at the record store where he works, Eternally Vinyl, but more often than not he hands them out for free. Sometimes he rides the bus and sneaks them into people's bags or pockets.
Looking over the table of contents, I see there's an article about how the administration had no right to search Jimmy Pine's locker without a warrant; a concert review for a local band, Who Killed My Sea Monkeys; and an article about the hypocrisy of the kids in Wise Choices, the student group against substance abuse.
I turn to page five and scan the article entitled "Dumb Choices: East High's Goody-Goodies Exposed." Rollins cut out Samantha Phillips's yearbook picture from last year and drew a beer can in one hand and a joint in the other. Samantha, along with being head cheerleader, is also the president of Wise Choices. I'm sure it's only for her college applications—or to throw her parents off her boozehound trail. She's been drinking wine coolers since middle school.
"We on for tonight?" Rollins stuffs the remaining zines into his backpack and zips it up, looking at me expectantly.
"Damn straight," I say, trying to hide the surprise in my voice. It's been our tradition to watch horror movies and order pizza on Friday nights, but he hasn't made it the last two weeks. "It's Friday Night Fright, isn't it?"
I'm trying to decide what I'm in the mood for—The Ring or The Exorcist—when I remember that Mattie's invited Amber over tonight. Shit. I'm so not in the mood to babysit a couple of cheerleaders.
"Hey, Amber Prescott is spending the night at my place tonight. Can we go to your house instead?" I mentally cross my fingers, already knowing what his answer will be, but hoping I'm wrong.
Panic rolls over Rollins's face, then disappears, so quickly I'm not even sure I saw it. "Uh, my mom's . . . painting the living room. The place is a mess. Drop cloths everywhere. Sorry."
Since I've known him, Rollins has never asked me over to his house. Every time I suggest a visit, he makes up some excuse about his mom redoing the bathroom or putting in new cabinets or something. By now, his house must be a freaking palace, with all the remodeling they've done. I'm pretty sure his mom is really an alkie or a hoarder or something.
I shrug. "That's okay. We'll just banish Mattie to her room."
His lips curl into a grin. "I'll see you tonight then." He slings his backpack over one shoulder and walks away.
After transferring some textbooks to my backpack, I slam my locker door and spin the knob. A couple of girls I used to be friends with pass me, whispering and giggling. They're not laughing at me, though. They don't even look my way. It's like I'm a ghost to them, like I don't even exist. I watch them hurry away, probably to cheerleading practice. Sighing, I head in the opposite direction.
When I walk by Mr. Golden's room, I see something strange. A girl is sitting on a couch, and Mr. Golden is leaning over her. I can't see her face—only a bit of long, black hair. It sounds like she's sobbing. He looks over his shoulder and catches me peeking. Embarrassed, I look at the floor and bolt away.
I rush toward the exit, staring at my shoes and wondering what a crying girl is doing in Mr. Golden's room after school hours.
As I push open the door, I plow into someone entering the school. At first, all I see is green T-shirt. My cheeks become warm as I realize who I've almost knocked over on my mission to put distance between myself and Mr. Golden.
Zane beams down at me. "In a rush to start the weekend, eh?"
I return his smile. "Isn't everyone?"
"God, yes. My friends from Chicago are coming to see my new house, and we're going to a show. You doing anything fun this weekend?"
"Oh, you know, the usual—cow tipping," I say.
"Nice. Have fun with that. And try not to run anyone else over." He winks.
"Just try to stay out of my way," I toss back, grinning, and step out into the fading afternoon sunlight. The air smells of burning leaves. Only a few cars are left in the student parking lot. I wonder which car is Zane's as I pop my headphones into my ears and trudge toward the sidewalk.
As I walk home, my mind keeps returning to the scene in Mr. Golden's room. I wonder who that girl on the couch was and what happened to her to make her cry so hard.
A curious piece of paper is taped to our front door, flapping in the wind. As I get closer, I realize it's a little square from a desk calendar. I rip it off the door and carry it inside to examine more closely. The date is circled several times in red marker.
October 19—today's date.
Weird.
I remember Sophie in the bathroom earlier, saying Mattie must have forgotten her birthday. Is this Sophie's attempt to remind Mattie? It seems out of character, but the desperate way Sophie was talking makes me think she's not in the best frame of mind.
I stuff the paper into my back pocket. Sophie doesn't need to give Mattie and Amber any more ammunition. If she just leaves them alone for a little while, I know it'll all blow over. They'll find something else to fixate on. They'll be friends again in a week.
I stand there for a while, feeling the emptiness of the house down to my bones. Shadows stretch long across the floor. I hear nothing but the steady tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the living room. I am totally alone.
Mattie's at cheerleading practice. Dad's at the hospital. Mom is . . . Well, Mom hasn't been here for a long, long time.
Everything about our house is pretty much the same as it was five years ago, when my mom died of cancer. Same faded curtains with little red cherries on them. Same old yellow wallpaper. Same hardwood floor covered by an ancient red-and-gold rug. Same ornate silver mirror opposite the front door.
I step closer to the mirror. The girl I see looks wild with her bright-pink hair—rebellious and free. I wish I felt that way inside. I dyed my hair because I needed a drastic change from pale blond—my natural hair color is exactly the same shade as my mother's. I was tired of looking in the mirror every day and seeing her, missing her.
Dyeing my hair couldn't disguise the other parts of her that lived on in me, though. The way my laughter borders on cackling when I find something hilarious, just like hers did. The way my skin refuses to tan, no matter how many hours I spend in the sun.
And I know she had narcolepsy, too. I've inherited that unfortunate gene from her. I remember her falling asleep sometimes while watching television or during dinner. When she woke up, she'd have the strangest little smile. I'd give anything to know what happened to her while she was asleep. If she was like me. If she slid.
I don't remember the first time it happened, but it was after my mother's death. My father told me about walking into my room when I was twelve years old and finding me on the floor, unconscious. I was barely breathing. He couldn't wake me up. He rushed me to the emergency room, but no one could figure out what was wrong with me. Eventually, I just woke up and was fine, like nothing happened.
The doctors conducted test after test. Eventually, with a lack of any better explanation for my periodic bouts of unconsciousness, they diagnosed me with narcolepsy—apparently it can start around puberty. When I tried to tell my father what was really happening to me, he started sending me to a shrink—a woman with bright-red hair named Mrs. Moran. She said I was dealing with the pain of my mother's death by making up stories. Crying out for attention. My father thought that made sense.
So that's when I started lying.
As time went on, I just got used to it. And I started to learn the rules. Like one time during a field trip when I was thirteen. I'd worn Miss Ryan's sweater because the air had suddenly turned cold and I hadn't brought a jacket to school that day. She warned me not to spill anything on it because her grandmother had knitted it for her. One minute, I was walking through the museum, studying the paintings on the wall, and the next—I wasn't anymore.
I was back on the school bus. Suddenly a man came up behind me and circled his arm around my waist. He said, "Nancy, Nancy." Miss Ryan's first name. He spun me around, and I realized it was the bus driver.
He and his mustache came closer. His face descended onto mine, and his tongue went into my mouth. That was my first kiss. It was the most disgusting thing that had ever happened to me. It tasted like ashtrays and orange Tic Tacs. His hand slid under my blouse, and I prayed it would be over soon.
When I woke up, I was looking into a security guard's face. I'd fallen down and hit my head. He let me go when he was sure I didn't have a concussion or anything. I remember the moment when I handed Miss Ryan's fuzzy sweater back to her. Something just clicked. I realized my sliding into her had something to do with her sweater. She had left something of herself—her essence—on it, and I picked it up somehow. I wouldn't learn the word empathy until a couple of years later, but I understood the concept. It's seeing life through someone else's eyes. I had a gift.
Or a curse, depending on how you looked at it.
When I got onto the bus to go home, I couldn't help but stare at the driver. He winked at me, and I hurried past him. For years after, I had nightmares about him biting my face off.
At first, it didn't happen that often. Maybe every few months. But the uncertainty was enough to make me scared to touch anything. It was hard to tell which objects carried an emotional charge. There were the obvious things, the items people cherished and loved—like wedding rings or photos of grandparents—but there were unexpected things, too. A borrowed pencil. A library book. Anything someone was touching when they experienced an extreme emotion.
For a while, I wrapped my fingers with tape to keep myself from accidentally touching anything dangerous. But then I forgot and got sleepy and rested my cheek on a desk. I slid into an older boy stealing cigarettes from the grocery store. I felt his heart pounding beneath his big, black coat and the sweat under his arms. When my teacher woke me up, I stared into her face, terrified she'd know about the bad thing I'd just been doing.
But then I realized everyone was doing bad things. My teacher was sneaking drinks of liquid that made my throat burn. My sister was cheating during a math test. The mailman tucked packages into a special bag to take home. People were doing good things, too—writing thank-you notes, holding doors for old ladies, smiling at each other—but those people weren't the majority. The fact is that most people keep secrets hidden behind their eyes.
Lately, I've been sliding more often. Once a month turned into once a week and then a couple times a week. Now, even if I can manage a few days without sliding, I end up exhausted and unfocused and even more susceptible to the slides than usual. It's like the sliding is picking up momentum somehow. It's like there's a reason behind it. I just wish I knew what it was.
In my room, I throw my backpack onto my bed, but the stress doesn't ease from my shoulders. Something is weighing me down. Maybe it's the way those ugly words felt coming out of Amber's mouth. Maybe it's Sophie's desperation. Maybe it's how Zane's smile made me buzz like there's electricity coursing through my veins. I don't know exactly what it is, but I need something to help me unwind.
I need music.
In my closet, behind my mountain of Converse shoes in all the colors of the rainbow, I keep a box of my mother's CDs. I don't know why I hide them; my dad doesn't care that I have them, and my sister couldn't be less interested in music from the nineties, but it's like, if I keep them packed away, they'll stay fresh—they'll keep my mother with me just a little longer.
I push a Pearl Jam CD into my laptop and then crawl onto my bed. I retrieve the astronomy book and run my fingers over the cover. It's black, sprinkled with peepholes of light. There's nothing as gorgeous as the night sky. Nothing.
Flipping through the pages, I find the corner I carefully turned down to mark my place. Black holes. They're so intense and sad. When massive stars die, their cores grow so dense with gravity that they pull other things in, suck them into infinity. Black holes seem impossible, like they defy the laws of physics, but there it all is, in black-and-white. I wish there were a textbook that would explain the phenomena of sliding to me.
The song "Alive" comes on, and my heart trips a little. I lean back against my pillow and listen to the words. I think it's about this kid finding out his father is dead. Even though the kid never knew his father, the death leaves a scar on him. An absence so all-encompassing, it's there even in his happiest moments.
I close my eyes and wish I could tell my mother about my day. I'd tell her I'm worried about Sophie and how there's a new boy who's really kind of hot and how I think Mattie and Amber are up to no good. I'd tell her I miss her. I'd tell her I love her. I'd tell her everything.
Chapter Four
A couple of hours later, Mattie and Amber spill into the kitchen, all ponytails and giggles and pom-poms. I roll my eyes over my glass of chocolate milk. Through the kitchen window, I see Samantha Phillips's car pull away from the curb. The ridiculous thing is that, instead of just ditching me as a friend, Samantha hangs out with my little sister now, like she's upgraded to a newer, shinier version of me. I suppose it was inevitable, since Mattie joined the cheerleading squad. And Mattie has way more in common with her than I ever did. I've heard Mattie spend hours on the phone with Samantha, debating the merits of thong underwear.
Mattie tosses her purse and pom-poms onto the kitchen table before raiding the fridge. "Hey!" She grimaces at me. "You finished the chocolate milk."
She pulls out a bottle of Evian and twists the cap off before taking a long gulp.
Amber helps herself to a bottle of water and shakes it at my sister. "You don't need chocolate milk, anyway, honey. Remember, we're off sugar and flour."
Mattie sticks out her tongue at Amber.
"So, what are the chances I can get you guys to lie low tonight?" I hoist myself onto the kitchen counter. "Rollins is coming over to watch movies."
At the mention of Rollins's name, Amber stands up straight. I can practically smell the pheromones coming off her.
"What will you give us to stay in my room?" Mattie, ever the negotiator, asks. Her gaze drifts up to the half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan on top of the refrigerator.
"There's loads of sugar in rum," I say, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.
"Booze doesn't count," Amber announces. "Your body burns booze calories superquick. Especially if we practice our new routine a few times." She swivels her hips and tosses her ponytail in either an epileptic seizure or their new routine.
"Please?" Mattie's eyes are pleading. "We'll just stay in my room. Won't we, Amber?"
Amber shrugs. "Whatever."
I sigh. If they actually stay in Mattie's room, I'll be free to enjoy the movie instead of having to explain the plot to Mattie, and Rollins won't have a freshman in heat crawling all over his lap. Besides, if I tell them no, they'll just sneak it anyway. Isn't it better that they drink here, where I can keep an eye on them?
"Fine," I say. "Just stay in your room."
"Yoink!" Mattie grabs the bottle of rum.
Amber paws through the refrigerator until she finds a two-liter of Coke. "Don't you have any Diet?" she whines, and I shoot her death rays until she looks away.
Armed with booze, Coke, glasses, ice, and a butter knife to mix their drinks, the girls bounce out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Just in time, too. At that moment, Rollins pulls up in his old Nissan Stanza.
I watch him climb out of the car and amble up the front walk, carrying something under his arm. He runs his fingers through his hair before ringing the doorbell. When I open the door, he holds his hands behind his back.
"Choose," he says.
"Choose what?"
"Choose a hand. Right or left."
I point at his right hand, and he brings it forward. I've chosen The Exorcist.
"Wise choice." He nods.
"Mos def," I say. "What's in the other hand?"
He slowly reveals his other hand. He's clutching a bundle of blue cloth. He shakes it out, and I see that it's a T-shirt. I suck in my breath. The cover of The Smashing Pumpkins' album Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, with an angel bursting out of a star, is on the front. Mellon Collie is one of my favorite albums. I've been trolling eBay for this shirt for ages.
"It came in with a shipment of vintage T-shirts," Rollins says. "Is it the right one?"
"OhmyGod!" I cry, jumping up and down. "I've been looking for this forever."
Rollins laughs at my excitement. "Are you sure? I can take it back if you don't like it. . . ." He playfully tugs it away from me, and I slap his hand.
Rollins follows me into the living room and flops onto our plaid couch, in his regular spot. I lay the T-shirt carefully over the top of the couch, a cheesy smile plastered on my face, and pop the DVD into the player before throwing myself into the recliner.
"So who's your dad operating on today?"
"Ah, I forgot to tell you. Conjoined twins."
Rollins's eyebrows jump with interest. "Really? Conjoined twins? Awesome."
I knew he'd be excited at the prospect of real, live conjoined twins. There was one time last year when we were so bored that we went to Goodwill and bought a size XXXL shirt we could both fit into. We went to the mall, and everyone stared at us while we fed each other sticky buns and went up and down the escalator. Rollins even accompanied me into the girls' bathroom and looked away while I peed. I know it wouldn't be fun to really be a conjoined twin, but we love the concept of it.
I fill him in on the details of the operation. In a weird way, I envy the soon-to-be-separated twins—assuming everything goes well. Soon they will be nestled in their bassinettes, able to lead normal, uncomplicated lives. I wish there was an operation my dad could do to fix whatever is wrong with me.
"That's intense. It's so cool that your dad is able to have that kind of impact," Rollins says, pulling a loose string off his T-shirt.
"Jared Bell saves the day again," I say.
I'm unable to stop the dark feeling that passes through me. Yeah, my dad has a positive effect on so many lives—just not mine. Maybe if I saw him more than a few minutes a day, if that. I immediately feel terrible for the thought. Selfish. Sick babies are way more important than my getting to hang out with my dad. He's a hero for being able to put right what nature made wrong.
I aim the remote control toward the DVD player to start the movie. The sky is just beginning to darken into night. Rollins interrupts the movie every few minutes with a snarky comment. I pull a quilt tight around me, wrapping myself in the moment, the familiarity. This is the way our friendship used to be, before we started drifting apart. I miss it.
Linda Blair's head is just about to start spinning like a top full of vomit when Mattie bursts into the living room, followed by Amber. Mattie bumps into the coffee table and giggles. Someone's been hitting the rum a little too hard.
"Oh, hello, lovely sister. So sorry to bother you. But Samantha's coming to pick us up, and we're going to a movie." She slurs her words slightly and laughs again.
Amber eyes Rollins hungrily. She plops down next to him on the couch and gives him a sly smile. The tiniest worm of envy works its way through the apple of my heart. I don't know where it comes from, but it annoys me and I squash it by glaring at my sister.
"Mattie," I growl. "You said you were going to stay here tonight." My eyes gravitate toward Amber and Rollins on the couch. She's batting her eyes at him, and it looks like he's trying to inch away from her.
"Come on, Vee. All the Poms are going to be there. Do you want me to miss out?" She yanks up the volume on her "poor me" shtick, the one I always fall for.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Amber moving closer to Rollins and hitching up her skirt. She lifts a single finger and reaches out to touch Rollins's pierced lip. "I like your piercing. I bet it feels great—"
I interrupt Amber. "Fine, Mattie. Go to the movie. But you'd better be back here by midnight."
A blaring comes from outside, probably Samantha leaning on her horn.
Mattie whoops. "Come on, Amber, let's go." She pries Amber away from Rollins, and the two of them skip out the door.
The older-sister part of me winces at the thought of letting Mattie go out, as drunk as she is, but the rest of me feels suddenly lightened. At least they're gone. They're Samantha's problem now. And why do I always have to be the teenybopper police, anyway? I'm not the parent. I deserve a night to just enjoy myself, don't I?
Rollins looks relieved, too. "Should we rewind? We missed the best part." It takes me a moment to realize Rollins is talking about the movie.
"Oh, yeah." I find the remote control under a pillow on the floor. After locating the part we were watching before we were so rudely interrupted, I push Play.
I settle back into the chair and pull the blanket up to my chin. After a while, my eyelids start to droop. I shake my head, trying to wake myself up.
"Vee? Are you okay?"
I hold up a finger and take deep breaths, but it does no good. I feel that I'm about to go. Quickly, I take inventory of what I'm touching. Chair, blanket, clothes. So I could slide into anyone who's sat in this chair recently—my dad or Mattie. Shit.
I jump out of the chair, not wanting to slide into my father in the middle of some gross medical procedure, but it's too late. I feel myself falling to the floor. Rollins cries out.
Wherever I am, it's not the hospital. I'm not at the movie theater, either. I'm in a bedroom—a girl's bedroom, it looks like.
The girl I've become cries as though someone ripped her heart in half. She sobs, clutching a lacy blanket, wiping snot on it. Someone rubs her back. The pressure against her skin moves in circles, this way and that. It feels so good. It feels like everything I should have but don't.
The sensation calms me, but it does nothing to stop the noise coming out of the girl I've slipped into. She wails like a banshee for ten seconds, then gulps in air until it feels like her lungs are going to explode. The pink walls, punctuated with framed pictures of ballerinas, seem to be closing in.
A middle-aged woman, presumably the back-rubber, comes into view. Her cheeks are full and flushed, and she reaches out a soft hand to tousle the girl's hair.
This is what a mother is.
"Honey, those girls are no good for you. I've been telling you that all along."
The girl just cries harder. I can barely see through her tears.
"Sophie," the woman says.
The realization creeps up on me: I'm inside Sophie Jacobs. What could I have been touching that would have Sophie's imprint on it? I suppose she's been over at our house enough times. She's probably sat in that recliner.
The scene in the locker room this morning comes rushing back to me. Amber and Mattie. Who else could "those girls" be? They betrayed her somehow, went forward with their plan to "put her in her place." But how? What did they do to her?
"I don't understand," Sophie says. "How could they be so mean? They're supposed to be my friends." She wipes her eyes with the comforter, clearing my vision for the moment. Her mother hovers inches away. She hooks one finger under Sophie's chin and tilts her head up, looks her straight in the eye.
"Sophie, listen to me. True friends would never do what they did to you. Do you understand me? And on your birthday, no less. What kind of monsters do that? The best thing you can do is cut them loose. Be strong. You'll be so much better off."
What did they do? What did Mattie and Amber do that was so terrible?
Sophie sputters. "Mom. I'm not strong. I'm not."
An image slices through my mind: Sophie, on her hands and knees in the bathroom. I wonder if that's what Sophie's thinking of. I wish I could reach in, pull out her thoughts, examine them like a roll of film. But I don't have that kind of power. I am only a passenger. A witness.
Sophie's mother speaks firmly. "You're stronger than you'll ever know."
Sophie's breath gradually becomes more even. Her mother holds out her hands, and Sophie grasps them. They feel soft. I don't want to like it so much, this feeling of a mother. I don't want to know what I'm missing.
"Come on. Let's go have some chocolate-chip ice cream. Don't think I haven't noticed how skinny you've been getting."
Sophie tenses. Again, I remember Sophie curved around the toilet. Something within her breaks. Her body relaxes, her decision made. She lets her mother lead her out of the room.
"Sylvia?"
Rollins's face is inches from my own. I'm sprawled on the floor, and he's leaning over me, his brow furrowed. He pulls me into a sitting position, and his fingers catch on something around my wrist.
Sophie's bracelet, meant for Mattie. That's what made me slide. She must have imprinted on it while she was braiding it. I slip it off and toss it onto the coffee table.
"What's that? You joining the cheerleading squad?"
I rub my temples. "Ugh. No. That's for Mattie. Argh. My head."
Rollins rubs my shoulder sympathetically. "Twice in one day. You must be exhausted."
"Yeah." I sigh. A part of me, small but growing every day, wants to come clean to Rollins. I mean, Rollins knows everything about me. Everything but that. Rollins is ruled by logic, though. If I told him I slid into other people's minds, he'd laugh at me.
Wouldn't he?
Peering into his brown eyes, I wonder if I've misjudged him. Maybe I could tell him. Maybe I could make him understand.
"Would it sound crazy if . . ." I trail off, not sure where to go from there. I remember my father's expression when I told him about sliding—as if I'd just said an alien had visited me in the night.
"I'm sorry," I say, pulling away from him. "Really. I'm fine."
Rollins looks disappointed. I feel like I've let him down. I know he wants me to open up, confide in him—but I can't. I just can't.
"I should go," he says. He grabs his leather jacket off the back of the couch. I follow him out of the living room and into the darkness of the front entryway, my mouth opening and closing like a fish's. I'm afraid this is it—if he leaves now, our friendship will never go back to normal. I want to say stop. I want to say stay, but nothing comes out.
We stand near the door. Rollins's face softens for a split second, and he reaches out and gently brushes my hair back, revealing the bump on my forehead. I don't like the way it feels, so exposed. Wincing, I push his hand away.
He shakes his head and turns to open the door.
"See you later," he says, his jaw firm, and he disappears into the crisp night air. After a moment, his car flares to life and roars away. I stand there, watching his taillights get smaller and smaller. There's a bitter taste in my mouth. Finally, I hit the switch for the porch light so my sister will be able to see when she gets home.
Chapter Five
I wander into the middle of my room and just stand there for a minute, not knowing what to do with myself. There's something about being alone on a Friday night—it's more lonely than any other night, I think. It's like my loserishness has been highlighted by the simple fact that I'm standing here by myself at nine p.m. on a Friday.
I have to put on some Weezer to make the space a little less quiet. I stare at the walls, at the Nine Inch Nails and Green Day posters hanging over my bed. They remind me of Rollins—he'd call me every time something he thought I'd like came in. "You and your old nineties music," he'd say, grinning, shaking his head.
The way he walked out tonight, though—it makes me scared I've lost him for good. I've shut down his every attempt to find out what's really going on with me. I know what Dr. Moran would say—I'm pushing him away before he has a chance to disappoint me.
I try to find something in my room from before we were friends, a hint at what my life used to be like, but there's nothing. Finally, I turn to my closet. I push aside the clothes I wear every day and peek in the back. It's like a time capsule—my old cheerleading uniform, the preppy sweaters I used to wear when I hung out with Samantha.
When my fingers hook the glittery purple gown I wore to homecoming last year, I yank my hand back as if from a cobra. The poisonous memories come rushing back.
On the first day of sophomore year, I felt this heady rush of possibility. Cheerleading tryouts were coming up, and Samantha and I pinkie-swore we'd get on the squad. When we did, we celebrated by sneaking wine coolers from her older brother's fridge.
My locker was right next to Scott Becker's—before people started calling him Scotch. Samantha and I both had the hots for him. He was smaller then, with sandy-blond hair and dimples. He did this thing where he'd stare at me until I looked, and then he'd get all red and turn his gaze to the floor.
On the last Friday in September, he asked me to go to the homecoming dance with him. I thought Samantha would be excited for me. Okay, that's bullshit. I knew she'd be pissed. But I said yes anyway.
If I could take back anything that happened in my life—well, besides my mother dying, of course—it would be saying yes to Scott Becker.
Samantha turned mean, getting the rest of the cheerleaders to turn against me. In health class, we did these PowerPoint presentations on sexually transmitted diseases. Samantha's was about herpes, and she Photoshopped my head onto a purple dinosaur and called it the Herpasaurus Rex. Everyone laughed, including the teacher.
Samantha spread a rumor that I gave head to all the seniors on the football team. My phone number was in every stall in the boys' bathroom. Saturday mornings, our trees were full of toilet paper.
Whenever a cheerleader cupped her hand around someone's ear and whispered a secret, all the while staring at me, I felt like dying. But to give in would be to let them win, and there was no way I was going to do that. I tried to make it seem like the rumors didn't bother me. Like I didn't care.
Only at night, when sleep was impossible, did I cry.
The weekend before homecoming, my dad took Mattie and me to the mall to look for a dress. He pressed a few bills, crisp from the ATM, into my hand and headed for the food court. Mattie pirouetted and skipped by my side, but it wasn't all fun and frills for me. It was war.
I wanted a dress that would stun, that would show everyone how little I thought of the rumors and pranks. It needed to bring the boys to their knees and the girls to their senses. It needed to double as armor.
At one end of the mall, next to Pretzels 'n' More, we found a store called Tonight, Tonight. The dress jumped out at me from the window—a dark-purple, silky, sparkly thing. It reminded me of the stream in the woods behind our house, of water spilling over rocks and twinkling in the moonlight.
When I put it on, I felt strong in a way I'd never felt before. I felt like someone else, someone older and wiser, someone who knew what she wanted out of life. The front came down dangerously low, skimming the tops of my barely-there breasts, but the saleslady pulled out these chicken-cutlet things and stuffed them in my bra, and it was like I had bloomed.
When we got home, I tried my dress on and sashayed down the stairs like a princess. I could tell my dad wasn't too crazy about the dress and the chicken-cutlet things, but he said, "I guess you're old enough to pick your own clothes" and "You only go to your first high school dance once" and "You sort of look like your mother in that thing"—and then he stopped talking and went into his study.
A guy on the football team with a goatee drove us to the dance, but first he took us to Kapler Park and pulled out a joint. I said no to the pot, but I took a few swigs from the bottle of Cutty Sark that Scott had lifted from his parents' liquor cabinet. It made me feel the way the dress did—warm and grown-up and free. When we all felt light and fuzzy, we headed to the dance. It occurred to me that the goatee guy probably shouldn't be driving, but the liquor made me feel like nothing bad could really happen, and I didn't want to seem like a baby.
"Come dance with me," Scott whispered in my ear. I let him lead me out to the middle of the dance floor, and it seemed like the whole crowd parted to let us through, just like in a movie. A slow song played, and I leaned against him and closed my eyes. He smelled like pot and orange shampoo. It felt perfect. But then a familiar feeling crept over me—I was about to slide—and I mumbled to Scott that I needed to sit down.
"You want to go sit somewhere alone?"
I nodded and rubbed my eyes. I could barely stand up. By the time Scott maneuvered me to the edge of the gym, by the doors that led to the locker rooms, I'd already slid into someone else.
It was a strange feeling. I'd left my body, but I was still in the gym. It was just like my perspective had changed. The body I'd slid into was standing near the punch bowl, sipping sweet liquid out of a paper cup. Her beautiful pink ring flashed under the disco lights. That's when I realized who I'd slid into. I was wearing Samantha's silver heels, ones I'd borrowed long before our fight, ones that she'd said made her feel like Cinderella.
My ex-best friend watched Scott drag my body into the boys' locker room.
My worst fear was coming true. When you abandon your body, you leave it vulnerable. Maybe Scott was just looking for a place to sit with me and wait until I woke up, but then why didn't he just prop me up on one of the folding chairs set up along the perimeter of the gym? Or, better yet, why didn't he find a chaperone and ask for help?
I was pretty sure I knew why, but I couldn't stomach the reason. I couldn't think about what was happening to my body without me to protect it. I desperately wished I could force Samantha to follow Scott, to punch him in the mouth, or even just to scream for help. But there was nothing I could do.
After a few moments, I saw a boy with long brown hair and a lip piercing duck into the locker room. He was in my Spanish class—a new kid named Archie Rollins. Samantha and I had laughed out loud the first day Señora Gomez read roll call. Who names their son Archie?
My panic grew. I thought of a book I'd read about a girl who got wasted at a party. Some random guy took pictures of her naked body and posted them all over the internet. Everyone saw—even her parents.
Come on, Samantha, I thought. I know we're in a fight, but how can you stand here and not do anything? How?
That's when I returned.
I awoke to sounds of a scuffle. My body was laid out on one of those uncomfortable wooden benches in the boys' locker room, my dress around my waist. Two struggling figures became clearer until I figured out it was Scott and that guy, Archie.
Archie got a good punch in, and it caught Scott right under his chin. Scott's arms pinwheeled, searching for something to grab on to, but there was nothing. He fell hard on his back, groaning and looking like he wouldn't be getting up for a while.
Turning to me, Archie held out a hand. "Come on," he said, his voice gruff. "Let's get you out of here." I let him lead me out of the locker room, up the stairs, and outside into the cool night air. He folded me into his car, and I let him because I wasn't thinking about much of anything but how I needed a shower.
On Monday morning, I overheard a cheerleader whisper to another sophomore that I'd gone down on Scott in the boys' locker room at the dance. "Who told you that?" the sophomore asked. "Samantha," the cheerleader responded, "so you know it's true. And then Scott yakked all over the dance floor." They giggled.
"Scotch Becker," they called him. To this day, he goes by a nickname he earned the night he tried to take advantage of me. Every time I hear it, I want to vomit.
After Spanish class, I confronted Samantha. "You saw it," I said. "You saw Scott dragging me into the locker room, but you just stood there and sipped your punch and didn't do anything." My voice was shaky, and I felt like I was going to cry, but I wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
Samantha stood with her folder clutched to her chest, her lips pressed together. In her eyes, I saw a mixture of anger, regret, and fear. I could tell she was wondering how I knew she saw it all when I was unconscious at the time. She was afraid of me, of what I knew and how I knew it. She turned and scuttled away.
When I got to lunch that day, Samantha was sitting on Scotch's lap. Everyone at their table followed me with their eyes as I grabbed a plate and filled it with some spinach leaves and croutons and ranch dressing. I sat at an empty table near the windows. That was when Archie—well, Rollins—sat down across from me. He had a bag of Doritos and a can of Mountain Dew. He looked at me easily, like there was nothing out of the ordinary, like he sat with me every day.
"What's up?" he asked, and we've been best friends ever since.
I didn't tell anyone what happened to me that night. Maybe I should have. Probably I should have. But I didn't, and even thinking about talking about it makes my skin crawl. It seems easier to pretend it never happened. The problem is . . . it did happen. And I carry it around with me every day of my life.
I don't even bother to undress, just lie on top of my covers, replaying my conversation with Rollins over and over again in my head, wishing it had gone a different way. What if I'd told Rollins the truth? What if he'd believed me? Does the fact that I couldn't be honest with Rollins mean I don't really value his friendship?
I sigh and turn onto my left side. The A Clockwork Orange poster on my wall is illuminated by the streetlight. I get into a staring contest with it, but it's no good. The eyeball with the thick black lashes always wins. I haul myself out of bed and pad across the room, to the window. My mother's old telescope waits for me.
She loved the stars. Even though she'd majored in English literature, my father said, she took so many classes in astronomy she was able to pick it up as a minor. Though so much about my mother seems intangible now—the way she smelled, the things she'd whisper before I fell asleep at night—this seems real to me. I'm able to look through her telescope and see exactly what she saw. It makes me feel close to her.
Stooping down, I look through the eyepiece. Despite the light pollution in our neighborhood, I'm able to make out Polaris, the North Star, and from that I'm able to identify Ursa Major and Ursa Minor. Mama bear and baby bear. There's something so comforting to me about the constellations, the mother and baby, cradled in the sky for all eternity. I stare until the stars go blurry and my breath goes soft.
Something in my pocket pokes me. I pull it out and smooth it against my jeans. It's the page from the calendar that Sophie taped to our door earlier. I start to feel woozy, like I might slide. Oh no. Not again. My vision pulses, and my knees go out, and I fall deep, deep down, into a hole.
I'm sitting at a white desk, a pad of fancy stationery angled before me. Words crawl like spiders across the page, flowing from the pen in my gloved hand.
Who am I?
And why am I wearing gloves?
The words I'm writing say: I don't deserve this.
As I stand, I notice the pink walls and the pictures of ballerinas. Sophie's room.
There is no sound.
I turn away from the desk, and I see the bed. It's definitely Sophie's bed, but it's a different color now. Earlier, the bed was covered with a pristine white comforter. Now, the bed is maroon. And wet. So wet. There's something on the bed. It is Sophie. Her inky-black hair frames her white face. Her arms lie helpless at her sides, a long slash in each wrist.
No.
No.
This isn't happening.
That's when I see what I'm holding in my gloved hands. A long, silver blade.
Oh. Shit. Oh. No.
Who did this to her? Who did I slide into?
But, before I can figure it out, I am gone.
My eyes fly open and I sit up, grabbing at my legs, my head, my face, to make sure I'm really back. The light from the streetlamp shines in my eyes, blinding me for a moment until I dodge out of the way. I pull myself to my feet and look around. Telescope, rocking chair, heap of dirty clothes. I'm back in my room.
What happened?
My eyes fall on the small piece of paper on the floor—the one I thought Sophie had taped to our door earlier. If she'd been the one to put it there, I would have slid into Sophie just now.
But I didn't.
I slid into someone else. Someone bad. Someone with a knife.
The memory of Sophie and her open wrists spurs me into action. I have to call, make sure she's okay. The only problem is that I don't have her number.
Mattie and Amber do.
I dash out the door and down the dark hallway to my sister's room. But no one's there. Her bed is empty, the wrinkled sheets nestled around no one. Mattie and Amber are still out.
I look at the clock. It's nearly midnight.
They should have been home by now if they were just going to a movie. As I return to my room to find my phone, I wonder what happened to them. Most likely they just crashed at Samantha's house for the night.
They're fine, I reassure myself. Mattie is fine.
I dial Mattie's number and wait. No answer. I dial again. No answer.
I make myself sit down and breathe. Just breathe.
For a moment, I think about calling my father. It's odd that he's not home by now. The only reason he'd still be at the hospital is if the conjoined twins are having problems, in which case I can't really call him up and bother him.
What do I do?
If I look up Sophie's home phone number, I can call her parents. My clock says 12:03. It's so late. They'll be angry.
Shaking my head, I realize that of course I have to call them. If what I saw was real, someone has to help Sophie. Now.
I fire up my laptop and type in Sophie's last name. Jacobs. There are six listings under that name in our area. I have no idea what her parents' names are. I'm going to have to try each of them.
I call the first number. No one picks up.
On my second try, a groggy-sounding woman answers.
"Is Sophie there?"
"You must have the wrong number," the woman says angrily, and hangs up.
Please let the third time be the charm. Please.
The phone rings.
"Hello?" a man asks cautiously.
"Is Sophie there?"
"She's asleep, like I was just a moment ago."
"Please, sir. Please go check on her."
"What is this about—"
"Please, I don't have time to explain. Please go check on her."
I hear the man set the phone down. A second passes, stretching out into forever. Another second. Another.
And then the screaming begins.
Chapter Six
I sit up, groggy and confused. After swiping my hand over my eyes, it comes away smeared with black eye makeup.
My alarm clock says it's noon.
All at once, the night before rushes back to me like a bad dream. Blood on white sheets. Sophie's blood. The screams. The terrible screams.
The phone had gone dead after only about a minute, but I know the sounds of terror will live in me forever. I tried to call back several times, but the phone line was busy. Sophie's father must have hung up and called 911.
I'd sat up in bed for the longest time, chewing caffeine pills and waiting for Mattie and Amber to get home. I was determined not to close my eyes until I knew my sister was safe. But that's the thing about sleep—you can't avoid it forever. It waited until my defenses were down and sucked me under.
I trip over my blankets, racing to my sister's room. It's still empty. Where could she be?
I hear something down the hall—someone in the bathroom, retching into the toilet. I run to the door, try the knob, but it's locked. I bang on the door.
"Mattie!"
The noise stops long enough for the person in the bathroom to croak out a response. It's Amber. "Stop. Yelling. Mattie's in the kitchen."
My bare feet slap against the wooden steps as I run down to the kitchen. I have to find Mattie, have to tell her before she finds out on her own.
When I reach the kitchen, though, I see that I'm too late. Mattie is sitting on the floor, her back to the cabinets. Her skin is deathly pale. The mascara that's migrated to her cheeks looks like Japanese characters. She clutches her cell phone in a colorless hand.
"Mattie?" I say softly.
She shows no sign of hearing or understanding.
"Mattie." I sink down next to her on the yellow tile and wrap my arms around her. My touch seems to bring her to life, and she turns her head toward me.
"It's Sophie," she says. "She's dead."
Mattie trembles under my hug.
"She killed herself."
The night before washes over me, and I'm pulled back into the horror. I can see Sophie's wide, dead eyes. I remember the way the knife felt in my hand.
Sophie didn't kill herself.
She was murdered.
And I was there.
By the time I scrape Mattie off the kitchen floor and help her to her bedroom, Amber is gone, leaving behind only a small puddle of puke in the bathroom.
I tuck Mattie into bed, pull the covers up to her chin like I would for a child. She is a child, I have to remind myself. No matter how much rum she drinks or how short her skirts are or how she tells me to mind my own effing business, she is only a child. The evidence is everywhere—the unicorn collection on her shelf, the ballerina jewelry box on her bureau, the way she holds my hand and asks me not to leave. I tell her I'll only be gone a second, just long enough to call Dad and let him know what's going on, but she shakes until I give in and stay.
Around one, I hear the front door open. A breathy voice drifts down the hall, singing a pop song. Vanessa, our cleaning lady. She comes every Saturday to do the vacuuming and the scrubbing and the dusting.
"Knock, knock," she calls out, swinging open Mattie's door. She wears super-tight jeans and a low-cut black shirt, more appropriate for dancing at a club than cleaning a house. Her eyes widen in alarm when she spots Mattie in bed, looking positively terminal. "What happened?"
I rise and block Vanessa's view, mouthing, Hangover. Vanessa, still in college, nods in sympathy. She ducks back out of the room and shuts the door so softly I can barely hear the click.
When Mattie is finally snoring, I tiptoe out of the room and dial my father's number.
That night, Mattie and I sit on the stairs, waiting for the front door to open. Dad said he'd be home in an hour, but it's nearing dinnertime. Something must have gone wrong with the twins, to keep him away when something this major is going on.
Mattie leans her head against the wall. A photo in a silver frame hangs a foot above her head; in it, she and I are frozen in time—she is nine, and I am eleven. Between us, Mickey Mouse grins, but we cannot bring ourselves to smile. Our mother had died a month before. When my dad was going through the thickest stretch of his forest of grief, he sent us to Disney World with his parents. Why anyone wanted to document that trip, why he chose to hang this picture on the wall when we were so clearly a broken family, is anyone's guess. Maybe he needed to prove to himself that life does indeed go on, even after your wife dies, even after your children's mother is gone.
My left hand hovers over my sister's shoulder. I feel like I should rub her back the way Sophie's mother rubbed hers when she was upset, but I can't quite bring myself to do it. Something in the gesture would be false. I can't offer her the comfort she needs right now. In order to give something, you need to have it inside of you to give. And right now there's nothing inside me at all.
Nothing but the image of Sophie's dead body. It's all I can see. It's all I am.
All day, I've been picking up my cell phone, imagining myself dialing the number for the police station. But then I get stuck. I can't think of what I'd say. I can't think of how to explain.
I'm just about to get up and go into the kitchen to look for something to microwave for dinner when the door swings open. My dad stands in the doorway, a duffel bag slung over his trench coat and bags under his eyes.
"Daddy!" Mattie runs to him and hugs his thin frame tightly. He circles his arms around her, but there's a stiffness to his movement.
His eyes drift up to me. "I'm so sorry, girls. It was touch-and-go at the hospital. We thought one of the babies might have a blood clot. It was life-or-death."
"I'm going to see what's in the freezer," I announce, standing. I'm ashamed of the way I feel—resentful that those babies should take priority over us, his own flesh and blood.
"No, Vee. We need real food. I'll make something." He pulls back from Mattie gently.
"That's ridiculous, Dad. You're exhausted. I'll just make a frozen pizza."
He waves away my concern and grabs Mattie's hand, pulling her into the yellow light of the kitchen. "I'm fine."
I follow them, if only to make sure my father doesn't pass out standing up. Mattie takes one of the stools behind the counter, and I take the other. Together, we watch my father spin the knob on the oven and pull items out of the refrigerator: eggs, butter, an eggplant.
Watching him cook soothes me more than anything he could say. He guides a knife through the purple bulb with expert precision, cutting thin, even slices. Each egg makes a satisfying crack when he taps it against the sink. Each strip of eggplant is dipped in the egg mixture and then in bread crumbs and then laid carefully in a pan. Finally, he sprinkles flakes of cheese on top and slides the pan carefully into the oven.
Though my father has a recipe for my mother's famous eggplant parmesan in a bright-orange recipe book on the shelf above the sink, he's made it so many times he doesn't even need to look.
The recipe book, printed in my mother's own handwriting, has been a guide for him throughout the years. A recipe for every scrape, every disappointment, every heartbreak. It's his way of channeling my mother when he doesn't know what to do, what to say.
He turns and looks at us, his two girls, and only then do I see his tears.
My dad sits at the head of the table, like he always does when he's home for dinner. Mattie lowers her head, hands folded, as he recites the prayer. I fiddle with my napkin.
"Bless us, O Lord . . ."
I notice Mattie fingering my mother's gold cross necklace, which she's only once taken off, to put on a longer chain when she outgrew the old one. She mouths the words to the prayer but does not make a sound. How can she believe in a Lord that would take our mother away, would allow a girl as young as Sophie to be butchered?
". . . and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, amen."
"Amen," Mattie mutters.
I sigh loudly.
"So." My father clears his throat, reaching for a bowl of green beans. "I spoke with Sophie's parents. They're thinking the funeral will be on Tuesday." He runs his hand through his thick black hair, the way he does when he's nervous.
He tries to pass the bowl to Mattie, who makes no effort to take it from him. I reach across the table to snatch it and spoon some beans onto my plate, even though I have no appetite.
"Squeegee? Are you all right?"
Mattie is staring at nothing.
"Mattie?" My father's voice is stern. If I didn't know him so well, I'd think he was angry, not worried out of his skull. He communicates better through his kitchen creations than he does verbally.
Mattie shakes her head slightly, and her eyes focus on me, then my father.
"I'm just not very hungry. I'm going to go lie down, if that's okay?"
My father nods, and she pushes back her chair and pads softly out of the dining room.
He shifts his stare to me. I make sure my hair is hanging over the bump on my forehead so he can't see it. I don't want to explain. I don't want to talk.
After a moment, he says, "Vee, you need to eat something. You're skin and bones."
Aren't we all? Isn't that all we are? I saw evidence of it myself. The gory scene from the night before keeps looping through my mind. I force myself to spear some beans and stuff them into my mouth, even though I don't feel like eating.
"So how are you doing? Did you have any episodes this week? You've been taking your pills, haven't you?"
I make a noncommittal noise. I have been taking pills, but not the Provigil. Caffeine is the only thing I can count on right now—to keep me awake, to keep me from sliding back into that nightmare world. I've been popping them ever since I found Mattie on the kitchen floor.
"I'm fine," I say, choking down another forkful of green beans. "Just worry about Mattie."
He's quiet for a moment. His eyes are on his plate, his glass of water. He looks everywhere but at my face.
"You don't think she'll try anything like . . ." He can't bring himself to finish the sentence, but I know he's concerned that Mattie will do what Sophie did—well, what everyone thinks she did.
I've been worrying about this myself. Mattie isn't as strong as she tries to make everyone at school believe. She cried when the class hamster died—in the eighth grade. Who knows how she'll handle the death of her best friend? Right now she's in shock, but what will happen when it wears off?
I shake my head. I don't think she'd do that.
My father's gaze rests on Mattie's chair.
"I'm going to talk to the hospital about taking a few days off. But, Vee, if there's an emergency, I'll need you to step up and help with your sister."
I tear my eyes away from my plate and look at him. Really look at him. I long to tell him what I saw last night, how Sophie didn't really kill herself like everyone thinks she did. I want to pull him into the kitchen and force the phone into his hands and make him call the police.
But then what?
I've been down that road. I know what will happen.
No one will believe me. I'll have to start going to the shrink again. They'll probably heap some new meds on me, ones that make me into a robot, ones that make me dead inside.
No. I have to figure this out myself.
"Can I be excused?"
He studies my face, then nods. "Sure, hon."
For just a moment, I glimpse the father I used to know—the one who killed spiders and checked for monsters under my bed and made everything better with just a Band-Aid and a kiss. He looks like his old self. As I grab my plate and head for the kitchen, I try to remember the last time he looked like that. If I had to give an exact date, I would say it was before the day I tried to tell him what happens when I slide.
The day he didn't believe me.
Chapter Seven
The fluorescent light in the bathroom shines on my crime. I slide the mirror to the left, reach past an almost-full bottle of Provigil, and grab a small plastic bottle. My dad hides the Ambien way in the back of the cabinet, for when his mind is full of broken babies and he can't sleep. I mean, I get it. If it were only me standing between a six-day-old and death, the stress would get to me, too.
I shake two of the little white pills into my hand, pretty little saviors, and stick them in my pocket before filling a paper cup with water and heading toward my sister's room.
The only parts of her I can see are her fuchsia toenails. She's a lump in the bed, a mountain of blankets.
"Mattie?"
I can tell she's awake from the way the comforter wiggles. A muffled "Mmmmmph?" emerges from beneath the blanket.
"I brought you something."
She pushes down the covers and stares at me blankly. I've never seen her this way. All our lives, she was the one who cared if her hair was brushed, if her shoes and purse matched. Now, her hair is matted in clumps. She still hasn't washed the dried mascara from her cheeks.
I sit down on the bed next to her and hold out my hand with the pills. She takes them without a word, places them in her mouth, and washes them down with the water I offer. She looks at me, and her eyes are dead.
"She won't be at school on Monday." It's as if this fact has just occurred to her.
"No."
"We were supposed to present our Spanish projects."
Mattie's face crumples, and the tears start to come. She leans toward me and buries her face in the space between my head and shoulder, making my T-shirt wet. I pat Mattie's back, feeling awkward. There's nothing to say, but I'm hoping just being here is enough.
Minutes go by, maybe even an hour.
Finally, she speaks. "It's my fault."
"No. It's not." I can't explain how I know this, but I can't let her carry around this guilt that does not belong to her. Though she's done a lot of stupid things in her life, she is not responsible for this, this thing that is bigger than both of us.
"We did something to her," she whispers, so softly I can barely hear her.
"What?" I lean closer.
"Amber and me. We did something really mean."
I remember Sophie's mother saying a true friend would never do what they did.
"What is it, Mattie?" I ask gently.
Mattie swallows a sob. "Last year Amber and I slept over at Sophie's house. We were making ice-cream sundaes, and we had a food fight. Just being dumb. Amber squirted chocolate syrup all over Sophie's hair."
"Yeah?" I prod. That doesn't sound so bad.
"While Sophie was taking a shower, Amber snuck into the bathroom and took a picture with her phone. I told her to erase it. I thought she did. Until yesterday. Amber came up with this plan to get back at Sophie for screwing around with Scotch. And I . . . I went along with it."
There's this ball of dread growing in my stomach. I don't want her to go on, but I have to hear the rest. I have to know the truth.
"What did you do?"
She takes a second to answer.
"Amber sent it to the football team."
I cover my eyes. That's what Scotch and his buddy must have been looking at on the bleachers—a picture of Sophie's naked body. Shit. I can't think of a more terrible thing to do to a girl with body issues.
"I tried to stop her. I really did. But you know Amber."
Oh, Sophie. Poor Sophie.
So that was their big plan, the one Amber was plotting in the locker room, the one intended to take Sophie down a notch. Now the scene in Sophie's bedroom—her sobbing, her mother desperately trying to comfort her—makes heartbreaking sense. But, even so, I know Sophie didn't kill herself. She was murdered.
"Do you think . . . Do you think that's why . . ." Mattie's voice breaks.
I pull Mattie closer. "That had nothing to do with her death."
"But," Mattie says, her voice no more than a ghost of a sound, "I heard there was a note. She said, 'I don't deserve this.' What else could she have been talking about?"
The memory of the letter comes rushing back. Why did the killer leave that note? Just to make the suicide scenario more believable? What made him—or her—choose that exact phrasing?
"I don't know," I say, trying to think of a plausible explanation to give Mattie, one that doesn't involve a psycho slaughtering her best friend. "Maybe she was just talking about her life."
I wish I could tell her that Sophie's death wasn't the result of a stupid prank. But, to do that, I would have to explain how I knew, and even in Mattie's state, I don't think she'd believe me.
Mattie eases back onto her pillow and yanks her pink bedspread over her head. Light from the streetlamp sneaks through the slats in her venetian blinds. I rise and pull them closed. On my way out of her room, I see the little sheep night-light she's had since she was a baby. I flip it on and leave the door open.
I wash four caffeine pills down with a swallow of Mountain Dew even though my hands are shaking and spots bounce across my field of vision. It's the only way to stay alert, to avoid the vulnerability that comes with sleepiness.
My psychology textbook is open on my bed, but I'm not able to focus on the various theories of motivation. Sophie's glassy stare keeps coming back to haunt me. Every few minutes, I relive the terror of the night before.
The terror of seeing Sophie Jacobs dead.
I hear something snap outside, and my blood runs cold. Could it be the killer? Did they realize I'd witnessed their dirty deed and come to get rid of me? I roll off my bed and crawl over to the window. I muster every ounce of courage I possess and peek out into the dark yard. There's nothing but the usual shadows twitching in the night.
Exhaling, I lower my blinds and return to my bed.
I tap my highlighter against the textbook and realize I've got to be more proactive. If I'm not going to tell the police what I saw, I have to figure out who killed Sophie Jacobs—and why. I rack my brain, reviewing every murder mystery I've ever seen on TV.
What does the hero usually do?
It seems the only place to start is to list the prime suspects. I grab my notebook and turn to a new page. Somehow, writing my thoughts down makes me feel more productive. Now. Where to start?
Well, there's Amber. Supposedly one of Sophie's best friends, she's definitely proven in the last couple of days that she has no loyalty whatsoever. And it was so weird how she fled the house this afternoon without saying a word. I jot her name down. I'm pretty sure she was jealous of Sophie—if not for her closeness with my sister, then definitely for the attention she was getting from Scotch, one of the most popular guys in school.
Ahhh, Scotch. I write down his name and underline it twice. Would-be date rapist and all-around asshole. But what motive would he have for killing Sophie?
The pieces of the puzzle are scrambled in my head, mocking me. Some of the edges are jagged, some are smooth. It seems like they should fit together, but I'm missing one piece—the most important piece.
I remember last night, how I bent down at my telescope, looking through the lens, peering at the perfect stars in the clear night sky. Something had poked me in the thigh, something sharp in my pocket.
The calendar page I'd been holding when I slid.
Holy shit.
The killer was at our house that day.
The killer . . .
Wait. That piece of paper is the biggest clue I have about who killed Sophie. I have to find it.
I toss the notebook aside and hurl myself onto the floor, searching frantically for the calendar page. There's nothing by the telescope. Maybe I accidentally kicked it under my bed in all the commotion. I lower my cheek to the carpet and peek underneath. There's nothing. Not even dust bunnies. Vanessa's so anal, she routinely pushes our beds aside and vacuums underneath.
Vanessa!
Could she have picked up the page, thinking it was garbage?
I look in my trash can. Nothing but a Target bag lining the inside.
I race downstairs. Sometimes Vanessa empties the smaller trash cans into the bigger one in the kitchen. Crossing my fingers, I pull open the cupboard below the kitchen sink and tilt the garbage can to look in. Just a banana peel. I'm about to go outside and look through the recycling bin when I smell something burning.
No. Please, no.
But I only have to step into the backyard for my hopes of using the paper to find the killer to be ruined. My father stands alone before a roaring blaze in our fire pit. He turns to look at me as I join him dejectedly.
"Seemed like a good night for a fire," he says.
Chapter Eight
In biology class on Monday, my eyes start to droop during a film about the cardiovascular system. It's been hours since my last caffeine pill. On the screen, blood cells with wide eyes and smiling little faces perform a dance and explain how they do their job. A heart bulges, filling with ruby-red fluid, then contracts, releasing the blood into the arteries.
I close my eyes and remember it all.
Her lips are parted as though she is about to say something, but she will never speak again. Black hair against white skin. The blood seeps into her bedspread, creating a red silhouette.
I wonder what her last thoughts were. I wonder whose was the last face she saw. The face I was behind. I can't catch my breath. I swallow and swallow and swallow—deep, burning mouthfuls of air, but it's not enough.
"Sylvia!" Mrs. Williams sounds far away. I feel her hands gripping me like vises, shaking me. A paper bag appears from out of nowhere, and I hold it up to my mouth to contain my panic.
Soon the fire in my chest is cooled, and I take the bag away. I look around and see dozens of eyes and gaping mouths.
"Are you okay?" Mrs. Williams asks, leaning over me.
"Yeah, I just . . . didn't sleep very well last night."
Rollins, from across the room, catches my gaze, then quickly looks away. We haven't spoken since Friday night, since I had the opportunity to open up to him but instead pushed him away. All weekend, I kept thinking he'd call me, especially after he heard about Sophie. But he never did. That'll teach me to trust someone. Right when I need them the most, they disappear. Just like my mother did. Just like my father.
Suddenly, I feel the need to get away, to be by myself.
"Would you like to get a drink of water?" I know Mrs. Williams is offering me a chance to get myself together so I don't look like such a crazy bitch. I'll take it.
"Uh, yeah."
As I rise from my desk to escape the stares, she puts her hand on my shoulder.
"We're all upset," she says quietly.
I nod and tear away from her. I feel everyone's stares as I flee from the room. Now I am not only the Narcoleptic Freak; I am the Girl Who Hyperventilated in Bio. I know they won't be talking about me at lunch today, though. Not when there's a suicide to discuss.
In the hallway, I look up one way and down the other. No one. The bathroom is only across the hall, but the walk drains me. I make sure the room is empty and lock myself in the stall farthest from the door. The same one Sophie was in on Friday morning.
My head throbs. Kneading my temples with my fingers, I stare at the graffiti on the stall door. RIP Sophie. I reach out and touch the words, the cool metal. On Friday, Sophie was here in the flesh, and now she is only words carved into red paint.
Rest in peace. The sentiment is nice, but when it's shortened like that—RIP—it reminds me of Sophie's ivory skin, ripped open like tissue paper. I turn around and retch into the toilet.
Minutes later, as I rinse my face off in the sink, the intercom crackles. Miss Lamb, the secretary, tearfully announces that Sophie Jacobs will be greatly missed. She says school tomorrow will be let out early for Sophie's funeral. If any of us need to talk to someone about our loss, the counselor has cleared her schedule. This makes me laugh bitterly. If I wanted to explain my predicament to the counselor, she'd have to clear her schedule for a year.
At lunchtime, I avoid the bleachers. I don't want to talk to Rollins, and the memory of Scotch and his buddy peering at the picture of Sophie sickens me. I wander the halls aimlessly.
I pass by Mr. Golden's room and see him eating a slice of pizza at his desk. His room seems homey and warm compared to the rest of the school. I find myself lingering in his doorway, wanting to just curl up on one of his couches and go to sleep.
"Sylvia? Are you all right?"
I'm shaken by his voice. He's holding his slice of pizza inches away from his mouth, like he was just about to take a bite when he was interrupted by some emo girl in the hallway.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'll just . . ." I gesture at a random point down the hall and start to leave.
"No, wait." He puts the pizza down, stands, and takes several steps in my direction. "Come in. Please."
I try not to sigh audibly as I take shelter in his room and fall onto one of his couches. So. Tired. My fingers move to my pocket, to the Provigil bottle full of my sacred caffeine, but then I realize Mr. Golden might report me if he sees me munching on a bunch of pills. I decide to wait, just a little longer.
Mr. Golden closes the door and sinks into a nearby recliner. We sit in silence for a few moments. This is what I need right now. Time to think. Space to exist. The tension melts from my shoulders as I become one with the smelly old couch, just another odd relic in Mr. Golden's collection of weird things.
"Do you ever feel like life is too messed up for words?" I finally ask Mr. Golden. The strangeness of the past few days makes them seem unreal, like it was all just a movie. One I can't escape.
"All the time," he says, nodding.
I stare at my chipped black nail polish. "I just don't get how one person can completely destroy another person."
I'm thinking of the way the knife curved in the killer's hands, covered in Sophie's blood, how it seemed like Sophie wasn't even a person anymore—she was just another inanimate object in the room, robbed of her humanness.
"Are we talking about Sophie?" Mr. Golden's question is soft and cautious. He asks it in a way that is the opposite of how the school counselor might ask it. His voice isn't clinical. There are no ulterior motives. He just sounds curious.
"Yeah." I release a deep breath. I can feel the pressure of it all growing within me, a dam about to burst. Maybe there is a way I can talk around what happened, sort of. Not go into details or anything, but just take the edge off a little bit. "She was friends with my sister."
He leans forward. "That must be hard. How is Mattie doing?"
I pick at my nails. "Not so good. She feels like . . . like she might have had something to do with Sophie's death. She did something not very nice to Sophie the day she died."
"That's rough." Mr. Golden rubs at his beard thoughtfully. "But no one made Sophie kill herself. It's important to realize that. Her choice was her own. It's a terrible thing, but no one put that knife in Sophie's hand."
I drop my hands into my lap abruptly.
How did he know about the knife? Did the teachers hear all the gory details during a faculty meeting?
He winces a little and pulls back. "I realize that must sound harsh to you, Vee. But suicide really is an act of selfishness. Think of her parents. Think of her friends, who are left to wonder what they could have done to stop it. Whatever your sister did, it wasn't enough to drive Sophie to take her own life."
"But Sophie didn't—" Somehow, I stop myself from insisting that Sophie didn't kill herself. How could I explain without telling my secret?
"Sophie didn't what, Vee?" Mr. Golden tenses, his fingers curling against his khakis.
I drum my fingers against my leg in frustration. How can I make him understand?
"I just feel like Sophie would never do something like that." I remember Sophie's mother's words. "She was strong—more than she knew."
Mr. Golden's face softens. "That's very nice of you to say, Vee. But you can't know how she was feeling. Depression is an insidious monster. It eats you up from the inside. No, I think Sophie was in an immense amount of pain."
I dig my fingers into my temples and rub little circles. Nothing I say, short of confessing I witnessed the murder, will change Mr. Golden's mind. In just a few seconds, Mr. Golden has morphed into an authority figure, spouting off crap about things he can't possibly know. I really thought he was different.
I stand indignantly.
"There's more to Sophie's death. And I'm going to find out what it is."
I turn to leave before he can say anything in response, but the look on his face is so satisfying—his eyebrows raised and jaw dropped. I hope someday the truth does come out, and he remembers all this psychobabble bullshit he tried to feed me.
When I open the door, I come face-to-face with Samantha Phillips, who's gazing into a mirror on her locker door and patting powder onto her prissy little nose. She looks from me to the dimly lit room from which I've just emerged. Her eyes light up with glee, probably thinking about the rumors she can spread. By the end of the day, everyone will be whispering about my scandalous affair with Mr. Golden.
"Doing a little extra credit?" she asks, smirking.
I scowl at her and walk away. The sound of her voice reminds me of locker rooms and purple dresses and hands where they shouldn't be.
"Better be careful," she calls after me. "Sophie Jacobs got cozy with Mr. G., and look where she is now."
I stop abruptly and turn to confront her. "What are you talking about?"
She closes her locker door. "I saw her with him. In his car. All I'm saying is, you better be careful. He likes 'em young." She spins on her heel and heads in the other direction, snickering all the way.
And then it hits me. I saw them together, too. It was Sophie shaking and crying on the couch in Mr. Golden's room. Hours before she was murdered.
Chapter Nine
I arrive late to psychology, but Mr. Golden doesn't give me a tardy. In fact, he doesn't say anything to me at all, doesn't even look at me, just keeps talking about intrinsic versus extrinsic motivation.
Scanning the room, I realize there are only two places left to sit—next to Rollins or next to Zane. Just as he did in biology, Rollins looks at me and then away.
I drop my eyes and sink into the empty seat next to Zane, pulling out my notebook. Mr. Golden roams around as he talks, alternately poking his finger in the air and tugging at his beard. His voice is higher than normal, and he seems like he's had about twenty cups of coffee because his sentences don't really make sense. They're just a jumble of words.
What exactly happened in here on Friday?
Why would Sophie be crying to Mr. Golden?
He's a good teacher, and I can see someone feeling like they could confide in him. Maybe Sophie came in here after she found out Amber sent that naked picture of her to everyone. Or maybe she was having problems with Scotch and went to Mr. Golden seeking advice.
Or maybe Samantha is right for once in her life.
Maybe Sophie and Mr. Golden were having an affair.
He's good-looking in an older, Johnny Depp sort of way. I could see how a girl could develop a crush on him. And what guy wouldn't want some of what Sophie had? She was stunning.
But she was a kid.
My stomach turns over, thinking about the two of them together.
"You okay?" A hand pulls on my sleeve, bringing me back from my twisted reverie. Zane is leaning close, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, something spicy.
He's got a notebook propped up on his lap so that it looks like he's taking notes, but behind it he's reading a book. I crane my head to see the title—Tender Is the Night. Zane catches me peeking and gives me a sheepish, lopsided grin.
I smile back, and warmth rushes into my cheeks. It's nice to feel something other than fear. It's nice to think about how cute Zane is, with that shock of blond hair falling in his face, instead of speculating about who killed Sophie. Zane returns to his book, and I try to focus on what Mr. Golden is saying. I realize someone is staring at me from across the room. It's Rollins, and he doesn't look happy at all.
After class, Rollins pushes out of the room without a word, but Zane lingers as I stuff my notebook into my backpack.
"Good weekend?"
"Um. Not exactly."
He gives me a sideways look. "Everything okay?"
"Well, besides my sister's best friend dying, I'm great," I say, and then realize how bitter that sounds. "Sorry. Just having a rough week."
He reaches toward me, as if to put a hand on my arm, but then pulls it away, like he's not sure if he should touch me. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Determined not to be a total downer, I try to make small talk. "So how was your weekend?"
He shrugs. "Went to a concert."
"Oh, yeah? Who'd you see?"
"The Belly-Button Lint."
"Never heard of 'em."
"Consider yourself lucky." He makes a face and tucks his novel under his arm.
"Good book?" I ask.
Zane grins. "I'm a sucker for Fitzgerald."
"Yeah? I read The Great Gatsby last year. Not a huge fan."
We're the last ones in the classroom, and I'm conscious of Mr. Golden straightening papers at his desk, trying to seem like he's not listening.
"Let me guess. You read it for English. You had to fill out study guides. At the end, you wrote a five-page paper and had to analyze the characters, the symbols, the theme." Zane shakes his head in disgust.
"Something like that," I say, nodding. It was only a three-page paper, but still.
"God, it pisses me off when teachers suck all the life out of literature. Do me a favor. Read Gatsby again, but read it outside, under a tree, at dusk. It's a completely different experience. Only read a chapter if you want, but give it a shot. Will you do that for me?"
The expression on his face is so serious. I've never met anyone as passionate about words before. Well, Rollins loves to write, but it's almost as though he does it because he's compelled to point out the hypocrisy all around us, not because he loves the language. The way Zane speaks about F. Scott Fitzgerald—well, it reminds me of how I feel about the stars. They are bigger than me, bigger than us all, and that's what makes them beautiful.
"I promise," I say, and the look on Zane's face makes me tingle.
After school, a handful of kids are hanging out in the parking lot, killing time before football practice or play rehearsal or whatever. A group of guys sits in the back of a pickup truck, arguing about who will buy beer next weekend. Two sophomore girls lean together, sharing earbuds, bopping their heads to a beat I can't hear.
I pass by the tree Sophie, Mattie, and Amber used to hang out under. I can picture her easy smile and dimples. Her wide-open eyes. The dark slash across each wrist. The white piece of paper, mocking me with Sophie's fake last words. I have to stop walking. I drop my backpack and lean against the tree, pressing my palms into my eyelids to make the memory go away.
When I remove my hands, I see the girls have stopped dancing. They stare at me from a distance, probably trying to avoid catching the crazy from me. I straighten up, try to look normal, or as normal as a pink-haired narcoleptic can appear.
A hand reaches out and grabs me.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiii!"
Rollins emerges from behind the tree, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. His leather jacket hangs open, revealing a Decemberists T-shirt.
"Hey, it's just me."
I catch my breath, glaring at him. How can he ignore me all weekend, especially after Sophie's death, and then expect me to act like nothing's wrong?
"Why were you hiding behind a tree?" I demand. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
The two girls are still gaping at me, and Rollins takes a few steps toward them and thrusts out his hands, curved like claws. "Boo!" They move away nervously.
When he returns, he gives me an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Nasty said he'd give me a month of detention if he caught me smoking again, so I was kinda lying low."
I wait for a moment, expecting him to apologize for barging out so suddenly on Friday night or at least to make some comment about Sophie's death. But instead he just looks at his shoes, his hands pushed deep in his pockets.
"So what happened in bio today? I was going to ask you in psychology, but you seemed busy," he says, practically spitting the last word.
If he hadn't been so absent lately, I might tell him the truth, how I can't quite shake the feeling that the world is a few shades darker since Sophie died. How I'm scared of my own shadow. If he'd really wanted to know, he would have called me. He would have come after me when I freaked out in bio. He would have stuck around to talk to me after psychology, not gotten pissed that I was having a conversation with someone who actually seems to care how I feel.
The lie, not quite a lie but not quite the truth, comes out easily—the same one I told Mrs. Williams. "It was nothing. I just haven't been sleeping well. A lot of stress, you know?"
He squints at me, and I feel like he's staring right through the brave front I've been putting up all day. "Right. Well, how is Mattie?"
"How would you feel if your best friend died?" I give him a stink eye that would rival Mrs. Winger's, hoping to make him realize just how stupid his question is.
He holds my gaze steadily. "Pretty shitty, I guess."
"Yeah. She's feeling pretty shitty."
We stand there, looking at each other. His face is blank.
"Why didn't you call?" I demand finally. "I mean, you must have heard what happened on Friday night."
His eyes drop away from my face. I can see I've caught him off guard. It's obvious we're growing apart, but it's like he didn't expect me to say anything about it. I guess I don't blame him, really. I'm not usually big on confrontation.
"I don't know," he says, shuffling his feet. "I was busy at home. Besides, if you needed to talk, you could have called me."
He meets my eyes again, and this time I have to look away. It's true. I could have called him. But I didn't. If only I could reach out to him, ask for help, tell him what's going on with me. Every time I picture it, though, I see my father's face when I told him about sliding—how panicked he was, how he clearly thought I was crazy.
I can't go through that again.
After a long silence, he picks my backpack up off the ground from where I dropped it. He hands it to me.
"Heavy."
"Yeah," I mutter, swinging the bag over my shoulder. "It's really heavy."
I want him to say something else, something light and funny to make everything between us better. But he doesn't say anything, just stands there. I wish I knew how to get back to us again, but something's broken between us, and no matter how much I want to—I can't fix it.
Chapter Ten
The leaves crunch beneath my feet as I make my way home. Only a few stragglers remain on the branches, and some of those drop to the ground when the wind picks up. A yellow leaf twirls and dances to the ground before me.
Strange how death can be so beautiful.
I immediately feel guilty for the thought. Sophie did not look beautiful. She looked drained and defeated, like life had beaten her. I try to think of something else, but she's always in the back of my mind, waiting for me. Somewhere, right now, her killer is carrying on with life, believing he (or she) got away with it.
I pull my jacket tighter, but the wind cuts right through the thin fabric. Long shadows grow from the trees and the mailboxes. On a lawn grown over with weeds, an abandoned tricycle is tipped on its side. It looks so old and rusty, I bet the child who used to ride it around is halfway through college by now.
I'm a few houses down from ours, taking in our buttery-yellow Victorian with green shutters. My father hires a neighborhood boy to come rake the leaves and put them in fat plastic bags on the curb. You can tell he hasn't come in a while because the leaves have covered most of the lawn, obscuring the dying grass.
Our house looks so normal from the outside. If you were a stranger passing by, you might think a perfectly nice, average family lived inside—one with a mother and a loving father and two well-adjusted teenage girls. You'd never know the mother was long gone or that the father lived in an impenetrable shell or that one of the girls could slide into you and see the things you hide from everyone.
Suddenly, I feel sure that someone's watching me. I spin around, but no one's there. It's the same sleepy neighborhood I've known all my life. Empty street. People tucked away in their houses, probably watching TV or playing on the internet or cooking dinner. Still the feeling remains. Shuddering, I pull my sweatshirt tight around me and climb the front porch.
My father is in his study, bent over his laptop. He's got white earbuds in, but a few stray notes escape and I recognize Mozart. My father looks like the exact opposite of my mother. While her hair was long and blond, his is dark and frizzy. She was curvy, with full cheeks; he is lean to the point of looking gaunt. Usually he's clean-shaven, but today he's got stubble.
His fingers fly over the keyboard in a productive little dance. He tap-tap-taps, then stops to take a sip from a glass of ice water, then taps some more.
"Hey, Dad?"
He's totally absorbed in his own little world and just keeps on tapping. I pluck a bud from his ears and say louder, "Dad!"
A shadow of annoyance crosses his face, but it's gone in an instant. I know he doesn't like to be disturbed when he's on the computer, which he is practically every second he's not at the hospital or concocting some masterpiece in the kitchen.
He moderates an online forum for people who've lost loved ones to cancer. There's something ironic about it, how he spends all his free time healing strangers on the internet while Mattie and I are holed up in our rooms by ourselves.
"Hey, Dad. Where's Mattie?"
"In her room, sleeping. I was wondering if you'd go with her to the funeral tomorrow?"
I shift my bag from one arm to the other. Suddenly, the weight is unbearable.
"You're not going?"
He squirms. "I made a quiche for the family. Took it over today while you were at school. I've got to work tomorrow."
My stomach starts to ache. I really don't want to see Sophie again, but someone has to go with Mattie. Someone has to be the adult.
"I guess I'll go. I'm tired. Going to lie down for a while. See you at dinner."
He brightens. "I'm making a pot roast."
The thought of a big hunk of meat makes me muy verde—as Señora Gomez would say—but I try to be polite.
"Yum."
I wander into the family room and drop my bag on the floor. From the mantel, I grab my parents' wedding photo. My father looks strong and happy, and my mother is positively glowing. Staring at the picture, I flop down onto the couch. If only my mother were here, she'd know what to do. She'd go to Sophie's funeral and hold Mattie's hand and do all the motherly stuff.
I must be sleepier than I thought, because I fall asleep, clutching the picture to my chest.
I'm running through the woods behind our house, branches scraping at my face and bare arms. She's here, somewhere. Who I'm looking for, I'm not quite sure, but the need to find her surges through my veins like fire.
I have to save her.
Something inside me says to run toward the stream. I can see it up ahead, the water glistening in a few places where the sun shines through.
As I get closer, I can see something in the water, among the logs and pebbles. The water is shallow here, and I glimpse a red-and-gold skirt that looks unnatural against the greens and browns. Pale skin underwater. Long strands of black hair waving around a swollen face.
It is Sophie.
Blood wisps from her wrists in long, skinny strands.
I sink to my knees at the water's edge and moan up at the unforgiving trees. I'm too late. She is gone forever. I cover my eyes and start to cry.
"Why are you crying?" someone asks, and I uncover my face.
The body is sitting up!
Scrambling backward, I slip on a root and end up flat on my back. Sophie reaches for me with fingers like claws.
I open my mouth to scream, but my voice is gone.
The Sophie thing grabs my shoulders and leans closer. I can smell her breath, the decay of it, like something sweet gone rotten.
"What's wrong, Vee? Feeling guilty?"
Her grasp tightens, and I feel like her fingernails are going to break my skin. Her eyes are black, soulless, nothing like the sweet girl I knew.
"Are you feeling bad you didn't do anything when you had the chance?"
Inside her mouth are tiny, pointed teeth. Sharp enough to tear flesh.
"You let them hurt me, Vee. You didn't say anything. Did you?"
I start to cry, tears stinging my cheeks. "I'm sorry, Sophie. I wanted to help you. I did. I just didn't know how—"
"Bullshit," she hisses. "You. Let. Me. Die."
Her mouth drops open like she has no jaw, and all I can see are those sharp little teeth that are going to chew me to bits. And I know I deserve it.
Chapter Eleven
Anoise tears me from my nightmare. I sit straight up, heart pounding, sure that Sophie's come to our house to get me.
Bing bong. Bing bong. Bing bong.
No. It's just the doorbell.
Sophie's not here. Sophie is dead.
The late afternoon light slants through the dusty air of our family room and hits the scuffed wood floor. I pull myself up and stagger toward the door, passing my dad's study on the way. His head sways to a beat I can't hear—too loud, obviously, for him to hear the doorbell.
A tall man with serious eyes stands on our front porch. He's dressed in a police uniform. Shit. How could the cops know I was there when Sophie died? I force my face to relax.
"Hello. I'm Officer Teahen. Are you Mattie Bell?"
"Uh, no. That's my sister. Has she done something wrong?"
He releases a puff of air and says, "Oh, no, no. I just need to ask her some questions. She was friends with Sophie Jacobs, correct?"
Before I can answer, I feel a warm hand on my shoulder. "Can I help you?" My father inches in front of me a bit, blocking the open door.
"Mr. Bell," the officer says politely. "I was wondering if I could speak with your daughter Mattie about Sophie Jacobs. I'd like to get an idea of the frame of mind she was in on Friday before . . . before the incident. Is she available?"
The muscles in my father's hand tense, but he gives a perfectly cordial reply. "She's up in her room. Let me see if she's awake." He steps back, pulling me with him, and opens the door wide for the policeman to step through.
"Would you like something to drink, Officer . . . ?"
"Teahen. Officer Teahen," the man replies, stepping into our front entryway. "Some water would be great."
My father pats me on the back with a little pressure in the direction of the kitchen, and I continue on my trajectory to fetch a glass of water. Too curious to even be annoyed with the task, I grab a Scooby-Doo glass out of the cupboard and wait for the water to run cold before filling it.
When I return, Mattie is sitting in the recliner, and my father and the officer are stationed on the couch. I hand the glass of water to the policeman, and he takes a long gulp before setting it on the coffee table. I slink backward and take a seat on the bottom step, where no one can see me, but I can hear everything.
Officer Teahen clears his throat. "Well, Mattie, can you start by telling me a little about your friendship with Sophie?"
A pause hangs in the air, and I know exactly what Mattie is thinking about. The naked pictures Amber sent to the football team—does the officer know? Is that something friends do?
When she speaks, I can hear the nervousness in her voice. "We've been best friends since the eighth grade. We were in cheerleading together. I—I loved her." Mattie's words dissolve into a string of hiccups and sobs.
Everyone is quiet for a little bit, until Mattie stops crying.
The officer speaks again, a bit more warmly. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mattie. Don't be nervous. I just want to know how she was feeling that day. Did she seem a little off to you? When was the last time you spoke with her?"
Mattie starts to sound a little more confident. "Friday morning, at her locker. She said she wasn't feeling very well. She thought the cinnamon roll she got in the cafeteria must have been bad."
"I see. Did she seem depressed at all to you?"
"No, just sick." I think of Sophie puking up her breakfast in the bathroom stall, right before I slid into Amber and witnessed her plotting to take Sophie down a notch.
"Okay," Officer Teahen says. "So you didn't see her at all on Friday night?"
"No. I went to cheerleading practice with Amber. Sophie wasn't there, but I figured she was just sick or something. Samantha gave us a ride home, and Amber spent the night."
"Did you and Amber stay here all night?"
There's a long pause. She's probably calculating which will get her into more trouble—lying to a cop or facing my father's fury.
"No," Mattie says finally, sounding guilty. "We went to a party."
I slap my hand against the wooden stairs and then wince, hoping they didn't hear me. This is news to me. She said she and Amber were going to the movies with Samantha. What a little liar.
"The one on College Street?"
My sister is quiet.
"I talked to Amber already," the officer explains. "I just want to corroborate that you did indeed attend the frat party. You won't get in trouble, at least not with me. Just answer truthfully."
My father cuts in. "Listen, should I have my lawyer here for this?"
"No, no. Like I said, I just want to make sure I have a good idea about what happened that night. Mattie, it's okay to tell me what happened. You went to the party? And then what?"
My sister speaks slowly. "And then we went to Marty's for breakfast."
Marty's is an all-night diner that caters to the college crowd. There are always drunk kids in the wee hours of the morning, demanding coffee or pie or, in my sister's case, a ginormous plate of pancakes. Rollins and I sometimes go there after a particularly long movie marathon.
"And what time was this?"
"Around eleven."
"What time did you get home from Marty's?"
"Maybe two?"
"Was Amber with you?"
"No. Samantha and I went to breakfast. Amber disappeared. I didn't see her again until the morning, when she crawled into my bed, all hungover."
"How did she get back into the house if she didn't come home with you?"
"I left the door unlocked."
Silence. I assume the officer is jotting something on his notepad.
I rest my head on my knees, doing the math. Amber was unaccounted for between eleven on Friday night and when I saw her the next morning. Plenty of time to—to what? Sneak over to Sophie's house? Slit her wrists? Arrange a suicide note? That's ridiculous. Isn't it? Amber may have been jealous of Sophie, but does that make her a killer?
"So you didn't speak to Sophie at all on Friday night?"
"No, sir," my sister sniffles.
"Then why did Sophie's parents receive a call from this residence around midnight demanding they look in on her?"
Oh God. I hadn't thought of the cops tracing that call. This isn't good.
Mattie is sputtering. "I—I don't know what you're talking about."
I stand. "Officer Teahen, that was me."
He looks at me in surprise, as if he'd forgotten all about the pink-haired girl who answered the door. I step into the living room. Time to think of a good lie. Fast.
"Mattie wasn't home yet," I explain. "I wasn't sure where she was. I was looking for her. I thought she might be at Sophie's house. That's why I asked her parents to check."
My father's face relaxes, but the officer continues to eye me. Finally, he makes a note and returns his gaze to my sister.
"Okay. One more question, Mattie. Were you aware that Sophie was pregnant?"
I gasp and look at Mattie. Her mouth is open as she stares at the officer in astonishment. It's pretty clear Mattie didn't know anything about a pregnancy.
"I see." The officer nods and stands. "Thank you very much. I 'preciate it." He shakes my father's hand and then heads to the door.
My dad waits a good thirty seconds before he starts yelling. "A party? On fraternity row? What were you thinking? I can't believe you, Mattie. What do you have to say for yourself?"
My sister's face crumbles under my father's scrutiny. "I'm sorry," she cries. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
She covers her face and runs up the stairs, pushing me out of the way. My father sighs and follows her, showing with his posture that he'd rather be doing anything but calming a hysterical teenage girl.
I float over to the couch, shocked. Sophie was pregnant? On Friday morning, when she was puking in the bathroom—that must have been morning sickness. And Scotch mentioned on the bleachers that he'd slept with her. He must have gotten her pregnant.
Maybe Scotch isn't the father, though. What if Samantha is right, and Sophie was sleeping with Mr. Golden? If he was the father, he'd have a lot to lose—his job, for starters. Would his teaching position be so important to him that he'd kill to keep it?
My phone buzzes to life in my pocket, interrupting my thoughts. I answer the phone absentmindedly.
"Hey, Vee. What's up?" Rollins's voice sounds strained.
"Listen, I'm kind of busy. What do you need?" I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth. They sound terrible.
"Look. I'm trying to make an effort."
I take a deep breath. "I know. I'm sorry. Things are just really stressful. An officer was here, questioning my sister."
"Really?"
"Yeah. It was messed up."
We're both quiet for a second.
"Hey, I'm sorry I haven't been around much lately," he says. "I'm kind of going through some intense stuff of my own."
I think of how he's never let me visit his house. What's going on over there?
"You want to talk about it?"
"No. It's personal." His voice sounds strangled, like he wants to tell me what's going on with him but can't bring himself to spill his guts. I know how that feels. I wish, more than anything, that he felt comfortable sharing his problems, but how can I pressure him when I have my own secrets?
"Well. If you ever want to talk, you know I'm here."
"I know," he says. "Hey. We cool?"
"We cool," I reply. "Wanna go to a funeral with me tomorrow?"
Chapter Twelve
Mattie rides silently in the back of Rollins's car. We circle the parking lot, looking for an available space, but there's nothing. Even the handicapped spots are all full. We have to park on the street a block down from the funeral home and walk the rest of the way.
Wind sweeps through my hair and chills my skin. Normally I wouldn't think twice about huddling next to Rollins for warmth, but our relationship seems fragile now, like a bone that's broken and not yet fully healed. It seems safer to keep to myself.
We are a parade of black. Rollins wears jeans, a black button-down shirt, and a skinny black tie. I picked out a pair of simple black pants and a nice black shirt edged with dark-purple lace. My sister is wearing the slinky black dress she'd planned on wearing to homecoming. I didn't have the heart to point out how inappropriate it was. She doesn't really own any other black clothes.
Despite the chill in the air outside, it feels like an oven when we push into the building. The place is packed wall to wall with people, who drift from one homemade Sophie photo collage to another, as if they're in a museum.
In one picture, Sophie looks about age six, chubby in a blue tutu and mouse nose and whiskers and ears. In another, she hooks her arms around Mattie's and Amber's shoulders, all of them in their cheerleading uniforms. Time spins backward in another picture, and baby Sophie plays in a duck-shaped bathtub, a washcloth modestly placed over her girly parts.
Sophie's mother bustles over, her teased hair leading the way, and gives Mattie a hug. Tears squeeze out of her eyes, blue makeup running in streams through the creases in her face. She looks haggard.
"I'm so glad you could make it," she says, and Mattie reaches her arms around Mrs. Jacobs for a hug.
"I'm sorry," Mattie whispers. The words are not enough, can never be enough, and it's like we're all standing around the growing hole of how not enough they are. Sophie's mom squeezes Mattie once more and leaves to make her rounds.
We trudge toward the next room, where row upon row of folding chairs have been set up. Most of them are already taken by Sophie's extended family and teachers and what seems like every kid in the whole school. We're lucky to find three seats in the back.
I sit between Mattie and Rollins and crane my head, searching every face, but I don't see anyone I'm looking for. No Amber. No Scotch. No Mr. Golden.
It takes about fifteen minutes for everyone to get settled. Tons of people have to stand in the back of the sweltering room. They fan themselves with programs that have Sophie's school picture on the cover.
The coffin is at the front, flanked by long white candles and great bouquets of lilies. Thank God it's a closed casket. I don't know if I could handle seeing her again. My sister sobs quietly next to me. I take her hand.
A slim man in a blue suit finds his way to the front and stands before the casket, his hands hovering just above the white wood but not touching it. He stands there reverently for a moment, and everyone tries not to stare. Someone behind me whispers that he's Sophie's father. He turns around to face us, his lower lip wobbling, but he composes himself long enough to read a poem he has written for Sophie.
Almost everyone's head is down, giving the man his time to mourn, but I'm looking around the room, hoping to spot one of my suspects, to see how they're reacting to all this.
After the man has finished his poem, an old woman plays a piano in the corner. I mutter something about having to go to the bathroom and manage to edge my way out of our row and through the crowd without sticking my butt in anyone's face or knocking anyone over.
I duck out a door in the back that leads to a smaller room with a blue couch and an end table loaded with boxes of Kleenex. There's a pop machine and a water cooler in the corner. Doors on either side of the room lead to the bathrooms. I hear a strange sound coming from the ladies' room—almost like honking.
I twist the knob and push open the door just a crack, enough to peek inside and see who's making the terrible noise. Crumpled on the floor with a wad of toilet paper woven around her fingers, Amber Prescott is falling apart.
I slip into the room and close the door behind me. Then I sink to the floor and sit across from Amber, cross-legged. I don't say anything, don't even look at her. I just sit and breathe. And wait.
Amber stops crying long enough to recognize who's in the room with her, but then she continues on, louder than ever. In her place, I would have shouted to get the hell out. I don't do anything but let her raw emotion wash over me. Though it seems like she's truly devastated, I can't help but wonder how much of what I'm seeing is guilt. Guilt for destroying her best friend.
Just when I start to think about going to get her a cup of water, she stops crying. She uses the toilet paper to clean up the mascara that's run all over her face. I stand up and turn on the water for her, then step out of the way so she can wash her face.
She doesn't say anything to me, just gives me this kind of grateful look before she opens the door and slinks out. When she leaves, I glance in the mirror, at the girl with the pink pigtails tied with black ribbons, and all I feel is shame. Amber may have ruined Sophie, but I stood by and let her. I knew Amber and Mattie were planning something horrible, and I didn't do one damn thing to stop them.
As I open the door to leave, I notice something silver shining on the floor. I look closer and realize it's a tiny diamond earring—the kind that Amber always wears. I scoop it up and hurry out of the bathroom to see if I can catch her, but I don't see her anywhere. I tuck the earring into my pocket.
The funeral has ended, and people have formed small clusters around the lobby.
I spot Mattie in a huddle of cheerleaders doing some sort of group hug, but I don't see Rollins anywhere so I go outside. Just as I'd guessed, Rollins is standing several yards away from the funeral home, a cigarette tucked discreetly behind his back.
"Everyone's saying Sophie was pregnant," Rollins says, taking a quick drag and then hiding the cigarette again.
I sigh. "Yeah. The officer mentioned something about it yesterday."
"You have any idea who the father could be?" Rollins releases a puff of smoke.
"I have a few theories," I reply. "The front-runner is Scotch Becker."
Rollins drops the cigarette and grinds it into the cement with the heel of his boot. "Scum."
"Pretty much."
A hand on my back makes me jump. Turning, I see Mattie's teary face.
"You ready to go?" I ask. Earlier, Mattie had cried that she didn't want to go to the burial. She didn't want to see Sophie's casket lowered into the ground. I can't say I blame her.
"Actually," she says, "I think I'm going to stay. Sam can give me a ride." She glances behind her, and I follow her gaze to Samantha Phillips, who stands twirling her keys. When she sees me looking, her face goes slack and she turns to face the other way.
"Are you sure?" I ask.
She nods.
"Okay, I'll see you at home."
I watch her return to the group of cheerleaders. It seems strange—of all the people saying good-bye to Sophie today, I'm the only one who knows how she truly left this world. The knowledge settles at the bottom of my stomach and weighs me down like cement.
Rollins squeezes my shoulder. "Let's go."
Chapter Thirteen
Long after Rollins drops me off, I sit on the swing on our front porch. I don't want to go inside. The house is so empty. So silent. I don't want to be alone with my memory of Sophie's death. I don't want to risk falling asleep and having to face her accusations again. Outside, the wind keeps me awake. That, and the caffeine pills.
I shake some more into my hand, pop them into my mouth, and crunch them into powder.
A breeze blows through the large oak tree, coaxing even more leaves to fall. Down the street, a movement catches my eye. A tall boy with a cobalt sweatshirt and blond hair is making his way toward me on a skateboard. As he gets closer, I see that it's Zane Huxley. And he's looking in my direction. My stomach does a little somersault.
He coasts to a stop in front of my house, flips up his skateboard, and takes a few steps toward the porch. "Hey," he says, an unmistakable look of pleasure crossing his face.
I nod at him, swallowing the caffeine powder so I can speak. "Hey. Enjoying your afternoon off from school?"
"Yeah. Did you go to the funeral?"
"Yeah. It was . . . unfathomable," I say, unable to find a more fitting word for the funeral of a teenager. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
I feel dumb and want to take back the question. It sounds like I don't want him here, when I do. I want someone to talk to. Someone who didn't know Sophie, someone who doesn't know about me and my narcolepsy and how messed up everything is.
Luckily, he just laughs. "Good to see you, too. We live over on Arbor Lane, at the end of the street."
"The blue one with the picket fence? That's been for sale forever."
An awkward silence passes between us. I try to think of something funny or clever or anything to say. I don't want to be alone with my thoughts anymore.
Another gust of wind rips through the yard, sending a chill through me. I shiver.
"Hey, do you want to come in? I could make some coffee or something."
"Sure. Little chilly outside."
I get up and open the door, and he props up his skateboard outside and follows me into the house. In the kitchen, he pulls out a stool and sits with his elbows on the counter. I whisk two coffee mugs—one from the University of Iowa and one that says "Bestest Dad in the World"—out of the cupboard and set them between us. He's quiet as I make the coffee, and it reminds me of sitting in the bathroom of the funeral home, giving Amber the time to put herself back together.
I fill each mug with steaming black liquid. In the refrigerator, I find half a gallon of skim milk. I dump some in my cup and then spoon in a little sugar. After stirring it for a few seconds, I take a sip.
Over the rim of my cup, I watch Zane stirring milk into his coffee with his finger. I can't believe he's here, in my kitchen. It's almost enough to make me forget about the murder, about the way Sophie's mouth was slightly open, a trickle of blood escaping it. Almost.
Zane winks at me. "You look cute in pigtails."
"Thanks," I say, braving a smile.
His eyes are so deep and blue, I could get lost in them.
An hour later, I'm sprawled on the couch, clutching my coffee, and Zane is lazily sipping his own drink only inches away. I can see his knee through a large rip in his jeans. The hair on his legs is fine and blond, just like the hair on his head. I fight the urge to reach over and stroke it.
"So you used to live in Iowa City?" I try to make my voice sound sexy and throaty, but it actually comes out kind of squeaky.
"Yeah. I was born here. Moved to Chicago when I was little. Mom wanted to come back. No offense, but I'm not a big fan of Iowa." He smiles apologetically. His teeth are so white. Light blond stubble covers his square jaw. I want to feel it against my cheek, my lips. My proximity to him seems to have narrowed my focus, and all I can see is his face.
"Not many people are," I reply.
Zane picks up a picture of me, my sister, and my dad.
"What does your dad do?" He gestures to the photo.
"He's a pediatric surgeon," I say. "Today he's operating on some kid who was born with his bowels on the outside."
Zane shakes his head. "That's pretty impressive. I mean, your dad's job, not the baby with the guts on the outside."
"I know," I say, a hint of bitterness in my words.
"How about your mom?" We both look down at the picture in his hands, at the space where a mother should be, but isn't.
I'm a little surprised he'd be so bold as to ask such a question when it's clear my mom is either dead or off somewhere else, leading a life that doesn't include me, but I remember him on his first day, telling me that his father was dead. It feels like a natural course for our conversation.
"Pancreatic cancer. She died when I was eleven."
He nods, as though I've confirmed what he'd suspected. "That's gotta be rough on a kid."
I peer into my coffee cup. "It was. I mean, it still is. It doesn't help that my dad is gone all the time. I've pretty much become my sister's parent. He didn't even come home to help take care of her when we found out about Sophie's death."
He makes a sympathetic noise. "I know what you mean. My mom hasn't really been herself in years. Ever since my father died, she's been living in her own little world."
"So how old were you when your father died?"
"He killed himself when I was three." The matter-of-fact way he says it shocks me into silence.
"It's cool," Zane says, as if to reassure me that there's no right response to that news. "I don't really remember him. I was too young. I've got this picture of us, though—of him and me. He was pushing me on the swing. And he's smiling really big with his mouth, but you can see in his eyes—he's not happy. He did it about a month after that picture was taken."
Oh God. I wish I could undo this conversation, go back to the dreamy, wispy cloud I was floating on only moments before.
My shyness has been torn away by the revelations that passed between us. I reach out and take his hand, lace my fingers into the spaces between his. His hand grasps mine.
He sets his cup down and turns his head toward me. His breath is sweet despite the coffee, but it's laced with something else—something like sorrow. He presses his lips to my mouth.
Here's the thing about the kiss. It's full of everything I've been missing for so long. Connection. Understanding. Warmth. And it rushes through me so fast, I feel like I'm drowning. I can't breathe. Without thinking, I push him away. His eyes fill with hurt.
Immediately, I regret it. I open my mouth to apologize, but he's already standing up.
"I've gotta go."
He's gone before I can protest. I melt onto the couch, gasping, realizing I've never wanted anything as much as I want to rewind time and return to that kiss. And it scares me. The fact that something so beautiful and tenuous is within my grasp terrifies me because I know that, at some point, I will just end up losing it.
Hours later, I flip through the channels, trying to find something interesting enough to keep me awake until Mattie gets home. I should go upstairs and find my caffeine pills, but I feel stuck, like I've been glued to the couch. It would take way too much energy to climb the stairs. No, I'll just sit here and watch TV and wait.
Hoarders? No.
Full House? No.
The Real World? NO.
I settle on the Science Channel. There's some program about how the world is going to end soon, and it kind of cheers me up because then at least I won't be sliced to bits by Sophie's killer. The show's narrator has such a soothing voice. I find myself succumbing to the sleep I've been staving off for so long. Finally, I just give in.
And promptly slide.
Black leather. The vibrations of a running engine travel up my legs and into my spine. I recognize the unmistakable mixture of gasoline and orange shampoo.
Scotch.
But I don't think I'm inside Scotch. No. Whoever I've become is sitting in the passenger seat, rubbing her earlobe between her thumb and forefinger. When I realize the girl is missing an earring, I put two and two together. Amber. The damn earring I picked up in the bathroom must have poked through my jeans and touched my thigh.
When Amber turns her head, I see Scotch staring out the windshield into nothingness. The view stretches on for miles and miles. Angled roofs and shedding trees and glowing streetlights. I've been here before, to Lookout Peak. Rollins and I came here the one and only time I smoked pot. We were a total cliché, lying on the hood of his car, staring at the stars and wondering if there was something, anything else out there in the big, starry sky.
"You can't tell anyone," Scotch says.
It seems I've come into the middle of a conversation.
"It was just the one time. We used protection." Desperation tinges Scotch's voice, and I'm sure he's talking about the pregnancy. "The baby probably wasn't even mine. Samantha said she saw Sophie riding around with Mr. Golden after school. Who knows how many guys she was sleeping with?"
Finally, Amber speaks. "When did you find out about the pregnancy?"
"Last week. Before . . ." He doesn't finish his sentence, just takes a swig from a bottle he's been holding between his knees.
Fresh tears spill down Amber's cheeks. I wonder how she ended up here, in Scotch's car, parked at Lookout Peak. Did she run into him after the funeral? Did he ask her if she wanted to go for a ride? My guess is they were two comets traveling at high velocities when they came crashing together—Scotch drunk, and Amber needing someone to just be with her.
"Do you think that's why she did it?" Amber asks.
Scotch beats his hand on the steering wheel. "I don't know. At first, she talked about taking care of it, going somewhere. But then she said she didn't know if she could go through with it. She just should've gotten rid of it."
I wish I could climb into his brain and pick apart his thoughts. When Sophie told him about the pregnancy, did he panic? Did he insist she get an abortion? Did she refuse?
Even if I did manage to slide into Scotch, I wouldn't be able to read his thoughts. That's not the way sliding works. I'd only see the world from his perspective, and that is not an attractive possibility for me.
Amber crosses her arms over her stomach and rocks back and forth.
"It would have ruined my plans. It would have ruined my life."
Scotch takes another pull off the bottle and then shakes his head like it burns going down. He leans toward Amber and starts to nuzzle her neck. She exhales, a cross between a sigh and a moan. When his hand slithers into her lap, I realize where this is going. Memories come rushing back, and instead of being inside the cramped front seat of a Mustang, I'm lying on a bench in the boys' locker room. As Scotch touches Amber, I feel sick, like I'm witnessing exactly what he did to me that night. It is so, so messed up.
Amber's body responds to Scotch's caresses, and she leans toward him. I'm no longer worried for her safety. I'm worried about my own sanity. If I stay here while they do this, I will surely go insane. Slowly, I feel myself slipping away.
Relief rushes through me when I realize I'm back in my own living room. My heart is thumping hard inside my rib cage, and the memories of the homecoming dance last year are rattling my brain. Instead of the program about the impending apocalypse, there's a show about the mating ritual of the baboon. I grab the remote and turn the television off, shuddering.
I take the steps two at a time, unable to get to my room fast enough. Unable to get to my pills fast enough. I snatch up my backpack and thrust my hand inside, searching for the familiar curve of the bottle. The childproof top comes off with a twist, and then the white ovals are in my palm, and then they are in my mouth. I swallow them without water, without hesitation.
Only when I feel them sliding down my throat does my heart slow to a normal rhythm. I vow not to let my guard down again. When my body sinks into the looseness of sleep, I leave myself unprotected. I'd rather not sleep at all than to be sucked into the presence of would-be rapists. Of killers.
All that night, I lie on my bed and watch old episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on Netflix. I imagine myself with a stake, chasing after a shadowy figure in a mask carrying a knife wet with Sophie's blood. I tackle him to the ground and rip away the material obscuring his face. It is Scotch. I raise the stake high and plunge it deep into his chest. He disintegrates like dust and is swallowed up by the earth.
Chapter Fourteen
In the morning, I take an eternity-long shower, trying to scrub away any remaining bit of Scotch with my vanilla body wash. I'd probably stand here all day, letting the warm water cascade over my body, if my sister didn't scream at me to hurry the hell up. I wrap myself in a frayed brown towel and open the door.
"It's about freaking time," she says. I ignore her and go into my room, pull on some faded jeans and a Minnie Mouse T-shirt, and wrangle a comb through the pink mop on my head, uttering a chain of obscenities. Before me, in the mirror, a girl stares at me with circles under her eyes.
In the kitchen, I find a note from my father: Early meeting. See you tonight. I have to admit, I'm a little relieved to miss him. He'd notice the circles and demand to know if I've been taking my Provigil like a good little narcoleptic, and I'm not sure I'd have the strength to lie.
I'm grabbing a brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tart and stuffing it into my bag when, through the kitchen window, I see Samantha pull up. Mattie rushes in, grabs a mottled banana, and bolts out, yelling something about being late for practice. Tires squeal as Samantha pulls away.
If I'm going to walk, I'd better hurry up, too. I grab my purple coat from the coat-tree in the front hall and wiggle into it before hurrying out the door.
In my driveway, Zane leans against a white Grand Am. His blond hair is all over the place, and he looks like he hasn't slept.
"Hi," I say, suddenly self-conscious about my appearance. I wish I'd spent some time putting on makeup. At least some concealer to cover the darkness under my eyes.
"Hey. I thought you might need a ride. You don't have a car, right?" His gaze sweeps the driveway.
"No." I plod down the driveway toward him. "I mean, no, I don't have a car. So a ride would be really nice. Thanks."
He holds the door for me and then circles around to the driver's side. My feet brush against crumpled Big Gulp cups and Snickers wrappers. When he turns the key in the ignition, a Nirvana song nearly pops my eardrums. He spins the knob to the left until the song blasts at a more acceptable level.
"Sorry."
"I'm sorry, too," I blurt out, then clamp my hand over my mouth. Idiot.
"For what?" He looks bewildered.
"For pushing you away. I was just surprised, that's all."
He stares into his lap. "Well, I shouldn't have kissed you. We barely know each other." He backs out of my driveway, pausing to glance both ways before pulling into the street.
I want to say the kiss wasn't a mistake. I want to tell him I enjoyed it. I want to tell him I like him so much it terrifies me. Instead, I say, "So, you're into Nirvana?"
"Oh, yeah. Kurt Cobain is, like, my idol."
"Except for the whole killing-himself thing, right?"
I mean it to be a joke, but then I remember about his father.
"Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean . . ." My voice trails off.
We're both quiet for the five minutes it takes to get to school. Kurt Cobain carries on the conversation for us.
We make it to English about thirty seconds before the bell rings. There's something odd about the room. I realize what's strange—Mrs. Winger is standing at the front of the room, smiling at everyone, ready to start the day, rather than huddled in front of her computer playing solitaire.
She's excited about something. She squawks and waves her flabby arms as she explains our assignment. She feels we're in need of some healing after our heartbreaking loss. We need to talk about our feelings, get it all out—some hippy-dippy bullshit. We'll do it anonymously. She passes out green sheets of paper, each one with a code word written at the top. Mine is yellow. I sneak a look at my neighbors' papers. Purple. Black.
Really working herself up, Mrs. Winger babbles on about the importance of expressing ourselves. She wants us to write what we're feeling now, right this minute. She wants us to pour ourselves out onto the page. Mike Jones raises his hand and asks if "tired" counts as a feeling. She gives him her patented death stare and then continues with her ridiculous monologue.
After we've purged our thoughts and emotions, Mrs. Winger will collect the pages and mix them up. Then she'll randomly pass out the papers, and we'll each write a heartfelt, kind, human response. She has the code words, she warns, so don't even think about writing something mean. She crouches down by Zane's desk, and I hear her tell him that since he's new and didn't know Sophie, he can write about whatever strikes him.
She puts on some classical "writing" music and settles behind her desk, firing up her computer—probably to get some solid solitaire time in—and puts up her feet. We all quietly stare at our papers for a while. Finally, one by one, my classmates bend over their desks and start writing. Zane writes a word, then pauses, writes another. Samantha is hunched over her desk, scribbling furiously.
I'm the last one to begin. My pencil feels strange and hard and it kind of hurts to hold on to. I realize it's because I'm squeezing it so tightly. What do I have to say about Sophie? What am I feeling?
Sophie was one of the nicest people I've ever known.
I pause. It seems wrong to just leave it at nice. Nice is what you say when a stranger asks about your weekend and you don't really want to go into it. Nice is the weather. It means nothing. Nothing at all.
What do I really have to say about Sophie?
I chew on my eraser. This is anonymous, after all. I flip over my pencil and rub out the part about her being nice.
Sophie was a beautiful person, inside and out, but everyone treated her like crap. The girls she called "friends" only accepted her when she was skinny. The guy she liked screwed her over. There is more to Sophie's death than you'll ever know.
Before I can write more, Mrs. Winger is at the front of the room, announcing, "Time's up! Fold your papers and turn them in!" I press my paper neatly in half and pass it forward. Once Mrs. Winger has collected all the papers, she shuffles them and then weaves among the desks, giving them to new people.
She flips a paper onto my desk. I don't touch it.
When she's finished, she gestures for us to unfold the papers. "Read and respond," she says. "Really connect with each other."
Teachers are so lame. They think they can make us bare our souls through some stupid activity in class. If social boundaries can keep a jock from saying what's up to a nerd in the hallway, does she really think in one period she can make us best friends like the kids in The Breakfast Club? I roll my eyes and unfold my paper.
There's this girl. And I'm pretty sure I like her. I mean, I know I do, but the thing is, I don't know how to tell her. I don't really know the protocol for this sort of thing. So yeah. I guess that's all. If you have some advice, it would be greatly appreciated.
I steal a look at Zane. It has to be his. No one else was told to just write about whatever. Is it vain to think he could be writing about me? I remember how his lips felt on mine, so warm and sudden. I wish I could go back to that moment, go with the flow, not ruin it.
"Two-minute warning!" Mrs. Winger is already dancing around, trying to hurry us. Shit. What to say?
Quickly, I jot down, Tell her she's so pretty it kills you a little.
Then I refold the piece of paper and push it into Mrs. Winger's waiting hands. She collects the rest of the papers and then starts unfolding them and handing them back according to the code words at the top. I watch Zane open his. He smiles.
She places my paper in front of me. I skim past my original note and read the response: Uh, I think you're reading too much into this. Girl had problems. She took the easy way out. Done. I glance around the room. Samantha is watching me carefully. I slowly crumple the piece of paper, holding her gaze the whole time. She looks away.
The bell rings. Zane pauses by my desk, waiting for me to gather my things. On the way out the door, I toss the paper into the garbage can. Zane says something about Mrs. Winger literally having wings when she waves her arms around, and I'm laughing as we turn the corner and enter the hallway.
I catch sight of Rollins, halfway down the hall, heading in our direction, probably to meet up with me. He blinks when he sees me with Zane, and looks a little hurt. I try to smile and wave, but he ducks into a bathroom. My hand flutters uselessly down by my side.
Everyone stares as I walk down the hall with Zane. It's probably partly because Zane is the New Kid, and there's always a bit of mystery shrouding the New Kid, but mostly it's because he is smoking hot. I savor the look of jealousy I get when we pass by a bunch of freshman girls.
Zane stops at the drinking fountain to fill his green Nalgene bottle, and I wait, shifting my books from one hip to the other. The hallway hollows out by the second, people rushing to class before the bell rings.
"What do you have next?" I ask when he straightens.
"Government with Carson. Guess I could use a nap."
Mr. Carson has to be over a hundred years old. He's been teaching here since our school opened in the 1950s. His idea of a lesson plan is ordering you to copy five pages of messily scrawled notes from the overhead, lulling you into a nearly comatose state, and then scaring you to death by hacking up a lung into a purple hanky right when you least expect it. Every year, people place bets on whether this'll be his last.
"Oh, come on. His class is scintillating." I stress the cheap SAT vocabulary word, and Zane laughs. The sound heats me up.
All morning, I've been imagining Zane's lips pressed to mine, like the image of us kissing is superimposed on reality. We're just standing here in the hallway chatting, but in my head our limbs are wrapped around each other, our bodies doing the talking.
The bell rings, threatening reality. I want to escape into an alternate universe, one where I get to make out with Zane beneath the bleachers instead of wondering who killed Sophie Jacobs. Suddenly I understand the presence of that condom wrapper I saw under the bleachers last week. It was evidence of someone breaking away from the homework and lockers and lunch ladies—someone fleeing a world that lets a girl disappear and doesn't ask questions.
"Do you want to skip?" I ask, and the question is so out of nowhere it even surprises me.
"And go where?"
"I know a place."
Zane smiles. He doesn't know that he is my refuge, the place I will go to escape.
It's colder this week. The wind whooshes beneath the bleachers, cutting through the thin material of my T-shirt. I should have thought out this plan better, brought my coat or something. But then Zane shrugs out of one side of his oversized corduroy coat, offering to let me share it with him, and I think everything is perfect.
"So this is your place?" He looks around him, taking it all in. The candy bar wrappers. The cigarette butts. The mounds of dead leaves.
"It's not much," I say. "But yeah. It's where I go."
Zane nods. "It's got a certain . . . mystique to it."
Mystique. Just the word to describe a place where you can see but can't be seen, where you hear the things you don't want to know. Just then, I realize why I'm so comfortable under the bleachers. Me lurking down here, it's just like me sliding. I am a witness. Never a participant.
"Something on your mind?" Zane asks, bumping into me playfully.
There is actually something on my mind. I keep replaying the conversation I heard between Scotch and Amber. The thing he'd said about a pregnancy ruining his life—would he go so far as to kill Sophie if she didn't get an abortion? Is that too far-fetched?
I feel like I need a new perspective. I could tell Zane the basics without revealing my secret. Maybe he'll have some insight.
"Okay, you know the girl who died? Sophie?"
Zane nods.
"Well, this officer came to our house, asking my sister questions about Sophie's state of mind. He happened to mention Sophie was pregnant when she died."
"Holy shit."
"Yeah. Anyway . . . I think I might know who the father was. You know Scotch Becker?"
Zane groans. "Who could forget a guy named Scotch? He's the charming fellow who suggested I go out for football. He said I seemed cool enough to get some of his castoffs."
I pause, the statement hitting a little close to home. "Gross. Okay, so the day Sophie died, I overheard Scotch telling one of his friends that he slept with Sophie."
Zane stares straight ahead. "That just . . . sucks."
I follow his gaze to the empty field. It's easier to look at nothing when talking about these things than to look into Zane's eyes and try to guess what he's thinking. What I'm about to say might derail everything that's happened between us in the past few days. Maybe he'll think I'm crazy, paranoid like Samantha's note in English class said.
But maybe not.
"Okay, so is it totally insane to think Sophie might not have killed herself?" I continue to not look at Zane. Instead, I pick up an orangey-brown leaf and start to shred it.
A moment passes.
"Um. What do you mean? If she didn't kill herself, then who killed her?"
Another moment.
"You think Scotch killed her? Because of the pregnancy? That he killed her and made it look like a suicide?" His voice sounds doubtful, but not like he thinks the idea is so out there I must be destined for a padded cell.
"It's a theory," I say diplomatically. "Hey, Scott Peterson killed his wife when she was pregnant. And they were married. Scotch had a lot to lose. He'd probably have to give up football and get a job at a car dealership or something. He'd never get out of Iowa."
Zane hunches forward and rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Yeah, I guess. Still, it seems like a big assumption—that he'd kill a girl over something like that."
I could tell Zane about what Scotch did to me freshman year. If I do, though, it's like it turns me into Damaged Girl, and I don't want that. I decide to shoot a different theory his way.
"Okay, here's another possibility. Kids have been talking about Sophie riding around with Mr. Golden. What if he's the father? That would definitely be a motive to kill Sophie, wouldn't it? His job would be at stake. He could go to jail for sleeping with a minor. But if he took her out and made it look like she killed herself, he'd be off the hook."
Zane twists his mouth, like he's considering his words carefully. "Maaaaaaybe. Or maybe she just killed herself, Sylvia. I mean, that's what people do when they feel like there's no escape."
I feel the weight of his father's suicide hanging between us. Zane, more than anyone, would know how each day could burden someone so much that they'd want to take their own life. The thing is, he didn't know Sophie. If he did, maybe he'd be more willing to think outside the box.
"I'm not saying you're wrong, Sylvia. I'm just saying that, when it comes to these things, the least complicated explanation is usually right. Sophie was pregnant. She didn't know what to do. She was probably scared. She felt like she had no way out. Sounds like a recipe for disaster to me."
I have to admit, he makes a good point.
We are quiet for a while, and I just let the heat from his body seep into mine. Sharing his coat reminds me of when Rollins and I pretended to be Siamese twins. Except when I was with Rollins, my heart didn't feel like it was going to slam its way right out of my chest.
I hear a faraway bell. The period has ended. It's time to return to my own personal hell, high school. Zane slips his half of the coat off and puts it around my shoulder, fully enveloping me with warmth.
"Come on," he says. "And try to avoid the broken glass. Can't have you going to the nurse and meeting some other guy."
Chapter Fifteen
Zane and I mix with the stream of students flowing down the hallway. Someone catches my elbow, and I turn to see a blond cheerleader I used to be sort of friends with. Her eyes are bright, and she's bubbling with excitement.
"You missed it. Mattie and Amber got into a fight!"
"What?"
"Just now. Mattie called Amber a slut, so Amber punched her. It was. So. Insane." The girl breaks away from me and launches herself toward someone else to broadcast the latest news.
"What's wrong?" Zane asks when he sees how white my face has become.
"It's my sister. Jesus, I've gotta find her. I'll talk to you later."
"Sure, no problem. See you." He squeezes my hand and then disappears into the crowd of people. I stand on my tippy-toes and survey the masses on their way to class, frantically searching for my sister's face. She's nowhere to be seen. I let the flow of bodies carry me down the hallway, passing classrooms and drinking fountains. As we go by the office, I spot Mattie through the window.
Mattie and Amber sit outside the principal's office, only one tacky orange chair between them. They avoid looking at each other, grimacing at their laps. My sister's clothes are disheveled, the neckline of her cheerleading uniform ripped.
Nasty emerges from his office. His mouth makes shapes and his finger points as he speaks, but I can't hear him behind the smudgy window. He says something to my sister and then waves her out of his office like he's tired of seeing her.
She bursts through the door and almost slams right into me. "Vee!"
I steer her toward the girls' bathroom by her elbow. A senior in ridiculously high heels stands before a mirror, coaxing a contact lens back into place. She blinks a few times, picks up her pink purse from the counter, and brushes past us on her way out. All the stalls are empty, so I'm free to WTF all I want.
"What happened?" I demand, crossing my arms over my chest.
Promptly Mattie bursts into tears. "Amber's such a bitch. She said Scotch knocked Sophie up and that's why she killed herself."
I let out a deep breath. "She said that?"
Mattie ducks into a stall and starts unrolling toilet paper. She dabs at her cheeks, wiping away the mascara streams coursing down her face. "Yeah, well, we were at my locker, and Samantha made some comment about Amber taking off with Scotch after the funeral. Amber hinted that he told her something big, and we kind of pushed her into telling us."
"And then she hit you?"
Mattie shakes her head. "No. Amber said that's why Sophie must have killed herself—because of the pregnancy. I got pissed because it's like she was excusing herself from any responsibility. I mean, after what we did . . . So I asked her if she'd already forgotten about the picture she sent everyone, if she really thought that had nothing to do with Sophie's suicide. That's when she punched me."
Mattie dissolves into tears. I can't stand the way she's crying, knowing she blames herself for Sophie's death. I want so badly to tell her that, although Sophie was unbearably hurt by her friends' actions, she didn't kill herself. I can't bring myself to tell her the truth, and I hate myself for it.
Instead, I pull her close and wrap my arms around her. "Mattie, you can't blame yourself or Amber for Sophie's death. There were other factors involved. Trust me. If you want to feel bad about making a mistake, go ahead, but make it a productive feeling. Don't do anything like that again. But you can't go around thinking Sophie is dead because of you."
Mattie pulls away slightly and looks me in the eyes. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I am, Mattie. I swear. You have to trust me."
She leans her head on my shoulder and sniffles. "I do."
After a moment, she pulls away and goes to the sink. She splashes water on her face and then smooths her hair. Meeting my gaze in the mirror, she offers a small smile. "Thanks, Vee."
"No problem. So what did Nasty say?"
"He went easy on me because of Sophie's death. He said he knew I was going through a lot, so he only gave me three days of in-school suspension. I'm supposed to go around and get stuff to work on."
In-school suspension is so not a big deal. Kids call it lockup, ironically. You have to sit in a little room attached to the teachers' lounge and listen to the teachers gossip about who cheated on the Macbeth final exam. There's a pop machine right outside the door, and if you play your cards right, you can nab a can of soda to make your stay more enjoyable. Not that I would know or anything.
Mattie's skin is all blotchy, and her eyes are red and puffy. A red welt is forming on her cheek, where I assume Amber hit her. She looks like she's about to start crying again any minute.
"Look, do you want me to go around and get your assignments for you?"
"Would you?" she asks hopefully. "I don't want anyone to see me."
"Sure. I'm not exactly in the mood for class." To be completely truthful, I'm not exactly in the mood to run into Rollins after he snubbed me this morning.
She pounces on me. "You're the best!"
I walk her to the teachers' lounge. The window is covered in newspaper—probably so we can't see the teachers partying during their prep periods. Mattie waves and ducks into the lounge. After she disappears, I try to figure out which of her classes to go to first. I decide to hit up her English class, since it's the closest. Her teacher isn't all that excited that I interrupted class, but she finds a Romeo and Juliet study guide and shoves it my way. Mattie's other teachers are more pleasant and give me some worksheets to pass on to her.
Next, I stop by her locker to get her textbooks. You can open 97.3 percent of the lockers at East High by punching them in just the right spot, so you learn really quickly to carry all valuables with you. Mattie's locker, which she shared with Sophie, is a disaster. Photos are taped haphazardly on the inside of the door, among scribbled messages saying things like Scotch is hawt and Mattie + Sophie = BFFEE (Best Friends For-Effing-Ever).
My eyes fall on one picture in the center of everything, the eye of the storm. Mattie stands between Sophie and Amber, and their arms are all around each other's waists. From the way their faces are painted like cats, I can tell it's from the state fair last summer. It seems like the picture was taken a million years ago. One of the girls is now dead, and the other two just mauled each other in the hallway. It reminds me how quickly things can change.
On the bottom of her locker, under her gym shoes, which smell like rotting broccoli, under a bunch of flyers advertising the cheerleaders' car wash from September, under something suspiciously slimy in a paper bag, I find Mattie's English textbook. I shake my head and pull it out, feeling a bit like the magician who snatches a tablecloth out from under a bunch of china.
As I straighten up, I see Amber headed my way. Her hair hangs in long, messy clumps, and it's pretty clear she's been crying. It's actually really sad. Between witnessing her crumpled on the bathroom floor of a funeral home and then later making out with Scotch Becker, the lowest of the low, I only feel pity for her.
She stops at her locker and spins the knob. When she tries to pull the locker open, nothing happens. She tries again. And again. The locker stays shut. Finally, she releases a shriek and pounds on the metal before drooping in defeat.
"Amber?"
She turns her miserable face toward me.
"Are you okay? Do you want some help?"
She laughs bitterly. "I want a lot of things. Can you turn back time for me? Because that'd be great. I could go back and not be such an idiot. Not send that picture to everyone. Not be such a slut. Not get into a huge fight with my best friend." She shakes her head.
"I meant with your locker." I push past her gently and pound on the door in just the right spot. It pops open.
"Thanks," she mutters, and pulls out her backpack. She shrugs it over her shoulders and slams the locker door. "Guess I'll see ya later."
I watch her walk down the hallway and disappear around the corner.
Maybe I've been wrong about Amber all along. Beneath that cold, bitchy exterior, it seems like she's actually pretty vulnerable. She's able to see the error of her ways, at least, and that's more than you can say for some people. Once Mattie's cooled off, I vow to put in a good word for Amber. They can help each other get past Sophie's death.
Armed with the English textbook and worksheets, I head toward the teachers' lounge. In the detention room, Mattie is sitting with her back to the door, her head cradled in her arms. At first, I wonder if she's crying, but when I touch her back and she turns toward me, her eyes are clear.
I set the work sheets and textbook on the desk in front of her.
"Thanks," she says.
"No problem," I reply. "You'd do the same for me." In my head, though, I'm wondering if it's true.
When I turn to leave, Mattie grabs my arm.
"No, really," she says. "I appreciate you being here for me. I know we haven't always gotten along . . ."
"Don't worry about it. That's what I'm here for." I mean what I say, but as I turn to leave, I find myself wondering who I'm supposed to count on.
Chapter Sixteen
After school, I fight my way through the crowd to get to my locker. It seems like everyone is yapping about the fight. I wish I had earplugs so I could stop hearing all the gossip about my sister and Amber.
Just as I'm stuffing an orange notebook into the already-bursting seams of my poor bag, Rollins appears. He leans on the locker next to mine.
"Hey. I heard about your sister. That sucks."
I give him a cold look. There's something about him ignoring me this morning and now trying to act all buddy-buddy with me that rubs me the wrong way.
"So we're friends now? Because I wasn't sure after this morning. . . ."
"What are you talking about?" Rollins tries to look innocent. It's infuriating.
I feel like everything from the last couple of days is building up inside me, a crescendo of terror and anger and frustration. The need for release is so strong.
I turn to face him. "Let's review. You walk out on Friday night for no reason. When my sister's best friend dies, you don't call. You don't text. Nothing. And now you're avoiding me in the halls. Oh, yeah. I saw you this morning. As soon as you realized I was with Zane, you turned and walked away. Let me tell you something, Rollins. I need a friend right now. Get it?"
A muscle in his jaw twitches. He doesn't say a word, just does a 180 and walks the other way, his fists clenching and unclenching.
"What was that all about?"
Zane pops out of nowhere and stoops to rest his arm on my open locker door. His grin is a mile wide—so bright and warm, I can almost feel the sun beating down on my face.
"Nothing," I mutter. "I'm just having a really heinous day."
"Hmmm," he says, pressing one finger against his chin like he's thinking hard. "There's only one thing that makes me feel better when I'm having a bad day. Jelly doughnuts."
"What?" My stony face cracks into a smile.
"Jelly doughnuts. They're like an instant orgasm for your tongue. Come on, we'll go get some. I know the best place."
I slam my locker door and let him lead me down the hall toward the parking lot.
An hour and 89,467 calories later, we pull into my driveway. I'm still licking the cherry goodness from my fingers, sighing from the clump of sugar in my belly. The air in the car is sweet and comfortably warm.
"Can I ask you a question?" Zane says, playing with the radio. He puts on some bad eighties music. It's perfect.
"Go for it."
"You and Rollins, you're tight?"
"We're friends," I say, and then start to feel pretty guilty about blowing up at Rollins. To make up for it, I add, "Best friends."
Zane absorbs this information. "I keep thinking about yesterday." His hand is on the armrest between us, not far away from my bare arm. Goose bumps. "I'm sorry I kissed you so soon. I feel like I ruined everything. I mean, I think you're really interesting. I'd like to get to know you better."
A feeling like happiness swirls beneath my skin. He wants to get to know me better. That means he doesn't think I'm a crazy bitch for throwing out those murder theories, right? That means he feels this connection, too.
"It's just a really weird time for me," I say finally. "With this whole Sophie thing and my sister freaking out. I feel like I'm stuck in this nightmare and everyone's insane but me. Or maybe I'm the one who's insane. I don't know."
Shut up, Vee. Shut up. You're babbling.
After a while, he says softly, "I had a little sister once."
We are both quiet. Even though the heater is blasting hot air right in my face, I feel cold from the tips of my toes to the top of my scalp. The way he said it, in past tense, makes me feel like crying.
"I'm sorry," I say, and then I wish I had said something else, anything else. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head.
The white bag I'm holding between my thighs crinkles as I pull out a pastry. "Jelly doughnut?"
Our eyes meet, and he shines his smile again. It warms me up fast. His fingers brush mine as he takes the doughnut from me. He takes a big bite, chews, swallows.
"God," he says. "You're so beautiful. It just kills me."
"It was you," I whisper. "In class, I mean. That was your note."
His lips bend into a smile.
The moment freezes. And right now, I don't care if this will end someday. My fear of becoming too attached is swept away by my intense desire to make this instant count, make it as complete as it can be.
My hand floats up to his face and touches his cheek. Leaning toward each other, we kiss, ever so gently. His lips taste like cherry. I didn't know it could be this good.
When I manage to extricate myself from Zane's car, I notice my dad's car is in the driveway—an odd sight in the late afternoon. I thought he was going to be at the hospital, catching up on some paperwork.
Once inside, I set down my backpack and head to the kitchen to get a drink of water. A strange sound makes me pause in the middle of the foyer. It's a rustling—no, it's someone whispering. The noise is coming from my father's study. I inch closer, straining to hear what's being said.
"Just stop," my father hisses loudly. "I told you. Please don't call anymore." A moment passes, and then he says, "No. I'm done. Good-bye."
I'm frozen. I know I should turn around, go to the kitchen for a glass of water like I planned, but my muscles will not obey my command. Who could my father have been talking to? It sounded like he was putting an end to some sort of relationship. But he hasn't gone out on any dates . . . has he?
My father appears in the doorway with his cell phone, and his face looks older than it normally does. Deep creases carve into his face around his eyes and mouth. His back is hunched over. He looks up, surprised to see me.
"Vee," he says. "How long have you been standing there?"
I shrug, trying to appear casual. "Not long."
He slips his cell phone into his pocket and grabs his jacket. "I've got to run to the store for a few things. You need me to pick anything up?"
"No," I say.
"Okay. I won't be long."
And then he's gone.
I linger in the doorway of his office, trying to make sense of the phone call I overheard. I have to admit, I kind of always pictured my dad staying single for the rest of his life. It had never occurred to me that he'd want to see anyone after my mom died.
On his desk, a framed photo of my mother grabs my attention. It's from their wedding. In it, she smiles widely at the camera, as if she's got her whole life ahead of her, as if nothing bad could ever happen. As if she could never die, as if my father could never love anyone but her.
Looking at it makes me feel heavy with sadness. Only moments ago, I was kissing a gorgeous boy, maybe even falling a little bit in love. I was throwing caution to the wind, letting myself get stuck to something. But right now, in front of me, is the evidence that all good things, no matter how beautiful, do come to an end.
I turn around and trudge up the stairs, my heart weighing me down.
Chapter Seventeen
Dinner is awkward.
Mattie sits there, twisting her spoon in her hands, avoiding eye contact with my dad. He fills our bowls with steaming chili and places them in front of us silently. The chili is his way of making amends for not being around while Mattie's dealing with her best friend's death and for relying on me to pick up the slack. I also wonder if he's making up for something else, maybe for not being entirely truthful with us. For keeping his relationship with whoever was on the phone earlier on the down-low.
He reaches across the table for some saltines to crumble into his chili and then asks casually—almost too casually, "So what happened with Amber today, Mattie?"
Mattie stares intently at the spoon in her fist.
"She was saying some stuff about Sophie."
"What kind of stuff?" He takes a bite, chews methodically, never looking away from Mattie's face.
After a long pause, Mattie says, "She was saying Sophie was pregnant with Scotch Becker's baby."
My father swallows, frowns. "And why would that upset you?"
Mattie drums her spoon on the table. "Because she said that's why Sophie killed herself, and I know that's not true."
"So you hit her?"
Mattie lets her spoon fall to the table. "I didn't hit her! She hit me. I just called her a name. I shouldn't have been suspended for that."
My dad keeps his cool. "Well, Mr. Nast can't just allow kids to get into brawls in the hallway. He has a school to run. There have to be consequences, even if—"
"Even if what?" Mattie says, challenging him.
"Even if you're hurting."
Mattie lets out a long breath. "You have no idea." She then picks up her untouched bowl of chili and heads for the kitchen. I hear the dish hit the sink with a great deal of force. My dad winces.
"I'm going to bed," Mattie announces on her way back through the dining room. She stomps up the stairs and slams her bedroom door.
My dad sighs and puts his head in his hands.
I desperately want to follow Mattie's lead and bow out of this whole depressing family meal, but it seems cruel to let my father sit there by himself. When he raises his head, I see tears glistening in his eyes.
"I can't do this by myself," he says, more to the ceiling than to me. I'm not sure how to respond. I'm not sure if I should respond.
"God. If only your mother were here," he goes on. "I'm just . . . unequipped. I can't deal with this."
His yearning for my mother sinks into me. In that moment, I almost wish he was seeing someone. He needs someone in his life besides me and Mattie—someone to talk to.
I reach over and link my hand with his. "You're doing fine, Dad. Mattie's just upset. She'll be okay." I hope what I'm saying isn't a lie.
He looks at our hands, intertwined, and a tear comes loose and spills down his cheek. He squeezes my hand and attempts a smile. "You remind me so much of your mother sometimes, Vee. She always knew just what to say. It was like she could look inside of you and know exactly what you were feeling. You're like that."
His words make me a little uncomfortable. Usually I feel like I know too much about other people—their secrets eat away at me from the inside.
"Vee. Would you do me a favor? Go to your sister. She needs help. You probably understand what she's going through more than I ever could. You'll know the right things to say."
I manage a small smile. "Sure, Dad."
My father's phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket, glances at the display, and answers it. "Hello?" As I watch, his eyes dry up and become businesslike. "No problem. I'll be there in a half hour."
He hangs up and looks at me. "I'm sorry, Vee. I have to go."
"I know," I reply. "Go."
Upstairs, Mattie is lying on her bed, flipping through a photo album of happier times. On one page, my mother pushes me on a swing, and my sister is visible in the background, strapped into a pink stroller. She's reaching her arms out, like she longs to join in on the fun. The next page shows my mom and dad cooking dinner together. I am dancing between them, tasting something on a wooden spoon and making a face. She is stuck in her highchair, a mound of cereal on her tray.
I sit next to her on the bed, but she doesn't look up. She says her words to the people in the pictures. "What do you remember about her?" She traces her finger over our mother's smile.
"About Mom?"
Mattie nods. "I feel like I've forgotten everything important."
I flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. "I don't know. She smelled like violets. When we went on car trips, she made up stories about the constellations in the sky. They were like people to her. They all had pasts and relationships and mannerisms. She could go on for hours about the Gemini twins fighting over Andromeda."
Mattie turns the page. "What else?"
"She ate peanut butter and banana sandwiches. She played her music loud and jumped around. She painted her toenails purple."
Mattie examines each page in the photo album carefully, as if she's looking for clues about who our mother was. When she reaches the final page, it's blank. It's always been blank. I don't know what she was expecting. She hurls the book to the floor.
"It's not enough," she says, her words strangled by her sobs.
I sit up and wrap my arms around her. "I know," I whisper. "I know it's not enough. But listen. We've got each other. If you need to talk about something, you can tell me. Anything, okay?"
Mattie nods and grabs a tissue from her bedside table. I rub her back as she blows her nose. The light outside has gone dim. We are surrounded by shadows.
Eventually, my sister pulls away and rearranges herself on the bed, hugging a pillow across her chest. "Can I ask you a question, Vee?"
"Yeah."
She picks some lint off the pillow. "Why did you stop being friends with Sam and all those guys?"
I sigh. I'd been content to let Mattie think the popular crowd rejected me just for being a geek, but the way she looks at me makes me want to tell her the truth—or at least as much of it as I can. Besides, she should know what the people she hangs around with are capable of. Maybe it will save her from putting herself in the same situation I did.
"Do you remember the purple dress?" I ask.
She bobs her head excitedly, like I knew she would. She was there when I found the dress. She was almost more excited about it than I was.
And so I tell her.
I tell her about me and Samantha both liking Scotch. I tell her I was the one he chose and about all the things Samantha did to punish me for that. I tell her about drinking in Kapler Park before the dance. I tell her about how I felt ill and passed out, and how I awoke with my dress around my waist, to the sound of Rollins's fists hitting Scotch's body.
The only part I leave out is the sliding, but let's face it—it's not necessary to the story. What happened that night could happen to anyone. It is not a unique tale. But it is enough to cause my sister's face to screw up again with tears, enough to compel her to throw her arms around me and crush me with her embrace.
It's been a long time since I cried about that night. But for some reason, telling it all to Mattie, I see it from a different angle. My heart swells for the girl in the purple dress, for the girl with a crush who got more than she asked for. As I recall seeing it from Samantha's eyes—Scotch dragging me into the locker room—I start to cry for the girl I once was.
And so I let my sister hug me, and when she asks me to stay in her room tonight, I oblige. It's like when we were little, after our mom died, and she had a nightmare. She'd come into my room, and I'd hold up the covers for her to crawl under.
I watch her face as it settles into sleep. She looks so young, so raw. I'm angry for her that she didn't have more time with our mother, that the only person she really has right now is me. These thoughts circle over my head, and before I know it, I have fallen asleep.
I'm in the middle of a carnival. A Ferris wheel spins backward and a sad clown holds a bunch of black balloons. My mother rides a purple unicorn on the merry-go-round. I see her coming my way, and she waves, her face glowing in excitement. She looks just like her pictures, young and stunning.
She looks like an angel.
I run up to the gate and press against it, calling for her. Someone taps me on the shoulder, and when I turn around, there she is. She wears ripped blue jeans and an Alice in Chains T-shirt.
"Vee," she says, her voice soft and shimmery. She pulls me to a bench, and we sit down, hands clasped. I rest my head against her shoulder, breathing in her mother scent of powder and violets and milk.
"Mom."
It feels good to say the word. I have so many things to ask her. How did she know she was in love with Dad? Did his kisses taste like jelly doughnuts? How do I carry on each day with the knowledge of the terrible things people are capable of? How do I help my sister work through the blackness of one friend's death and another friend's betrayal?
All my questions fall away when I look in her eyes, blue against the black sky.
She pushes my hair back from my face. "My baby."
"Yes. Yes, Mom." I can't stop saying it. "Mom."
Rain begins to fall, and each drop that slides down my mother's cheeks takes away a tiny bit of her. She hugs me one last time, and then the rain picks up and takes her away entirely. The rain takes away everything.
I am crying when I awake in Mattie's room. How unfair this is, to be given a mother for a few seconds in a dream, only to have her be taken away the moment I open my eyes. The pillow is wet with tears.
The alarm clock says it's a little past ten. I need to get up, do something that will keep me alert. I slither out of Mattie's bed and tiptoe to the hallway, leaving her door just slightly ajar.
In my room, I snap on the light, and brightness blinds me. A face captures my attention in the corner of the room, but when I look, I realize it's only the face of the angel on the Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt. I'd hung the shirt over the back of my rocking chair and forgotten it. Something about the angel's eyes, the expression on her face. It reminds me of my mother.
Drawn to the shirt, I thread my arms through the sleeves and pull it over my head. It's softer than it looks, but its caress on my skin is a poor substitute for my dream mother's embrace.
After popping a few caffeine pills, I retrieve the astronomy book from my nightstand. I flip it open to a random page and start reading about the big bang theory. After only a paragraph, the words start to swerve on the page.
Dizziness. A slight pain behind my eyes.
I'm going to slide.
And then I realize I'm wearing the shirt that Rollins gave me.
An entire field pops up around me—not a natural field, but a man-made field, complete with white paint marking the perimeters for playing football. I see the dark but unmistakable outline of the school. Beyond it, the black sky sings with stars.
Rollins crosses the field, heading in the direction of a goalpost. It is strange to be inside him. The way his body moves, his kind of slouchy walk, is so familiar to me—but I've never experienced it from this perspective. I don't know how I've avoided it in the year that I've known him. I used to think it was because he contained his feelings so well. He never left an emotional imprint on anything.
Except the T-shirt he gave me. How strange.
As he approaches the goalpost, I see the silhouette of someone waiting for him—a female silhouette. I'm surprised by a sudden pang of jealousy. I didn't know he was seeing anyone. Have we drifted so far apart that I wouldn't know these things?
The girl's hair shines in the dim light coming from the faraway streetlamp. I know only one girl whose hair is that exact shade of chocolate brown. It is Amber.
Confusion overwhelms me. Though Amber has never made her attraction to Rollins a secret, he always brushes her off. What is going on here?
When he's about five yards away, I hear him say, "Thanks for coming."
Amber smiles and reaches into the black-and-white Prada purse that's slung over her shoulder. She pulls out a crumply packet, but it's too dark for me to tell what it is.
"I'm glad you called. I was feeling a little lonely."
Rollins opens his mouth to respond, but I'm snatched away before I can hear what he says. I jolt upright and gasp for air. I pull off the Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt and chuck it on the floor.
My phone wakes me before dawn. I sit up, feeling blindly for it. I must have fallen asleep in the early morning hours, despite the handful of caffeine pills I gulped down before witnessing Rollins's meeting with Amber.
It's my dad's ringtone, the one he made me download last year when I was stressing about finals—"Don't Worry, Be Happy." I swear the song is more annoying than my alarm clock.
"Dad? It's like five thirty."
"Vee, I've got to talk to you."
And, with those words, I know something terrible has happened. It's the kind of thing you say to someone right before breaking bad news. Like telling a child there's no Santa Claus. Or their cat got run over by a semi.
Or something much, much worse.
I'm suddenly sitting up, crushing the phone against my ear.
"What is it?"
"Amber's parents called. She didn't come home last night. They wondered if she was with Mattie." There's more. I can tell by his tone of voice there's something he's not telling me.
"And?"
"Honey, Amber is dead." The stark finality of his words knocks the breath out of me.
I take a moment, struggling to find my voice, trying to remember the last time I saw Amber. It was at her locker. That was the last time I saw her with my own eyes.
But I was with her around ten p.m. last night.
Or, rather, Rollins was with her.
I switch the phone from one ear to the other.
"Mr. Golden heard the shot and found her body on the football field—isn't that your psychology teacher? Evidently he was at school, preparing lesson plans for the day. God knows why he was there so late. What teacher stays until ten o'clock? The police say . . . it looks like another suicide."
I'm willing to bet it wasn't a suicide. Just like Sophie's death wasn't a suicide.
"Vee, are you okay?" He's making sure I've got my shit together so I can take care of Mattie. What choice do I have? I have to be okay. I have to keep Mattie safe.
Two cheerleaders are dead. She could be next.
"I'll be home by tonight, okay? We've got a bad situation here. I need you to stay with Mattie until I get home. There's no school today. The police have cordoned off the area."
I picture it in my head—yellow tape stretched around the football field, waving in the wind. Chalk marking where the body was found. Can you use chalk on grass?
My father interrupts my thoughts. "Okay? Okay, Vee? Can you handle that?"
I'm nodding, but he can't see it. "Yeah, okay, Dad. Should I tell her?"
I hear him release a deep breath. "I guess you'd better. Will you guys be okay today?" Guilt has crept into his voice. Another traumatic event that he won't be around for.
"Don't worry," I say, and his ringtone pops into my head. Be happy. "I'll take care of everything."
Chapter Eighteen
In the kitchen, I mix pancake batter while thinking of what I'll say to Mattie. There seems no good way to tell her. I'm glad I'm not a doctor. My father must go through this all the time, searching his mind for the perfect words to break bad news. I wonder why he's not better at it. Maybe I should be thinking about what my mother would say if she were here.
I pour little circles of batter into a sizzling pan, then grab a handful of chocolate chips and drop them one by one into the pancakes. A knock at the front door startles me. I peer through the window and see Rollins standing on our porch. I freeze for a moment and then duck down before he can see me. It's not something I think about, just instinct. Try as I might, I can't come up with a way to explain how Amber died right after she met up with Rollins.
He knocks again. I close my eyes.
Go. Away.
After about five minutes, I pick myself up off the floor and peek out the window. The porch is empty. Rollins is gone. I heave a sigh of relief.
I scoop the pancakes onto a plate. I spend a long time standing in front of the refrigerator, looking at a picture of my mom when she was in college, tan and skinny and smiling, with blond hair and a white tank top. Below it, there's a picture of my sister at her eighth-grade graduation. Dad and I stand on either side of her, giving her double bunny ears. On any other fridge, this would look like a happy collage of memories, but on our fridge it's a mockery of what once was, what could have been. A happy family.
I pull the refrigerator door open and grab the syrup so I can drizzle it on my sister's pancakes, just the way she likes them.
I nudge Mattie's door open with my foot and carry in the tray of pancakes and orange slices. Now that I'm standing there, it seems silly, like pancakes could possibly soften the blow that another of her friends is dead. I'm acting just like my freaking dad. Taking a couple of steps backward, I rest the tray on the floor in the hall and then enter the room again. I will do this in my own way.
She's snoring, her eyelashes thick against her cheeks. The strangest urge creeps through me—to crawl into bed next to her, wrap my arms around her, feel her torso rise and fall with each breath. Instead, I open the curtains and let the sun shine in, hoping it will obliterate the darkness my news will bring.
"Mattie?" I sit down next to her, shaking her gently. "Mattie, wake up."
She opens one eye and studies me. Then she jerks upright, throwing her princess-pink covers away from her body.
"What time is it? Oh my God, I'm going to be late for practice. What—do I smell pancakes? Is it Sunday?" She stares at me, confused.
"Mattie, I have something to tell you."
She freezes, a look of apprehension washing over her face. Her muscles tense, like she's bracing herself for the impact.
"There's no school today. Amber's dead." No euphemisms, just the bald, ugly words. I rip the Band-Aid off and wait for her to scream.
Mattie's shoulders droop, then her eyes. I see the knowledge working its way through every muscle group, as they all become slack. First her face. Then her arms. Then the trunk of her body. She slumps there, devoid of any expression at all.
"They found her on the football field. They think it was suicide." Even as I'm speaking, I'm not entirely sure who they are. I have a vague mental picture of Officer Teahen and a bunch of uniformed figures inching their way across the campus, looking for clues.
Mattie says nothing.
I'm afraid to leave her alone, so I go into my room and grab some CDs and my old teddy bear, Cleo. I pop my Smashing Pumpkins CD into Mattie's computer because that's what I like to listen to when I feel as if my life is being sucked out of me. Billy Corgan's voice is a salve.
Pushing Cleo into her hands, I say, "Mattie? You're going to get through this. I promise." Then I climb into bed and wrap my arms around her, pretending we're stranded in Antarctica and I have to use my body heat to keep her alive. Strangely, it's only after I hug her that she starts shivering.
The lack of sleep is catching up with me. I drink cup after cup of coffee, but it does nothing to stop my drooping eyelids. I try to stay on my feet and be productive. I check on Mattie every half hour. At lunchtime, I bring her a sandwich and some yogurt. She just leaves the food on her bedside table, untouched.
After forcing myself to nibble on a sandwich of my own, I retreat to the bathroom. I am fading. I fill a glass with water and use it to wash down some caffeine pills, but I am not quick enough. Too late, I realize I'm holding the Scooby-Doo glass that Officer Teahen used the day he visited our house.
Too late, I realize he must have imprinted on the glass.
Too late, I realize I'm going to slide.
I fall to the bathroom floor in a heap.
Officer Teahen is sweating. His shirt is damp with moisture. When he was at our house that day, he seemed so calm and collected as he questioned Mattie. But now, I realize his heart is pounding. He does a great job of hiding his feelings.
He's in a bare room with cement walls, furnished with only a table and two folding chairs. Hanging from the ceiling, a fluorescent light illuminates every corner. A mirror stretches almost the entire length of one wall, and I've seen enough cop shows to know this is a two-way mirror. Seated at the table, looking extremely ill, is Mr. Golden.
Officer Teahen takes out the same little notepad he used when he questioned Mattie and retrieves a pencil from his pocket. "Tell me again, why were you at the high school last night?" He turns around to face Mr. Golden.
"I wasn't feeling well, so I was preparing my lesson plans for the substitute teacher." Beads of sweat materialize on Mr. Golden's forehead.
"What time was this?"
"Um, about nine forty-five."
Officer Teahen makes a note of the time. "Tell me what happened then. Don't leave anything out."
Mr. Golden takes a deep breath. "Well, I waved to Eddie—the night custodian—and went to my classroom. I wrote my lesson plans on the board and set out some work sheets on my desk. Then I left."
"How long did this take?" Officer Teahen taps his pencil against the notepad thoughtfully.
"Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty."
"And that's when you heard the shot?"
Mr. Golden squeezes his eyes shut. "Yes. About ten fifteen."
"And what did you do then?"
Mr. Golden opens his eyes. "I went out to the football field, where I heard the shot. And I found—I called 911 right away."
Officer Teahen takes a minute to ask the next question. I get the sense he's struggling with how to phrase it. Finally, he asks, "Mr. Golden, what was your relationship with Amber Prescott?"
Mr. Golden looks dazed. "She was in my sixth-period class."
"Nothing beyond that? You never spoke with her outside of school?"
"No." Mr. Golden sounds agitated.
"What about Sophie Jacobs? What was your relationship with her?"
"She was in my eighth period."
"Some students have stated that they saw you driving with her in your vehicle. Is that true?"
Mr. Golden shrugs nervously. "I gave her a ride home sometimes."
"That was it?"
Mr. Golden pauses, and Officer Teahen rushes on. "Mr. Golden, were you aware that Sophie Jacobs was pregnant?"
Mr. Golden bows his head. After a long, long moment, he whispers, "Yes."
Mattie's scream brings me back. The noise is multilayered, peal upon peal of shock and terror. I am crumpled on the bathroom floor.
"Mattie, stop. It's okay. I'm okay." I crawl toward her and pull myself to my feet. As she nestles her head into the crook of my neck, her screams subside.
I hear the front door open.
"Girls?" my father calls. Mattie breaks away from me and races toward the sound of his voice. I follow her down the stairs and watch them embrace. He squeezes her tight, and it makes me wish I could feel the warmth of him.
"Are you girls okay?" It's a dumb question. He turns a little pink.
The officer's conversation with Mr. Golden hangs somewhere in the back of my head. I need to get away, go someplace to sort out my thoughts.
"I'm going out," I announce, grabbing my jacket from the coatrack.
"Where are you going?" my father demands, grabbing my wrist, sounding panicked. I know he's afraid to be alone with Mattie and her grief, but I need a break. I shake him off.
"For a walk. I'll be back soon."
With that, I slip out the door.
I walk quickly to keep warm. It seems the temperature is dipping lower every day now. Before long, the dead leaves will be covered with snow. Pure, white snow. That thought cheers me a little.
In my head, I replay the scene at the police station. It seems clear that Officer Teahen believes Golden is involved with the girls' deaths somehow. He seemed to be insinuating that the teacher was having an inappropriate relationship with Sophie or Amber or both of them. If you'd asked me a few weeks ago whether Golden was capable of such a thing, I'd have said hell no. He was a cool teacher. Everyone liked him. But I guess appearances can be deceiving.
I turn onto the next street, Arbor. At the very end is a light-blue house with a picket fence. Until recently, a slanted For Sale sign had been stuck in the front yard. This is the house Zane was talking about. This is where he lives.
Without thinking, I climb the porch and gently rap on the door with my knuckles. A moment passes, and I hear voices somewhere in the house. Someone tromps on the stairs.
Zane flings open the door and looks at me in surprise. "Vee. What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"
"Yes. No. I'm just . . . I need a jelly doughnut."
Zane's eyebrows knit together. "I don't have any left. I'm sorry." His earnestness makes me smile, in spite of myself.
"Oh, no. Metaphorical jelly doughnuts, you know? I need to talk."
"Ah," he says. "Metaphorical jelly doughnuts I can do. You want to sit down?" He motions toward a couple of rocking chairs. I ease into one and survey the street. The neighborhood I've lived in my whole life seems different somehow, from this angle.
"What's up?"
A sob bubbles up in my throat. I clamp my hands over my mouth, a little embarrassed at the sound. I've only known this boy for a few days. I'm really starting to like him. Do I want to bawl like a baby in front of him?
Zane sits in the chair next to me and pries away one of my hands. He holds it in his own, soft and hard at the same time. He slides his finger back and forth over the skin between my thumb and pointer finger. It makes me shiver.
"Someone else died," I say. "Another of my sister's friends."
He leans forward, concerned. I tell him about my father's phone call and how I spent the whole day watching over Mattie.
I tell him I'm scared. So scared.
I'm scared my sister won't make it through this alive.
Through it all, he keeps rubbing my hand, and it's his touch that gives me the courage to keep going. When I finish, we just sit there. Across the street, a girl in a purple cape chases a small, yapping dog. Oh, what I wouldn't give to be that girl.
I fold myself into the space between his arm and his body. I let myself melt into him, and I can feel him pressing back into me.
"Zane?"
"Yeah?"
"You told me about a sister. What happened?"
He draws a breath, then lets it out slowly. "She died in the hospital shortly after she was born. I don't know what exactly was wrong with her. My mom doesn't like to talk about it."
His eyes dim as he speaks. I think about all the pain he's gone through in his life—his father's suicide, his sister's death. I wonder if some of us are just destined to know tragedy personally. We are alike that way.
"That must have been so hard."
"I don't remember much about her. I worry about my mom, though. Ever since we've been back, it's like the past has started to haunt her. She walks around in a sort of haze. I try to get her to go out, do things, meet people. But she won't. She's . . . fixated."
His worry about his mother touches me. I wrap my arms around him, tight. He nuzzles his nose into the hollow of my neck, and then follows with his lips.
As he kisses me, I feel like the lies and death and evil that surround me slowly melt away, and I am new again.
Chapter Nineteen
I look in on Mattie before I leave for school. She doesn't stir. She sleeps the dreamless sleep of Ambien, but that's a good thing. Without it, I don't know what she'd dream of. Dying cheerleaders, broken bodies. She's better off blank. For a moment, I pause, wondering if I shouldn't stay home to watch over her, but I figure she'll be safe with my dad.
In the driveway, Zane waits. I buckle my seat belt, though it won't do anything to protect me from the wreck that awaits us at school. The principal has dismissed regular classes for the day and arranged an assembly.
When we arrive at school, we have to park across the street because the football field and most of the parking lot are blocked off with yellow police tape.
A couple of kids from Wise Choices usher everyone into the gym. They wear T-shirts that say FEELING BLUE? TELL SOMEONE. The bleachers are packed with antsy students and a few concerned-looking parents. I stand at the bottom for a moment, eyeing the stands. Rollins is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Scotch, for that matter.
The air buzzes with rumors. Everyone has their own theory about what happened to Amber. Some kids whisper that she was jealous of Sophie's affair with Mr. Golden. Others say she killed herself out of guilt for pushing Sophie to the edge. Everyone knows how she sent that naked picture of Sophie to the entire football team.
I want to scream my suspicions out loud. Sophie didn't kill herself. Amber didn't kill herself. There is a murderer among us, and everyone better watch out. Instead, I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other as Zane and I climb the bleachers. We find seats in the back, overlooking the entire student body and the nervous, shuffling teachers.
Zane squeezes my hand. "Everything is going to be okay." Even though I'm sure he's wrong, I appreciate the effort.
Three gigantic screens are set up on the gym floor. The middle one is parallel with the bleachers, and the other two are angled inward. Suddenly, the lights go out, and a projector begins flashing images and words onto the screens to the beat of a loud rock song. The pictures are of attractive, yet depressed, teenagers. A redhead fights with her friends. A guy in a baseball cap mopes on the steps in front of his school, his head in his hands. A beautiful blonde stands in front of a mirror, contemplating a bottle of pills.
Words like sadness, loneliness, and depression are interspersed with the pictures. The show goes on for about five minutes, and then one last slide pops up, stretching across all three screens. It's the number for a suicide hotline.
"I think I'm going to be sick," I mutter.
It's gotten so hot. I can't breathe. I Need. To. Get. Out. Of. Here.
Releasing Zane's hand, I rise to go. He stands, as if to come with me, but I push him away. I just want to be alone. I just need the space to breathe. Somehow, I manage to pick my way down the bleachers and slip out of the gym.
The air in the hallway is much cooler. I lean against a trophy case filled with polished gold footballs and basketballs and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to figure out what bothered me so much about the assembly—beyond the obvious fact that it was arranged under completely false assumptions.
I think, though, that I still would have been sickened, even if Sophie and Amber really had committed suicide. There was something so commercial about it, something contrived. It was like the slide show was designed by MTV. I'm on True Life: Someone Is Killing All the Cheerleaders and Making It Look Like Suicide.
When the vomity feeling passes, I wander away from the display case, down the hall, toward the girls' bathroom. I round a corner and stop dead in my tracks.
Halfway down the hall, Scotch is shuffling some papers inside a locker.
I take a step backward, out of sight. What would Scotch be doing in the freshman hallway? After a few seconds, I hear a locker door slam. I tense up when I hear his footsteps, but they get softer and softer. He's going the other way.
Cautiously, I poke my head out to see if he's gone. I glimpse the back of his jacket as he turns a corner and heads toward the student exit. Something black is crumpled on the floor about halfway down the hallway.
I count to ten, in case Scotch realizes he dropped something and comes back for it. When he doesn't, I come out from my hiding spot and make my way toward the black thing. It's a leather glove.
A thought flashes through my mind: Maybe I can use this.
I don't know why I didn't think of it before. I've always thought of my sliding as a disability, something that happened to me without my consent. But what if I could somehow force myself to slide while holding that glove?
The idea of entering Scotch's head chills me. Every time I see him, I feel physically ill. I was barely able to handle my encounter with him when I slid into Amber. Would I really be capable of purposefully sliding into him?
I picture my sister—at home, in bed, in an Ambien coma. Helpless. If I don't do something to figure out who the killer is, she could very well be next.
I make my decision. I swoop down, pick up the glove, and stuff it into my pocket. Once it's there, I get a little paranoid that Scotch will realize he dropped his glove and come back, so I backtrack toward the gym.
All the classrooms are dark and empty, except for one—Mr. Golden's room. When I passed by it before, I hadn't noticed the light on, but now I realize someone is inside. I approach it cautiously and stand just outside the door, peeking in. Principal Nast is standing with his back to me, and Mr. Golden is sitting at his desk, looking down at his folded hands. I step back slightly so that he won't see me if he looks up.
Mr. Nast speaks first, sounding kind of embarrassed. "Joe, is it true that you knew about Sophie Jacobs's pregnancy?"
A pause.
"Yes. She came in on Friday to talk to me about the situation."
Nast clears his throat. "Can you tell me who the father is?"
"I'm sorry, Steve, but I just don't feel comfortable giving you that information. The girl is dead. Shouldn't she have some privacy?"
"Here's the thing. I've been getting some complaints. All these rumors are making parents nervous about you teaching their kids. Any information you gave me at this point would help me to clear your name. Otherwise, I'm going to need you to take a leave of absence until this thing blows over."
Another pause.
"Joe, I'm trying to help you here."
Mr. Golden says nothing.
Mr. Nast makes a frustrated sound and exits the room. As he passes by me, I turn to a random locker and spin the lock. He glares at me before heading toward the gym. When he's gone, I peer into Mr. Golden's room. He hasn't moved. He's just sitting there, staring at his hands.
The new, proactive me whispers that I should try to get some information from him. Even if he is the killer, there's not much he can do to me here at school. Maybe I can even sneak something with his imprint on it, something that will help me check up on him later.
"Mr. Golden?" I take a step inside. He raises his head, looking confused at the sound of his own name. "Hey . . . uh, I had some questions about the reading assignment. Do you have a minute?"
He stares at me like I'm from another planet.
"Mr. Golden? Are you okay?"
He heaves an enormous sigh. "I can't believe this is my life." He seems to be talking to himself more than to me. He goes to the closet, pulls out a box, and returns to his desk. He starts throwing random things inside—a half-empty bag of cough drops, a stuffed Homer Simpson doll, some Newsweek magazines.
"People have been talking. They think I had something to do with the deaths." He forms his syllables in a simple monotone—no inflection whatsoever. He doesn't sound angry or upset or anything. Just numb.
"Why would they think that?" I ask carefully.
"Because people want someone to blame," Mr. Golden replies bitterly. "Sophie came to me for help. I go to her church, and I know her family. When she got pregnant, she asked me for advice. I guess someone saw us together and got the wrong idea."
I think carefully about his words. Would a teacher drive a student around, even if they were a friend of the family? Even if they did go to church together? It still seems suspicious.
"Now that Amber's dead, people are making up all kinds of stories. I tell you, people just want to believe the worst." He mutters something about a "goddamn witch hunt" and then goes back to packing up his things.
"So what are you going to do?" I ask, looking around his room for something that would fit in my pocket.
"What can I do? I'm going to go home."
I hear voices in the hallway. The assembly must be over.
"I should leave," I say.
"You probably should," Mr. Golden says, turning back to his desk.
That's when I see it—sitting right there, in plain sight. It was there all the time. Why didn't I notice it before?
The desk calendar.
It looks so harmless—just a plain desk calendar that you'd pick up at any office supply store. White pages, with the month and date in a thick, black font. Just like the page that was stuck to my front door the day Sophie died.
I feel like I can't breathe. My heart is hammering underneath my shirt. Somehow, I force myself to turn around naturally and head for the door. I look back once, to make sure Mr. Golden is still focused on packing, and then I dart my hand out and grab a tiny figurine from the bookshelf next to the door.
And then I'm gone.
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket as I tread my way through the sea of students.
"Hello?"
It's my father. "Hey, Vee—could you do me a favor and pick up Mattie's books? I have a feeling she'll be missing at least a few more days. It'd be nice if she could make up some schoolwork at home."
"Uh, sure," I say, and then hang up. When I put my phone away, I pull the stolen figurine out of my pocket. It's a tiny bronze statue of Sigmund Freud. It seems like the sort of thing Mr. Golden would cherish. Sticking it back in my pocket, I hope he's left some sort of emotional charge on the object. I really don't want to return to his room to try to get something else.
Students rush past me, heading for the exit. They chat excitedly, thrilled to get an early start on the weekend. I fight my way toward my sister's locker. A well-placed punch causes it to pop right open.
I gasp.
Everything in her locker has been tossed to the floor—her textbooks, her gym clothes, the pictures of her and Sophie and Amber that had been taped to the inside of the door. All of it is jumbled at the bottom of her locker.
Kneeling, I pick up a piece of a photograph that's been ripped to pieces. Half of my sister's face, painted to look like a cat, smiles.
I try to drop the picture, but it clings to my fingers. It's covered with a sticky, red substance. When I realize what it is, my stomach drops, and I cover my mouth, afraid I'm going to vomit.
The bottom of Mattie's locker is covered in blood.
I open my mouth and scream.
"What's wrong? Vee?" Strong hands grasp my shoulders. I turn around, see that it's Zane, and bury my head against his chest.
We're sitting in Zane's car, waiting for the parking lot to clear out. He traces circles on my back with his fingertip as I wait for my dad to pick up the phone.
"Pick up, pick up, pick up."
"Hello?"
"Dad," I say. "Um, I tried to get Mattie's books, but I couldn't remember her combination. Could you ask her for me?" I don't want to tell my father the bottom of Mattie's locker was coated with red paint. I need to figure out what it means first. I just need him to tell me that Mattie's okay.
I listen to him shuffle around, praying that he'll find Mattie safe in her bed. I hear muffled voices, and I let out a sigh of relief. If the mess in Mattie's locker was meant to be a warning, the killer hasn't struck yet.
"She says nineteen, thirty-four, eighty-six," my dad says. "Thanks for doing this."
"No problem," I say, looking at the pile of books stashed by my feet. I tried to clean them off the best I could, but they're still pretty gross. I'll have to figure out how to explain that later, I guess. "I'll be home soon."
I hang up and sit motionless, staring at my phone.
"When is this going to end?" I wonder aloud.
"When is what going to end?" Zane asks.
"This insanity. When is it going to end? Sophie's dead. Amber's dead. And now someone is targeting my sister." It occurs to me that Scotch was in the hall minutes before me. If he wasn't at the assembly, what was he doing?
"Do you really think someone wants to hurt Mattie?" he asks.
"Why else would someone do that to her locker? It's a pretty sick prank to play on someone right after two of her friends die. God. It looked so much like blood," I say, remembering the way Sophie's white sheets had turned all scarlet and clotty, just like the stuff at the bottom of Mattie's locker. My hands haven't stopped shaking.
"I'm so worried about Mattie," I continue. "She's depressed. Her two best friends are gone. What if . . . What if she tries to . . . ?"
Zane puts a finger to my lips. "It'll be okay. We'll stay with her this weekend. Watch movies. Make sure she doesn't even leave the house."
He's right, I think. I'll keep her safe by getting to the bottom of all this. I'll figure out how to make myself slide and find out who the killer is. And, somehow, I will make them pay.
"Vee?" Zane says.
"Yes?" I reply, my mind somewhere else—on sliding and killers and blood. But when he leans in and kisses me, he has my full attention.
He whispers, "I think I'm falling for you."
For some reason, I can't make my mouth work; I can't voice the words that are carved into my heart. Instead of speaking, I wrap my arms around him and hold tight.
Chapter Twenty
Sitting on my bed, I clamp my hand over my mouth and stifle a yawn. I haven't had any caffeine in approximately nine hours—since before I left for school. Bad things happen to me when I don't get my caffeine. Headache, major grouchiness, nausea.
It'll all be worth it if I can find out what happened to Sophie and Amber before the killer strikes again, I think as I rub my temples.
When my eyelids feel like lead weights, I decide it is time. I hold Scotch's glove in my bare hands. I rub the material, the coarseness making my skin crawl.
I wait.
Nothing happens.
I wait some more.
Nothing.
This isn't as easy as I thought it would be, I think, slapping the glove against my thigh. I suppose it's possible Scotch never imprinted on the glove. He doesn't seem like the most emotional person in the world.
What will I do if it doesn't work? I picture myself sneaking into Scotch's house late at night and grabbing something I know he cares about. Something like a football or a girlie magazine. I'm just fooling myself, though. It would be stupid to break into a possible killer's house. This has to work.
Beside me, my phone rings. Rollins again. He's been calling all afternoon. Each time, I let it go to voice mail. At first, he left messages for me to call him back. Now he just hangs up when I don't answer.
It's not that I don't want to talk to him. I do. I want him to explain exactly what he was doing with Amber on that field moments before her death. The thing is, I can't ask him that question. I can't explain how I know he was there. And until I know for sure who killed Sophie, I can't risk letting him get close to me—and more importantly, to Mattie.
The phone goes silent.
Good.
I return to my task. Rubbing the glove against my cheek, I inhale the scent of Scotch. Of sweat, of orange shampoo. Of that night so long ago. My stomach turns over.
The seconds slip by. Soon I start to feel sleepy.
The room goes dark, and I lose my grip on the present.
I slide.
A dark room materializes around me, lit only by a football game on the television. Faux wood paneling stretches from one wall to the next. There are several framed posters featuring football players I don't recognize. I'm lounging in a leather chair, a can of something cold in my hand. Scotch lifts the drink and takes a sip. Expecting something sweet, I'm surprised at the bitter taste that fills my mouth.
Beer.
What is Scotch doing drinking beer in the middle of the afternoon?
He opens his mouth, and a deep voice—much deeper than Scotch's—calls out, "Tricia? Trish! I thought I told you to make me a damn sandwich."
A petite woman enters my line of vision, holding another beer in one hand and a plate in the other.
"Sorry, Hank. I was just finishing up some laundry."
Hank.
Not Scotch.
I've slid into his father.
Damn.
I wake up on my bed, pillow cushioning my head.
Someone thumps on my door and then opens it without waiting for an answer.
"Vee?" My father looks in. "Did you bring home Mattie's books?"
"Um, yeah," I say, sitting up. I point to a pile of books sitting on my mother's rocking chair. "Unfortunately, I set them down in the hall while I went to the bathroom, and the custodian was walking by with a can of paint. And he tripped. . . ."
I look at my father's face to gauge whether he's buying any of this at all. He drifts into the room, nodding distractedly. I don't think he's even paying attention.
"So that assembly you went to today—was it helpful? They talked to you about the warning signs of suicide, right?" My father ruffles his hands through his hair.
"Right," I say, even though I didn't sit through the whole thing.
He sits down heavily on my bed. "Did Sophie or Amber exhibit any of those signs?"
His question catches me off guard. I try to remember the warning signs. I know the counselors told us all about them when we were in middle school. The only one I recall is giving away personal belongings. I shiver when I remember Sophie giving me the bracelet to give to Mattie. But that was a gift. . . . It doesn't count, does it?
"I don't know. They weren't exactly my friends."
"I think I'm going to call Dr. Moran. Mattie should have someone to talk to. Someone who knows about these things."
Hearing the name of my old psychiatrist irritates me. She's the cold, unsympathetic woman my father sent me to when he thought I was lying about sliding. The one who accused me of making up stories for attention. I know Mattie probably needs professional help, but I hate the thought of sending her to that robot.
"Whatever," I mutter, but my father has already risen and is crossing to the door.
For once, I wish he'd realize that what Mattie needs is him.
After dinner, I have an idea. A breakthrough.
I fling open my closet door and stand there for a moment, my heart pounding. Then I push my clothes aside until I come to the one garment I know Scotch had his hands on—the purple dress I wore to homecoming.
My hands shaking, I carry the dress over to my bed and carefully spread it out. I smooth my hands over it. The fabric sparkles as it moves. As I stare at the dress, I'm filled with certainty that this will work. The dress will put me in Scotch's head. I've been going about it all wrong. Clearly, Scotch never imprinted on the glove. But this dress—I know he felt something strong when he touched this dress.
I kneel at the side of my bed and rest my hands lightly on the material. And, just as I knew it would, the room fades away.
Tombstones. Everywhere.
Scotch is in the cemetery. The sun has sunk low in the sky. It also seems several degrees colder than it did when I was outside, but then I realize it must be because Scotch only has one glove. He raises his bare hand to his mouth and blows into it, the hot air warming it only slightly.
A huge, gnarled tree looms over us. When Scotch passes it, I see a woman in a red coat stooped in front of a tiny gravestone, clutching a fistful of daisies. She kneels down and brushes away some leaves, and I'm able to read the inscription.
ALLISON MORROW
OCTOBER 17, 1998–OCTOBER 19, 1998
Sadness squeezes my heart. The baby died after only two days of life. If the child had lived, she'd be in my sister's grade.
The woman at the grave turns toward Scotch and brushes her white hair out of her face. Her eyes are black as coal and filled with sadness, and I wonder what losing a child that young does to you. I'm reminded of the passage on black holes in my astronomy book, how they suck everything in until no light remains. That's what seeing your kid die must feel like.
Scotch seems to feel the pull of her misery, too, but he looks away and continues walking. We pass by the nine-foot statue of an angel that used to be bronze. Years of harsh weather have turned it black. Rumor has it, if you kiss the angel, you will drop dead within one year.
Scotch keeps going until he comes to a delicate, white, brand-new tombstone.
SOPHIE JACOBS
Scotch just stands there, staring at the piece of stone that marks the grave of a girl who might have carried his child. Again, I wish I could know his thoughts. Why would he come here? To gloat that he got away with murder? To make amends? To mourn?
He reaches out his naked hand and traces Sophie's name with his fingers. "I wish it could have been different, Soph. I really do." He retrieves his hand and pushes it into his pocket. "I guess God just didn't want me to get tied down this early in life. It's probably for the best."
A terrible rage rises within me. The fury is energy, begging to be used. Gathering all my strength, I form Scotch's hand into a fist and slam it into his balls. The pain is beyond belief, but I know it's so much worse for him.
He screams, and it's the last thing I hear as I'm pulled away from his body.
Chapter Twenty-one
I toss and turn, trying to turn my mind off, trying to will myself to fall asleep, but I'm not tired at all. Actually, I've never felt so alive, so energized. When I guided Scotch's muscles, it was like I was inside him, only not. It was like a video game, like I was pushing buttons with my mind, and he did what I told him. It was invigorating.
For so long, I've been out of control, popping in and out of people's heads, prisoner to their choices and actions. Now there is a sliver of light, of hope, that I can choose.
If I slide into a teacher making out with a bus driver during school hours, I can choose to push him and his disgusting mustache away.
If I slide into Scotch when he's putting his hands all over some clueless cheerleader, I can choose to neuter him. Oh, and don't think I won't.
If I slide into someone standing in a dark room and there's the smell of blood and I see a body on the bed, I can . . .
I can . . .
I can't do anything about that.
I can't do anything about Sophie.
And I can't do anything about Amber, either.
But now. Now that I have some control, maybe I can keep other girls from dying. Maybe I can protect my sister.
I jump onto my bed and start doing ninja kicks and punching the air. I am Buffy, ready to kick some bad-guy ass. Laughter erupts from my throat, and I flop down onto my bed and stare at the planet and star stickers on my ceiling.
This feeling of being in charge of my own life is intoxicating. I feel drunk or high or something. I want to use my new power, want to experiment.
I slip out of my bedroom and tiptoe down the hall. I peer down the stairs and see light coming from my father's office. He's probably busy with his online forum, comforting cancer survivors, saying just the right things to them because he doesn't have to sit across from them at dinner.
I continue down the hall, to his bedroom. The door is slightly ajar. I push it the rest of the way open and look around. His room is perfectly neat. The bed is made, and—unlike my room—there are no clothes on the floor. There's nothing on top of the chest of drawers except an old picture of my mother.
My father keeps his and my mother's wedding rings in a velvet box in the top right drawer of the bureau. For years after her death, he kept wearing his ring, until an old lady on the cancer survivors' forum told him he should take it off. For once, he took someone else's advice instead of dishing it out. When I noticed he wasn't wearing it anymore, I asked him about it. He assured me he was keeping it safe, but it was painful to keep looking down at his hand and missing Mom all day long. Sometimes I go into the drawer and open the box—not to touch the rings, but just to look at them. This time, I carefully pull my father's ring out of the box.
I've slid into my father before—accidentally, when I tried on his watch or flipped through an old photo album. Once I slid into him in the middle of an operation, and that pretty much scarred me for life. But since I know he's downstairs right now, messing around on the computer, I figure he's the perfect target for my little test.
Back in my room, I hop onto my bed and cup the ring in my palm.
I sit there for a long time, waiting for something—anything—to happen. The minutes pass by slowly. After a while, I start to get paranoid that my father will come upstairs and look in his drawer. There's no reason for him to, but I guess that's the nature of paranoia.
I slip the ring onto my finger and lie back on my pillow. My headache from earlier returns, and it seems like the caffeine pills in my backpack are actually calling out to me, begging me to swallow a few of them. Ignoring the pain, I close my eyes.
And feel myself go.
I find myself in my father's office, sitting before his computer. He's reading an email from some lady who lost her son to cancer last year. For a moment he stares at the screen, probably thinking of how to phrase his response. Then he hits Reply and types a few sentences expressing his condolences and recommending a book that will help her manage her grief.
After sending that email, he minimizes the page with the cancer survivor forum and pulls up an online medical journal. He clicks through a couple of articles, reading about recent surgeries. It's pretty boring. I wonder if I should make him pick his nose or something, just to see if I can do it.
I concentrate all my energy into his right pointer finger. Come on, finger, I think. Pick Dad's nose. But the finger just keeps floating around the trackpad on my dad's computer, navigating him through article after boring article.
Frustrated, I try to figure out why I can't control my father like I controlled Scotch in the cemetery. The only thing I can come up with is the rage I felt when Scotch said he thought Sophie's death was for the best. Maybe adrenaline has something to do with it.
The phone rings, and my dad jumps a little. He brings the phone to his ear and says hello, but all I hear is heavy breathing.
"Hello? Hello?" my father repeats, annoyance edging his voice. No one replies. "Goddamn it, this is the last straw. If you call here again, I'm going to call the police." Whoever is on the other end hangs up the phone.
I wonder who it was. I'm filled with apprehension as I remember the phone call I overheard the other day when he was telling someone it was over. Could my father have a stalker?
He sits quietly for a second before hanging up, staring at the wedding picture of my mother. He takes it in his hands.
I expect him to caress my mother's image or kiss it or something, but instead he flips it over and unhooks the back. To my surprise, he reveals a tiny silver key taped to the underside of the photograph. Carefully, he unpeels the tape and takes the key into his hand. Then he reassembles the frame and returns the picture to his desk.
I watch in astonishment as he takes the little key and guides it into the lock on the bottom drawer of the desk.
My parents bought the desk from a flea market ages ago. When we were little, my sister and I used it to play teacher. We tried to pull the drawer open, but it never budged. Dad said the previous owner of the desk had lost the key, but it was so beautiful he just had to have it anyway.
He lied.
He pulls the drawer open and shoves his hand inside, searching roughly for something. Finally he pulls out a manila folder. Across the front, written in my father's messy handwriting, is the name Allison. He flips it open, revealing a thick sheaf of papers. On the very top is a photograph of a gorgeous woman with white-blond hair.
The realization is sudden—I have seen that woman before. In the cemetery, when I slid into Scotch. She was standing before a tombstone. A tombstone marked ALLISON MORROW. Trying to piece it all together, I wonder who exactly that woman is. And who the hell is Allison?
My father's hands shake as he puts the folder back in the drawer, minus the picture of the white-haired woman. He stares at the picture for a moment longer, before crinkling it up in his fist. He tosses the picture into the wastebasket beneath his desk.
"Leave. Me. Alone," he whispers.
He then locks the drawer and puts the key back in its hiding place.
Slowly, I feel myself being pulled away, back into my own body.
After I hear my father go into his room, I wait half an hour and then open my door silently. Down the hall, my father's room is quiet, no light peeking beneath the door. I pray that he's asleep. I tiptoe down the stairs, the cold wood freezing my bare feet.
My father's office is dark, lit only by the moonlight coming through the window. It really is a dreary place, now that I think about it. When my mother was alive, she decorated every room to her taste, bringing in paintings and floral prints and pretty mirrors. But my dad never let her touch this room. He doesn't even let Vanessa clean in here. There's a layer of sludge on the windows. This room is full of his things, his dusty secrets.
I dash across the room and snatch up the picture of my mother. Removing the back of the frame, I find the key just where my father left it, shining so brightly it seems as though it's daring me to use it.
I stare at it for a moment. What will it lead me to? I don't know. I'm not sure I'm ready to know, but I don't know if I'll ever really be ready, so I carefully peel away the tape and weigh the key in the palm of my hand. So light, yet so heavy at the same time.
Kneeling down, I position the key by the lock. For a split second, I chicken out. This is my dad, the guy who cooks us chocolate-chip pancakes every Sunday morning. He has to have a good reason for keeping whatever it is locked up in there.
Doesn't he?
My eyes flicker involuntarily to the trash can, willing the picture of the white-haired woman to be gone. Maybe it was all in my head. All my imagination. But there it still is.
I'm tired of secrets.
I'm ready for truth.
I force the key into the lock and twist until I hear a little click release somewhere inside the wooden desk. I set the key on top of the desk and pull open the drawer. The manila folder sits on top of a bunch of old medical journals. I snatch the folder up and riffle through the papers within. They're some kind of records.
I pull out a paper and examine it.
**Name: Allison Annette Morrow**
Allison Morrow. The name from the tombstone. The girl who died after only a couple of days. Why would my father be keeping her medical records?
I continue reading. There's a bunch of gibberish I don't understand. She was born prematurely with an anorectal malformation and required immediate surgery. I flip a page. Numbers. Jargon.
I turn to the last page in the folder.
**Date of death: October 19, 1998**
October 19. Allison Annette Morrow died in surgery just over fourteen years ago under my father's knife. And he keeps her medical records in a drawer, never to forget. I feel sick.
Why her?
I know he's lost babies before.
Why hold on to this one failure?
My hands shaking, I replace the folder on top of the magazines. I lock the drawer and return the key to its hiding place.
It takes me a long, long time to fall asleep.
Chapter Twenty-two
Today is Mattie's birthday, and I haven't gotten her a thing.
I only remember when I see the special breakfast casserole on the kitchen table—the one my father reserves for birthdays or other special occasions. Eggs and bacon and cheese and potatoes. And butter. Lots and lots of butter. Normally, I live for this sort of thing, but these words keep sliding around my head: anorectal malformation. I Googled the term last night, but knowing the medical details didn't help much. I want to know exactly what happened on October 19, 1998, and why my father has held on to it for so long. What's so special about this Allison? And what's his connection with the white-haired woman I saw in the cemetery?
I don't know how to broach this topic. Plus, Mattie has actually brushed her hair and is sitting at the table, looking hungry, so I don't want to do anything to mess that up.
"So, what do you want to do for your big day, birthday girl?" My dad heaps a pile of casserole onto a plate and passes it to Mattie. The forced cheeriness in his voice seems to highlight how crappy this day actually is.
Mattie shrugs and then pushes a fork into the melty, cheesy mess in front of her. "I don't know. Just hang out around here? I don't really feel like going out."
"That sounds great. Maybe we could rent Mulan tonight? Order pizza for dinner? Would you like that?"
"Dad, I haven't liked Mulan since the second grade," Mattie replies. There's no resentment in her voice, like there would have been had I said it. It's just a simple fact.
"Well, how about the first season of Rumor Girl? I've heard great things." My father's face is so earnest, it's almost painful to look at.
"Um, you mean Gossip Girl? Sure. Yeah, okay." My sister takes another glob of casserole into her mouth.
Could my father really be hiding some deep, dark secret? This man who wants to watch Gossip Girl with his teenage daughters? Is this just a facade so we won't suspect what he's really up to?
"I'm not feeling well," I say. "I'm going to go lie down."
Passing by my sister, I squeeze her shoulder. "Happy birthday, Matt."
She turns her head my way and gives me the most heartbreaking smile. "Thanks."
Guilt follows me up the stairs and into my room. I really should give her something to acknowledge her birthday—but what?
I scan my belongings, wondering if there's anything I have that she could possibly want. My closet door is ajar, and the box of my mother's CDs is sticking out slightly. With a tug, I heave the box into the middle of the room.
One by one, I pull the CDs out and spread them all over the floor. Pearl Jam. The Smashing Pumpkins. Veruca Salt. Nirvana. Liz Phair. Ani DiFranco. This is what I have left of my mother, the music she lived her life by.
This is what I have to give to my sister, who was so little when my mother died, who can no longer remember that my mother's hair always smelled like violets or how the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled.
I pick up the Smashing Pumpkins CD and hold it to my cheek. The plastic is cold from sitting in my drafty closet for so long. Then I put it back in the box. I go through this process with each CD, holding it close for just one more moment and then putting it away.
When I've loaded the CDs all back into the box, I push the flaps closed and carry it to my sister's room. She hasn't returned from breakfast yet, so I place the box on her unmade bed and leave the room.
I've attached a pink Post-it note. It says:
_This is who she was._
_Love, V_
Chapter Twenty-three
I lean back against my pillow, holding the tiny Sigmund Freud and wondering if it is personal enough to provide me with a link to Mr. Golden. It seems like the sort of thing someone would give you for a present. Maybe a family member? A former student? A girlfriend? I rub my thumb over the figure, thinking about what he might have witnessed in Mr. Golden's room.
I turn the little man over. That's when I notice the markings on the bottom. It's been engraved. The letters are so tiny, I have to squint to make out the message.
YOU HYPNOTIZE ME. N.P.
Hmmmm. N.P. Who could that be? Well, one thing's clear—it's a personal item, all right. I just hope he was stirred with enough emotion when he received it to leave an imprint.
When my head starts to pound and black, floaty things swim before my eyes, I know he was. My room disappears, and I am swallowed by the blackness.
Mr. Golden stands before a white door decorated with an orange-and-brown wreath. He balls his right hand into a fist and raps on the door, then takes a step back to wait for an answer. The door opens, revealing a familiar, grief-stricken face. It is Amber Prescott's father. His hair is mussed, and his eyes are rimmed red.
"Mr. Prescott?" Mr. Golden asks, his voice unsure. "I'm Mr. Golden, Amber's teacher. I called earlier. I have the journal she kept in class. Thought you might want it?" He waves a notebook in the air halfheartedly. "Is this a bad time?"
"Uh, no," Amber's father replies, but his voice seems far away, like he's speaking through a fog. "Come in. You can call me Trent."
Mr. Golden steps into the entryway. I survey the scene in agony. I was here once before, briefly, to pick up Mattie from a sleepover. I remember, at the time, being impressed by the simple, elegant decor of the room, from the perfect eggshell paint color to the black suede couch and love seat. The focal point of the room was a painting of purple irises blowing in the wind.
Now, the beautiful painting is askew. Overturned on the coffee table is a single crystal glass in a puddle of brown liquid. The smell assures me that it's something alcoholic. On the muted television, Seinfeld looks like he's laughing.
"Would you care for a drink?"
"Ah, no. Can't stay long. Is your wife around?"
Amber's father eases into a black leather recliner, his eyes glued to the television set. "Back room. She won't come out. Why don't you take the journal to her? It might give her some comfort, to read Amber's words."
Mr. Golden stands there awkwardly for a second, and I'm sure he's considering just tossing the notebook onto the coffee table and getting the hell out of here. That's what I'd be thinking about, anyway. But he surprises me.
He turns and heads down the long hallway, where he must figure the "back room" is. Both walls are lined with pictures. In one, a little Amber stands next to a horse, proudly holding up her blue ribbon. In another, Amber looks to be about ten and sits with her arm hanging casually over her younger brother's shoulder. In yet another, she is older, grinning in a crisp East High cheerleading outfit. She smiles the kind of smile only popular girls own the right to—kind of like, "The world is mine, and that's how it should be." This is the Amber I knew.
The door to the room at the end of the hall is slightly ajar. Mr. Golden holds out his hand and gently pushes it open. For a moment, all I can see is light flickering from votive candles scattered around the floor. Then I realize Amber's mother is sitting in the middle of them, her arms wrapped around her knees. She rocks back and forth, back and forth.
"Nora?" Mr. Golden says, barely above a whisper. Why would he call Amber's father Mr. Prescott and her mother Nora? The intimacy in the way he said her name is unsettling.
She lifts her head for a moment and then, seeing who it is, lowers it again.
"Nora. I'm here for you." Mr. Golden crouches on the floor next to her. "I'm here." The tenderness in his voice is palpable. And then it hits me: Nora.
N.P.
Nora Prescott.
Amber's mother must have given him the figurine.
It's as if she doesn't even hear him. She speaks, but it's like she's continuing a different conversation. Her words are barely recognizable, and that's when I smell the liquor on her breath.
"I remember her first day of high school. She said she didn't want to go back. She hated the way everyone pretended to be someone they weren't. She didn't know who to be."
This doesn't sound like the Amber I knew—the girl who plotted which date for homecoming would win her the most popularity, the girl who actually took a ruler to her skirts to see how short she could possibly go without getting busted for breaking the dress code. The Amber I knew was kind of a bitch.
"She was scared, and I made her go back anyway."
The woman takes a sip from a drink I hadn't realized she was holding, then sends it flying through the room. It crashes against the wall and shatters in a burst of ice cubes and jagged pieces of glass.
"I made her go."
"She had to go to school, Nora. You most certainly didn't make her steal Trent's gun and do what she did. That was her choice."
Amber's mother turns and looks Mr. Golden in the eyes for the first time since he entered the room. "She knew about us. The day of Sophie's funeral. She came back just in time to see you leaving. And the next day she shot herself with Trent's gun. Because of us."
My God. The thought that Amber had actually committed suicide never occurred to me. I was sure someone else pulled the trigger, the same someone who dragged the knife across Sophie's wrists. But if Amber used her father's gun, doesn't that mean she killed herself?
"Now, now, Nora. Are you sure she saw me leave? Maybe she was just overcome with sadness. I mean, her best friend had just committed suicide. She was coming home from the funeral." Mr. Golden glances toward the doorway and then reaches over to push Mrs. Prescott's hair out of her face. He sounds calm, reassuring.
What if Amber did come home after Sophie's funeral and ran into Mr. Golden leaving her house? Did she confront him? Did she threaten to tell her father? And if Mr. Golden had access to Mr. Prescott's wife, could he have had access to Mr. Prescott's gun?
Mr. Golden reaches for Mrs. Prescott's hand. She pushes it away and starts mumbling again. He sighs and gets up, leaving the notebook on the floor.
"I'm sorry, Nora," he says, and then exits the room without another word.
Chapter Twenty-four
Luckily, when I return I find my body flopped safely on my bed. I sit up and wipe a bit of drool off my chin. Sliding is not the most glamorous way to get around, that's for sure.
Beside me, my phone rings insistently. Rollins again. My fingers flex, wanting to answer. My gaze falls on the T-shirt he gave me. It lies crumpled on the floor, where I threw it after seeing him with Amber. All I'd have to do is slip it on—I could reassure myself that he had a good reason to meet her that night, that he's not the killer.
I could slide right into his life and find out . . . everything. What he does all those hours he's not at school or work. What he's hiding from me at home. Why he never invites me over. I'm itching to know his secrets, but at the same time I wonder if sliding into him wouldn't be like hacking his email or reading his diary. When I slid into him accidentally, it felt weird, but I knew it wasn't my fault. If I target him by using that same T-shirt, it would be different. It would be like spying.
I'd be doing it for the right reason, though—wouldn't I? To clear Rollins's name. If you invade someone's privacy with good intentions, it's not as bad. I close my eyes and remember how we used to be. I miss our silly conversations about who would win in a fight—Chuck Norris or Mr. T. I miss his sardonic smile. I miss the girl I am when I'm around him.
I have to fix things between us, and sliding into him is the only way I know how.
My decision made, I reach down, snag the blue material with my pinkie, and pull it onto my lap. Easing back onto my pillows, I hug the fabric to my chin. I'm amazed at how quickly I'm taken away. I'm getting kind of good at this.
The smell is acrid, like rotting broccoli and urine. Water stains and cracks work their way down the walls. I'm lying on a mattress with blue flannel sheets, staring up at the ceiling.
A song I know is playing—"Thinking of You" by A Perfect Circle. For a month last year, Rollins was obsessed with this song, playing it on a continuous loop in his car. The drums are intense, beating through my brain.
I'm twirling something in my hands like a baton. Without even looking, I know what it is. A Sharpie. Rollins's sword to tear the world apart. He stops twirling and uses the marker to match the drumbeat on his stomach.
His room is desolate, furnished with only a bed, a small chest of drawers, and a bookcase packed with old paperbacks. Back when we used to hang out, we'd go to the used-book store every weekend and buy bags and bags of books. One of his shelves is dedicated to Stephen King novels. I remember him saying his favorite was The Dead Zone.
His door swings open, and a guy in a red flannel shirt bursts in. It must be his uncle Ned.
"You didn't do your shit today," the guy says. It's an accusation—of what, I have no idea.
Rollins sits up. "What shit?"
"It's Saturday. Your turn to do the bath."
Rollins swears. "Can't it wait until tomorrow?"
"She's your mother." The man points at Rollins.
Sighing, Rollins stands up and pushes past the man. He walks down the hall and calls to a wiry woman in a wheelchair, who's watching cartoons. Her hair is a tangled nest of snarls.
"Time for your bath," Rollins says, his voice terse.
No wonder he's never invited me to his house. From his surly uncle to his incapacitated mother, he has his hands full without worrying about what his friends think of his predicament. I start to wonder if I made the wrong decision in coming here.
Rollins pushes the woman down the hall and into the bathroom, which looks like it hasn't been cleaned in years. Rollins turns the knob, releasing a gush of water into the tub. He carefully gauges the temperature—not too hot, not too cold.
He helps his mother undress, all the while staring up at the ceiling. She raises her hands, and he pulls off her shirt. She has to lean on him while he lowers her pants and underwear.
I feel that he's turned himself off somehow. He's on autopilot. He helps her into the tub, bearing her weight so she won't slip and fall. He fills a Big Gulp cup and then dumps the water over her head. When he lathers an old pink washcloth with soap and works it over her shoulders and breasts, I zone out.
Before long, the bath is over and Rollins's mother has been toweled off and returned to her place in front of the television. Rollins lumbers back to his room, his fists clenching and unclenching as he passes his uncle, who's cracking open a beer.
As he enters his room, I catch sight of something I'd missed earlier. Peeking out from underneath his bed—which could more accurately be called a cot—is a jumbled pile of photographs.
He walks closer, and in one of the pictures I'm able to make out the shape of a girl in a red bikini lying on a beach towel. Her black hair flares out around her face, and she wears giant red sunglasses. Sophie. What the—?
Apprehension pulses through me. I have to figure out why he has pictures of Sophie. Before I know it, I'm next to the bed and spreading the photographs across the floor.
A part of me realizes that I'm controlling Rollins, but mostly I'm concerned with the task at hand.
There are pictures of Sophie at school, of her in her cheerleading uniform, even in boxers and a T-shirt with her hair twisted into a french braid. Not only that—there are pictures of Amber Prescott, too.
One photograph in particular catches my eye. I grab it so I can examine it more closely. It's a picture of Amber and Sophie at cheerleading practice. In the background, Samantha Phillips stands on top of the bleachers, a megaphone at her mouth. Rollins has drawn devil horns on top of her flaming red hair and a spiky tail curling by her side. In her hand that's not holding the megaphone, he's fashioned a pitchfork.
Why does Rollins have pictures of dead girls in his room?
I set the photo down and stand up, hoping to find a hint somewhere in the room. A closet door beckons to me. When I open it, the contents make me sad. Two pairs of jeans, neatly hung on hangers. And his leather jacket, his most prized possession.
There is literally nothing else in the closet.
Just then, I feel myself start to go.
No, I tell myself. I hold on to Rollins with every fiber of my being. But, as easy as it was for me to slide into him, I'm unable to anchor myself in his body. I stagger backward and leave Rollins lying on his bed.
Hot water cascades over my shoulders and back, pounding out the tension I've felt since coming out of my latest slide. I tilt my head back and let the water run down my face, thinking about what I saw at Rollins's house.
By sliding into Rollins, I'd been hoping to find the reason for his meeting with Amber on the night of her death. But all I turned up were more questions.
On the bright side, I was able to take control of Rollins. I think it has something to do with my focus. When I controlled Scotch, I was so pissed and all I could think about was giving him the beating he so sorely deserved. When I was in Rollins, I was intent on finding out why he had those photographs.
My cell phone, which I set on the edge of the sink in case Zane called while I was showering, begins to ring the generic ring it makes when someone I don't know calls. Squinting, I shut the water off and reach for a towel.
The number flashing on the display looks vaguely familiar, but I can't place it. Iowa City area code, so it's not a telemarketer. I wrap the towel around my torso, tuck the end under my armpit, and pick up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Vee?"
Again, the pang of familiarity strikes, but I can't place the voice that's asking for me.
"Yeah?"
"It's Samantha."
Something like nostalgia hits me, and I wonder if I haven't stepped out of the shower and into last year, when a phone call from Samantha wasn't something unusual. For a minute, I'm speechless, and I just stand there with my mouth open like an idiot.
"Um. Samantha? Why are you calling me? Did you accidentally call the wrong sister? I can go get Mattie for you. It is her birthday, you know. . . ."
"Yeah, well, that's sort of why I'm calling."
"Okay . . . so what do you want?"
"I'm organizing a little get-together at my place tonight. But it's a surprise. I asked her if she wanted to come over and watch movies, but she said she wanted to hang out with family. . . ." The tone of Samantha's voice makes me roll my eyes, like it's so ridiculous Mattie would ever want to spend time with her family.
"Samantha. Two members of your squad are dead. Isn't it a little . . . insensitive to be throwing a party tonight?"
"That's exactly why I'm doing it. I'm guessing Mattie's been just lying around in bed the last couple of days. Am I right? She needs to get out and have some fun. I have her best interests at heart."
"Uh-huh. Well, Mattie can do what she wants. Sorry if that spoils your plans."
Samantha pauses.
"Vee, really. I'm trying to do something nice for Matt. I'm worried about her. With everything that's happened in the past week . . . she needs her friends."
I squelch the snide comment about what kind of a friend I think Samantha is and think of Mattie, shut up in her bedroom like a hermit. It actually would be good for her to get out of the house. Get out of her head. This might not be such a bad idea.
"What do you need me to do?"
"Come to the party. Convince her to go. I'll come and pick you guys up and everything. I know you don't drive. . . ."
Her words trail off, and I know our minds are both back in the gym last year, when she watched Scotch drag my lifeless body into the boys' locker room.
"On one condition," I say.
"Anything," she replies.
"You can't invite Scotch Becker."
"Done."
"Okay. You can pick us up at seven."
My sister's room is dark, with the soft notes of Pearl Jam's "Black" wafting through the air, filling the room with an anguish so thick I think I could touch it. My sister lies on the floor, wrapped in a pink blanket.
"Mattie?"
"Sssssssh, this is the best part," she says, her eyes closed.
So many times I've listened to this song, envisioning a shroud over all the pictures of our dead mother. Samantha is right. I have to dig Mattie out of this hole.
"I love this song," I say, tiptoeing to her computer and finding the pause button. "But don't you think you should listen to something a little more upbeat on your birthday?"
When the music stops, my sister sits up indignantly. "Hey."
"Yeah, I know. But I just got a call from Samantha. She wants us to come over tonight to watch movies or some crap. You up for it?"
Mattie narrows her eyes. "Since when does Samantha call you?"
I sigh. "We did used to be friends. Besides, she's worried about you. Come on. It'll be fun." The word fun feels like it's been coated in cyanide. I'm guessing Mattie's too out of it to notice how bad I am at lying, though.
"Ugh. What time?"
"She's going to pick us up at seven. That'll give you a few more hours to roll around in your own filth." I grin.
Mattie sticks out her tongue, and I take that as my dismissal.
Chapter Twenty-five
I stare at myself in the mirror, wondering what I've gotten myself into. A party? At Samantha's house? I haven't been there in over a year.
I get a bad case of déjà vu as I find myself wondering what shade of lip gloss I should wear. Instead, I flop down on my bed and pull out the astronomy book. The Gin Blossoms serenade me as I read about stellar evolution.
Someone pounds on my door, and then my dad sticks his head in. "Rollins is here. Should I send him up?"
Panicking, I drop my book. I don't feel ready to confront Rollins at all. I need more time to figure out what's going on, what he was doing with those pictures of Sophie and Amber. Then again, maybe this is the perfect time to grill him. I mean, if he is the killer, he wouldn't dare murder me in my own bedroom with my dad right down the hall. Right? Except for the fact that the killer murdered Sophie with her parents right down the hall. Shit.
Another knock.
"Come in," I yell, turning down the music.
Rollins pushes my door open, raking discarded T-shirts and music magazines across the floor. His cheeks are flaming, his hair disheveled.
"Hey," he says, a bit uncertainly. "Long time, no see."
I remember ducking down in the kitchen when he stopped by the other day. Did he catch me doing that?
"I know. Sorry. I've just been . . . busy."
The response seems inadequate. What am I supposed to say, though? I slid into your body when you were meeting a girl who turned up dead the next day? Then I watched you give your mom a bath and found out that you have a stash of dead-girl pictures?
"With Zane?" Rollins asks. "Yeah, I heard you two have been hanging out a lot." His brown eyes seem to darken a bit, or maybe the room just darkened a little—I can't be sure.
"Well, with Zane, but also—you know, Mattie's been going through a lot. I'm trying to be there for her." I notice he's carrying a pamphlet. Is that what he's been doing the past few days—working on a zine?
"Here," he says, holding out the booklet. "I brought this for you. Hot off the press."
I take the zine and examine it. On the cover, there's a black-and-white photograph of Sophie Jacobs and Amber Prescott in their cheerleading outfits. I recognize the picture from the pile in Rollins's room. He'd gathered pictures of Sophie and Amber for a zine? That's what he must have been doing with Amber on the football field that night. I remember Amber passing something to him—it must have been pictures of her and Sophie.
Across the top, in Sharpie: Fear and Loathing in High School No. 8: The Sophie Jacobs and Amber Prescott Special Edition. I flip through the zine. The first section contains memories about the girls from damn near everyone at East High. Next is a list of songs people dedicated to Sophie and Amber. Mattie even got in on the action, dedicating "Stand by Me" to her two dead friends. Why didn't she tell me what Rollins was doing?
Relief bubbles up inside me, and I realize just how much it would have killed me if it turned out that Rollins was the murderer. I grab him by the shoulders and pull him into a bear hug, squeezing him so hard my poor muscles ache.
"Uh, so you like it?"
"This is so beautiful, Rollins. Really." I step back and look him in the face. He seems embarrassed and pulls on his lip ring.
"I wanted to do something. How's Mattie?" He draws a Sharpie out of the pocket of his leather jacket and starts twirling it absentmindedly.
"Not that great. But tonight I'm taking her to this thing at Samantha's house—surprise birthday party. It's going to suck, but at least it'll get Mattie out of the house."
Rollins makes a face. "At Samantha's?"
"I know," I say, grimacing. And then I'm overcome with this intense desire to hug Rollins again, the person who knows what happened to me sophomore year, the one who's always been there. How silly I'd been to doubt him.
"I'm sorry for being a bitch to you," I say.
He shrugs. "Tough time for everyone. I get it. Hey, there's something I wanted to talk to you about." He passes the Sharpie from one hand to the other, anxiety radiating off him.
"Sure," I say, and I pull him over to my bed and sit next to him. "What's up?"
He taps the Sharpie on his thigh nervously. "The other night . . ." He pauses, starts over again. "The night that Amber died?"
"Yes?" I urge him to keep going.
"I saw her." His eyes never leave the Sharpie. "I'd asked her for some pictures of Sophie for my zine. She said she'd give them to me, but she wanted me to meet her on the football field. She was acting pretty weird."
I exhale, reassured that my hypothesis about their meeting that night was true. Unfortunately for Amber, she didn't realize she was also providing pictures for her own memorial zine.
"Weird how?" I prompt.
"Well, she told me I should tell Mattie she was sorry and that everything was her fault. And she started crying and said everyone thought she was a whore and that her whole life was a joke. I tried to tell her that wasn't true—but she got mad at me and told me to leave. I thought she was just being a drama queen, so I left her there. I never thought she'd . . ."
His hands are shaking now. "I know I should have called the cops when I heard she was dead, but I was just so scared. I thought they'd blame me or something."
I grab his hands and try to keep them still. "Rollins. Trust me. It's going to be okay. But you definitely need to tell the police what you know."
"I know. You're right. I have to tell them." It's like he's trying to convince himself.
"Hey, I'll come with you," I say. "It'll have to be tomorrow, though, because I've got to do this thing for my sister tonight."
"Vee?" He traces a finger on the palm of my hand. "I miss you."
"I miss you, too," I whisper. We sit there for a long moment, electricity flowing from his fingers to mine and then back again.
A knock on my door startles us both, and then my dad calls out, his voice strange. "Vee? You've got another visitor."
I pull my hands away and stand up. "Come in," I reply.
Zane enters the room, confusion clouding his eyes. Even though I haven't done anything wrong, I feel like I have.
"Hey," I say too loudly. "Um, Rollins, I don't think you've officially met Zane. Zane, this is my best friend, Rollins."
Rollins stands. The two eye each other suspiciously. Finally, Zane moves closer and holds out a hand, which Rollins takes grudgingly.
"Rollins was just going," I say abruptly, realizing a second too late how rude it sounds. I want to take the words back, invite Rollins to stay, but he's already moving toward the doorway. He pauses to stand before Zane.
"Be good to her," he says, an undercurrent of threat beneath his words. Before Zane can respond, Rollins disappears out the door. A sadness takes root in my belly. I'm not sure things can ever be the same between Rollins and me—not when Zane's around.
"I'm sorry," I say to Zane, even though I'm not really sure what I'm apologizing for. I just know the scene probably looked pretty fishy to him, and I don't want him to think I have romantic feelings for Rollins. He's just a friend. My best friend in the whole world.
"Don't worry about it," Zane says, wrapping his arms around my waist and nuzzling my hair. "He's protective. I get it. I would be, too."
His lips graze mine.
"Just a second," I say, pulling away and holding up one finger. I push the door closed and then melt into his arms.
Tilting my head toward my alarm clock, I see that it's nearly six. I groan, remembering that Samantha Phillips will be here to pick me up in an hour. It almost makes me laugh, to think of myself attending a cheerleader party after all this time.
Zane touches my lips. "What's so funny?"
"Ugh. I have to go to this party tonight. It's for my sister. It's her birthday."
A shadow crosses his face. "I thought you said you were worried about Mattie. We were just going to stay in and watch movies."
"I know," I say. "But it's really for the best. She needs to get out of the house. I'll be with her. Nothing will happen. You can come, too, if you want."
He pauses before speaking. "Sure. I'll come. But first could you drop by my house? There's something I want to show you."
"You could show me right now," I say teasingly, but his face remains serious. "Of course I'll come over. I'll have Samantha drop me off, okay? Then you can drive us to the party later."
Zane's face breaks into a smile. He leans over and presses his lips to mine. I sink back against my pillow, getting lost in the moment.
Just then, my door swings open. Startled, Zane and I pull apart. My dad stands in the doorway, looking partly embarrassed but mostly pissed. He clears his throat.
"Sylvia, I think it's about time for your friend to go home."
"God, Dad, how about knocking next time?" I tuck my hair behind my ear and give Zane an I'm sorry look.
"It's cool," Zane says, standing quickly, smoothing his clothes. "I should be going anyway." He nods at my father, muttering something about it being nice to meet him, while edging his way out of the room. "See you tonight, Vee."
My father gives me a stern look. "Five minutes. Downstairs."
I groan.
As I stand, I notice a red stain on the carpet near my bed. I kneel down to examine the spot. Unable to rub it out, I realize it's paint. Red paint.
Huh. That's weird.
Before I go down to talk to my father, I get a wet washcloth and scrub at the paint. The stain refuses to come out. Vanessa's going to have a shit fit.
Whenever we get in trouble, my father summons us to his office. Maybe he thinks this gives him a psychological advantage because it's his turf or something.
I hover in the doorway while he finishes typing. He makes me wait a little bit before acknowledging my presence. Then he gestures for me to sit across from him.
"I guess I haven't made a rule about boys in your bedroom," he says after a long minute. "I haven't really needed to before today."
"You were fine with Rollins coming into my room," I point out.
"Yeah, well, that's Rollins. This boy, Zane—you've never even told me about him. Then he shows up one day out of the blue and I find him on top of you?"
Heat rushes into my cheeks. "It's not like that."
"Well, what is it like, Sylvia?"
I look away from him. Under his desk, the crumpled photograph of the white-haired woman still sits at the bottom of his trash can. I clench my fists.
"How dare you lecture me about not telling you every little detail in my life? Between you and me, I think you're the one with the most secrets."
His glare falters, just a little, but it's enough for me to see the crack in his armor. I've found his Achilles' heel, the thing he's been keeping from us all along. Bending down, I retrieve the picture and smooth it out on his desk.
"Would you mind telling me who this is?"
His face grows paler by degrees. He stares at the picture like it's something alive, something about to attack him, a wild animal.
"That's—that's all in the past," he says finally.
"What is all in the past?"
He squeezes his eyes closed, as if trying to block something out. "My affair." His voice is so small, I have to strain to hear it.
"Your affair? Who'd you have an affair with? This lady?"
He sighs. "Yes. But, Vee, it ended long ago."
I pick up the picture and stare at the white-haired lady in astonishment. This woman was my father's lover?
"When exactly were you with her?" I ask, dreading the answer.
"When you were little," he says softly, confirming what I'd dreaded.
"When Mom was still alive?"
He nods and reaches out, tries to take my hand, but all I see in my head is my mother at home, cancer silently eating her from inside, and him shacking up with the white-haired lady. I stand, still clutching the photograph in my hand. Scrutinizing the picture, I'm struck by the need to know the name of the woman.
"Who is she?"
"Does it matter? It's over now."
"If you've got her picture in your office, it's not over. If she's calling you, it's not over."
He looks baffled. "How did you know she called me?"
"Never mind," I say stubbornly. "What. Is. Her. Name?"
We are in a staring contest. Finally, he looks away. "Evelyn. Evelyn Morrow."
Morrow. I know that name. The name from the tombstone. The name of the little girl who died under my father's knife. He slept with Allison's mother? That doesn't make any sense. Why would he sleep with the mother of one of his patients? To ask him, though, I'd have to explain how I broke into his bottom drawer and looked through his personal papers.
Instead, I say, "Why?" I hate the way my voice sounds, like it's breaking. I hate the weakness, the hurt that coats the simple question.
His face has drained of blood. He looks like I've slapped him.
He doesn't speak.
I slam out of the room.
Chapter Twenty-six
I stand in front of Mattie's door, staring at the sparkly My Little Pony stickers she'd decorated it with when she was little. I hear Pearl Jam's "Black" playing in the background again. I pound on the wood with the heel of my hand.
"What do you want?"
"It's almost seven. Are you dressed?"
When Mattie doesn't respond, I push into the room. She's sitting on her bed in her underwear, looking out the window into the dark.
"Is that what you're wearing to Samantha's house?"
She says nothing.
I go to her closet and look over her inventory. She hasn't done laundry in days, just tossed her dirty clothes on the floor. There are only a few shirts, a pair of jeans, and a skirt still on hangers. I pull out a pink long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans and carry them to her bed. On the way, my knees go out and my muscles turn to jelly.
The next thing I know, I'm staring into my own face as my sister hunches over me. I've slid into my sister. I'm seeing everything from her perspective—including my own body. It's completely surreal.
"Vee? Vee? Are you okay?" She shakes my shoulders, and my eyes roll back into my head.
"Oh God. Oh God. I'm sorry. It's my fault. I'll get dressed. I'll go to the party. Just wake up." Tears splash down her cheeks and onto my face. I can't stand her feeling like this. I decide to take over, just to calm her down.
Hijacking my sister's body is about as easy as it gets. Maybe it has something to do with genes, but moving her limbs feels natural. I sit back and take a few breaths.
"It's okay," I say, even though I'm not sure she can hear me. I don't feel her there at all anymore, like she's gone to sleep or something. "It's going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay. We're going to go to this party, and we're going to have fun. Just chill."
When my sister's muscles have relaxed a bit, I let go of her, will myself to return. I can almost feel the energy channeling out of her and flowing back into my body, only inches away.
I open my eyes to see Mattie sitting calmly by my side. "I don't know what happened," she says, smiling. "But I feel so much better."
Samantha pulls into our driveway around 7:05. Mattie jumps into the front seat, and I skulk into the back. Samantha flashes me a totally fake smile, like the past year hasn't happened and we're still besties.
"Can you drop me off at Zane's? He's going to drive me over."
"Zane?" Samantha asks, eyeing me in the backseat.
"Yeah. He lives on Arbor." I pull the seat belt over my lap and click it in. I've seen enough of Samantha's driving to know I'm never really safe when she's behind the wheel, even if I'm only riding with her for a few blocks.
"I guess," she says reluctantly, steering the car toward Arbor Lane.
"This is it," I say, pointing.
She pulls into his driveway and barely even waits for me to climb out before she peels backward, into the street. Her car disappears around the corner, and I hear her engine revving as she picks up speed.
I knock on the door, and then stare at an ugly jack-o'-lantern carved to look like a demon. I wonder who carved it—Zane or his mother? Whoever it was has some skill with a knife.
Again, I knock, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I need to talk to someone about what happened with my father. I need to talk to Zane.
Still, no one answers the door.
He did ask me to come over. Surely it wouldn't be that rude to just go in. Maybe the television is on really loud and he can't hear me. Or maybe he's upstairs.
I ring the doorbell and wait.
When no one comes to the door, I put my hand on the knob and give it a little pressure. It slides easily to the right, and the door opens just a crack. I peer in the front entryway, hoping to hear footsteps, someone coming to see who's been knocking all this time.
But no one does.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
I push the door open wider and see something strange. A tall table—the kind you might set your keys or gloves on—is tipped over, a smashed vase on the floor next to it. Shattered glass surrounds a withered rose.
"Hello?"
I step inside, eyeing the mess.
This doesn't look good. I should leave. I know I should leave, but something keeps me glued to the floor. I have to find Zane, make sure he's okay.
"Zane?"
I set the table upright and look around. A large open area off to the right seems to be the living room. I think I can make out the shape of a television in the dark. To my left is a staircase. The only light shines down a long hallway directly before me.
My feet carry me toward the light. I find myself in a small kitchen at the end of the hall. An olive-colored refrigerator stands in the corner, covered with little cow magnets. But most of the room is taken up by a round wooden table.
Every inch of the table is covered in papers. Bills. Junk mail. I recognize a few of Zane's papers from school. In the middle of everything is a small, generic desk calendar. Today's date is circled in red marker.
October 27.
Mattie's birthday.
Déjà vu slams into me. The white page I found on our door the day Sophie died, on her birthday. The date was circled in red. It was that piece of paper I was holding when I slid into the killer.
My knees crash onto the floor.
The paper came from this house.
The paper came from Zane.
Holy shit.
My mind reels as I search for an explanation. There must be some reason for this calendar. I mean, plenty of people must have them. Mr. Golden has one. It's just an ordinary desk calendar.
But not everyone circles dates in red.
I review the past week.
Zane's first day of school was the day Sophie died. Coincidence?
Under the bleachers, Zane rejected my theory that Sophie was murdered. Was he afraid I'd find out the truth?
The red stain on my carpet. Had he been the one to vandalize Mattie's locker? He'd had plenty of time to do it while I was in Mr. Golden's room. The blood-red paint wasn't a prank—it was a threat.
This whole time, I've been so desperate to believe a boy like Zane could ever be drawn to a girl like me. Let's face it—he's amazingly hot. He could have any girl he wanted. Yet he approached me. Was I too blind to see the real reason? All this time, was he using me to get close to Mattie? It's her birthday that's circled in red. Just like Sophie's.
Oh, shit.
My boyfriend has a bizarre fetish for killing cheerleaders, and he's probably on his way to Samantha's house right this minute. I have to get there first. I have to find Mattie. The only problem is that Sam's house is on the other side of town. I'll never get there in time.
I dig my cell phone out of my pocket and call the only person in this world I can really count on. Rollins picks up on the second ring.
"Vee? What's up?"
"Rollins." I have to fight to make my words understandable because my throat has started to close up. "Rollins, you've got to help me."
"What's wrong?"
"Can you come get me? I'm at Zane's house, on Arbor. Hurry, please. I think something terrible is going to happen." I back out of the kitchen, feeling like I might puke if I look at that stupid calendar any longer.
"Are you okay? What's the address? I'm coming."
"Just hurry. Don't worry about the address. I'll be standing in front."
"I'll be right there."
Over and over, I try to call Mattie, but no one picks up. I bounce up and down, waiting for Rollins to arrive, hoping that the music at the party is just too loud for Mattie to hear her phone ring. Because I can't let myself think about the alternative.
Please. Please just let me get there in time.
"So what's this all about?" Rollins asks, steering toward Samantha's side of town.
I review the events of the last week, trying to think how to distill them into a sentence that will make sense to him. My brain is numb. It refuses to work properly. "I'm just worried about Mattie. I shouldn't have let her go to the party alone."
When we turn onto Samantha's street, we're confronted with a wall of cars. Rollins grunts in frustration, looking for enough space to park. I squirm, clutching the door handle.
"Just let me out in front. You can meet me inside."
"You sure?" Rollins asks doubtfully, but instead of a response I throw the door open wide and leap out. I steady myself and then run toward Samantha's house. Even if I'd never been here before—which I have, a million times in a past life—it would be easy to tell which house is hers. Every single light is blazing, and music pumps into the night air. There are a couple of senior boys standing on the front porch, slurping lazily from forties.
"Hey, pinky," the one wearing a football jersey slurs. "Want a beer?"
"Have you seen my sister?" I demand.
He grins. "Your sister? She as cute as you?" He reaches toward me and grabs my shoulder. I snarl at him, and he snatches his hand away. "Okay, okay. Jeez."
I push past them and let myself into Samantha's house. Music reverberates through the walls, more a feeling than a sound. I smell cigarettes and weed and stale beer and body odor.
The foyer is packed wall to wall with drunk kids. I keep my eyes peeled for Mattie, but she's nowhere to be seen. Anxiously, I push past the cheerleaders and jocks doing body shots off each other, into the kitchen, where a couple of idiots are wrestling with a beer bong.
Through the glass door that opens onto the deck, I see a snatch of white T-shirt steal behind a tree. Straining my eyes, I peer through the darkness. A figure dashes out, passing through a pool of light shining from a room upstairs, and in that split second, I recognize him.
Zane.
And he's carrying something.
I pull the door open and step into the chill of the night. The wind rustles the trees and bushes. Zane has disappeared from sight. Slowly, I cross the deck and peer over the side.
"Zane?" I call out uncertainly. "Come out where I can see you."
A figure emerges from behind a tree. It's Zane, his face illuminated by the light coming from behind me. He looks stricken. "Vee? What are you doing here? I thought you were going to my house."
"What are you doing, Zane?" My eyes fall to the red plastic container he's holding.
"You have to get out of here," he says, throwing a nervous look to the bushes behind him. "Vee. You have to run."
"I know what you did, Zane. I was there when you killed Sophie."
A look of confusion crosses Zane's face. Just then, someone else bursts out of the shadows.
It's the white-haired woman.
Evelyn.
I look from Zane to Evelyn and back again. What is my father's mistress doing here? Her face twists in rage, and she begins shouting. "What do you mean, she was going to our house? They were both supposed to be here."
My mind lingers on the words our house, and I'm trying to figure out what they mean when a smell, unmistakable and terrifying, rises from below.
Gasoline.
"No matter," Evelyn says. "They're both here now." She waves her arm over her head, and I realize she's holding a book of matches.
An alarm goes off inside me.
For some reason, this crazy woman is going to start a fire.
And Mattie's somewhere inside.
Who are these people?
And why are they doing this to us?
I spin around, knowing I have only moments before the woman throws a match on the death trap she and Zane have created. It's not enough time.
I throw open the door and start screaming. It's like I'm in a dream, yelling so loudly, but no one can hear me. They all keep smiling, nodding, dancing, talking, grinding. I push into the crowd, still yelling.
"Get out!" My voice gets sucked up in the sea of bad techno and laughter. "Get out of the house! Fire! Fire! FIRE!"
Finally, people turn toward me, their faces changing, delight melting into fear, their mouths forming Os as they realize what I'm saying. One person after another starts to echo my cry.
"Fire!"
"Get out!"
"Fire!"
One person misinterprets the situation and yells, "Cops!" but it doesn't matter. The effect is the same. Bodies scattering, pushing to get out.
Where is Mattie? Where is she?
I run down the hallway, continuing to scream. It takes all my strength to push past the people coming the other way. In the back room, slumped on a bed, is my sister. She loosely holds a plastic cup, the last dregs of a beer sloshing around inside. How did she get drunk so fast? She's only been here for an hour.
"Mattie! Mattie! Get up! There's a fire!"
Her head lolls to the side. "Vee? Whass goin on? I feel funny."
Smoke tickles my nostrils, threateningly thick.
I muster all my strength and pull her to her feet, adrenaline pumping through me. I practically carry her down the hall to the living room. Thick smoke has filled the room, but I can make out a girl lying on a plaid couch, her legs splayed. It's Samantha.
I can't just leave her here to die, but I can't carry her and my sister at the same time.
I look toward the front door, where the foyer has cleared out. I drag my sister out to the yard. Small groups of people stand around, staring at the house.
Someone is calling my name. I turn around to find Rollins rushing toward me, looking scared out of his skull.
"Christ, Vee. I thought you were still inside."
"Here. Take Mattie. I have to go back." I push Mattie into his arms and turn back to the house, which is being overtaken by flames.
Rollins grabs my arm. "What? No!"
I would be lying if I said there isn't a moment I think about just standing here on the front lawn. The night of the homecoming dance replays in my head, and I think about how Samantha just stood there as Scotch dragged me into the boys' locker room. She didn't do anything. The moment is brief, but it is undeniably there. Still, I know I would never be able to live with myself if I let Samantha burn.
"Samantha's inside," I yell, and then bolt back into the house. The air has become so toxic, I start to cough almost immediately. I cover my mouth and nose with my hand to try to filter out some of the smoke.
Samantha is still on the couch. "Samantha! Wake up!"
But she won't wake up, no matter how hard I shake her. I grab her arms and drag her off the couch. I can barely see my way to the door. Gasping, I take in a mouthful of blackness. The smoke invades my lungs, and I feel myself choking.
Everything goes black.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I'm standing on a dock, at the edge of a lake at the camp I went to when I was little. My dad sent my sister and me here each summer after my mother died. It was cheaper than day care. This place, on the dock, was where I'd come when I got homesick.
The only noise now is the lapping of little waves. A peacefulness washes over me. I lower myself until my belly is pressed against the hard wood and I'm able to hang my arm down and tickle the surface of the water with my finger. The lake is so cool, while the rest of my body is hot. So, so hot.
A terrible cough seizes my body, and I crumple into it. My lungs are on fire. My elbows, my toes, are on fire. When the cough ceases, I spread out my body, looking at the cloudy sky. I pray for rain to soothe my burning flesh.
Fat drops start falling all around me, bouncing off my skin and streaming onto the dock. I open my mouth, welcoming the moisture with my tongue. The rain soaks my clothes and hair.
"Sylvia." A voice sweet as honey echoes over the water.
It's my mother.
I sit up and look for her. She rows toward me in a red canoe. She guides the oar steadily through the water, first on one side of the boat and then the other. I blink, and she's here, aligning the boat with the side of the dock.
I look into the bottom of the boat and see a nest of blankets and a dark-eyed baby. My mother reaches down and snatches up the child, and then she's suddenly standing beside me on the dock.
"Would you like to hold your sister?" My mother offers the bundle to me, a gentle smile on her face.
"That's not Mattie," I say, unsure of myself.
"No. Your other sister. The one you never got to know."
My other sister? What is she talking about?
I take the child into my arms, and it weighs no more than a small sack of apples.
My mother is staring at me like she's trying to memorize my face. "You could stay here with us if you want." She sweeps her arm, gesturing to the lake, the woods, the never-ending sky.
"What is this place? Heaven?"
She shrugs.
"No offense, Mom, but I didn't like this place much as a kid, and I sure as hell don't want to spend the rest of eternity here."
She smiles. "I understand."
"I have to go back."
"Yes," she agrees. "You still have so much to do."
I start to cry.
My mother comes closer, wraps one arm around me, and rubs my back. I don't move, just soak up the feeling of my mother's hand. The baby coos in my arms.
"You've done well," she says softly.
She pulls her hand away. Even though I want to beg her not to go, I don't. How can I? She's already gone. She eases the baby back into the nest of blankets in the canoe and climbs in, one foot and then the other, carefully balancing her weight so the canoe doesn't tip.
She turns to me and blows me a kiss.
And then, she's gone.
Sirens blare in the distance, growing ever closer. The grass is cold beneath me. I roll to the side and cough until my throat is raw. Someone is stroking my hair the whole time. Foolishly, I believe for a moment that it could be my mother.
I open an eye and see Samantha's body lying nearby on the lawn. A few cheerleaders are leaning over her, holding her hand and crying.
"Vee. Say something."
I roll over and look up to see Rollins, upside down, staring at me with wild eyes.
"Is Samantha dead?"
He shakes his head. "No. Just unconscious. The paramedics are on their way."
"How did we get out?"
Rollins looks down. "I—I went in after you."
I suck in a deep breath and push myself into a sitting position so my words have full impact. "Do you know how stupid that was?"
Rollins smirks. "Isn't that a little like the pot calling the kettle black?" His face becomes serious. "Vee, don't you ever do anything like that again. I thought . . . I thought . . . Jesus, Vee, don't you know how I feel about you?"
I look away. I think I do know how he feels about me. It's something we've been dancing around, ever since homecoming last year. Maybe I've been hiding from it, unwilling to explore a connection that was forged under such disturbing circumstances, but there's no denying there's something there. Still, these are feelings I can't deal with at this moment, not while I'm lying on the cold grass after my so-called boyfriend just tried to kill my sister and a houseful of people.
Speaking of which—where the hell did Zane go? And Evelyn?
What did Evelyn say before she lit the match?
Our house. Our house. Our house.
The words march through my head.
When it dawns on me, I feel like I'm going to be sick. Evelyn, my father's old lover, is Zane's mother. Allison Morrow must have been Zane's younger sister, the one who died when he was so little. She was sick. She needed my father to save her, but he wasn't able to. And so Allison died, and Evelyn went crazy.
She yelled at Zane for trying to protect me.
She was trying to kill us.
Me and Mattie.
To get back at my father.
I feel the bile rise in my throat.
Where is Mattie? I scan the lawn quickly but don't see her anywhere.
"Rollins, where's Mattie?"
He looks shaken. "I left her right here to go in after you. I'm sure she didn't go far."
Rollins helps me to stand, and we walk the perimeter of the yard. A few people remain, but it seems most of the partygoers took off when they heard the sirens. A fire truck races down the street and stops in front of Samantha's house. A couple of men wearing thick yellow coats jump down and start unloading equipment.
I grab one of the weepy cheerleaders and ask her if she's seen Mattie. She shakes her head and turns back to Samantha.
I turn to Rollins and speak quickly. "You have to take me back to Zane's house. There's no time. Just trust me. We have to go back."
Rollins looks at me, confused, but nods. "Okay. Let's go."
On the way to Zane's house, I clutch the sides of my seat. Could Evelyn and Zane have snatched Mattie in her wasted state? Mattie would probably just go with Zane if he said I'd asked him to give her a ride home.
I have no way of knowing where they took her, but I do have the power to find them. If I can locate something at their house, something significant to Zane, I can slide into him—hopefully before anything happens to Mattie. Wrapping my arms around myself, I try not to imagine what she could be going through this very second.
After what seems like an eternity, Rollins pulls into Zane's driveway and slams on the brakes. The house looks just as I left it, the front door standing open and light from the kitchen pouring onto the front lawn.
"Come on," I say, climbing out of the car and running to the house. Rollins is close behind me. Once inside, I point out the shattered vase to Rollins. "Watch out."
I climb the staircase, two steps at a time, and pause at the top. There's a short hallway, with two doors on the left and two on the right. I try the first one on the right, but it's only a bathroom.
I try the next door. Jackpot. A narrow bed with black sheets is pushed up against a wall lined with Nirvana posters. Zane's clothes are strewn about, along with some comic books. On his bedside table is his copy of Tender Is the Night. It has to lead me to him. It has to.
"Okay," I say, turning to Rollins. "This is it. You just have to trust me on this. I'm going to make myself pass out. You just stay here with me, okay? If anyone comes home, shake me until I wake up. Will you do that?"
Rollins stares. "What choice are you giving me?"
"None," I reply. I grab the novel, the pages soft and worn from constant handling, and I lie back on Zane's bed. "Remember, if anyone comes, wake me up." With that, I clutch the book and squeeze my eyes closed. For a long, terrifying moment, I'm afraid it's not going to work.
I realize I'm too amped-up to slide. My pulse is racing, and I can't stop picturing what might be happening to Mattie this very second. Forcing myself to breathe deeply and slowly, I try to relax all my muscles. Rollins runs his hand through my hair, and that makes all the difference. I feel myself get drowsy.
And then the dizziness sets in, and the pain.
Black road stretches out before me. Broken bits of a yellow line disappear under the dashboard, racing under the car. Zane is on the passenger side, clutching the plastic container. The reek of gasoline makes me feel sick.
Evelyn is driving. Mattie is nowhere to be seen, I realize with relief.
Zane opens his mouth to speak. His voice is all wobbly and broken. I realize he's crying. "You didn't have to hurt her," he says. "Mattie would have been enough to get back at him."
"Dammit, Zane," the woman spits out, throwing a glare at him. "Don't you care about your little sister at all? First you try to warn them by pulling that ridiculous prank at the high school, and then you try to save that miserable Sylvia. I don't believe you. These are the people who destroyed Allison. If those girls didn't exist, your sister would still be alive. But no. Jared had to protect his precious little family, even if it meant killing his own daughter to hide his indiscretion."
"But that girl, Sophie, had nothing to do with what happened to Allison." Zane is shaking. His grip on the jug of gasoline loosens, and I realize how stupid it is to be carrying such a thing inside a moving vehicle.
Evelyn sharpens her words, flings them at him like knives. "Nothing to do with her? You've got to be kidding me. She was born the very same day Allison died. I remember that day so well. I was sitting in the waiting room when the nurse came out to tell me my baby was dead. And Sophie's family was whooping it up with balloons and champagne. Can you tell me that's fair?"
Zane shifts the jug of gas from one knee to the other. "But the other girl, Amber. She did nothing to you."
His mother sneers. "I didn't kill her. She must have killed herself. There's something contagious about suicide, isn't there? One person goes, and it's like a domino effect."
Zane stares at his mother. "You're crazy. I should have gone to the police when I had the chance."
She slaps him in the back of the head. "How dare you call your own mother insane? Do you think I wouldn't do the same thing if someone hurt you? That's what being a mother is about. Protecting your children."
"You haven't protected me," Zane says. "You ruined me. You made my whole life about revenge. You filled my head with lies about a killer surgeon and his spoiled daughters. But you were wrong, Mother. You were wrong."
Evelyn stares at her son as if he's speaking another language. Zane turns his head toward the dashboard, and I feel his eyes widen in panic. Evelyn doesn't see the way the road twists suddenly to the left. Zane grabs for the wheel, but it's too late. The car shoots off the road, straight toward a tree.
The last thing I hear is Zane's scream.
And I realize it's coming from me.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Someone is shaking me.
"Vee? Vee!"
Rollins.
"I'm here. I'm okay," I reassure him, blinking in the sudden light of Zane's room. My head is on Rollins's lap, and his hands are cupping my face. He looks scared. I push away from him unsteadily.
Zane's scream is still ringing in my ears. I feel like I'm going to vomit.
I try to stand, but all the strength has left my legs. Rollins helps me to my feet. My hands are all rubbery, but I shove them into my pocket, searching for my cell phone. Fumbling, I pull it out, scroll down to my sister's number, and hit the Call button. The phone rings once, twice, three times . . . but no one picks up. I quickly dial our home phone number.
My dad picks up on the second ring, his voice breathless.
"Dad. Is Mattie there?"
"Where are you, Vee? I've been worried. I was afraid you were stuck in that house—"
"I'm fine. Mattie's there?" I interrupt.
"Yes. One of her friends drove her home. She's three sheets to the wind, but she's alive. Thank God. Are you on your way home?"
"Yes," I say, holding on to Rollins's sleeves for support. "I'm coming home right now."
I hang up and put the phone away.
"She's okay?" Rollins asks.
"Yes," I say. "Can you give me a ride? I just want to go home."
"Of course," he says, sounding bewildered.
I take a step toward the doorway and stumble, but Rollins stabilizes me.
"Easy," he says. "Vee, you're going to tell me what this is all about, right?"
I grab his hand and squeeze. "Yes. I promise."
He hooks an arm under my armpit. He helps me down the stairs, guides me past the broken glass, and tucks me into his car. Inside, it's warm and safe. I'm reminded of the night of the homecoming dance last year, when he rescued me from Scotch's probing hands. Just like that night, Rollins drives me home.
I lie on my bed, watching headlights from passing cars shine on my ceiling. No matter how hard I try, I can't get the sound of the crash out of my head. Zane's and his mother's shrieks, laced together for all eternity.
I called 911 to report the crash as soon as I got home, as soon as it occurred to me. The operator said an ambulance was already on the scene. I asked if everyone was okay, but she couldn't give me any details. She suggested I call the hospital, but when I did, they said they couldn't give out information.
My alarm clock blinks away the minutes, stretching them out into forever. For the first time since my mother died, I pray. I pray for Zane's life. I pray for justice—whether that means his mother's death or consecutive lifetime prison sentences, I don't know. I'll leave that up to the powers that be.
I pray for morning.
When the doorbell rings, my father is in the kitchen flipping chocolate-chip pancakes. Mattie's still asleep. Only I am left to see who it is. I pad to the front entryway in my slippers and peek through the curtain. Officer Teahen is standing there, hands thrust in his pockets, head tilted up toward the sky. I pull open the door.
"Officer Teahen," I say. "Can I help you with something?"
"Uh, Mattie?" He squints at me, like my name might be etched into my forehead somewhere.
"No, I'm Sylvia," I say.
"Is your father around?"
I nod, staring at him with wide eyes. After taking a few deep breaths, I call for my dad. He appears, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
"Officer Teahen." My father's voice is hard. "What can I do for you?"
Melting into the background, I sit on the stairs. I read a hundred different intentions in the officer's eyes. Zane and his mother are dead. The police found my fingerprints in their house and want to question me about what happened. Or they traced the 911 call and want to know how I knew about the crash. Or Zane and his mother are alive and Zane's mother wants my father arrested for "killing her baby" so many years ago.
The officer nods at my father and says, "Mr. Bell. I have some questions for you regarding a woman named Evelyn Morrow."
My father glances in my direction, then steps onto the front porch and closes the door. He doesn't return for a long time. When he does, his eyes are bloodshot and teary. He never looks like this. Never. He comes toward me, his arms stretched out like a zombie's. I don't understand what he's doing until he reaches me and hugs me until I can't breathe. But I don't want him to stop. I don't want him to let go.
"I'm so sorry, Vee," he says, stroking my hair, and that's when I know it's over. Zane is dead. I was stupid to ever think differently. Stupid to hope. I am stupid. So stupid.
My father pulls back and looks me in the face. "Zane has been in a car accident. Honey, I'm so sorry. Zane is gone."
That's when I collapse.
I awake to my father's voice.
"Vee. Wake up. Sylvia."
I open an eye and realize I'm lying on the wooden floor. For a moment, I think this must be what it feels like to lie in a coffin, everything cold and hard.
Wrenching my head to the right, I throw up. My father holds my hair.
"That's okay, VeeVee. Let's go upstairs and get you cleaned up. Do you think you can stand?" my father asks when I'm done puking. I don't think I can. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'll never stand again. But I plant my feet on the floor and wrap my arms around his neck and—lo and behold—I'm standing. Upstairs we go, one foot in front of the other, and then down the hall to the bathroom.
My father holds his hand under the faucet until the water is just right and then helps me to undress. He looks away the whole time. And I think about Rollins and his mother and how this is just what you do for someone you love when they can't do it for themselves.
After my bath, my father helps me into my room. I let him pile the covers on top of me. He pulls the blinds tight and leaves. My eyes are wide open.
Hours pass.
I do not sleep.
Late that night, I give up on sleep and turn on my light. My bookshelf glows like it's beckoning to me. I kneel before it, looking for the book he spoke of, the one he made me promise to read again—under a tree, at dusk. My fingertips find it before my eyes do.
The Great Gatsby.
I steal down the stairs, grab my jacket from its hook and a flashlight from the junk drawer. Careful not to make too much noise, I ease the back door open ever so carefully until the gap is just wide enough for me to slip through.
The night is cold, but I welcome it. I need to feel something other than loss, something other than pain. There is only one tree in our backyard, a great big oak tree, but it's perfect. I settle down beneath it and crack the spine on my book. It's not dusk, but it will have to do.
Just like Zane said, the experience is totally different. I'm not reading to pass a stupid English quiz. I'm reading for my life, for what Zane's life was. I'm reading to see the book through his eyes. At first, the pages move slowly, but before I know it I'm halfway through.
Soon it is light, and I'm finished. It swallowed me whole and then released me, a different person than I was before. I lie back and watch the sun inching its way upward. Maybe I didn't ever really know Zane, but on the other hand—maybe the part he showed to me was the only part of him that was real. I lie there until the sun stings my eyes, and then I pick myself up off the lawn.
Chapter Twenty-nine
My father stands in the kitchen, layering noodles on top of Italian sausage, mozzarella, and spinach. Mattie is sitting at the dining room table in front of her laptop. It is a familiar scene, but nothing about it feels right. Now that I know my father has been lying to us all these years—not only about having an affair, but also about having another daughter, I've been careful around him. Polite, but not overly warm.
I've decided I can't let us go on like this, living a lie. It would have been better if this was his idea, but I'm tired of waiting. I need to get things out in the open, set everything straight. So I slide onto a stool across from him. The framed picture of my mother is heavy in my lap.
"Dad? I need to talk to you about something."
He must see the seriousness in my eyes because he puts down the bag of cheese and leans forward. "What is it, Vee?"
I hold up the picture. I remove the back, retrieve the key, and lay it gently on the counter. "What's this?"
His voice is calm, and he looks me right in the eyes. "The key to my desk. I hide it because there are important documents in there, things like your birth certificate."
"Is that all that's in there?"
My sister has stopped goofing around on the computer and is staring at us.
My dad's eyes drop, can't sustain the gaze. When he looks back up at me, his eyes are full of tears. "I know it's time to tell you. I just got used to being the hero, though, you know? The man who saves babies and comes home to his beautiful daughters. Because after I tell you this, I don't know if you'll feel the same way about me."
"What are you talking about, Dad?" Mattie leaves her place at the dining room table and moves to sit next to me on one of the stools.
I steel myself. "Go on."
"I'm guessing you already looked in the drawer. You saw the medical records." He directs his words to me.
I nod.
"What's going on? What drawer?" Mattie asks.
My father takes a deep breath. "I had an affair, Mattie. Years ago, when your mother was still alive. Vee was just a toddler. Your mother was pregnant with you."
Mattie looks stricken. "You slept with someone? When Mom was pregnant?"
He looks at his hands, covered in marinara. He's clearly miserable. I almost feel sorry for him. But we need to get this over with.
"Yes. We had a fight. She was angry that I was working such long hours. She accused me of having an affair. I thought . . . I thought maybe I should just have one, since she thought that anyway."
Mattie covers her mouth with her hand. I reach over and gently rub her back. I know how shocked I was when I found out. It must be even worse for her, on top of everything she's been through lately.
"It was just the one time. But it was enough. Those medical records that you saw, Vee. The ones for Allison Morrow? She was my daughter. Your sister. She was born prematurely with a severe malformation. I was the only one who could help her. I tried. . . ."
When he breaks up into sobs, I feel horrible. No matter what he did, he's my father, and he lost someone he loved, just like I lost Mom. Seeing him so emotional tears me up inside.
"I did everything I could do," he whispers, wiping away tears, smearing tomato sauce on his cheeks. "I tried to save her."
I don't say anything for a moment. The only sound is of my father and sister crying. It's almost finished. I just need to know one more thing.
"Zane," I say quietly.
"Yes," he says, grabbing a paper towel and wiping his face. "Zane was her son."
"Why didn't you tell me? Especially when you found out we were together?"
"I—I couldn't. I wasn't ready. Evelyn started calling me, and I froze. Didn't know what to do." I try to digest this news, that Evelyn was stalking my father.
He continues on. "You can't know the guilt I've felt for these last fourteen years, Vee. It's what I think about when I get up in the morning, when I look in the mirror. I think about it every time I scrub in to operate on another baby, someone else's baby."
I can't even fathom it, not being able to save your own daughter. Some things are too horrific to imagine, and coming from me, that's huge.
Tracing my fingers over my mother's portrait, I try to picture my dad snuggled in bed next to me and my mother, Mattie in her belly. Does the fact that my father slept with another woman take away the fact that he loved us so much? That he would have done anything for my mother? Does it take away the years he's spent taking care of us?
I look back at him, and I see my father for what he is.
A man.
He is just a man. One night, he drank a little too much and did something stupid. He made a mistake. But he is more than that mistake. He is the man who makes us lasagna, the man who holds my mother's picture and cries when he thinks no one is looking, the man who makes broken babies whole.
He is just a man. But he is a good man.
"Can you girls ever forgive me?" he asks, not daring to look up.
I climb off the stool, walk around the counter, and put my arm around him.
"Yes," I say simply.
Mattie follows my lead and tucks herself beneath his other arm. "Yes," she says.
We stand there, together, the three of us.
A family.
Marty's Diner is dead for a Sunday morning. A couple of waitresses lean against the counter, talking about the woman and boy who died in a car crash a week ago. It's been all over the news, how the cops went to the lady's house and found evidence in the basement—guns, rope, gasoline. There was also a diary filled with her mad ravings about how Jared Bell killed her baby and how she was going to get back at our family and also pretty much every kid in Mattie's grade. It was her intention to kill everyone at Samantha's party, a chubby waitress says. The tall one shakes her head, unbelieving.
Rollins sits across from me in the booth, watching me play with sugar packets.
"Vee. I'm really sorry about Zane."
I am silent.
He tries again. "I mean, I wasn't his biggest fan, but the important thing was that he made you happy. I'm sure he was a good guy. You know, despite the fact that his mom was crazy."
I try to make a little house with the packets, but it keeps falling down. I give up.
"I do want you to be happy," he says, putting his hand over mine and the scattered sugar packets.
"I know you do," I say, finally meeting his eyes. "I've been awful the last couple of weeks. There's been so much crap going on . . . but I'm sorry for being a bitch."
He taps my hand with his forefinger. "I'll forgive you if you explain to me what happened that night in Zane's room."
I sigh. I've been dreading this moment, knowing it was just around the corner but hoping I could put it off for a few more days. Today is as good as any, though.
"Okay."
I think for a minute, search for the right words.
"I'm going to tell you something about me, and it's going to sound freaking insane."
He bobs his head encouragingly. "Go on."
"Well, you know how I'm really careful about touching stuff that's not mine?"
Rollins laughs. "You mean your OCD? Yeah, I know."
"It's not OCD, Rollins. It's not narcolepsy, either. It's something else. Something I don't understand. What happens to me when I pass out—it's not right. I told my father about it when it started, and he sent me to a psychiatrist. So I don't tell people about it anymore, even though it still happens to me."
"What happens?" he asks gently.
I take the leap. "I leave my body. I slide into other people's heads. I see what they see."
Stopping for a moment, I search his eyes for that look, the one my father gave me when I told him, the mixture of fear and disbelief. But there's a different look on Rollins's face entirely. He looks concerned.
"What do you see?"
"It depends. I'll slide into Mr. Nast and see him sneaking a smoke in his office. I'll slide into my father and witness an operation. I'll slide into Mattie and see her crying at night. It's different with every person. Mostly I see things I don't want to see."
"Like what?" he prods. There's no mocking in his tone. He honestly wants to know.
So I tell him. I tell him about Amber and the naked picture of Sophie she sent to all the football players. About Mr. Golden's affair with Amber's mom. About witnessing Sophie's death. About finding out Zane's mother was responsible for everything. I tell him about my last moments with Zane.
Rollins slips out of his side of the booth and scoots in next to me. He puts his arm around me, and I can smell soap under the muskiness of his leather jacket.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers to me.
"I'm okay," I reply. "I'm okay."
It becomes apparent that the waitresses, bored, are staring at us. I nod in their direction. "Rollins, why don't you go back to your side of the table. We're turning into their entertainment."
He gives me one last squeeze and returns to his side.
Ripping open a sugar packet, he says, "So. Did you ever slide into me?" He dumps the contents in his mouth.
Shit.
The one part I left out. I know how he'll feel if he learns I saw his home life. His mother. The things he has to do to take care of her.
The fact that I don't respond tips him off. He'd been joking before, but now he's somber. "You did. Didn't you? When did you slide into me?"
"Last week," I say, squirming. It's suddenly very hot in here.
"Last week? What did you see?"
I shrug off my jacket. I don't know how to tell him I saw his mother naked, how I saw him giving her a bath. I'm boiling with embarrassment.
"Vee. Answer me."
"I saw your house and your uncle and your mother. And I know that you have to help your mom do things, like take baths."
His face is white. "You saw me . . . bathing her?"
"It's okay, Rollins. I know what it's like to take care of someone."
"Stop," he says. "You don't know. You've never had to give your sister or your father a bath. You can't possibly know what it's like. Every day. To be responsible for her well-being every single day. I have to feed her. I have to dress her. There's no one else. Just me."
I don't know what to say. "I'm . . . sorry, Rollins."
He puts his head in his hands. "I can't believe you saw me giving her a bath. I feel like . . . I feel like you violated me."
I reach for his hand. "Rollins . . ."
He pulls away. "No. Just leave me alone."
He rises and heads for the door. As I watch him leave, I can't help but feel guilty. He's right. I did violate him. I didn't mean to, but I did. People have a right to their secrets. The fact that I can't help sliding is no excuse.
I remember how it felt to realize Scotch was using my body without my permission. It makes me sick to think about Rollins feeling that same way. Watching Rollins drive away, I try to think of some way to make things better between us.
But I come up with nothing.
Chapter Thirty
That night, I peer through my telescope, wondering why the sky looks the same when my universe has been turned completely upside down.
"Vee," my sister says. I turn to see her hovering near my doorway.
"Yes?"
She takes a few steps into my room and lowers herself into the rocking chair. She draws her knees up to her chin and looks at me thoughtfully. "Are you going to be okay?"
I look out the window again, searching. First I see Polaris, shining bright. From there, I make out Ursa Minor, the baby bear. Close by, as always, is Ursa Major. The mother bear.
"Yeah," I say. "I'll be fine. Just give me a while."
"Do you want to talk about him?"
"Who? Zane?" I turn back toward my sister.
"Yeah, tell me about him." She cocks her head to the side, the way she used to when I read her stories before bedtime.
I climb onto my bed and think awhile.
Finally, I speak. "He wasn't afraid. He'd gone through so much pain in his life, but he didn't hide himself away. Even though he knew how fragile life was—maybe because he knew—he seized every moment and made it his own."
She is quiet, as though she's digesting my words.
"Did you love him?"
I have to mull this over for a minute. When Zane told me he was falling for me, I was kind of paralyzed. I was so afraid to admit that I loved him, even to myself, because that would mean it would eventually all come to an end and I'd get hurt.
And that's what happened. When I found out who he was, that he'd known what his mother was doing all along, that he was just going to let Mattie die . . .
I got hurt.
Badly.
But that doesn't take away the fact that I cared for him. If only for a little while.
"Yeah. I think I did."
Mattie sighs.
We both sit quietly for a few moments.
"What happened to Rollins?"
I fluff my pillow and lean back on it. "We got into a fight. Just dumb stuff."
"You know he's in love with you, right?"
I pause.
"Yes," I finally admit. "I know."
"You should make up with him. He's a good guy." Mattie's voice is soft, and she reminds me of how she used to be as a child. Sweet. Kind.
"Maybe we will," I say, but only to appease her. Rollins has been keeping his secrets so long. I have a feeling it's going to take a while for him to forgive me for what I know.
"Hey," I say, pushing myself up. "Do you want to learn how to use Mom's telescope?"
"Sure," she replies, grinning.
I show her how to adjust the lens. She bends over and peers into the telescope, squeezing one eye shut. I watch her for a little while, noticing how she looks kind of like Dad when she's concentrating on something. She's grown up so much in the past week. Her expression is more mature. More adult. I think maybe I should tell her about my sliding sometime. Not tonight, but soon.
When my sister leaves, I lie down on my bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about what she said—how Rollins is in love with me. I don't know that I have much to offer him right now. But one thing is for sure.
I don't want to lose him as a friend.
I turn over on my side and reach down to my backpack and pull out a notebook and pen. I flip open to a new page. I chew on my pen for a minute, waiting for the words to come to me. When they do, it's in a flood, and I have to chase them with my pen, hurrying to get them all down before they escape.
_Dear Rollins,_
_Since our fight, I've been thinking a lot. I thought I'd take a page from your book and write it all down. I understand why you're upset, and I don't blame you. I'd be angry, too, if someone invaded my privacy like that. Still, I wish you'd been able to share your home life with me. There's so much shit in this world—what good are friends if not to help shoulder some of the burden? I guess what I'm saying is, I want you to let me be here for you. I've gotten a taste of what life is like without you as a friend, and I don't want to go back to that. I miss you. So. Much. I hope, once you cool off a little, you'll come around again._
_Vee_
I rip the page out, fold it in half, and stuff it into my backpack. My breath has quickened with the exhilaration of putting myself out there. It feels good. I'm not used to being so bold, but I'm proud of myself for reaching out to Rollins. It's a little scary, I must admit—who's to say Rollins won't sneer at my heartfelt letter, crumple it up, and throw it in the trash?
But maybe he won't.
Epilogue
Mattie and I decide our new Friday night tradition will involve board games and pepperoni pizza. Even Dad gets in on the action, after he finishes complaining that Pizza Hut can't hold a candle to his homemade Chicago-style pizza.
"Where did you get all those twenties?" Mattie asks my father in a whiny voice. "I don't think you should be the banker anymore."
I laugh, pushing my newly blond hair away from my face. Something about the transition back to my natural color just made sense. I am tired of running away from who I am. I'm ready to embrace all of me, good and bad.
I have just purchased Park Place when the doorbell rings. I toss the dice to my sister, who misses them and has to crawl under the table to find them.
"I'll get it," I say, rising and stretching.
I am still smiling when I pull open the door.
He stands there like he belongs on my front porch.
He stands there like he used to.
His hands are behind his back.
"Choose," he says.
"I've already made my choice," I say, and I grab the sleeve of his leather jacket and pull him inside.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks . . .
To Sarah Davies, whom my mother once called "practically perfect in every way." Without you, Slide would be a shell of the book it is now, complete with an awful title. I can't thank you enough for taking a chance on a green writer. We've come a long way, haven't we?
To Julia Churchill, you pointed out the flaws and helped us make Slide stronger. Thanks for going to bat for Slide across the pond.
To my editor, Donna Bray, who loved Vee enough to bring her to life. You've challenged me to dig deep. I think I became a real writer through the editing process.
To Brenna Franzitta, Alison Klapthor, and the rest of the team at HarperCollins. Thank you so much for all your hard work.
To Megan Miranda, who stood by me every step of the way, who read and reread my drafts until her eyes were probably bleeding. Your emails keep me going.
To my other betas, Sara Raasch, Shayda Bakhshi, Susanne Winnacker, Amber Johnston, Rebecca Rogers, Stephanie Kuehn, and Kate Walton. You believed in me before anyone else.
To my mother and sister, for loving Vee from the very start. To my brothers, for brainstorming ideas with me. To my father, for always supporting me.
To Officer Teahen, for answering my questions. I hope you enjoy your namesake.
To my extended family, and especially my mother-in-law, who ensured my house wasn't too much of a pigsty while I was busy writing.
To my daughter, for keeping things in perspective.
And to my husband, who comes up with the best ideas, who cares for our daughter while I'm locked in the revision closet, and who is my very best friend.
About the Author
**JILL HATHAWAY** grew up in Iowa and received her MA in literature from Iowa State University. A high school English teacher, she lives with her husband and children in the Des Moines area. You can visit her online at www.jillscribbles.blogspot.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Credits
Jacket art © 2012 by Olivia Bee
Jacket design by Alison Klapthor
Copyright
Slide
Copyright © 2012 by Jill Hathaway
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hathaway, Jill.
Slide / Jill Hathaway. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Vee Bell, able to slide into other people's minds, sees someone standing over the body of her sister's best friend, Sophie, holding a bloody knife, but she is afraid that anyone she tells will think her crazy, so she must find a way to identify the killer herself before he or she strikes again.
ISBN 978-0-06-207790-5
[1. Murder—Fiction. 2. Psychic ability—Fiction. 3. Sisters—Fiction. 4. Secrets—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction. 7. Best friends—Fiction. 8. Friendship—Fiction. 9. Narcolepsy—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.H2827Sli 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2011024551
CIP
AC
* * *
EPub Edition FEBRUARY 2012 ISBN: 9780062077974
12 13 14 15 16 LP/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
About the Publisher
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|
Japanese pastries reflect the country's history, and are also part of the culture that Japan takes pride in.
Our name “Chokyu” symbolizes our desire to become a shop that is always well-loved by many through the Japanese pastries that we offer. Tracing sixteen generations back to the first-generation “Kyube” , it has been almost three hundred years since our business was founded.
With the hope to develop a new presentation and marketing approach for our pastries and to break new grounds, we have set up a new company, Chokyu Co., Ltd.
Our aim is to respond to changes in the global environment, while preserving the longstanding history and flavor that we have cultivated over the past three centuries. At the same time, we hope to spread the wonderful culture and history of Japan through our pastries together with the techniques for making them to people in Japan as well as all parts of the world by utilizing the know-how we have accumulated from novel challenges.
1951Presented to Showa Emperor during His Majesty's trip to Mie Prefecture
2008Won the Excellent Craftsmanship Award at the 25th National Confectionery Expo
2011Founded Chokyu Co., Ltd.
2012Hisatsugu Takeguchi appointed as the President of Daitokuya Chokyu, Oharagi Hompo
Appointed as the lecturer at the Humanitec College of Culinary & Confectionery
Featured in many magazines as well as radio and TV programs.
Features of Chokyu
Besides red beans and wheat, which are the main ingredients of Japanese pastries, most of the ingredients we use are produced in Japan. Majority of the products that make use of these ingredients are carefully manufactured at our factory. While machinery has been introduced in the manufacturing process for wrapping the filling, we inherited the traditional way of shaping each item manually and meticulously with the hands of our staff.
In this way, we were able to uphold the tradition, while at the same time increase production to 10,000 pieces per month for our flagship product, the Karinto Manju. Not only so, instant freezing technologies are employed to enable storage of most of our products up to three months while maintaining the quality. We are also constantly striving to develop new products, with about ten new ones added to the lineup every year. With an open mind, we try to incorporate elements of western pastries to develop products that go well with cafe menus or alcoholic drinks.
In recent years, we have been offering products in ways that meet our customers’ needs, such as by setting up a cafe corner at our stores, and by providing mobile vending and online shopping services. Meanwhile, we will also continue to pass on and develop the culture of Japan through trainings at confectionery schools and our endeavors toward the widespread acceptance of Japanese pastries. |
'Spider in web' mastermind of Paris attacks killed in raid … The suspected Islamic State mastermind of the Paris attacks was among those killed in a police raid north of the capital, France confirmed on Thursday, bringing an end to the hunt for Europe's most wanted man. Authorities said they had identified the mangled corpse of Belgian national Abdelhamid Abaaoud from fingerprints in the aftermath of Wednesday's raid and gunbattle in which at least two people died including a female suicide bomber. – Reuters
Dominant Social Theme: Let's kill all these terrorists. It's not as if we want information from them.
Free-Market Analysis: One wonders why perpetrators of mass killings are rarely taken alive. Perhaps it is hard to do so, but let us recall pertinent circumstances regarding the Boston Marathon bombing.
As readers know, I have been suspicious of the Boston Marathon Bombing from the beginning. It seems obvious that both Tsarnaev brothers were intended to be killed in the alleged firefight with police, like the alleged perpetrators of the Charlie Hebdo affair in Paris. Convenient deaths in firefights are accepted as indications of guilt and solve the problem of trying innocent patsies.
Roberts then presents us with a lengthy affidavit from Maret Tsarnaev concerning the prosecution of her nephew, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, and maintaining his innocence. The larger point here is Roberts's suggestion that the Tsarnaev brothers were "intended to be killed [to] … solve the problem of trying innocent patsies."
In fact, the death of Tamerlan is puzzling at least given that a video taken before his death shows him being stripped naked before being put into a police car. The doctor who tried to save Tamerlan's life reported that he did not show signs of having been run over by a vehicle.
Roberts makes a similar point in another recent article, "Will The Matrix Prevail?"
The aftermath of the Paris attack is like the aftermath of the so-called Boston Marathon Bombing. Fifty heavily armed police converged on two people and murdered them. The murdered female is described even by RT as a "female suicide bomber." If the murdered woman is a suicide bomber, how is she still alive to be murdered by police?
Not even the "Russian propaganda outlet" RT asks why 50 heavily armed police were unable to capture two people alive and had to kill them!
Roberts goes on to ask a number of questions regarding the Paris bombings. Some of this same skepticism could be applied to US mass shootings as well. In such cases it would be better if at least the main culprits in such tragedies were captured alive so we could hear about their motives in their own words.
Certainly, having the testimony of such people would tend to confirm or deny the idea of "blowback." This is a sociopolitical construct that libertarian politician Ron Paul has helped popularize and we've referred to the concept on numerous occasions. Testimony by those involved in these shootings, especially if they seem politically motivated, could provide significant insight into the reasons for the violence.
Ron Paul's perspective, echoed by Roberts in this article, is that the West's involvement in lengthy Middle East wars is creating "millions of deaths and displaced persons." Such violence inevitably creates a desire for violent revenge and one might expect more rather than less of it as these wars continue for decades and evolve.
Of course, there are various kinds of blowback. One kind of blowback not often discussed is the corrosive impact of violence on the societies prosecuting these wars. Increased militarization, interference in personal financial affairs and travel restrictions, among many other ramifications, are the inevitable result.
As these wars continue and even increase, we can see the impact on our day-to.day lives. Gradually we are losing the ability to work and live without considerable government oversight.
After Thoughts
Anyone interested in the safety of their families and the health of their portfolios ought to take steps to ensure their independence as soon as possible. There are many ways to do this and here at The Daily Bell we will continue to point out fundamentals including ownership of precious metals, second homes and types of potential investments within the context of the larger business cycle. |
A Web Map Service for displaying environmental data over the web
What is ncWMS?
We have an ncWMS User Guide available. This will always contain the latest version of the documentation for ncWMS.
Getting ncWMS
ncWMS is designed to run in a servlet container such as Tomcat or Glassfish. However, we do provide a standalone version which uses an embedded Winstone servlet container to allow users to quickly try it out.
Servlet container version
This is the standard version of ncWMS which most people will want to use. It can be obtained by downloading ncWMS2.war from here
Note that you will need to configure a security role within your servlet container to be able to use this.
Standalone version
The standalone version of ncWMS can be obtained by downloading ncWMS2-standalone.jar from here
Note that this version is designed to be run locally and has no security for any of the administrative functions. To run a publicly-available version of ncWMS, please use the servlet container version.
Citing ncWMS
If you use ncWMS in a project which produces journal articles, we ask that you please cite this paper |
Q:
What technology would you use for random queries with constraints on data?
I need to extract data semi-randomly, that is a random item, but in a certain subset of the data. And need to do this several times.
My first approach is to use Postgres ORDER BY random() and filter with WHERE statements, but that performs poorly.
Do you have any suggestions?
A:
I ended up using Elasticsearch through Tire (Ruby gem). The performance, with right indexing, made page loading time go from 30+ seconds to <1s (and independent from DB size).
Example:
Recipe.search do |search|
search.sort do |sort|
sort.by({
_script: {
script: "Math.random()",
type: "number",
params: {},
order: "asc"
}
})
end
search.size 1
end
Which generates:
{
"sort": [{
"_script": {
"script": "Math.random()",
"type": "number",
"params": {},
"order": "asc"
}
}],
"size": 1
}
|
Q:
R - modify an unknown function
I have a function f of some vector x
The function in R is written as :
f <- function(x){#insert some function of x here}
I would like to return (-f), which denotes the negative of the function. In the case the function itself is known beforehand, this is a simple exercise.
However, in this case, I don't know what this function is
Could someone please help me with the R code to carry this out? (The output needs to be a function in the vector x.)
An example would be - f(x) = x + 1, then -f(x) = -x - 1
Thank you!
A:
The following function getNegFn() takes a function fn and returns a function which returns the negative return value of fn:
getNegFn <- function(fn){
fnOut <- function(){
- do.call(what=fn, args=as.list(match.call())[-1])
}
formals(fnOut) <- formals(fn)
fnOut
}
An example:
fn <- function(x) x + 1
nFn <- getNegFn(fn=fn)
fn(1)
[1] 2
nFn(1)
[1] -2
Also works if the input function has ... arguments:
fn2 <- function(x, ...) x + sum(unlist(list(...)))
nFn2 <- getNegFn(fn=fn2)
fn2(x=1, y=2)
[1] 3
nFn2(x=1, y=2)
[1] -3
|
// Copyright Verizon Media. Licensed under the terms of the Apache 2.0 license. See LICENSE in the project root.
package com.yahoo.vespa.hosted.provision.autoscale;
import com.yahoo.config.provision.ClusterResources;
import com.yahoo.config.provision.ClusterSpec;
import com.yahoo.config.provision.Flavor;
import com.yahoo.config.provision.NodeResources;
import com.yahoo.vespa.hosted.provision.Node;
import com.yahoo.vespa.hosted.provision.NodeRepository;
import com.yahoo.vespa.hosted.provision.provisioning.HostResourcesCalculator;
import com.yahoo.vespa.hosted.provision.provisioning.NodeResourceLimits;
import java.util.List;
import java.util.Optional;
/**
* @author bratseth
*/
public class AllocatableClusterResources {
/** The node count in the cluster */
private final int nodes;
/** The number of node groups in the cluster */
private final int groups;
private final NodeResources realResources;
private final NodeResources advertisedResources;
private final ClusterSpec.Type clusterType;
private final double fulfilment;
/** Fake allocatable resources from requested capacity */
public AllocatableClusterResources(ClusterResources requested,
ClusterSpec.Type clusterType,
NodeRepository nodeRepository) {
this.nodes = requested.nodes();
this.groups = requested.groups();
this.realResources = nodeRepository.resourcesCalculator().requestToReal(requested.nodeResources());
this.advertisedResources = requested.nodeResources();
this.clusterType = clusterType;
this.fulfilment = 1;
}
public AllocatableClusterResources(List<Node> nodes, NodeRepository nodeRepository) {
this.nodes = nodes.size();
this.groups = (int)nodes.stream().map(node -> node.allocation().get().membership().cluster().group()).distinct().count();
this.realResources = averageRealResourcesOf(nodes, nodeRepository); // Average since we average metrics over nodes
this.advertisedResources = nodes.get(0).resources();
this.clusterType = nodes.get(0).allocation().get().membership().cluster().type();
this.fulfilment = 1;
}
public AllocatableClusterResources(ClusterResources realResources,
NodeResources advertisedResources,
NodeResources idealResources,
ClusterSpec.Type clusterType) {
this.nodes = realResources.nodes();
this.groups = realResources.groups();
this.realResources = realResources.nodeResources();
this.advertisedResources = advertisedResources;
this.clusterType = clusterType;
this.fulfilment = fulfilment(realResources.nodeResources(), idealResources);
}
/**
* Returns the resources which will actually be available per node in this cluster with this allocation.
* These should be used for reasoning about allocation to meet measured demand.
*/
public NodeResources realResources() { return realResources; }
/**
* Returns the resources advertised by the cloud provider, which are the basis for charging
* and which must be used in resource allocation requests
*/
public NodeResources advertisedResources() { return advertisedResources; }
public ClusterResources toAdvertisedClusterResources() {
return new ClusterResources(nodes, groups, advertisedResources);
}
public int nodes() { return nodes; }
public int groups() { return groups; }
public int groupSize() {
// ceil: If the division does not produce a whole number we assume some node is missing
return (int)Math.ceil((double)nodes / groups);
}
public ClusterSpec.Type clusterType() { return clusterType; }
public double cost() { return nodes * advertisedResources.cost(); }
/**
* Returns the fraction measuring how well the real resources fulfils the ideal: 1 means completely fulfilled,
* 0 means we have zero real resources.
* The real may be short of the ideal due to resource limits imposed by the system or application.
*/
public double fulfilment() { return fulfilment; }
private static double fulfilment(NodeResources realResources, NodeResources idealResources) {
double vcpuFulfilment = Math.min(1, realResources.vcpu() / idealResources.vcpu());
double memoryGbFulfilment = Math.min(1, realResources.memoryGb() / idealResources.memoryGb());
double diskGbFulfilment = Math.min(1, realResources.diskGb() / idealResources.diskGb());
return (vcpuFulfilment + memoryGbFulfilment + diskGbFulfilment) / 3;
}
public boolean preferableTo(AllocatableClusterResources other) {
if (this.fulfilment < 1 || other.fulfilment < 1)
return this.fulfilment > other.fulfilment; // we always want to fulfil as much as possible
return this.cost() < other.cost(); // otherwise, prefer lower cost
}
@Override
public String toString() {
return nodes + " nodes " +
( groups > 1 ? "(in " + groups + " groups) " : "" ) +
"with " + advertisedResources() +
" at cost $" + cost() +
(fulfilment < 1.0 ? " (fulfilment " + fulfilment + ")" : "");
}
private static NodeResources averageRealResourcesOf(List<Node> nodes, NodeRepository nodeRepository) {
NodeResources sum = new NodeResources(0, 0, 0, 0);
for (Node node : nodes)
sum = sum.add(nodeRepository.resourcesCalculator().realResourcesOf(node, nodeRepository).justNumbers());
return nodes.get(0).resources().justNonNumbers()
.withVcpu(sum.vcpu() / nodes.size())
.withMemoryGb(sum.memoryGb() / nodes.size())
.withDiskGb(sum.diskGb() / nodes.size())
.withBandwidthGbps(sum.bandwidthGbps() / nodes.size());
}
public static Optional<AllocatableClusterResources> from(ClusterResources wantedResources,
boolean exclusive,
ClusterSpec.Type clusterType,
Limits applicationLimits,
NodeRepository nodeRepository) {
var systemLimits = new NodeResourceLimits(nodeRepository);
if ( !exclusive && nodeRepository.zone().getCloud().allowHostSharing()) { // Check if any flavor can fit these hosts
// We decide resources: Add overhead to what we'll request (advertised) to make sure real becomes (at least) cappedNodeResources
NodeResources advertisedResources = nodeRepository.resourcesCalculator().realToRequest(wantedResources.nodeResources());
advertisedResources = systemLimits.enlargeToLegal(advertisedResources, clusterType); // Attempt to ask for something legal
advertisedResources = applicationLimits.cap(advertisedResources); // Overrides other conditions, even if it will then fail
NodeResources realResources = nodeRepository.resourcesCalculator().requestToReal(advertisedResources); // ... thus, what we really get may change
if ( ! systemLimits.isWithinRealLimits(realResources, clusterType)) return Optional.empty();
for (Flavor flavor : nodeRepository.flavors().getFlavors()) {
if (flavor.resources().satisfies(advertisedResources))
return Optional.of(new AllocatableClusterResources(wantedResources.with(realResources),
advertisedResources,
wantedResources.nodeResources(),
clusterType));
}
return Optional.empty();
}
else { // Return the cheapest flavor satisfying the requested resources, if any
NodeResources cappedWantedResources = applicationLimits.cap(wantedResources.nodeResources());
Optional<AllocatableClusterResources> best = Optional.empty();
for (Flavor flavor : nodeRepository.flavors().getFlavors()) {
// Flavor decide resources: Real resources are the worst case real resources we'll get if we ask for these advertised resources
NodeResources advertisedResources = nodeRepository.resourcesCalculator().advertisedResourcesOf(flavor);
NodeResources realResources = nodeRepository.resourcesCalculator().requestToReal(advertisedResources);
// Adjust where we don't need exact match to the flavor
if (flavor.resources().storageType() == NodeResources.StorageType.remote) {
advertisedResources = advertisedResources.withDiskGb(cappedWantedResources.diskGb());
realResources = realResources.withDiskGb(cappedWantedResources.diskGb());
}
if (flavor.resources().bandwidthGbps() >= advertisedResources.bandwidthGbps()) {
advertisedResources = advertisedResources.withBandwidthGbps(cappedWantedResources.bandwidthGbps());
realResources = realResources.withBandwidthGbps(cappedWantedResources.bandwidthGbps());
}
if ( ! between(applicationLimits.min().nodeResources(), applicationLimits.max().nodeResources(), advertisedResources)) continue;
if ( ! systemLimits.isWithinRealLimits(realResources, clusterType)) continue;
var candidate = new AllocatableClusterResources(wantedResources.with(realResources),
advertisedResources,
wantedResources.nodeResources(),
clusterType);
if (best.isEmpty() || candidate.preferableTo(best.get()))
best = Optional.of(candidate);
}
return best;
}
}
private static boolean between(NodeResources min, NodeResources max, NodeResources r) {
if ( ! min.isUnspecified() && ! min.justNonNumbers().compatibleWith(r.justNonNumbers())) return false;
if ( ! max.isUnspecified() && ! max.justNonNumbers().compatibleWith(r.justNonNumbers())) return false;
if ( ! min.isUnspecified() && ! r.justNumbers().satisfies(min.justNumbers())) return false;
if ( ! max.isUnspecified() && ! max.justNumbers().satisfies(r.justNumbers())) return false;
return true;
}
}
|
E-Loan Changes 2 Year and 5 Year CD Rates
E-Loan.com, a wholly-owned subsidiary of Banco Popular North America (BPNA), recently changed the CD rates they are paying on 2 year and 5 year certificates of deposit. The rate changes were to both regular and jumbo certificates of deposit.
When you open a CD account or savings account with E-Loan, you are actually opening it through BPNA, a New York state chartered bank that has deposits insured by the FDIC. BPNA's FDIC certificate number is 34967. BPNA's website is popularcommunitybank.com.
E-Loan's regular and jumbo 2 year CD rates were lowered to 1.49 percent with a yield of 1.50 percent. The old 2 year CD rate was 1.54 percent with a yield of 1.55 percent. 5 year regular and jumbo CD rates were lowered to 2.03 percent with a yield of 2.05 percent, down from 2.08 percent with a yield of 2.10 percent.
E-Loan.com's CD rates are tiered but currently the rates and yields are the same for any CD account balance. The minimum opening balance for an E-Loan CD account is $10,000. Listed below is a current list of all E-Loan.com CD rates.
Current E-Loan CD Rates
1 Month CD Rate 0.05% Yield 0.05%
2 Month CD Rate 0.05% Yield 0.05%
3 Month CD Rate 0.25% Yield 0.25%
6 Month CD Rate 0.85% Yield 0.85%
9 Month CD Rate 0.45% Yield 0.45%
1 Year CD Rate 1.25% Yield 1.26%
18 Month CD Rate 1.34% Yield 1.35%
2 Year CD Rate 1.49% Yield 1.50%
3 Year CD Rate 1.64% Yield 1.65%
4 Year CD Rate 1.78% Yield 1.80%
5 Year CD Rate 2.03% Yield 2.05%
6 Year CD Rate 1.54% Yield 1.55%
As with most online banks these days, opening a CD account at E-Loan.com is quick and easy. You will need to provide your name and a US address along with your social security number, date of birth, and a Mother's Maiden Name. You will also have to provide an email address so the bank can send notifications of electronic disclosures and statements.
The only way you can get account notifications, disclosures, and statements is by email. Withdrawing your consent to receive electronic delivery of disclosures and statements closes your CD account. At that point, you will have to pay an early withdrawal penalty on the account. Listed below are E-Loan.com's early withdrawal penalties for CD accounts.
E-Loan.com Early Withdrawal Penalties for CD Accounts
Original CD Term: Penalty
Less than 3 months: 89 days simple interest
3 months up to 12 months: 120 days simple interest
12 months up to 36 months: 270 days simple interest
36 months up to 60 months: 365 days simple interest
60 months or Greater: 730 days simple interest
E-Loan.com is an online bank and lender. They prefer for you to do all of your transactions online, which is why they can usually offer higher CD rates than traditional brick and mortar banks. You can speak to a representative by calling their Customer Care Center at 1-866-576-7283.
You can add or withdraw any money from your account by having a linked account setup. Whenever you add or withdraw money, it will take 2-3 business days for a transaction to complete. Interest on your CD account is compounded daily and credited monthly. You can open an account on E-Loan's website atELoan Account Application.
Rate Tables
Banking & Finance Information
Banking Articles
By visiting this site, third parties may place cookies on users’ browsers for targeted advertising purposes. This data may be used by third parties to target digital advertising on other sites and networks based off of your activity. MonitorBankRates.com is an advertising-supported web publisher and comparison rate service. MonitorBankRates.com is compensated for placement of sponsored products when ads are clicked. This compensation may impact how and where products appear on this website. Not all companies or their products are listed. |
St. Mary's Springs Academy
St. Mary's Springs Academy (SMSA, formerly St. Mary's Springs High School) is a Catholic, private, coeducational system serving grades 3-year-old Preschool through High School in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin and is associated with the Archdiocese of Milwaukee. It was founded by the Sisters of Saint Agnes in 1909.
History
The Sisters of Saint Agnes came to the site of the school in 1901 to open a sanitarium after money was donated by local businessman Henry Boyle. The first building built on the site in 1901, Boyle Hall, was named in his honor. This building and St. Agnes Hall, located immediately to the north of Boyle Hall, were used as a sanitarium until 1909 when the site was changed into a boarding school for girls. The school held its first graduation in 1911. Though run by the Sisters of St. Agnes, it became affiliated with The Catholic University of America in 1915 and then became known as St. Mary's Springs Academy. In 1928, a large school building was constructed to the north of Boyle Hall. In 1939, St. Mary's Springs Academy revised its mission and opened its doors to young men as well as young women. In 1956, boarding facilities were discontinued.
With increasing enrollment during the 1950s and 1960s, a need arose for another building. Telethons were held to raise money for the construction. In 1970, the school's name was changed to St. Mary's Springs High School after becoming jointly sponsored by the Archdiocese of Milwaukee and the Congregation of the Sisters of St. Agnes. A new academic building was built that year at the north end of the campus, immediately north of the main building. Both buildings held classes until the main building became known as the Administration Building due to dwindling class sizes. It continued to house the offices, cafeteria, and an auditorium. Around 2001, the Administration Building was permanently closed due to asbestos being found in the building. In 2005, Boyle Hall, which had sat vacant for nearly 25 years, was torn down due to structural problems. The old administration building sat vacant until it was razed in 2015 to make way for a proposed preK-12 academic complex.
In 2008, St. Mary's Springs High School was merged with FACES (Fond du Lac Area Catholic Education System) to form a K-12 system. FACES consisted of two campuses, St. Joseph's Primary School and St. Mary's Middle School. The three campuses began operating under the name of St. Mary's Springs Academy. Plans were underway to build a complex combining the Academy due to the aging buildings of the former FACES campus. A campaign, called the Second Century Campaign, was launched to fund building this new complex at the high school location.
At the start of the 2016-2017 academic year, the new St. Mary's Springs Academy complex opened its doors to students in pre-Kindergarten through grade 12. The complex consisted of the academic building (built in 1970) connected to the large new addition. The older portion of the building was completely renovated to make better use of space as well as to update classrooms for modern learning. Currently, grades 6-12 occupy the older portion while pre-Kindergarten through grade 5, as well as administrative offices, occupy the new portion of the building.
Interesting Facts
St. Mary's Springs was given its name due to the presence of artesian springs which flow naturally from "the Ledge," or the Niagara Escarpment, a glacial land formation in which the campus is built into. It was thought that the fresh air and natural spring water held healing benefits for tuberculosis patients of the sanitarium which originally occupied the site.
Shortly before Boyle Hall was razed, a ceremony was held at the school at which the cornerstone was opened to reveal mementos from the past.
At one time, underground service tunnels connected the academic building, the administration building, and Boyle Hall.
The Ledger, the school mascot, was named after "The Ledge."
It was rumored that the old administration building was haunted, which prompted many cases of trespassing and vandalism of the interior after it was closed down.
The landmark bell tower of the old administration building, which could be viewed from across town, was reconstructed on the site of the new school complex. After plans for the new complex were underway, a separate campaign, called Bring It Back Home, was launched to fund the reconstruction. A bell tower with a similar appearance to the original now sits on The Ledge.
Athletics
Championships
State championships
Boys' basketball: 1993, 1994
Boys' cross country: 1971
Girls' cross country: 1992, 1993, 1995, 1996, 1997
Football: 1983, 1984, 1990, 1991, 1995, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2002, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2014, 2015, 2017, 2018, 2019
Boys' golf: 1959, 2015.2016,2017,2018
Boys' hockey: 1981, 1982, 1985, 1986, 1987.
Boys' track: 1975, 1979, 1993, 1996, 1997, 1998, 2000, 2012.
Baseball: 2016.
Conference championships
Boys' cross country: 1971, 1972, 1996, 2000
Girls' cross country: 1992, 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 1997, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2009, 2010
Football: 1975, 1976, 1977, 1978, 1981, 1983, 1985, 1986, 1987, 1988, 1989, 1990, 1991, 1992, 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2002, 2004, 2008, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019
Girls' tennis: 1992
Volleyball: 1976
Boys' basketball: 1993, 2003
Girls' basketball: 2001, 2002
Boys' hockey: 2011
Girls' hockey: 2011
Baseball: 1983, 1984, 1985, 1987, 1993, 1994, 1995, 2000, 2001, 2004, 2008, 2009
Golf: 1961, 1971, 1972, 1986, 1992, 1994, 1996, 1998, 2000, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012
Girls' soccer: 2007, 2008
Softball: 1992
Boys' track: 1975, 1987, 1988, 1998, 1999, 2000
Girls' track: 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2011
Notable people
Wisconsin State Senator Warren Braun is a graduate.
Wisconsin State Representative John P. Dobyns is a graduate.
Rabies survivor Jeanna Giese graduated in 2007.
References
External links
St. Mary's Springs Academy
Sisters of St. Agnes
Category:Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Milwaukee
Category:Educational institutions established in 1909
Category:Fond du Lac, Wisconsin
Category:Catholic secondary schools in Wisconsin
Category:Schools in Fond du Lac County, Wisconsin
Category:1909 establishments in Wisconsin |
A 14-year-old girl was trying on clothing in a changing room at Pickering Town Centre when she noticed a cellphone recording her from the room adjacent to her.
Police arrested a 35-year-old man in connection to the incident that took place Saturday around 5 p.m.
The teenage girl screamed when she spotted the man holding the phone that was being pointed at her.
One of the staff members in the store confronted the man but he fled the scene. A witness was able to follow the man and provided a licence plate to police.
Oshawa police spotted the vehicle on Harmony Road South and arrest the suspect.
Brian Clydesdale, 35, of Park Ridge Drive in Oshawa is charged with voyeurism, making child pornography and failure to comply with a probation order. Police said he was released on an undertaking with conditions.
Anyone with information is being asked to contact police.
A similar incident took place in April where a man allegedly took a video of a woman in a change room at Vaughan Mills mall. |
Expression of mucins and cytokeratins in primary carcinomas of the digestive system.
To determine the most optimal treatment of cancer patients, it is fundamental to classify human carcinomas according to their primary anatomical site of origin. As for some patients, it is difficult to identify cancers occurring at obscure location and overlapping adjacent sites. The aim of this study is to partition the primary site of 486 patients in cancers of the digestive system by the expression pattern of the mucins and cytokeratins typifying each site. The expressions of MUC1, MUC2, MUC5AC, MUC6, CK7, CK8, CK13, CK14, CK18, CK19 and CK20 were evaluated immunohistochemically in 426 adenocarcinomas and 60 hepatocellular carcinomas using the tissue-array method. The finding of MUC series showed their characteristics in case of MUC2 in the appendix cancer and MUC1 and 5AC in pancreas cancer. As for CKs 7, 13, and 19, and 20 had a feature in cancers of common bile duct, liver, and appendix, respectively. We classified cancers in 11 sites by characteristic expression of antibodies. The sensitivity, specificity, positive predictive value, and diagnostic efficacy of significant antibodies were calculated with deducing the dichotomous tree made by SPSS 10.0. Six of 11 antibodies, CK 7, CK13, CK19, CK20, MUC1, and MUC5AC distinguished 6 groups from 11 sites. We also executed the clustering of cancers to investigate total relationship among cancers. They fell into three categories, which corresponded to embryologic origin. Unlike other sites, the small intestine and colorectum cancers expressed significantly different patterns to their sublocations. Mucins and CKs showed expression patterns to classify the primary sites of digestive cancers and may be helpful in predicting the primary sites of digestive cancers. |
Rajdeep Sardesai Bloody Tweet
Wrath against the renown senior journalist rajdeep sardesai has promptly erupted, famous for his blunt opinion of putting up questions and then facing flak against himself is not new to the senior journalist.
While the whole nation was participating in 9 PM 9 Minutes cause appealed by Prime Minister Narendera Modi in his video messaged speech on April 03.
He asked citizen to show solidarity by turning off lights at home and lit a candle diyas torch at their door steps, balcony or windows while maintaining social distancing, there were incidents of bursting crackers also emerged on social media which users on twitter also reported in their tweets.
In one to of the tweet posted by Rajdeep Sardasai wrote his distress and despair, while he quoted “Some people in my area now bursting crackers. What kind of utter nonsense is this. You have singularly mocked at PM’s appeal: this is not bloody Diwali but a solemn occasion. Spend money you just did on crackers on meals for the poor. Absolutely shameful. Sorry, just not done!”
Some people in my area now bursting crackers. What kind of utter nonsense is this. You have singularly mocked at PM’s appeal: this is not bloody Diwali but a solemn occasion. Spend money you just did on crackers on meals for the poor. Absolutely shameful. Sorry, just not done! — Rajdeep Sardesai (@sardesairajdeep) April 5, 2020
Not taking much time by users on twitter #BloodyRajdeepSardesai started trending on twitter on Rajdeep Sardesai Bloody Tweet.
Bloody Diwali ?? Are animals sacrificed on Diwali ??? Bloody is Eid, but you do not have the courage to say that. Pakistanis give Hamid Mir a happy Eid, and call Diwali a bloody Diwali. Shameful..😠👎@sardesairajdeep#BloodyRajdeepSardesai pic.twitter.com/9YgEbbeYnE — Alok Mishra संयोजक #टीम_भगवा (@shrialokmishra) April 6, 2020
Our ancestors never imagined that Secularism will give people one day freedom to abuse our religious spirituality #BloodyRajdeepSardesai 😠 pic.twitter.com/YSAL937xNo — Diggi_IM (@Diggi_IM) April 6, 2020
In his another tweet he posted a viral clip of a burning building stating it a complete madness and hope for the safety of everyone.
Bloody hell! This is completely crazy. Let’s hope everyone is safe. https://t.co/Ia3Jfbfibj — Rajdeep Sardesai (@sardesairajdeep) April 5, 2020
Born in Ahmedabad, married to Sagarika Ghose, 54 year senior journalist Rajdeep Sardesai started his career with Times Of India as a city editor of Mumbai edition in 1988, later he joined television journalism in 1994 as Political Editor of New Delhi Television (NDTV) currently holding an office as consulting editor at India Today Television (2014–present).
There have been incidents in the past as well where he got trolled by famous celebrities itself which has put him in very awkward situations many times.
One of the controversial incidents where he has asked a sexist question to Sania Mirza about “settling Down” for which he got trolled with a brilliant response by Sania Mirza.
During the interview on the launch of her autobiography book titled “Ace Against Odds”, a question was asked to her about her motherhood.
To which she brilliantly reverted back, remember she was at that time number one in her ranking in women’s doubles player, here what mirza’s said
“You sound disappointed that I’m not choosing motherhood over being number one in the world at this point of time. But I’ll answer your question anyway, that’s the question I face all the time as a woman, that all women have to face — the first is marriage and then it’s motherhood. Unfortunately, that’s when we’re settled, and no matter how many Wimbledons we win or number ones in the world we become, we don’t become settled. But eventually it will happen, not right now. And when it does happen I’ll be the first one to tell everybody when I plan to do that.”
Immediately followed by Rajdeep’s apology but damage was already done and enough to get massively trolled over the social media platforms.
Source: Youtube
In another incident where Rajdeep Sardesai was wittily shut up by Mukesh Ambani.
Rajdeep Sardesai tried to put words into the mouth during an interview with Mukesh Ambani, where he asked and compelled him to confess in a way that basically he is the one who is ruling the country or above than the government.
To which Amban’s reply has left no corner for Rajdeep Sardesai to run as it was too sharp to put him shut and the interview concluded in a few minutes.
Here’s the extract from the interview which gave trollers what they needed the most.
Rajdeep Sardesai: Do you accept that you are the most powerful person in the country right now?
Mukesh Ambani: No, I don’t and neither do I take you seriously!
Source: Youtube
Rajdeep Sardesai Bloody Tweet on Wikipedia as well.
Interestingly Rajdeep Sardesai Bloody Tweet has not left his wikipedia page not spared, his page shows “bloody” salutation against his name as on date April 6 2020, we hope this will get corrected soon. |
While the White House has been careful to exude an air of confidence ahead of this afternoon's critical for the Trump administration healthcare vote, it should come as no surprise that Trump is preparing a Plan B
"just in case", and as expected, Bloomberg confirms that behind the scenes Trump is planning to blame Ryan in case of an embarrassing defeat this afternoon.
As reported last night, Trump’s senior strategist took the unusual step of traveling to Capitol Hill to deliver an ultimatum: take the vote on Friday, win or lose. Ryan had been carefully trying to build a majority for the bill, and it would be highly unusual for him to call the vote without knowing if it would pass.
"Ryan had little choice but go along with the administration’s gambit."
And while Trump said Friday at the White House that Ryan shouldn’t lose his job if the bill goes down, when asked whether Trump, Ryan, or the Freedom Caucus chairman, North Carolina Republican Mark Meadows, would be most to blame if the bill fails, the administration official said Ryan.
Trump’s core supporters regarded Ryan as at best unimportant during the presidential campaign and at worst a poster child for the sort of establishment, scripted politician they loathed.
Considering the planning that has gone into this scapegoating campaign, one almost wonders if it is not Trump's intention all along to lose the vote, in the process eliminating Ryan with whom he butted heads repeatedly before the election. As Bloomberg adds, "several Trump associates have already laid groundwork to blame the speaker."
“I think Paul Ryan did a major disservice to President Trump, I think the president was extremely courageous in taking on health care and trusted others to come through with a program he could sign off on,” Chris Ruddy, CEO of Newsmax and a long-time friend of Trump’s, said in an interview last week. “The President had confidence Paul Ryan would come up with a good plan and to me, it is disappointing.”
And just in case Ryan is an insufficient sacrifice, a second fall guy appears to be Bannon's nemesis at the White House, Reince Priebus:
A Trump associate who requested anonymity to discuss the president’s views on the matter said that White House chief of staff Reince Priebus may also be imperiled.
Even if the vote - or Ryan - survives this afternoon's vote, Bloomberg ends off with a relevant observation:
Still, Trump, Vice President Mike Pence and top White House aides had been working closely with Ryan on a health bill since the election and were heavily involved in negotiations to reach a deal, according to a senior Republican aide. That leaves questions about whether they’ll be able to cooperate to pull the party together on other tough issues, crucially a tax overhaul that Trump has said is a personal priority.
So is today's vote, which Trump is shoving down the throats of conservative holdouts, many of whom have warned they will not change their vote, just a complex charade to discredit the House speaker and rellieve him of his job? Find out some time around market close today.
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Islamic vashikaran mantra
Islamic Vashikaran mantra specialist astrologer
There are almost people are undergoing through some issues in their life, well it a different thing that all people have different- different problems, for this reason, they strive to get out issues from their life but unfortunately, some of the people can get out of the problems and they entangled in issues over and over again. If you are from those people who are not able to resolve issues on your own behalf then you don’t need to worry just because of having Islamic Vashikaran Mantra.
Islamic Vashikaran mantra is the best technique to resolve all kind of issues, whatever it is major or minor. So don’t hesitate to make a consult with Muslim astrology specialist. They will keep confidential your all information along with that provides favorable results.
What is Vashikaran Mantra?
Might be one thing will come in your mind is that After all what is Vashikaran mantra and how it work in a few time. Vashikaran mantra is the ancient remedies which are used by astrologer to resolve all kind of issues of the human being as well as provide the favorable and fruitful result to the people. Vashikaran mantra is a very pure process which is used only for good purpose as well as provides the favorable result to the people. One thing best with this mantra is that it doesn’t harm to people. So if you ever face problems and want to possess someone mind then take help of Muslim astrologer.
Get solution of Life difficulties
Life is full of complication and difficulties so get overcome of it and enjoy life without any crisis is difficulties. Nevertheless, people put efforts to get overcome of issues, however, some of the people get to succeed and rest of aren’t. If you think that, you are the one, who are going through lots of issues then you need to make a consult with our Mulish astrology specialist. They have highly and deeper knowledge of many tantra and mantra, so whenever you will consult with them, they will suggest you appropriate tantra and mantra, by which you will able to get overcome of issues as well as your life will get back on track. |
Advances in supportive care.
A range of distressing symptoms, such as nausea and vomiting, dyspnoea and pain, which invariably impair quality of life, may develop in cancer patients as a result of their disease and treatment. The side-effects of cancer treatments place additional burdens on the patient. Patients indicate that they find nausea and vomiting and fatigue to be the most distressing symptoms. The burden of distressing symptoms and the side-effects of cancer treatments may be so great for some patients that they make a decision not to continue with treatment. Developing better methods of managing these complaints is critical for improving both quality of life and treatment outcome. Over the past two decades there have been dramatic advances in supportive care. The most significant advances have occurred in the general approach to symptom management and in the development of new pharmacological agents. Advances have also occurred in non-pharmacological approaches to supportive care and it is now acknowledged that interventions such as patient education and complementary therapies have an important role to play in ameliorating distressing symptoms. |
AT&T supplies information on international calls that travel over its network, including ones that start or end in the U.S., under a voluntary contract with the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, The New York Times reported Thursday.
The CIA pays the carrier more than US$10 million annually for the data, including the date, duration and numbers involved in a call, the Times said, citing unnamed government officials. The calls include ones that are made by customers of other carriers but travel partly on AT&T's network. For calls with a U.S. participant, AT&T doesn't tell the CIA the identity of the U.S. caller and masks several digits of the domestic number, the report said.
The CIA isn't allowed to conduct domestic spying. However, the agency can hand over the masked numbers to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, which can subpoena AT&T for the uncensored data, the Times said. The FBI, in turn, sometimes shares information with the CIA about the U.S. participant in a call.
The latest report is likely to heighten concerns about the U.S. government's surveillance of voice and data communications around the world. Disclosures made by former National Security Agency contractor Edward Snowden starting earlier this year have helped to spark calls for reform of surveillance practices and rankled several U.S. allies.
In an emailed statement, the CIA said it doesn't comment on alleged intelligence sources or methods.
"The CIA protects the nation and upholds the privacy rights of Americans by ensuring that its intelligence collection activities are focused on acquiring foreign intelligence and counterintelligence in accordance with U.S. laws," said Dean Boyd, director of the CIA Office of Public Affairs. The agency is subject to oversight from multiple entities, he said.
AT&T does not comment on questions concerning national security, spokesman Mark Siegel said in a statement emailed to IDG News Service.
"In all cases, whenever any governmental entity anywhere seeks information from us, we ensure that the request and our response are completely lawful and proper," Siegel wrote. "We ensure that we maintain customer information in compliance with the laws of the United States and other countries where information may be maintained. Like all telecom providers, we routinely charge governments for producing the information provided." |
Using crisis theory to explain the quality of life of organ transplant patients.
To evaluate the literature on the stress, coping, and quality of life of organ transplant candidates and recipients, and to place previous research within a theoretical context. CINAHL database, Proquest database, Google Scholar; references from articles were also reviewed to identify additional data. Qualitative and quantitative research studies and meta-analyses pertinent to the stress, coping, and quality of life of transplant candidates and recipients were selected. Stressors associated with the transplantation process, coping strategies of transplant patients, and quality of life or transplant patients have been well researched for many years. Patients typically use problem-focused coping strategies in response to various stressors. Transplant recipients typically report a higher quality of life than do transplant candidates; however, posttransplant quality of life does not typically equal the quality of life of healthy nonpatients. The relationship between stress, coping, and quality of life of transplant patients has not yet been systematically investigated from a theoretical perspective. Recommendations for further research are provided. |
John Arbanas
John Arbanas (born 7 February 1970) is a former professional tennis player from Australia.
Biography
Arbanas, a Victorian, played mostly in satellite tournaments, but is notable for featuring in the main draw as a qualifier at the 1991 Australian Open. He had qualifying wins over Tim Wilkison, Mark Hopkins and Glenn Layendecker, then was beaten in the first round of the main draw by Brazilian player Jaime Oncins.
References
External links
Category:1970 births
Category:Living people
Category:Australian male tennis players
Category:Tennis people from Victoria (Australia) |
Q:
CPLEX CP Optimizer Java API function missing
I can not seem to find the needed functions to model the following problem through the Java API (CP Optimizer): a machine that has downtime and sequence-dependent setup times, with the extra constraint, that the physical preparation (setup) of a job ends right before the job starts.
Since there are no preemptions, I am using IloIntervalSequenceVar (with a noOverlap that contains the setup time matrix) and IloNumToNumStepFunction for downtimes. This leads to solutions in which a job can start right after a downtime, because the downtime offers enough distance for the transition time to take place (or at least a part of it). The problem is that this transition itself is also an activity, so it is illegal for it to overlap with downtime.
Next, I tried modeling the setup times and/or downtimes as intervals themselves, which solves the overlap problem. However, I always bump into the same problem: it is possible to access intervals and their properties after the model has been solved, but not when formulating decision variables. Since setup times are sequence-dependent, I want to assign a certain size to a setup interval, based on its predecessor (its successor is implied through the constraint I mentioned earlier). I have no way of retrieving this. Methods such as getPrev are Native, methods such as prev are Constraints. I basically want a Boolean matrix for each setup interval so I can assign the correct size to it based on the setup time matrix, but I can not find any method that provides this. I can think of ways without modeling setups as intervals, using extra constraints, but they need this same functionality.
What do I oversee, is there a better way to go about this?
Thanks in advance.
Edit for clarification with $A$, $B$, $\rm Setup$ and $\rm Downtime$ being intervals, $A$ being the last job before $B$:
\begin{align}{\rm End}(A) + |{\rm{Setup}}(A,B)| &\leq {\rm Start}(B)\\{\rm End}({\rm Setup}(A,B)) &= {\rm Start}(B)\\{\rm Downtime} \cap (A \cup {\rm Setup}(A,B) \cup B)&= \emptyset\end{align}
Which propagates the following constraint I am trying to model as such:
\begin{align}&{\rm Start}({\rm Downtime}) - {\rm End}(A) < |{\rm Setup}(A,B)| + |B|\\\implies&{\rm End}({\rm Downtime}) + |{\rm Setup}(A,B)| \leq {\rm Start}(B) \end{align}
A:
I think that you're looking for function IloCP::typeOfPrev. Its documentation is for example here, the description of the general concept is here.
Basically, each interval participating in sequence variable can have a type. By default each interval has different type counted from 0 in the order as they are specified in the sequence variable. So type of the previous interval is the index into the array that was used to create the sequence variable.
Note that IloCP::typeOfPrev returns an expression, not a constant. That's because the value is not known, it depends on the particular solution. There are also similar functions, e.g. IloCP::endOfPrev.
A:
I'm not a CP Optimizer user, so this may be clunkier than necessary (by an order of magnitude). I'm going to assume that your setup times satisfy the triangle inequality (meaning it's faster to go straight from A to B than from A to C to B).
For each place where you would use an interval variable for down time, you could instead create multiple interval variables, one for each possible state the machine might be in either when it went down or when it came up (i.e., the state of the last job before it went down or the first job after it came up -- I'm being intentionally vague about which). You would make those variables optional (IloIntervalVar.setOptional()) and tell the model that exactly one must be present (IloCP.alternative()). Then give them noOverlaps with all possible preceding and following intervals using the appropriate setup times. If the schedule contains a sequence "job A" -- down -- "job B", then one of three things will happen. If the solver chooses an "A flavor" of the downtime variable, you'll pay the A-B setup when downtime ends. If it chooses a "B flavor" downtime variable, you'll pay the A-B setup when downtime begins. If it chooses the "C flavor", you'll pay both an A-C and a C-B setup cost, which via the triangle inequality is no better than A-B. So, in this case, the solver might have some unintentional inserted slack in the schedule ... but that should only happen if it does not affect the optimal solution.
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Q:
div shifts on resizing the browser window
I am new to this site, so please bare my mistakes.
I want to keep the third div in the same place and a scroller should appear when window is resized instead of shifting.
I can't use fixed width, because i want to add one more div below it...
#wrapper {
float:left;
height:600px;
}
#one {
clear:right;
float:left;
width:720px;
height:600px;
background-color:#000;
}
#two {
clear:right;
float:left;
width:300px;
height:300px;
background-color:#999;
}
#three {
clear:right;
float:left;
width:320px;
height:300px;
background-color:#600;
}
<head>
</head>
<body>
<div id="wrapper">
<div id="one">
</div>
<div id="two">
</div>
<div id="three">
</div>
</div>
</body>
A:
Give #wrapper fixed width:
#wrapper {
width: 1340px; /* 720 + 300 + 320 */
}
|
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