"This is where you live!" Charles sounds surprised. Where did he expect me to live? I couldn't think of anywhere else we could go. Kids our age do this all the time, hanging out at each other's places. I've never really had someone over before, a common complaint of Mom's even though she's rarely home to know this or not. Charles continues to study the apartment complex.

"Is it a problem?" I ask him.

"No, not really, it's just," Charles looks around, "kind of the shit part of town."

Ah, that. The unfairness of our society, that there even is a classification of a good part of town and shit part of town.

"You get used to it," I punch in the code to the front door entrance to get inside the complex.

"No wonder you don't believe in superheroes," he states.

What he means to say is that because I live in the area with the highest rate of crime and hospitalizations, with the sounds of gunshots ringing in alleyways at night, that it has somehow affected my belief that there is something or someone to save us. Though none of that really plays into that fact. I have believed that since I was a kid, watching kids like Charles get bullied and everyone standing around and watching.

Waiting for that Someone or Something to help. Instead of being that Someone or Something. I cannot be that Someone or Something because I don't have the power, the influence, the physicality to be that Someone. I do what I can. But a Someone or a Something usually comes from a higher position.

I point out a stain in the front entrance carpet, "That's where someone was shot and died." I tell him.

Charles makes a face, "How can you say that so casually."

"Death is death, it's something that happens," I tell him, leading him to the elevator, "but there was no one who came for him and there definitely wasn't someone to come save him. The stain is a reminder of how complacent we are when we wait for someone to be the savior."

"I'm starting to consider the rumors about you,"

Pressing the button to the third floor, "What's that?"

"Well kids in class say you're kind of creepy,"

That's acceptable. I understand. I am only creepy because I don't really adhere to their societal standards. I don't believe in heroes and I don't believe in saviors. I am pretty all right with violence and stressful situations. They see all of this and the only real way they have to describe this is creepy, it doesn't bother me. It won't stop me from trying to help them from a situation. And either they will walk into my apartment with me after school or they won't.

"This is it," I tell him standing in front of 3 - D1.

"I'll admit, I am not having really nice thoughts," Charles tells me.

"Thank you for your honesty, I appreciate it," turning the key and letting the door swing open, pointing to the shoe rack on the small tile foyer. Charles pauses, he looks around, to the flat screen TV mounted to the wall. Mom worked hard for that TV, the dining table we got for free from her sister; it is cleaned off and clear of debris. The wood is protected by a beautiful floral printed cloth tablecloth. The futon is sleek, like a lounge chair in the center of the living room with black pleather and a steel frame, with black and white striped accent chairs sitting at opposite sides of the coffee table.

"It's, uh, cozy," Charles admits, "Your parents decorated this place, then?"

"Mom and I," I tell him.

"Your Mom and you?" Charles shifts uncomfortably, "Can I ask where your Dad is?"

"On the bookcase," I laugh, pointing to Dad's urn.

Charles' cheeks go flush from embarrassment, "Sorry for asking."

"It's fine, it hurts, but I can talk about it now," I tell him.

Charles looks around, "What does your Mom do?"

"Mom," I close the door behind us and lock it, "she does a lot of jobs."

"Oh," Charles responds, "I thought. Well you have a TV."

"She worked really hard to save up for that, it was our Christmas present to us," I tell him with a smile, "It's fine."

Charles nods, "This is the first time I have gotten to really know you, Quinn. Still think you're pretty odd."

"Let's go into my room,"

"So your Mom sleeps," he looks at the futon.

She could only afford a one bedroom, and last year she made a promise to me that I would be able to get my own room, because she got a raise. Truth is that most people would look down upon someone working as a receptionist, I think my Mom does what she can with the work available to her. I appreciate that she gave me a room of my own, but it's still unfair that she doesn't have a room of her own.

Charles pauses entering my room.

He wears a lot of his emotions on his sleeve and probably the reason why he's such a target at school. I can be aware of why they pick him out, even if I don't agree with it.

"Hey, uh I forgot there's something I have to do at home," Charles tells me nervously. I expected as much.

"That's fine, see you around school," I tell him, "I really liked walking home with you."

"Yeah, uh, me too," his eyes twitch to a poster on my wall, "See you around Quinn."