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Marcus pulled his oversized Range Rover (his sweet sixteenth birthday present, and he was adamant about it because he "needed the head room") up the driveway and into the four car garage. For once, getting home from school early wasn't much cause for celebration. He hadn't even put his usual punk rock playlist on for the drive home, and loudly announcing his arrival to the stuffy neighbors was one of his favorite parts of the day. Instead, he just turned off the engine and slumped forward, his forehead landing against the steering wheel with a thunk and resting there a moment.

"Good job, dumbass. How the fuck are you gonna explain this one?"

Fortunately, that wasn't a concern for the moment. Aside from the housekeeper's old Dodge, Marcus's was the only car in the garage. He glanced over at the brick red compact, with its cheap little hubcaps and a dent in the driver's side door that had been there for over a year. He wondered if it bothered her having that thing next to his parents' imports. Maybe that's why they let her use the garage. So it wasn't sitting out in the driveway and spoiling the house's image.

"Mom, Dad, I'm home!" the jackalope called out as he entered through the garage's side door.

Marcus knew they weren't home, but he felt like saying it anyway. Like a little inside joke between himself and no one in particular...

"Marcus? Is that you?"

...well, except Marcella.

The jackalope sighed dramatically, shoulders slumped. He walked through the small entrance room from the garage and into the kitchen, letting his backpack plop down on the floor next to the giant island countertop. He dropped onto a padded stool there, elbows on the marble surface and his chin in his hands, looking as put-upon as he possibly could.

"Yeah, uh... they gave me the rest of the week off," he muttered.

Marcella looked over her shoulder from the opposite side of the room, where she was currently engaged in carefully arranging expensive plates into the dishwasher. The old squirrel's glasses had been upgraded to bifocals, and the fur in her bushy tail had grown grayer, but she still had the same bubbly energy she had back when Marcus was little. She was also just as good at reading him, regardless of what image he was trying to cut.

"Well that was mighty generous of them," she said dryly, toweling her hands off and closing the dishwasher door, setting it to start. "And just what was it you did to earn yourself some vacation time?"

Marcus groaned, letting his head slowly slide from his hands down onto the countertop and his arms stretch out in front of him. If he could have done it without looking ridiculous, he would have oozed himself all the way down to the floor. There was no point in lying to Marcella. She always knew.

"...I got in a fight," he answered, after trying and failing to come up with a way to say it that made him sound innocent.

The squat rodent opposite the room let a quick breath out through her nose, walking over towards the refrigerator with those short little steps, retrieving a small stack of ingredients from inside.

"I suppose this means I'll need to get dinner ready for two tonight..." she said pointedly, her slender hands quickly opening this and laying out that.

Marcus winced, closing his eyes. Hearing disappointment in Marcella's voice cut deeper than from the Lewises. When they got upset with him, he just wanted to go up to his room and get away from them. When she did, he had this compulsion to explain himself.

"I didn't start it!" he said, with a bit of a whine in his voice.

Marcella glanced over at the teenage boy draped across the countertop, bottom lip stuck out and looking oh so pitiful. She sighed, head tilting skyward to look for some support from above. All these years and he was still able to get her sympathy going. The squirrel set the night's meal preparation aside for the moment and shuffled around the marble island, to Marcus's side, placing a small hand on his back.

"Tell me what happened," she said, leaning over as far as she could to get in the boy's field of view. "And be honest."

The young jackalope huffed, making the tiniest pout of a frown he could before forcing himself up, with great effort, from his seat. He lifted his bag off the floor, his body heaving from the exertion as though it had a cannonball in it, and dropped it onto the countertop. Reaching inside, he pulled out a wadded up ball of material, tossing it down on the marble surface.

"What... is that?"

Marcus rubbed his face, gesturing all with his other hand in a flourish perfectly suited for a magic act. "That... is the birthday present that Eli Kissell gave me today."

Marcella paused a moment, looking at the small heap on the counter as if she was expecting it to suddenly leap up and screech at her. When it didn't make any obvious attempts to attack, the squirrel reached over and picked the "present" up, stretching it out to get an idea why on Earth this gift would have gotten the boy so upset...

"...oh, honey."

It was a jacket. To be more precise, it was two jackets that had been crudely cut in half and then stuck together. The left side appeared to be made of designer leather, and the right of cotton with a fancy Asian inspired pattern printed on it. Very little care had been put into the construction of it, with a jagged line running down the middle and a series of staples holding the two halves together.

She could picture the scene immediately.

"Hey, I heard it's your birthday!" the feline called out, flanked by his friends.

Marcus, likely unable to hear thanks to his headphones, kept walking. Even if he'd heard them, he wouldn't have wanted to stop and talk to any of them.

"HEY!" Eli called, tugging one of Marcus's earphones out. "I'm talking to you!"

The jackalope flinched at the pull, quickly skipping back to make some distance. "What?"

The leopard was all smiles. They were so friendly. "Hey, I just wanted to say happy birthday, is all. Look, I know we've locked horns... oh, no offense," he said, with faux sincerity that barely hid his amusement at Marcus's reaction to his choice of phrase.

Eli continued, showing off that charm he'd learned from standing at his father's side on the Senate campaign trail. "All I'm saying is, hey, let's bury the hatchet, you know? Here, happy birthday, buddy. No hard feelings, right?" he said, reaching his arm out, a box held in his paw.

By then, a few of those nearby were slowing down to see what was going on. To see why Eli Kissel, junior varsity cross country star, was talking with that strange jackalope boy who never talked to anyone.

Marcus took the box, holding it like he was expecting it to explode at any moment. His eyes darted from Eli, to his friends, to the others walking past. It was a show, now. There was an audience, and the insides of his ears grew hot. He wanted to throw the "gift" on the ground and stomp it flat, not giving Eli the satisfaction, but that would just make him look like the bad guy. Hesitantly, Marcus opened the box, pulling out the contents.

The group in front of him burst into laughter, the gathered crowd variously joining in or groaning. "Whaaaaat?" Eli mockingly asked, seeing the look on Marcus's face. "I thought you'd like it! I got somethin' for both halves of you!"

The cool surface of the kitchen counter was welcome, as recalling the incident heated Marcus up beneath his fur, and he slumped forward, putting his face in his hands and letting his ears dangle low. "His whole group thought it was the funniest fucking thing ever so I... kinda punched him in the face."

For a moment, Marcella wasn't quite sure what to say. She set the garment down and stepped up to Marcus's side, putting her arm around his shoulders lightly.

"I'm sorry, dear. I can't say he didn't deserve it, but you know you shouldn't have reacted that way. Those boys have been trying to get a rise out of you as long as you've known them. They tease you and then you're the one who ends up in trouble."

Marcus sighed heavily, his body finding a way to slouch down even more heavily than before. "I know... but they do this shit all the time, Marcie. I can't just ignore them, and the teachers don't care. I just... I got so fucking mad..."

Marcella tilted her head, listening, stroking her palm over his back to try and ease the tension she felt there. Thanks to the Lewis's busy travel schedule, it often fell upon Marcie to be the boy's shoulder to lean on at times like these. She knew he'd be getting quite an earful when his mother got home, so for now she decided to do her best to be comforting.

"Honey... I understand that you got upset, but you know that just made things a whole lot worse for yourself."

Marcus's fingers curled inwards over his face, claws making small lines in the fur on his forehead. "I know, I know, I just... I couldn't help it, and now I'm suspended for the rest of the week, mom and dad are gonna kill me."

The squirrel puffed her cheeks out with a breath, continuing to make circles between Marcus's shoulders while she mulled his situation over.

"I can't imagine they'll be too pleased. Did the school call them?"

Letting another gargling groan out through his nose, the teenage hybrid reached into his pocket to retrieve the folded-up note, and passed it over.

Dear Mr and Mrs Lewis,

I regret to inform you that Marcus has gotten into yet another fight with a fellow student, and a rather serious one at that. As he has yet to show improvement in his conduct and such incidents continue to occur, the decision has been made to suspend him for the remainder of the week, in the hopes that he will take this time to think about how to best compose himself, not just at Greenwood, but in all of his future endeavors. He is welcome back on Monday, however if no improvements are made, further steps may need to be taken.

Timothy McGee, principal of Greenwood Academy

Marcella looked over the top of the note at Marcus, who had gone back to his melodramatic flop atop the counter.

"You haven't told them, have you," she asked, her voice flat. She already knew the answer.

A moment passed before Marcus replied. "Uh, is there any chance they won't be back until Monday?"

It wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Francis Lewis's business was... something to do with the stock market, hedge funds and meeting with investors. Marcus had no idea what that meant, just that it involved a whole lot of money. Barbara was, as she put it, a "psychologist for the stars," offering private therapy sessions for the type of clients who had someone else write the checks.

The money sure was good, but it also meant that the pair of them spent more time in hotels than in their own house. In fact, one of the reasons they decided to send him to Greenwood was because a boarding school meant he wouldn't be by himself so much while they were out. They said it was to keep him from feeling lonely, he knew it was so he had more supervision.

Marcella shook her head. "Afraid not, hon. I believe your mother is going to be meeting your father in Denver on Thursday and the both of them will be back Friday afternoon."

Marcus stayed in his spot, unmoving. "Maybe I can just say I wanted to come home and visit, like I got homesick or something."

The small housekeeper leaned to make sure Marcus was making eye contact. "They're not going to believe that and you know it. Even if it wasn't entirely your fault, this is your mess and you're going to have to take responsibility for it."

"Uuuugh," the jackalope moaned, his arms stretching outwards briefly. "Maybe I can hide in the cellar until Monday. I could probably just stay down there forever after I get expelled. Just bring me some food twice a day and I should be okay."

Amused, the squirrel glanced over the top of her glasses pointedly. "You know there's plenty of food already down there."

Marcus turned up the helplessly pitiful tone. "But it's all in cans and stuff and I don't know how to make anything..."

Marcella laughed quietly, despite herself. "Well, speaking of food, I should get started on dinner. You have a stay of execution for now at least, so I suppose you can stay above ground for the time being."

As Marcella made her way back over to the opposite end of the kitchen, she heard a tiny voice behind her.

"Marciiiiiie?"

The squirrel turned faintly to look towards the source.

"Yes?"

There was a pause. "...could we have that birthday salad you used to make?"

Marcella smiled softly. "Of course. We need a few things from the cellar, though. Mind running down and getting them?"

That was enough to put some pep back in the boy's step, and he sprang up to his feet and went scurrying towards the stairs. "Sure!"

Before he could make it to the door, though, Marcie stopped him. "On one condition."

The jackalope stopped in place, wincing. That didn't sound good.

"...yeah?"

Marcella turned, leaning back against the counter by the stove, crossing her arms. "Before dinner, you're calling your parents."

In an instant, Marcus completely deflated. His arms hung limply to his sides, his head drooped, shoulders hunched over. "Do I gotta?"

The squirrel nodded, going back to the stern expression from before, though with a hint of playfulness to it. "Mm-hm, you gotta. Unless you want Cheerios for dinner all week."

"Can't it be after?" Marcus whined, pleading.

Marcella shook her head, back to being serious and returning to dinner prep. "No. I've done that dance with you before. First it's waiting until after dinner, then it's after cleanup, then you need a shower, and next thing you know you've made sure it's so late that you can't call her tonight at all."

The jackalope drooped. He knew when he'd been beat fair and square. "Okay. Fine."

**********************************

Marcus sat on his bed, cross-legged and leaning forward with his phone in his hands. He'd been staring at the home screen of it for several minutes, specifically at the tiny icon for the calling app. Inside there sat his parents, probably having some unbelievably expensive dinner with a client, shmoozing, somehow earning a ton of money while doing it. Now here he was, about to ruin all of that, all because of a stupid jacket.

"...I shoulda just had Cheerios."

With a heavy sigh, the jackalope collapsed back on the California King size mattress, letting his arms and legs spread out, none of them coming even close to the edges. He closed his eyes and thought maybe, just maybe, if he focused hard enough he could fall into the bed and vanish into some void where he didn't have to make this phone call.

He opened his eyes, hesitantly, seeing if it worked.

"Fuck... " he muttered.

He started going over just how to begin the call in his head. Calling his mother, he decided, was the better strategy. She might give him an earful, but at least he had a chance at getting some sympathy from her. As rebellious as he liked to act, Marcus Lewis had zero problems with being a bit of a mama's boy when it benefited him.

"Oh hey mom," he said aloud, sampling the words, seeing how they tasted. "I'm fine, got suspended for the week, how are you? Hi mom, the school decided to let me study from home for a few days! ...so, mom, ever thought about how much money you'd save if I didn't go to Greenwood?"

Marcus stopped, shaking his head. He had to kick that particular thought out. It was a suspension, not an expulsion. Not yet, anyway. Mr. McGee sounded like he didn't want that to happen, and Marcus was holding onto that bit of hope for dear life. He'd be fine, come Monday he'd be right back in class. As long as his parents didn't kill him, or ground him for the next fifty years.

As hard as it was to believe, Marcus was actually looking forward to going back to school.

Another few moments passed, with Marcus staring up at the ceiling, the massive oaken blades of his room's fan lazily whirling around the ornate light at their center. When he was little, he used to stare up at that fan, unable to sleep because he thought about what would happen if it suddenly fell.

"Boy wouldn't that solve a whole lot my problems right now."

It was time to bite the bullet. Marcus rolled to his right, reaching at the large nightstand next to his bed, and grabbed the little earbuds sitting there. Normally he'd have had them in already, but tonight none of his favorite music sounded right. It was all hollow. Artificial somehow. So, the earbuds were coming out just to make the call. Marcus popped them in and went back to splaying out on his bed, tapping the phone's screen to get the call started before dropping the device face-down on his chest.

As he listened to the rings go by, Marcus prayed his mother was too busy to answer. A message would be easier than a conversation.

Tragically, she answered. "Marcus? Is everything okay? Did something happen? This better be important, I'm getting ready for an appointment with a high-profile client and I only have a minute. Where are you? Shouldn't you be in school? What time is it there? It's only two! Why aren't you in class?"

The jackalope took a breath, eyes rolling back behind closed lids. It wasn't the shrill tone of his adoptive mother's voice that gave him headaches, he'd long since gotten used to that. Growing up around birds, you learn to deal with high pitched noises. However, Barbara Lewis's penchant for machine gun firing questions faster than he could answer them tended to make a knot form between his eyes.

"Yeah uh... so... about that..."

There was an uncharacteristic silence from the other end.

"...well?"

Marcus took a breath, bracing his whole body like he was about to lift a world record weight at the Olympics. Truth be told, he thought he'd have a better chance of doing that than getting out of this conversation unscathed.

He drew out his words, as if saying them more slowly would help soften their impact. "Well... see... so this guy at school... he was bullying me, and..."

A familiar high pitched squawk made him flinch, nearly pulling one of his earbuds out.

"Marcus Randolph Lewis! Did you get into a... into a fight?" his mother asked, the final word coming out in a tense whisper, like she was afraid someone would overhear her saying such vulgarities.

Marcus's jaw clenched, and he put a hand over his face. "Mom... I didn't start it, I swear, but like... they always blame me for everything! So they, um..." he paused, stalling, hoping to come up with some way to phrase it that sounded less dire. "They... sent me home for the rest of the week."

"You got SUSPENDED??" she cried, in utter disbelief. He could picture her now, feathers all ruffled, eyes nearly falling out of her head.

"Mom... I d-"

His mother cut him off before he could continue.

"Oh. My. GOD, Marcus! We send you to the best private school in the state and pay for your room and board and What Did You Do? You got into a fight! And suspended? Do you even care about your future? Do you even think before you act?"

"Mom, listen t-"

Unfortunately for Marcus, the floodgates had burst open, and there was no stopping Mrs. Lewis now. "Oh I am going to call your father! No, I don't want him to get upset and you do NOT want him to get upset either because he has a meeting in Seattle on Thursday morning and if he isn't on his A-game he'll blow the deal and if THAT happens mister it will be on YOUR head but don't you go anywhere because I am getting on the FIRST FLIGHT back to Weston and we are going to have a TALK about your conduct because this is NOT a vacation for you do you understand?"

Marcus waited, unsure if he was actually being given a chance to respond.

"Do you understand??"

"Yes! I understand, damn..."

The voice in his ear gasped. "Don't you use that language with me! I am out here working my tail off to keep you in that school and I do NOT appreci-"

"I hate that fucking school!" Marcus suddenly barked out, his tenor voice reaching up an extra octave.

The teen's outburst stopped both of them in their tracks. For several moments, neither said a word. It was the longest silence in a phone call with his mother Marcus ever had.

"Well. I can see you're too worked up to discuss this like an adult, so I will see you tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully then you will have calmed down enough to be able to hold a conversation without having a tantrum. Goodbye."

Marcus laid on his massive bed, reeling. His chest was heaving, after spending the last ten minutes barely able to pull in a full breath. He felt like he'd just run a marathon, and now the adrenaline was wearing off. As much as he wanted to think the worst part was over, he knew that was not the case.

At least he'd be getting one last birthday salad before his mom killed him.

****************************

Try as he might, Marcus was unable to sleep.

He tried streaming white noise through his bedroom's surround speaker system, but it failed to silence the voices in his head. He tried putting on a podcast, but he couldn't relax while feeling like there were people in the room trying to get his attention. Playing games on his tablet left him annoyed. In the end, he resigned himself to a bout of insomnia and decided to watch whatever videos seemed like they'd distract him from the incoming tempest.

Sighing, he lifted himself out of and made his way down the hall, past the handful of closed doors toward the wide, sweeping staircase that would eventually lead him to the kitchen. A few taps on his phone later and the lights were up just enough to illuminate the path without giving him a headache.

"All right... what's in stock tonight..." he muttered to himself, tapping the large screen on the refrigerator door. Images of the food containers inside flashed up, along with an overlay listing off what was inside each of them and even several recipe suggestions.

"Ugh... guess Marcella doesn't do much shopping while I'm at school..." the jackalope huffed, scrolling through the 'menu' and finding nothing especially interesting.

With a dramatic sigh and a toss of his head, the sleepless teen climbed up onto the countertop so he could get up into the higher cupboards (the squirrel had a stepping stool around somewhere, but he had no idea where). An array of boxes and cans stretched before him, a library of food, none of it appealing to him that night.

The irony was not lost on Marcus when he eventually settled on a box of Cheerios and climbed back down to the floor.

Armed with a bowl that was probably intended to mix salads in and a spoon big enough to serve soup, Marcus plopped himself down at the giant countertop to eat, play around on his tablet, and hope that the day would just hurry up and get itself over with already.

"Everyone's gonna be giving me so much shit when I go back," he thought to himself. "Bet they'll try and get me expelled, start shit with me as soon as I walk in and then tell the teachers it was my fault. I probably won't even make it to Thanksgiving."

As he scrolled through a list of videos, Marcus stopped when a particular thumbnail caught his eye. His fingertip hovering just over the screen, unsure if he wanted to watch. Finally, he rolled his eyes, sighed heavily, and tapped the small image, bringing the video up.

"Sup, dudes! It's Billy again, I got some big news, you ready?" the presenter enthused, his animated face grinning ear to ear as he paused for dramatic tension. He kept the camera angle low, waiting for just the right moment to lift it up in a big reveal. "...I got a new studio! C'mon, let me show ya around!"

Billy Bowers. Musician, vlogger, social media darling. Marcus had stumbled across him a few years ago when Billy was just uploading videos of himself covering popular songs on an acoustic guitar in his bedroom. After one went viral, an especially raunchy hip-hop song made out like a soft ballad, it didn't take long before Billy went from hobbyist to celebrity. He released an album of his own music, which sold better than expected, and suddenly Billy was a star.

In a way, Marcus felt like they'd grown up together, they were nearly the same age, after all.

Billy was also a jackrabbit. A purebreed.

Marcus hated him.

Unlike most of those millions of subscribers, Marcus wasn't jealous of Billy's new house, of that dream car, or of the new studio he put together. He lived in a house twice as big, he drove a car twice as expensive, and if he asked for a studio in one of the spare rooms his parents would almost certainly pay to have one installed. No, Marcus despised Billy because the hare could show all of his toys off and everyone loved him for it. Everyone loved Billy Bowers.

His eyes flicked from the smiling face on the screen, exuberantly gesturing at foam panels on the walls, a desk covered in recording equipment. He imagined himself in that video, gushing about how this was only possible thanks to all the love and support everyone gave him. He imagined uploading the video, sitting back and watching all those adoring comments flood in. Excitedly announcing live performances, tickets selling out immediately, all to come see him.

It wasn't terribly difficult for Marcus to insert himself into Billy's videos. The two of them looked remarkably similar aside from a few differences in fur coloring. Well, that and...

Marcus's hand drifted up towards his head, fingers gently sliding over the hard surface of his horns.

"...man, fuck you," he grunted, closing the video and letting the tablet fall flat.

Marcus took an unenthusiastic bite from his bowl. He had to give Greenwood credit for one thing, they were good at meals. A thousand students from all different species and they always had something for everyone. He tried to imagine how public schools dealt with that.

"Probably a whole lot of this," he thought, glancing down at his soggy, late-night fare.

The jackalope's mind kept wandering, going from the possibility of expulsion to what he would do after it. He thought about what he would do after his parents kicked him out, where he might move to (he did have a nice savings account, after all), what kind of job he might get. Or maybe he'd go to a public school to finish out, where he might have bad lunches but they probably wouldn't give a shit about him being a hybrid. Maybe he could move in with his real parents...

[yo dude!]

Marcus snapped out of his little fantasy, squinting at the dimmed screen and leaning back to make some distance, having forgotten his glasses in his bedroom. He stared at the notification for a moment, trying to put together what he was looking at. A message from BJ, a pit bull he'd met in middle school during a failed attempt to join a sports team. The big dog was an assistant coach, a high school senior at the time. He said it was to get credits for college. He was also one of the few Marcus had met in his scholastic life who didn't give him grief for his species, and they became friends quickly. Since then, BJ had been something of an older brother to him.

[lol the fuck are you doing awake?]

[crash napped earlier after working on the house, woke up like an hour ago haha, what are YOU doing up?]

[no reason just couldn't sleep :P]

[i'm pretty sure you could sleep through a tornado, what's going on?]

Marcus groaned through his nose and hung his head down. Lying to BJ was impossible. He always joked that since his hearing was bad, he made up for it by being able to smell bullshit from a mile away.

[ok you got me. Got sent home.]

[what? You ok?]

The jackalope rubbed at his eyes, mulling over a few ways to answer that. It was one of the benefits of having a hearing-impaired friend: Messages over text could be more careful and he didn't have to worry about stumbling over his words.

[yeah i guess. I got in a fight...]

It was the fourth time he'd had to explain himself in barely twelve hours. At least with this one he wasn't worried about getting bitched out over it. By the time he finished running through what was becoming a copy and paste script explanation, he was feeling pretty drained.

No response.

Marcus glared at the screen. The message was marked as read. He knew BJ had seen it. He waited. Still nothing. Then, just as he was getting ready to type out something snippy that he'd feel bad about immediately afterwards, a reply popped up.

[shit... anything I can do?]

He snorted a laugh, quickly responding.

[think I could crash at your place tomorrow night?]

[ofc dude. I'll even give you a discounted rate! ;)]

[lol perfect, just charge it to my business account.]

Marcus propped his tablet back up on its kickstand and put the videos back on. At least he had an escape plan, even if it was only temporary. He left his oversized bowl of soggy cereal on the table and dragged himself back upstairs to pack up a gym bag. Shoving wadded up designer shirts and jeans into his bag as though they were old gym towels, Marcus began to rehearse the next day's "talk." He played out both sides of it, practicing his answers, preparing himself for what she'd say to him. When it came to arguments with his mother, he never wanted to be caught by surprise.