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This isn't supposed to be just another love story, or a story about a boy who gets destroyed by prison. It's a story of what could have been and what really was for the lives of a lot of people. A story meant to show the truth behind the headlines, the heartache behind the mask of a "criminal." A story of a girl who lost her faith through seeing the world in all its hypocrisy but found it again through the magic of first love. A story about a boy who died, and the souls who died with him. In a speck of time the courses of many lives were changed forever, and it could happen to anyone. It could easily happen to you.

It began July fourth, on Independence Day. Freedom from what? Scary British guys? Not a huge threat. Tyranny and oppression? So not on my list of things that give me migraines. School? Well maybe. No homework, no stupid cheerleaders. Okay, I admit, that's worth celebrating.

So how did I choose to display my obvious excitement about the break from pom-poms and pep rallies, you ask? I cried, I threw up, and then I danced under the stars. "HUH?" you say. "WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN?" Since you most likely were not sitting on the spinning apple across from mine, you have every right to an explanation. So here it goes.

I was dumped; hence the tears. No, I wasn't dumped during the Shriners' motorcycle show at the parade, on the Ferris wheel at the carnival, or even at the fireworks. I wasn't even dumped in July. June tenth, sometime between the hours of eight and three, if you must know. In an effort to pull me out of the darkness, my best friend Delilah dragged me kicking and screaming toward every possible distraction that summer, despite my best efforts to claw my way back to the rapture I had known.

It was an act of kindness; I know that now. But the sights and sounds of the carnival she tried to shove down my throat had lost their magic. Cotton candy seemed sickeningly sweet; rides were showing signs of age burned out light bulbs, rusty bolts, and patches of poorly applied touch-up paint. The imploring voices of the carnies seemed almost desperate as they cajoled parents to buy their whiny children balloons that were sure to pop within the hour. Everywhere I looked, I saw people with deliberate, forced smiles, doggedly determined to be happy, at least for one night.

And I tried to be like them, I really did. I plastered on a saccharine smile, bought an all-you-can-ride bracelet, and choked down the cotton candy. I even went on the merry-go-round and

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