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isn’t—and my mother just hoped it would go away. My brothers are big jocks. Actually, my older brother was away at college, but Chuck—my twin—couldn’t deal. When our fights got physical, it seemed like a good idea for me to go away.”
    Mark was a good listener, lying on his side and absently running his thumb up and down my arm while I talked. The swing I’d taken at Chuck came after years of dealing with my family’s crap. What made it different was that in the aftermath, I’d impulsively blurted out to my parents that I wanted to move in with my uncle.
    When they sent me to my room so they could discuss the idea, I jumped online and researched art schools in Manhattan. I downloaded and printed a brochure from Broadway High School for the Arts. Next, I Googled Uncle Blaine. We’d spent a little time together and exchanged e-mails, but I thought it would be a good idea to see what I was attempting to get myself into. I knew he was an advertising executive for Lillith Allure Cosmetics, but I’d never bothered to check out his work.
    With a few clicks of my mouse, I found his company’s Web site and saw pages of ads with beautiful photographs of models in extravagant settings. It was good stuff. Everything popped. My mind wandered, imagining the effort that went into putting together even a simple ad. The models, props, costumes, lighting, photographers, location, poses, product placement. The final result.
    I wanted to be in the middle of that kind of creative buzz, surrounded by artistic energy and innovative people. I didn’t think I wanted to get into advertising, but if I was going to be sent away and hoped for a life in art, Uncle Blaine and his friends seemed like the kind of people I needed to be around. Plus they were a thousand miles from my family.
    A few weeks later, I was in Manhattan, in public school for a couple months until the new term started at BHSA.
    â€œThen I met Roberto,” I told Mark. “Our group of friends stayed tight even after graduation. When I moved out of my uncle’s place, Roberto was looking for a roommate, too.”
    â€œWhat are you doing now? Are you in college? Art school?” Mark asked.
    â€œI was at Pratt for a semester. Then I dropped out. Now everyone in my family is pissed at me.”
    Mark’s phone rang, and while he talked a patient through some crisis, I thought about my confrontation with Blaine. I’d chosen to break the news over dinner in a restaurant, sure that my uncle wouldn’t make a scene in public.
    â€œWhat do you mean you dropped out of college? Your second semester started two weeks ago. Are you telling me that you’ve been pretending to go?” Blaine hissed.
    â€œIt wasn’t for me,” I said in a way that I hoped sounded offhanded, as if I had everything under control. “It was boring. I want to start my life now.”
    â€œOh? How? Do you have a job lined up? A career?”
    â€œKinda. I got a job with I Dream Of Cleanie.”
    â€œThe gay maid service? You’re going to be a maid?” Blaine laughed and looked around, as if he expected Ashton Kutcher and a cameraman to jump out from behind a ficus. “That’s not a career, Nick.”
    He was right. It wasn’t a career. Then again, I hadn’t said I intended to slave for I Dream of Cleanie the rest of my life.
    Plus—I liked the job. It got me inside some really cool apartments, places I’d never get to see any other way. Not to mention that it gave me surprising insights into the dirty underbelly of human nature. The stuff you found under people’s beds….
    It was that night, with Blaine at the restaurant, when I’d run into Kendra. She was our server. Her uniform was stained and slightly disheveled, like it realized it wasn’t up to par with the ritzy décor and was rejecting its wearer. She’d gotten the order wrong and begged us not to tell her