W.1

Coming into school on Wednesday was different.  I've read accounts about how people would line up and wait for the Program participants to show up—basically you're supposed to do a striptease—but that didn't happen to me.  I mean, there were people around, but they didn't pay me much mind.  Who's interested in seeing Brandon Chambers naked in school anyway?  And it was fine by me, because I doubt I could strip-tease if my life depended on it.  Who exactly would I be teasing?  Everybody's gag reflex?

Hi, I'm Brandon Chambers, and I'm probably the most cynical Program participant there ever was.  Pleased ta meetcha.

But it was funny—when I got to our normal meeting place and saw Sajel standing there with Tim Kwan, the only thing I could do was smile.  How interesting.  Now I know how she feels.

"Hey, Brandon, what's up," Sajel asked.

"Uhm, not much," I said.

"Well, something's up," Sajel said, "that's a really weird smile on your face."  She squinted at me.  "You haven't been hitting the hash pipe or anything, have you?"

"No, I was just thinking that I know how you feel," I said.  And so I had to explain what Arie and I had done the evening before.

"Wow," Sajel said.  "You actually followed through with it."

"Yeah," I said, "I was thinking about...  I dunno, it's really weird to say that those two idiots yesterday had a point, but they did.  As everybody else reminded me by making the same point.  I should...  I might as well just, you know, whip it out more often.  Say hello to Mr. Happy and all that.  Even if it makes me uncomfortable."

"Yeah, but, why does it make you uncomfortable," Sajel asked me.  "I mean, if there's some, I dunno, maybe your, uh, pistol only has a limited amount of shots in it or something.  It'd be wise to..."

I laughed.  "What, are you accusing me of firing blanks?"

"Absolutely," she said.  "Brandon Chambers, impotent at sixteen.  When you're in the Guinness Book of World Records, I'll say to my friends, 'Yeah, I knew him when.'  No, seriously, why are you uncomfortable?"

"Honestly, I don't know," I said.  "I thought about it a lot last night.  Maybe there is no good reason.  Well, aside from that whole fear-of-attack thing I have going."  It comes from having parents who abandoned you when you were ten.  It starts you wondering who else is gonna turn on you.  That sort of thinking leads back to the Hole.  "But if that's all that's holding me back...  If that is what's holding me back...  Then all the more reason to start whipping it out more often."

Sajel gave a truly evil grin.  "Sounds like a good way to have fun.  But you've already wasted half the week."

"No, I had fun yesterday too," I said.  "Though it was still weird."

"How do you feel about it," Sajel asked me, and again I grinned.  That's one of the central differences between men and women.  I think it must be genetic.  You tell Zach you got laid last night and he says, Cool, how was it?  But you tell Sajel, and she asks, How do you feel?  I wonder if I'm the only person on earth who tries to ask both, who tries to be both.

"Actually..." I said.  "when I was thinking, I realized just how...  How similar the situations were.  To our time.  One person who didn't take no for an answer...  One person who wasn't so keen on it, but changed their mind and just went with it.  Except that this time, I took the opposite role as before."

"And," Sajel said.

"Well..."  I shrugged.  And then grinned.  "I guess I know how you feel."

Sajel tilted her head.

"I mean, it was fun, even though I don't think it was quite a good idea.  And I don't really regret it so much, because things could've been a lot worse."  I mean, Arie could've literally raped me, strapped on a dildo and stuffed it up my ass or something.  "Well.  I don't regret it, because it's either that, or drive myself insane with regret over something I can't change anymore.  It happened, so...  Might as well make the best of it."

Sajel gave me a true smile.  "Now you feel the way I felt about it."

"Yeah, but...  You did drive yourself insane with it for a little while."

"Not as long as you did."

I held up my hands in surrender, laughing.  "Fine, fine, you win..."

Sajel winked.  "Was she good?"

I rolled my eyes.  "Sajel, Sajel.  So prurient."  So man-like, actually, was what was going through my head.  Yay, somebody else tries to find a balance between genders!

She laughed.  "Hey, you know me.  Sexing up guys left and right."  That's a hoot.  Sajel's had how many boyfriends in her life?  I'm sorry, was the correct answer zero?  "So how was she?"

I blew out breath from pursed cheeks.  "Well, honestly...  It was great.  She was, like, really into it."

I felt bad saying anything, because the only other experience I'd had was Sajel, and anything I said might make her feel bad, or think that I had found her lacking.  Which wasn't the truth.  I may have only had two partners (and only two experiences, how crazy is that), but I already knew that it wasn't a matter of comparison.  Every girl is, simply, different.  Not better, not worse, but different.  And I don't just think that way because one of those girls happens to be my best friend, whom I hope will be at my wedding someday.

And thankfully, Sajel let the topic drop.  Which gave me a chance to do the other thing I needed to do, which was grab her hands, give her a big kiss on the cheek (I was feeling unusually demonstrative that day) and say, "And because I didn't get to tell you yesterday, thank you so much for standing up for me yesterday."

She blushed.  "Oh, come on, what else would a friend do?"

"Well, thank you for being my friend then," I said.  "You think Zach would've done that?"  Zach was my best friend for many years, and I still call him that, but the person I can really relate to?  She's standing right in front of me.

Sajel laughed.  "Yeah, true.  But still.  If he wouldn't do that, it's just proof that he's an idiot."

"Like we needed proof of that," I said, and we laughed.

Someone cleared a throat nearby.  We turned.  It was Jane.

"And what, may I ask, is going on here," Jane asked.

"I dunno," I said airily.  "What is going on here?"  I didn't know what she'd seen, or what was bugging her.  Hopefully I could draw her out.

"Are you bringing in another replacement," Jane asked in tones of ice.  Uh-oh.  That meant she was angry.

"No," I said, serious again.  "I'm thanking a friend for standing up for me.  Yesterday Sajel took a punch for me.  That means a lot."

Jane stared at us for a moment longer, her mouth working soundlessly, and then turned and left.

Sajel cut eyes at me.  "Uh-oh."

"Yeah," I said.  When Jane reacts like that, it's because she isn't really capable of backing down gracefully; the poor girl's just too headstrong.  But still...  "Hope this doesn't get out of hand."

"What'd she mean about 'replacements,'" Sajel asked, and I explained the backwash of Arie's plan yesterday.  "Hnnnn," said Sajel, and I realized she thought I'd said the wrong thing to Jane.  I probably had.  "Well, here comes Arie.  Maybe Jane can ask her how it went.  Change her mind about...  Wait, who is that?"

It was a woman I hadn't seen before, but given the cast of her eyes, the color of her hair, and the determined way she was charging around, Arie bobbing after her like flotsam in the wake of a boat, I could conjecture pretty well.  "Arie's mother."  Interestingly enough, Arie was wearing clothes, despite being on school grounds.  She shouldn't have been.  But just from the look of Arie's mother, I knew she wasn't the type of woman who would tolerate being followed by naked flotsam, Program rules or no.

"Wow," said Sajel.  She can see those things too—see how people relate to each other, orient to each other.  Arie was walking around like the back half of an animal, or maybe a trailer hooked up to a car: just following the decision-making part around.  "No wonder she has such a bad time."

Arie's mother was, to say the least, imposing.  She was shorter than any of us in height, taller than any of us in stature.  Crowds parted before her—kids who knew instinctively that it'd be smart to get out of her way.  There was a furious aura around her, detectable even at twenty paces, like the heat from a furnace.  I've seen Dr. Zelvetti look like that once.  Just once.  People practically hid in the lockers.  And boy, was she tired after that; you could see it on her face.  Arie's mom, on the other hand, looked like she walked around like that all day.  How the hell did she manage?

As they passed out of my vision, clouds rolled across the sky, obscuring the sun; a fitting prelude to the end of September.

"Excuse me," I said to Sajel, and left.

"Hi," I said to Arie.  She gave me a dim glance and nary a word, but her mother rounded on us.

"Who is this, Arie?  Is this your friend Brandon?  Of course he is, he's not wearing anything.  Arie?"

Arie gave a glum, slow glance.  She seemed...  Really unhappy.  Almost slowed and burdened with it.

"Arie!"  A whipcrack of a voice.  "Answer me."

"Yes, that's Brandon," Arie said, in a voice that could charitably be called a whisper.

"Nice to meet you, Brandon," Mrs. Chang said shortly.  "Come on, Arie."

Arie didn't move.

"Arie!" Mrs. Chang said again.

I took her by the shoulders.  "Arie, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Arie said miserably.

"Because, you know," I said.  "I am your Buddy in The Program.  I'm supposed to support you."  Oh please pick up on the hint oh please oh please oh please—  "If you'd like someone to talk to or maybe just some company...  Well, think of it as a reasonable request."

This time she did meet my eyes, and I could see the meaning behind them.  "No, Brandon.  I'm fine.  Thank you."

And I let her go.  She wasn't fine, any idiot with an eye could see that; but I think I understood that there was simply no way I could help.

"What was that," Sajel asked me when I got back.

"I don't know," I said.  "One thing's for certain, though, I think Arie's a lot more depressed than she was yesterday."

"Yesterday she was bouncing off the walls," Tim reminded me.

"All right, than Monday then," I said.

Arie didn't come back before the bell rang, and the next time I saw her was in English.  She was naked, so evidently her mother had been overruled, but she looked practically dead.  She slumped there in her seat, the rise and fall of her breathing the only movement, and I felt bad for her.

I had other things to worry about, though.  Most specifically, I had Meredith to worry about, who had passed me in the hall between first and second period, given me that beautiful, heart-warming smile, murmured, "Ooh, somebody's strutting his stuff," trailed her fingers (and fingernails) gently across my chest, and bestowed upon me a raging, teeming hard-on...  All without breaking her stride.

And now I needed relief.

"Is anyone going to volunteer," Mr. Cavanaugh asked, as I slogged up to the front of the room, more or less determined to get through this.  Sex is sex, I'll take it or leave it, but a chance to put more distance between me and the Hole...

"Anyone?"  Mr. Cavanaugh asked into the silence.  The echo of his own voice was the only answer.  "...Anyone?"

"Oh come on," Zach said from his seat, "that's just sad.  No one's gonna help him?"

Someone else spoke from the back of the room.  "Why don't you help him then?"

Zach and I took one look at each other and simultaneously recoiled and went, "Ugh!" with our tongues hanging out.  Which got a laugh, which is what I think Zach intended.  I was glad to have him on my side.

But still no one stood forward.

"Come now, somebody," said Mr. Cavanaugh, stern now.  "Alison Lowell."  No answer.  "Christa?"  The girl from Monday—the one with the growing-out roots—jumped when he said this.  "Sajel, care to help out a friend?"

"Bad idea," said Sajel and I at the same time.

I looked over the classroom and except for Zach, Sajel and Mr. Cavanaugh, no one would meet my eyes.

Sometimes the Hole is close to you.  Some times like now.

I sighed.  "Well.  I guess that's it for me then."  What a downer, what a motherfucking downer.  I mean, how sad is that?—gets up to ask for relief, no one wants to touch him.  Another time I might have been angry, but now I was just sad.  "The Program is all about being comfortable with your sexuality and all that, but what if you don't get the chance?  Well.  I guess not everything works out the way it's supposed to.  I think the pamphlet says something about..."  Squinting, trying to remember the wording.  "Comfortable with your sexuality, comfortable with your body, increased personal growth...  Yeah, all that shit they throw at us.  But it's not just me.  We're all in The Program.  Sure, I may be the only one naked, but  that just means that it's my body everyone has to become comfortable with.  I had it shoved on me the same as you did: I didn't sign up, they picked me.  Maybe it'll be your turn tomorrow and I'll have to get used to you.  But it's not like I'm the only one participating here.

"I have to learn...  I have to learn about my body, I have to learn about my urges, I have to learn about fear...  But you guys have to learn that too.  It's a get-to-know-you process.  It's a get-to-know-Brandon process.  Yeah, you all know me, I'm the freak guy with the scars on his arms...  But that's not all I am, I'm not even the only one with that label anymore.  So who am I?  Really?  Besides all those convenient labels?  'The weird one,' 'the freak,' 'the guy who killed himself.'  Honestly, I don't know, I'm still learning too.  And now I'm in The Program, and everyone gets to learn.  But if no one wants to...  Well.  I guess not everything works out the way it's supposed to."

I walked back to my seat and sat down.

For a second, no one moved.  Then Mr. Cavanaugh stirred behind his podium.  "Thank you, Brandon," he said, "I'll talk to Dr. Zelvetti on your behalf."

I just blinked at him.  About what?  I don't care.

Then he went back into Shakespeare, and it was back to business as usual.  At least, for most of us.  There were two of us now, sitting bleakly in our chairs, staring at nothing.  I don't know if anyone looked at me that day, or what they thought of me.  I didn't care.

Sometimes the Hole is close to you.  Times when you don't measure up, times when you've failed.  Times when you've done your best, played your hardest, given it all, and whoops—that just wasn't enough.  Times you failed.

Times like now.

W.2

I wanted to get away during break, but I share Current Events with Kelsey, and she took one look at me and her eyes turned, those doors swinging shut, and she wouldn't let me go.  She practically dragged me to Stetsen.  I wanted to get away; I wanted to just fade into a corner somewhere.  I wanted to stop being Arie Chang, on display; I wanted to stop being Arie Chang, naked in school; I wanted to stop being Arie Chang, depressed; I wanted to stop...  Being.  Just sit in a corner and fade away and disappear, and no one would ever remember me again.

But no, I had to face it.

"What was that in the morning," Brandon asked me.  Brandon.  God, I don't want to see him.  I don't want to see me.  Kelsey and Sajel and Brandon were all hovering around me looking really concerned; and Tim Kwan, that silent guy, was in the background somewhere, looking uncomfortable.  And Zach too, because there was no one else to talk to, everyone was talking to me.

"That was my mother," I said.  "She tried to take me out of The Program."

"I guess it didn't work," Zach said, "'cause I don't see any clothes on you."  No one laughed.

"Yeah," I said.  "Dr. Zelvetti took me outside and asked if I wanted to stay.  I said yes."

Sajel and Brandon and Tim looked impressed.  They'd seen my mother, after all.  "Wow," Sajel said, "I'd liked to have seen that."

"What, seen what," Zach asked.

"Dr. Zelvetti stand up to Arie's mom," Sajel said.

"What's so interesting about that," Zach asked.  (I found out later that he's faced down Dr. Zelvetti's wrath several times.  Honestly, that's not surprising.)

"Dude, you haven't seen Arie's mom," Sajel said.  "She's, like, the terror mom from hell, man!"

"Ehh," Zach said, "Right."

Of course, there'd been more to it than that.  The conversation with Dr. Zelvetti out in the hall had been brief and typically to-the-point.  "Do you want to stay with The Program," she'd asked, and I'd said Yes.  "Good, I'll see that you stay in it.  Does your mother bully you like this frequently," she'd asked, and I'd said Yes.  "About what I'd expected.  Are you planning to do something about it," she'd asked, and I'd lied and said Yes.  Fighting my mother was just too tiring.  It wasn't going to happen.  But you could say the exact same about fighting Dr. Zelvetti.

Then Brandon asked me the question I'd been dreading.  "Arie, how are you?  Are you okay?"

There was simply no good way to answer that.

How was I?  I was...  Nasty, is how I was.  I didn't take a shower last night, I didn't get my homework done, my hair was a mess, I'd barely eaten any breakfast, I didn't pay the slightest attention in any of my classes, I'd lacked the energy to get myself out of bed in time—and that was interesting, Mom yelling at both Trina and I to hurry up or we'd be late, and she wouldn't be giving the principal any excuse notices, oh no...  God, look at all the ways I've managed to fuck up in only twelve hours.  And then there was that other thing, the thing I'd did with Brandon.  Where I basically, you know, raped him.  And then there was that other other thing.  But I couldn't tell him the truth, it wasn't worth the trouble.  Especially not about the other thing.  But I couldn't lie, he'd see through it.

"I'm fine," I said, not looking up to meet his eyes.  I focused on his belly button instead.

Brandon's torso said, "My friends online say that's an acronym.  'I'm FINE—Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional.'"

Fuck.  His friends too?  Goddamn.  I was hoping that'd slip beneath his radar.

"Hey," Zach said in a voice unlike his own.  "Hey."

I guess he must have seen, because the next thing I saw was Brandon's hand dipping into my field of vision.  He picked up my left arm and held it up to take a closer look.  I don't know if he did it deliberately, but because of the angle, my arm was centered perfectly in my own view, and I could see as well as he could.

Three new lines.  Three new scars.  And on the other arm, much the same.

Around me was pure silence.  I could feel the eyes on my arm.

Fucked-up is right.  Look at me.  I'm Arie Chang, and I'm fucked up in school.

Brandon's arms were around me, holding me close; I could smell his skin, the faint warmth of his body, his sighing exhalations.  "I'm sorry," he said, "this is my fault," and I knew he was referring to last night.

Oh God, now he thinks it's his fault.  No.  No.  Love for Brandon welled up in my throat and I said, "No.  It's not.  It's mine.  Don't blame yourself."

"But if I hadn't—"

"I wanted you to," I said.  "It's not your fault I wanted something bad for me."

"Still.  I'm sorry, Arie.  I'm sorry."

I put my arms around him, the still-raw cuts pressed against his body.  "It's not your fault.  It's okay."

I don't know exactly how long we stood there, or what would've happened if I hadn't looked up.  But I did look—luck, fortune, kismet, fate, whatever you want to call it—and saw.  Over Brandon's shoulder, I saw.

And in the instant my eyes met Jane's, I understood.

Understood how much she wanted to be the one there, the one in Brandon's arms, her bare breasts pressed against his skin.  Understood how much she rebelled against her own desires, so scared, so scared of being unearthed.  Understood how scared she was, how much she hated her body for its lurching unattractiveness, how much she feared Brandon for finding it attractive.  Understood how often she cried over her homework, frustrated with her implacable assignments, disordered assignments; how hard it was to maintain her 4.0 GPA, how important it was.  Understood how fragile the whole castle was, how little it would take to bring the whole spun-glass empire crashing down.  Understood how jealous she was, that someone could have what she wasn't allowed to, what she couldn't allow herself to.

"Brandon," I said, for his and her ears alone.  "I think you need to talk to your girlfriend."

"Huh?"  Brandon turned to look, and I felt the change in his body when he saw her, like a door revolving shut, a gate barred closed.

Jane was trying not to cry.  "I think we need to talk," she managed to get out.

"Yeah," Brandon said, his voice wooden like the dead.  "Yeah."

He stepped away from me—and I saw that the trouser snake had, once again, been fooled.  It only takes a female body in proximity to a male one to make Mr. Snake take notice, and Brandon's had.  Brandon's and Jane's and my eyes fell upon it simultaneously, and Brandon colored.  So did Jane, but not with the same color.

This looks bad, Brandon must be thinking to himself.  And it did.  And guess whose fault it was, again?  Say hello to Little Miss Fuck-up.

I squeezed his hand.  "Good luck."

Brandon's face—that sometimes immobile, sometimes illustrative thing—quirked once, just a twitch of eyebrow and lip—and he gave me an unreadable glance.  Then he walked into the lion's den, next to his girlfriend.

"This is going to be bad," Sajel said.

"How do you know," Zach said.

"You're such an idiot," Sajel said.  "Isn't it obvious?  All the signs are there."

"What signs, I don't see any signs.  If Jane was holding up like a 'Gays Die' sign or something, or maybe 'Vote Rodham' or something, I'd see it, but she wasn't."

"God, you're such an idiot," Sajel said.  "She was..."

I didn't hear.  I just sat down on the cold concrete, letting it all wash over me.  And the surprising thing was Tim Kwan—he sat down beside me, the usual faint smile gone from his face and an unreadable look in his eyes, and he put his arm around me and I leaned against him, welcoming the warmth of human contact.

But it didn't help a lot.  I wanted to fall asleep and go away.  Go anywhere.  Anywhere but here.  Anywhere where I didn't have to be always screwing up all the time.  Anyplace but here.  Anyplace but me.

W.3

Sajel was right.  It was going to be bad.

After exchanging a few meaningless pleasantries (Hey how's your day been, Fine thank you, You wouldn't believe what happened in English class), we got to it.  And it was pretty short, too.

"You like Arie," Jane said.

"No," I said.

"Yes you do," Jane said.

"No, I don't," I said.  "Unless you meant like a friend.  But if you meant, you know, do I like like her, then—"

"Well, you were...  Uh.  Hard."

I snorted.  "Jane, that happens to everybody.  You let Zach hug Arie, you let Tim hug Arie, you let Mr. Cavanaugh hug Arie—they get erections.  That's just what happens when you hug people."

"You don't get them when you hug me," Jane said.

"Now what kind of bullshit is that," I said, "of course I do.  But most of the time I'm wearing pants, you can't see it."

"You haven't this week."

"We haven't hugged this week."

"Yeah," said Jane, "you've been hugging other people instead."

"I'd rather hug you," I snapped, "but you won't let me."  "Yes I would."  "No, you wouldn't."  "Why wouldn't I?"  "Because I'm naked.  Look, have you thought about what I said yesterday?"

"Yes," Jane said.

I didn't say anything.  While there was silence, there was hope.  Maybe she'd change her mind.  Maybe there'd been a change of heart.  Maybe she would...

But then she spoke, and it all came tumbling down.

"Brandon, I just...  Don't like the idea of me touching you like that.  Or you touching me.  I feel like...  I don't feel like we know each other well enough."

Or maybe you do like the idea, and it's that that you don't like, I said silently.

"I think it should be...  You know, something stronger," Jane finished.

I sighed.

"I'm...  I'm sorry if that disappoints you, but..." said Jane, shrugging.

"I haven't seen you since school began," I said.

"What, you're seeing me now," she said.

"Not outside school," I said.  "You walk by, you wave, you're busy.  We haven't had time together for a month."

She said nothing.

"And that's not going to change either," I said.  "We already talked about this, when school began."  She'd said that she needed, really simply, to make schoolwork her first priority.  Which, I understood, was code for, 'her only priority.'

She said nothing.

"Look, Jane.  I love you.  You're important to me.  You're really important to me.  Hell, I've stayed with you for ten months.  But every time...  Every time we get into these arguments, you say, 'Sorry, I'm too busy.'  I feel like I'm not important to you."

"That's not true," she protested, "yes you are..."

"Then why do you keep turning me down," I asked.  "Every time I ask, no matter how I ask—  It's like, you categorically refuse me.  I want to be closer to you.  You say no.  I want to spend more time with you.  You say no.  I'd like to be more physical with you.  You say no.  How else do I do it?  Sure, you can say I'm important, but...  Words are cheap."

She said nothing.

"I don't want to have sex with you," I said.  "I want you to accept me.  I want you to have a place for me in your life.  Which, if everything goes well, will lead to us trusting each other and caring about each other and wanting to be with each other.  Because we want to share everything with each other.  Because we want to sleep in each other's arms.  And then if sex happens it's because that's just how close we are.  But every time I try to take a step in that direction...  I get shut down."

She said nothing.

"Now I'm in The Program.  If you want to get to know me and accept me and make room for me, now's the time."  Oh, if only she'd been in my English class, then I wouldn't have to explain this twice!  "I'm in The Program because they want me to get used to my sexuality, to my body, to...  But it's not just me, we're all in The Program, because we all have to get used to my body, my sexuality.  To me.

"So here's me.  I love you.  I'm here for you, I support you, I care about you.  But I'm needy.  Or maybe just greedy.  I want to be wanted.  I want you to want me, as a part of your life, as a lover, as...  Whatever.  And...  You don't seem to.

"And if that's the way it's going to go...  Maybe there's no point in continuing this."

I didn't look at her.  Maybe she looked at me, but I didn't look at her.  In a way, I didn't need to.  I already knew what she was going to say.

I think the worst part about a breakup is that vague, sourceless feeling you try to deny but can't—the feeling that, somehow, some way, you've been judged...  And that you've been judged unworthy.  There's nothing you could have done, it was just something in your makeup, in your character, something you can't change...  That caused you to fail.

Sajel was right.  It was bad.

W.4

I think Brandon and I were both a little bit dead that day.  He didn't come back from Jane before the bell rang, so I'm not sure what was said, there wasn't a chance to find out.  But he looked kind of dead at lunch.  At least, I think he did.  I was, and I wasn't exactly paying attention to him.  But we'd both asked everyone to leave us alone, and we must've been a quite sight—the two of us sitting there naked and dull to the world.  Which is probably what happened next, happened.

I didn't notice; I was sort of stirring things around in the compartments of my tray.  But then there was a rattle and a thump, and suddenly the two seats across from us were filled by two descending, roughly-cylindrical forms in beige and pink.  That was all my peripheral vision told me, so I had to look up: and it was Steve and Shannon.

"Damn, you guys," Steve said, across from me.  "You look like you just came out of your best friend's funeral."

"The Program's a lot more fun when you're enthusiastic, you know," Shannon said.  "And so we figured—"

"—As your mentors and general protectors in The Program—" Steve interjected.

"—that we ought to come over and take a look—" "—see how you were doing—" "—see if we could cheer you up—" "—you know, all that good stuff."  "Because it's your Program week, no use moping around."

I wanted to mope around.  I wanted them to go away.  This was not a good day.  There was no sunlight, I was naked and cold, the metal bench wasn't helping at all...  But Brandon looked at them with a strange wonder on his face, and said, "Do you guys always complete each other's thoughts like that?"

Steven and Shannon looked at each other and then said, simultaneously, "It's a talent."

Brandon shook his head, his eyebrows somewhere past his hairline.

"So," Steven asked.  "What, exactly, is up with you two?"

Brandon and I glanced at each other.  I read in his eyes what I'm sure he read in mine: So, do we tell?  Then Brandon shrugged.  "Arie's...  Well, she's Arie."  A flash of wry amusement.

"And you," Shannon asked him.

I glanced at him.  He caught it, and said, "Go ahead, Arie, you tell them."

"I don't even know what it is," I retorted.

"Guess," he said.  "It's pretty obvious."

It was the last thing, the absolute last thing, I wanted to do right now, but I mustered some effort from somewhere.  "The thing last night," I asked.

"No," he said.  "I'm actually pretty okay with that."

Ugh.  Effort.  I don't want to put effort.

"I'll give you a hint," he said, "it has to do with recess."

Recess.  My cuts?  No.  The thing with Tim?  No.  The thing with—

"You broke up with Jane," I said.

"That's it exactly, congratulations Ms. Chang, Johnny, tell 'er what she's won."

"Was this before or after that speech in Mr. Cavanaugh's class," Steven asked.

Brandon jerked.  "You heard about that?"

Shannon laughed, sending shining gold hair back from her face with a toss of her head.  "Are you kidding?  Mr. Cavanaugh went straight to Yvette's office during break and told her the whole story.  She summoned us straight out of fourth period and told us."  Yvette, I recalled, was Dr. Zelvetti's first name.  Who were these people, that they could refer to the principal so informally?

"And I tell you, Brandon, she was thinking and pondering like crazy over what you said."  Steve grinned.  "I guess you're the first person to have put the Program in those terms.  'I have to get used to my body, and so do you'?  I think you may have totally changed the direction The Program goes at this school.  She was just totally disconnected and thinking and like, 'Okay, so, if you—  Wait, where was I?'  It was the funniest thing in the world."

I didn't quite see how it was so funny, but I gave it to them.  Maybe it was only funny if you knew Dr. Zelvetti better.  Yvette.

"So, what's the deal with your breakup," Shannon asked again.  "Was it before or after that speech?"

Brandon thought about it.  It was like you could see the wheels turning in his head.  "I think it was...  Because," he said eventually.  "Because of that speech.  Jane was all, you know, 'augh, naked Brandon, can't stand it,' and I'm just like, 'Well, if you can't, then there's no reason to stick together.'"  Wow, I thought, what a shallow asshole.  Brandon's face colored.  Clearly, he'd had the same thought.  "Not that I'm, like, only in it for sex, I'd be a fool to have dated her if I was—"  Steve and Shannon laughed in agreement.  "—but...  I mean, you know?  It's part of what I want to do, it's part of what I want to share.  And now it's almost something we have to share, because we have to deal with me being naked whether we like it or not.  But...  She didn't want to deal.  No quarter, no compromise, just No."  His face lost some of its animation.  "I guess that's why there isn't a 'we' anymore."

"Well, that was the right thing, then," Shannon said.  "Brandon, if she doesn't have the same priorities or preferences as you do, there isn't much point in staying."

"Yeah, but, you know, what if...  What if it was worth staying?" Brandon asked.  What the hell did that mean?  "I mean, what a dumb thing to cut things off for.  What if I've made a mistake, what if she...  What if I—"

"Brandon," Shannon said.  Her voice was soft, but it cut him off like a knife.  "Only you can decide your own worth.  Are you worth someone who'll listen to what you want?  Who'll respect you enough to take your wishes into account?  No matter how ridiculous those wishes might be?"

"Does such a one exist," Brandon grumped, but it was clear he had taken their point.  And that, if you're interested, is just proof of how far he's gotten from The Hole.  If I had been Brandon, I would've clung to Jane like a lifeline; I wouldn't have believed such a one exist.  Even if Jane—or whoever—wasn't listening to me, at least there'd be someone.

"And you," Steven said, looking at me with calm brown eyes.  "Arie."

"That's my name, don't wear it out," I said bleakly.

"We've heard about...  Your arms," Shannon said.  "Also from Yvette.  We didn't know—none of us knew, obviously—or we probably would've come to talk to you earlier.  We just wanted to say..."  She trailed off.

Steve picked it up.  "We just wanted to say that...  We think you're incredibly brave.  I can't imagine what it's like to have to walk around with that many...  With that sort of mark on your arm.  To have to endure the stares, people asking questions..."

"What choice did I have," I asked.  Brave.  Right.  "It's mandatory.  If they call your number, you go."

"You still could've just ditched," Steve said.  "You've been here, every day, on time, you haven't tried to hide yourself in the bathrooms or behind books or anything...  You could have, but you haven't.  That has some worth."

"I didn't because I can't," I said.

"Nonsense," Shannon said.  "You 'can't' take drugs either, you 'can't' speed on the highway, you 'can't' murder people.  That's bullshit, yes you can, you just don't.  You 'can't' slice up your arms either.  But some people do anyway.  So.  Yes, you could've balked.  You could've resisted.  But you haven't.  Maybe you haven't been very enthusiastic, but the mere fact that you're doing The Program at all...  That's worth something, Arie.  That's worth something."

That was a new thought to me.  Obviously, I'd believed it myself, or I would've let my mom force me out of The Program, but there's a difference between things you know and things you've realized.  I handled the new thought gingerly, something fragile that might break at the slightest wrong touch.  Worth something?  Worth for something I'd done?

Look at our society.  We don't count up, we count down.  On homework it's assumed that you'll do everything correctly, and then they grade you down if you screw up.  That's how things work here.  In a way it's very sweet—we assume that everyone is capable of perfection—heck, we assume anyone is capable of perfection!—but in a way it's also terrible, because it means we expect perfection.  We expect everyone to be super-human, to do the impossible.  We don't congratulate people for getting A's, because A's are supposed to be normal.  I mean, look at those grades themselves!  If you get a C, it means you've done average work.  Average!  A 75% score is supposed to be average!  Average means half, average means fifty, average does not mean 75%!  And yet if you come home with a C, your parents scold you for achieving—get this—a below-average grade.

And my mother is even worse.  She used to listen to my violin practices and come down hard whenever I made an error.  Straight A's in our house, sure, but only because B's are considered failure, are considered sub-average.  If we cook and something's wrong, she scolds us.  And if ever, as happens once in a miraculous while, everything is up to her scrupulous, ridiculous standards...  She says nothing.  Nothing at all.  There's no way to earn her praise, only to earn her scorn.  She doesn't praise.  She doesn't value anything that much.

We just don't hear very often when we've done something right.  Nobody celebrates doing something right.  Because we're expected to do it right.  Perfect is normal.  No one is cheered for perfection; in fact, no one is cheered period.  Instead, we're only scolded—for being imperfect, for the scandalous, criminal flaw of being human.

But, of course, it took me a lot of thought to realize this, even longer before I was able to put it into words.  All I had, now, was a stunning realization: Sometimes, under some conditions, getting out of bed late is a praiseworthy achievement, because, under those conditions, nine people of ten wouldn't be able to get out of bed at all.

"Are you okay, Arie," Brandon was saying.  "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Maybe I have," I murmured.  "Maybe I have."

We stayed and chattered together for a while, and when we were done I decided to go check my e-mail, while Brandon went away to somewhere else.  (Later I found out he was being photographed.)  I'm not sure where Steve and Shannon went.  I wanted to check up with my friends over at Candlelight Vigil, who were probably concerned about me.

After leaving posts in the right places, assuring everyone I was okay, I took a look at the rest of the place.  Vigil has a website, but most of the action takes place on the forum.  At first, Sara (the founder) just wanted to build a resource for cutters, like an encyclopedia; but soon she realized that what we really need is a place to socialize.  There are a lot of different boards—one for movies and books, one for music, one for people who need cyber-hugs, one for people who feel triggered and need to be held back from the edge, so on and so forth—and a lot can happen in a few hours.

My parents didn't know what Candlelight Vigil was.  I'd mentioned it a couple of times, explaining where certain Internet friends came from; my parents knew I was part of it, but not what it was.  So did my sister, though I was pretty sure the same strictures applied.  Still, you never know what Trina's doing in my room while I'm out of the house, say at a violin lesson.  It wouldn't surprise me if she went through my bookmarks or something.  God, that would be a disaster.  She could throw all my cutting and stuff into my parents' face and fuck me up for life.

But that was neither here nor there.  Time to browse the boards.

One new thread caught my interest.  'Threads' are simply lines of posts on the same subject, and this one was about a girl who called herself Flicker and was having some sort of caustic argument with her siblings.  I'd seen the thread before but, after a cursory examination, had deemed it unimportant.  Flicker was one of maybe a hundred members of the board; I hadn't associated with her much.  I knew she cut, and I knew she purged, and I knew she had seventeen stars—meaning, it'd been seventeen days since she'd last self-harmed—or was it eighteen? when was the last time I'd checked?  Regardless, she was background noise.  What cued my interest now was that Violetta had gotten into the thread.

It started out with Flicker griping about her sister's musical-instrument practice—too loud, she said, makes too much noise, she's in the next room over and I can't concentrate, much less do my flute practice—but it rapidly escalated into more than that.  Evidently Flicker was in a major feud with her sister, and the practice was just one minor bit of that.  The sister was getting tons and tons of attention, which Flicker resented, because the sister did it by balking on minor things—No, I don't want to practice; No, I don't want to get out of bed on time; No, I don't want to wash the dishes.  Oh come on, grow up, Flicker always thought to herself; you're the older sister, you've got it easy, our parents are nicer to you.  I'm in deeper trouble than you are; I'm cutting, I'm purging, I'm a mess.  I need attention, not you, but you're the one that gets it.  The only thing that keeps me sane (Flicker wrote) is sniping at her.  Maybe it's cruel, but I'd rather be wrapping my hands around her throat and squeezing, so believe me, it could be worse.

Her parents I recognized instantly, just from her descriptions.  This wasn't to say that I knew them in person; but there's a very common type of parent around these boards.  The parents of the average Vigil member are self-absorbed and emotionally abusive; they have the response patterns of whiny children.  They think they have all the answers, they want everything to go their way, and they try to control everything—decor, spouse, children, etc—to make that way come into being.  My mother, for instance.  Like I said, I didn't know Flicker's parents personally, but if she were to meet mine, or I hers, we'd recognize them instantly for what they were.

Of course her parents were brought up.  Most of the board is vehemently hostile to parents; they are the source of all evil.  Later I came to realize how much we all savored that hatred; the boards were just about the only place where people would let us criticize our parents.  For us, who had been crushed under the heels of tyrannical parents all our lives, it was a sweet, sweet rebellion.  Though, conversely, we're always quick to recognize and honor a parent who does something right by us, because it's not what we expect.  And we wish we could expect it more often.  We too need parents; it's just that we don't have any.

But Flicker's whining really struck a nerve with me.  I wasn't surprised to learn she was the younger sibling; they all seem to have some strange sense of entitlement, as if being born last made them heir to all the universe.  Violetta, who was also an older sibling, had spoken in defense of Flicker's older sister: She probably doesn't realize she's doing this; talk to her.  My two cents: And remember, it's not exactly easy putting up with snotty brats; maybe you should tone it down a bit and see what happens.

I'll admit it: I probably should've been kinder.  Though I don't regret my advice.  The future would prove me right.  But I could've said it more nicely.  Though, if I hadn't...

Around that time (as I'd predicted might happen) a bunch of computer nerds accosted me.  They'd seen naughty pictures online but doubted their veracity; a couple of them were sure a woman couldn't actually bend like that.  (Another, judging from the way he reacted, hadn't realized women were actually shaped like that; but that's another matter.)  For the rest of the break I found myself holding an impromptu naked-modeling session, with most of the boys in the room—and a few of the girls!—scurrying around the Internet, finding more pictures for me to imitate.  The room monitor drew the line when someone came up with an image of some woman giving a man a blowjob.  He seemed content to watch me solo, though.

Go figure, I thought.  THIS is how I spend my Program week—catering to a bunch of geeks.

When the bell rang, I had only a few minutes to sign out, log out, shut down, terminate and otherwise disengage my computer.  I'd left my browser still on Flicker's thread, and I hit 'Reload' to see if anyone had written something in the fifteen or twenty minutes I'd been gone.  To my surprise, someone had; even more significantly, it was Flicker herself.

Trina?  Trina?  My sister Trina?  Cutting?  Purging?  My annoying-ass innocent fourteen-year-old little sister Trina?  Cutting right then and there?—probably with chair scootched forward and her arms and hands hidden under the desk; if you were careful, you could do it, just make sure no one's nearby because blood has a very distinctive smell, and people start asking questions about—

I hit 'Reload' again, wanting to make sure I wasn't just seeing things.  God only knows I seemed to hallucinate my depression; why not apocalyptic messages from my sister?  But it was gone again, replaced instead by a board tag: This message deleted by: Flicker, at 12:52 PM.  A minute ago.

Maybe I had imagined it.

But the facts lined up.  I went by a screen name, as did all of us; only Violetta knew what my real one was...  And so did Trina, who'd asked me once what screen name I went by.  The site itself wasn't hard to find, she could've picked it up off of any search engine...  Even without going on my computer, where my browser is set to dump you straight onto the boards, logged in under my screen name (another way she could've found that out).  Flicker played the flute, just like Trina did; Flicker's sister, whatever she played, could be played in a bedroom.  It wasn't the piano.  It could be my violin.  Trina and I had quarreled about conflicting practices quite a bit.  She did sometimes spend unaccounted time in her room or in the bathroom, during which she could, well, cut or purge.  And, yes, I did get most of the attention in our household—if by 'attention' you meant 'whining, cajoling, lurking-over-shoulders and threatening.'  Which was what passed for attention in our house.  (Just tells you how screwed-up our house is.)

And besides, a message addressing you by name, signed with your sister's name, is pretty hard to ignore.

Why hadn't 'Flicker' talked about her sister's self-destructive behaviors, then?  Maybe she didn't know.  Maybe I'd done a better job of hiding it than I thought.  Maybe she figured I was just lying to get attention, or to bargain with Dr. Zelvetti.  How come she hadn't heard anybody talk about my scars?  Had she simply disbelieved them when she heard it?  I wondered how she could, with so many people talking about them.  I wondered—

"Ms. Chang?"  It was the room monitor.  "The bell for the start of sixth period is about to ring."

"I have immunity," I breathed, my mind in a turmoil.  The universe whirled in kaleidoscope swirls around me.  For a moment I felt like I'd utterly misplaced my limbs; I couldn't move at all.  What was going on here?  What was this strange, new place I had found myself in?  It was like being a Pilgrim, setting foot on the shores of North America for the first time—on the shores of this alien, uncharted world—

"Are you all right, Ms. Chang," the monitor asked.

The world settled back down into place with an audible thump.  I shouldered my bookbag and stood.  "No," I said.  "No, I'm not."  Jesus Christ.  My sister.  "But, that's okay.  Who ever is all right?"  And the room monitor, looking perplexed, let me go.

You know Brandon's theory about everything going wrong at the worst possible time?  Yeah.  Sign me up under that one too.

W.5

I felt a lot better after lunch.  Shannon and Steve had done their job well in terms of cheering me up, and it was good to hear them support what I'd said in English.  Evidently, making Brandon Chambers go naked in school hadn't been an entirely futile effort.  And then there was that photo thing with Claire Redecker, that I almost forgot to go to, by the way...  But remembered just in the nick of time, and rushed over to the art building to find her waiting.

She'd heard about my little speech too.  "I just wanted you to know that I support what you said.  That's what the flip side of The Program is.  We don't think about it much or hear about it much because obviously everyone focuses on the main part—'Naked girls in school, omigod!'—but not only do they have to get used to having no clothes on, so do we.  And with that in mind I'm sure you'll be glad to know that the poses I'm planning to put you in are not pornographic in any way."

I laughed.  "Good."  I had said yes before the thought occurred to me; now I was simply glad.  If she thinks she can get something seductive or stimulating out of me, good for her.  I don't think I could do it with a straight face.

Having said that, though, it was a bit of a disappointment.  She set me up in various locations around the school, asking me to just sit here or stand there, and then ran around snapping pictures, comparing the angles of the light here, the makeup of the shadows there.  I felt a little bit like a mannequin.  But hey, whatever works—when the bell rang, she assured me that she had exactly what she wanted.

As I walked to my next class, it struck me that she might be 'pulling a bitchinger,' which has since become our label for someone doing something nice to set you up for a fall.  I didn't know the first thing about photography; who knew what she might have done?  But even as I realized it, I realized that likewise, there was nothing I could do about it.  Forewarned is forearmed, they say, but in this case it simply meant I knew what lion's den I'd be walking into.  If it happened, it happened.  I doubted it would.  Claire Redecker was popular, not because she gave everyone what they wanted to hear, the way certain other parties who shall not be named might do, but because she was herself.  True, she was less popular, but that hardly bothered anybody, least of all her.

Forewarned is forearmed.

("Not that we didn't already have forearms," as Zach would put it.  "Ow, Sajel, what was that for?")

I didn't see Arie again until seventh period Chemistry, and she looked distracted and shell-shocked; the world seemed to be just passing around her like rain.  It was a distinct improvement over the limp dearth of energy she'd displayed earlier, but I didn't like that wide-eyed rabbit stare.  "Arie?  Are you okay?"

She looked at me like she'd never seen me before.

"Okay," she repeated.

"Yeah, okay," I said.  "As in, ten-four, everything's good, nothing broken, happy to be here, all that stuff.  Okay.  Is something wrong?"

"Wrong," she repeated, as if she'd never heard the word before.  Then something locked into place in her synapses and she nodded.  "Yes.  Something's wrong."

"What?"

She looked at me for a moment in infinite confusion, and then said, "I can't tell you."

"Why not?  Arie, if you're...  I'm your friend, I'm not going to judge you.  I'd...  I'd like to help, if I can."

Again there was that half-second pause, like relays clicking in her brain.  Whatever it was, it had really given her a shaking.

She smiled.  It was a tired, sad smile, but still a smile nonetheless, and it made her beautiful.  "No, Brandon...  Thank you.  I appreciate it.  I'm glad to have you as a friend.  But...  I think I have to figure this out on my own."

The instant I turned away, Tim was at my elbow with hissed questions of his own.  "Is she okay?"

"What?" I said, half taken aback by his intensity.  Tim's very laid-back normally.  What was going on here to make him so urgent?

"Is she okay," Tim said again, and his eyes flickered from me to Arie, flickered to Arie as if it was painful to look at anything else for long.

Oh, I thought to myself.  Oh-h...

"Ask her yourself," I told him.

"What," he said, scandalized.  "I can't.  She'd—"

"Mr. Kwan," said the teacher, and we made appropriate apologies.  Tim's voice is very deep; it has the subtlety of a bull elephant.  Which is cool at times, but makes it hard to hold whispered conversations.

"She'd never answer," he said, "she'd tell me to go away."  "Why?"  "I'm a stranger here.  She doesn't know me."

"So what," I said.  "Look at her.  She needs friends, she needs support.  If someone she sort of knows, but not really, suddenly steps forward to be nice to her, do you really think she'll turn him away?"

But Tim didn't believe me.  At the time, I couldn't understand why.  Now I know: because I had, even if temporarily, forgotten the power of doubt.  (And what a miracle that was!)  Unfortunately for Tim, though, it was I who was proved right in the long run.

And that was the end of his chances that day.  Had he been me, ironically, he'd have had plenty of chances to try to get close to Arie.  Since we of the musical persuasions would get out at 5:00 PM and have to return at 7:30 for the Open House, Mr. Gunderson and Ms. Bickson had offered to take us all out for dinner, and Arie and I were among the third or quarter or so of the students who decided to go for it.  Unfortunately, since this was technically a school-sponsored event (Mr. Gunderson told me with a despicable smile), I'd have to go clothe-less—and we were heading to Buon Alimento, a pretty classy Italian restaurant only a few blocks' walk from here.  It would be an interesting endeavor, to say the least.  But I'd have the protection of two teachers and fifteen or twenty other high schoolers; and Arie still planned to go.  So I shrugged and said sure.  (Later I found out that Arie had lost the choiec by forfeiting her ride home from her mother, but she was still interested regardless.)

"Think of it as training," Mr. Gunderson told me, still grinning.  "After all, it's only eating naked.  Tonight you'll be singing naked.  In front of your parents."

"It could be worse," Meredith said, pitching in with a saucy look.  "The lighting's kind of dim in the restaurant.  We could've gone to a fast-food place instead.  All that glaring neon.  No hiding in the shadows there."

I gave them a theatrical sigh.  "This is supposed to encourage me?"  But we all grinned, and I had a hunch that, if push came to shove, I'd have Mr. Gunderson on my side.  And Meredith Levine, too.

The rehearsal hall is cold.  Gets your nipples perky pretty quickly if you're not wearing anything (and I already had a couple of ripostes in mind, depending on how Derek Strong might try to tease me).  But the rest of the package goes up in the treehouse, so I didn't exactly have any problems.

Until we started singing and I looked across the arc at Meredith, who was standing right at the edge of the risers, deep in soprano country.  At which point I started having problems looking anywhere else.  But eventually the orchestra wandered across my field of vision, filing onstage for their turn behind the baton, and Arie waved at me, trying to get my attention.

"That's Trina," she said to me, leaning over as she passed.

"Huh?" I said.

"That's Trina," Arie said, pointing again.  "My sister."  The girl in question was a couple inches taller than Arie, and more slender, with long flowing hair and an animated smile.    She chattered and giggled with one of the nearby flute-players.  She was cute in that pixie way, where Arie had more of a solid, earthy charm to her.  (And where Meredith Levine, some other part of my mind whispered, looks like an angel.  Ow, Sajel, what was that for?)

"What about her," I asked.

Arie gave me an unreadable look and then said, "Never mind."

"Uh," I said.  "Okay."

Rehearsal was pretty straightforward; we had our stuff down pat.  Mr. Gunderson and Mrs. Bickson were very pleased with our progress, but I think it also speaks to their wisdom, and their ability to choose pieces we could handle.  We had easier stuff in the form of the Mozart we'd sing against the orchestra; we had more challenging things like the Stravinsky and the Palestrina.  It was all sacred music (as opposed to secular pieces, which have no religious content) and I know some parents had complained about that; they'd grown up in the days when religion was kept out of public schooling.  But the liberal attitude pervading the government nowadays was, ironically, allowing a relaxation of religious stricture.  It was okay for students of any faith to pray in school now, or to sing Christian-flavored music, on the premise that any student who believed differently could simply shut his or her ears.  And despite a variety of represented faiths, not one of the choir's members had left over the religious content of the songs.  We all knew why we were there—because we love making music.  (And to be fair, we're working on a Hanukah-flavored song for our December concert.)

After that, we put our music away, and Arie and I made a mad scramble for the south entrance, to see if we could get our clothing back.  We couldn't use it now, but we wanted to have it when we went home; it was getting chilly out.  What if they'd put the boxes away?  Amusingly enough, Meredith made the run with us, giggling and egging us on.  I'm not sure why, and I was still kind of uncomfortable around her, but she was fun company.  As it turned out, the boxes were still there, bolted to the ground, and our clothes within them; I was a little surprised that someone hadn't made off with the clothing as a practical joke.  A little more composed, the three of us headed back to the music building.

Meredith and Derek had both opted to take the dinner offer, so the four of us headed off with the rest of the flock, two of us naked, two of us not, passing between the harsh orange streetlights, lit from afar by the red fire of sunset.  It was cold, and I wished I had a coat.  Arie, next to me, was in much the same state.  The teachers eyed us critically and then offered their coats, which we gratefully accepted.  Nonetheless, I was shivering by the time we got to the restaurant.

The staff were a little startled to see twenty-five of us, most of us teenagers, half of us in the black shirts that were the orchestra's official garb, the other half in the choir's red shirts, and two of us without any shirts at all—despite the repeal of indecency laws, nude people aren't a very common sight; and neither of had fastened our coats closed, so they weren't really hiding anything.  But they were accommodating and gracious; they pushed a bunch of tables together to create a single long one, with, interestingly enough, a four- or five-person booth at one end.  Somehow, Meredith and Arie and Derek and I ended up there.  A few people made disparaging comments about hiding ourselves behind the booth, but I gave them a theatrical eye-roll.  "Oh come on.  We're not on school grounds, Rule Three isn't in play.  Besides, I doubt you could Rule Three us, in a place like this.  They'd kick us out."

The weird thing was Meredith.  Once she noticed how much I was shivering (she probably twigged on by noticing how much my teeth were chattering), she sat closer to me and pressed her body sinuously against me.  And all at once I was treated to the interesting sensation of being warm, very warm, in one quite particular place, while the rest of me still shivered and jittered.  The other students whooped and catcalled, but Meredith batted her eyelashes at them demurely and said, "He's cold.  Look at him, his teeth are chattering."

If she'd done that on Monday, or yesterday, I probably would've slid away from her, or at least been suspicious.  After our conversation on Tuesday, though, I wasn't at all sure what to think about her.  I was at that state of expecting everything and nothing she did.  So I shrugged and let her have her way.  She wasn't making any overt moves on me, nothing like Monday.  Maybe she was just one of those very-physically-affectionate people.  Which is fine with me.  I'd be one of them, if I wasn't constantly scared of getting kneed in the cojones.  And it was very nice to have a pretty girl pressed up to me like that.  Certainly not something I'd expect to see from Jane.

The rest of the table was already sorting out into its own conversations; the people on chairs nearest to us had turned away from us, leaving we four in the booth to form our own little clique.  Arie, for her part, was just staring at her plate.  She was still shell-shocked and distracted, almost catatonic, and she had to be jostled when the waitress came around to take our orders.  That, especially, was what made Derek and Meredith catch on.  "Arie," I said, speaking for all of us.  "I know you don't want to answer, so I won't ask again after this.  But I'm really getting worried.  Are you okay?"

This time the lapse in response was long enough to be detectable to all of us; Derek blinked at Arie in perplexity and Meredith and I exchanged glances.

Then Arie roused.  "Where's Trina?"

"Your sister?" Derek said, and we glanced around.  Meredith located her at the far end of the table, chattering energetically with similarly young-looking companions.  That girl was just a bundle of energy.

Arie gave her sister a long, haunted glance, and it seemed as though some deep, elemental shift took place in her; it was like she was saying goodbye.  Then she turned to us.

The first thing we really had to do was brief Derek on Arie's situation.  I'm honestly a little surprised that she let him in on the conversation at all; she couldn't exactly have told him to go away, but she could've deferred until later, when we could avoid him.  Nonetheless, she spilled the beans in his presence, and it became quickly obvious that he didn't quite get what this whole self-harm thing was about.  The stories had made the rounds, of course, but I expect gossip to be accurate in the same way I expect Jane to say the word "penis" without blushing.  Derek looked suitably impressed, but with the three of us—myself, Arie, Meredith—to explain, he got the picture.  Mostly.

"Okay..." he said.  "I get that it's not, like, a suicide attempt or anything, but...  My God.  Arie.  Why do you do it?"

And that was the question, wasn't it.  About fifty thousand people had asked her over the past three days, and she'd given about fifty thousand non-answers.  We're so interested in the what, the how, the why, that sometimes we feel like we just have to give some sort of causal explanation.  Here are the dominoes, this is how they fall.  This is a non-answer.

But this time, Arie didn't non-answer.  She didn't try to explain.  She was silent for a moment.  And then she gave an answer that she'd never given before, and would never give again.

"I...  I don't know," she said.  "I guess...  There just isn't any good reason.  It makes sense to me, because I'm fucked-up, but, really...  There isn't a good reason."

Understanding grew in Derek's eyes, like arms opening in welcome, and he put his hand gently on her forearm, on the scars on her arm.

"So," Arie said.  "I was...  This is a complete secret, okay, you can't talk to this about anybody."

Derek smiled.  "Good thing there's lots of us, then, we can talk to each other about it."

Arie drew ragged breath.  "At lunch I was checking my e-mail, and also the website I'm part of that cutters visit.  It's a place where we understand each other."  We nodded.  "And...  I found out that my sister's one of the people who posts there."

Dead silence from the three of us, punctured only by the chatter of the rest of the table.

"We talk about our problems," Arie said, "and so I know that the person who uses that screen name is cutting, pretty frequently; I know that she's purging—"

"What," Derek and Meredith asked.  Evidently they hadn't heard that term.

"Throwing up after meals," I said.  "Bulimia."

Meredith shuddered.  We weren't pressed up to each other anymore, but under the table our hands had found each other somehow, and I gave hers a squeeze.

Arie drew breath and kept talking.  "I know that Flicker—that's the screen name—is worse than I am.  And that she has it worse than I do, in the way her parents treat her and the way she takes it."

"Wow," Meredith said.  "That's got to be hard news to take over lunchtime."  And she disconnected from my hand long enough to reach across me and squeeze Arie's shoulder.  For my part, I kind of wanted to hug Arie—I thought someone should; the poor girl looked like she'd just been riven of her best friend—but I was concerned Meredith might take it the wrong way.  And besides (and here I was being incredibly selfish) I'd rather have Meredith's hand in mine than an armful of Arie.

"Hold on, though," Derek asked.  "You said, 'The person using that screen name.'  Is Flunker—"

"Flicker," Meredith corrected.

Derek made a disgruntled noise.  "Is Flicker your sister or not?"

"I...  I don't know," Arie said.  "She must have been in one of the other computer labs at the same time I was online.  I posted a rebuttal in a thread she'd started, and she came back with...  God, what was it, something like...  'God, Arie, don't be so self-righteous, this is all your fault.  Signed, Trina.'"

I shrugged.  "You don't need to know it by heart.  We can go look it up again."

"No, that's the thing, we can't," she said.  "I hit Reload to make sure I wasn't just seeing things—and then the page came back saying, Sorry, user Flicker has deleted this post."

"Owch," I said.  "Not good."

"Yeah," Arie said.  "I'm not..."  She sighed.  "Remember what I said yesterday about how intangible my depression seems?  Nothing seems to cause it, maybe I'm just imagining things.  So what if I was imagining the message?"

"I know where you're coming from," I said.  "In my case, it was nothing causing it—specifically, the nothing-gap where my parents should've been.  But sometimes it's hard to pinpoint that, and you wonder...  'Fuck, where is this coming from?'"

This time it was Meredith who gave my hand a squeeze, and Arie shot me a grateful look.

Derek said, "Maybe we could reference the page in cache..."

Meredith said, in the tone of the uninitiated, "In what?"

Derek gave her a blank look.  "Cache?  Computer term?"

"Don't look at me," Meredith said, "I just learned what an Internet is."

"Oh, well.  Cache is—  Arie, you were on a school computer, so you were using Internet Explorer, right?  Well, IE—hell, all browsers—keep copies of every page they load.  This folder is called the cache.  Using it, we may be able to find the version of the page that has your sister's message."

"That'd be great," I said, understanding what it would mean to Arie.  "I mean, you know how it is to have the proof right in front of you."

"I don't think I need it," Arie said.

We all looked at her.

"I know some things about Flicker from that thread," she said, "from other threads she's posted on.  They all line up.  Flute, response to parents, the way her parents act, the way she treats her older sister—me..."

"That doesn't mean it's Trina," Derek said.

"Yeah, but it's still definitely not not-Trina," Arie said.

"What?" Meredith asked.  "Plain English, please."

"Whoever Flicker is," I said, "she's very similar to Trina.  She can't be someone who isn't...  Trina-esque."  Meredith nodded.  "Which, in its way, is just as incriminating."

"And besides," Arie said.  "I just...  I look at Trina, and I know.  Or...  Maybe I see how she looks at me."

Trina expedited things immensely by proving the point right then and there.  She was clearly focused on her friends, not on us, but she glanced unconsciously at Arie as she talked, and her eyes smoldered with hate.  Whatever else might be true or untrue of them, Trina and Flicker clearly shared an intense dislike of their older sisters.

It took us all a few moments to find our voices after that little display.  Meredith was the first to recover.  "So what are you going to do," she asked.

Arie sighed, and her voice was close to tears.  "I don't know!  She's such a bitch sometimes, but...  Oh, God.  She's my sister.  She cuts, she purges.  I can't...  I can't just leave her there."

The waitress plunked down our dishes at that moment, and conversation was stalled for some minutes as we all ate.  Meredith had ordered some chicken dish with mushrooms involved.  I liked that.  I despair whenever I see girls deliberately starving themselves with salads or something.  ...Much as, I noted with dismay, Arie was doing.  Oh well, cut the poor girl some slack.  Maybe she isn't hungry.  Would you be, Brandon Chambers, if you'd just learned what she had?

"Maybe," I told her, "you should say something to your parents."

She threw her fork at the table.  "Gah!  Everybody says that!"

"Maybe it's good advice," Meredith said.

"Maybe I've heard it too many times," Arie snarled, and Meredith and I traded startled glances and decided to leave it alone.

The rest of the meal developed in relative peace.  Derek took the opportunity to shift the conversation to other things, less intense things, and we chattered and laughed about movies and television shows and video games and even managed to make Arie smile a couple of times.  All of us were keeping an eye on Trina, though, and we saw what, I think, her friends completely missed—the periods of brooding silence, the bitterly resentful glances at Arie, the occasional moments of ill temper.  Or maybe, if this had been going on for a while, her friends had just accepted it as the norm.  Who knew.

I had other problems.  Mr. Gunderson's coat was made of some substance not unlike felt, and it really wasn't meant to be worn against the skin; it itched abominably, and it made me miserable.  I squirmed and shuffled my shoulders and couldn't do anything to stop it.  "Something wrong," Meredith asked, and I answered, "It's this coat.  It's itchy."

"So, take it off," Meredith said reasonably.  Which was actually the perfect answer.  So I did.

The coat passed from hand to hand down the table, generating a string of catcalls and wolf-whistles, until it got back to Mr. Gunderson, who gave me a smile.  I waved back.  Meredith, for her part, beamed and waved like the First Lady, evidently pleased at the attentoon.  I rolled my eyes and let her.  She was just playing around, she was just a friend.  (She wasn't Zach Crane, either.)  She didn't mean anything by it.  I could bear it.

Arie, as it turned out, had similar problems with her borrowed coat, but when she sent it back to Ms. Bickson, Derek gave her his.  Meredith and I exchanged glances.  We knew that that meant.

The other thing that happened was that, as you might expect, we got noticed for being naked.  And it wasn't the usual, either.  Normal Program attention, where I'm concerned, is OMG ur so small hahahaha!!111` im so funny uve got a punny dick LOL OMG hahaha, and for Arie it's startled looks at her arms and then a careful shuffling away.  But these were complete strangers, and our stigmas were gone.  The first was actually our waitress, a woman in her later twenties who'd never heard of The Program before.  She didn't seem to grasp how it worked, though, until Derek mentioned Rule Three.  Then she looked very interested.  Derek, with the sort of twinkle in his eye that should've gotten him locked up, added, "Oh, and then there's Rule Four, which is Relief."

"You don't say," the waitress breathed.

"Yeah," Derek said.  "If you're too...  You know, pent-up...  You can go up in front of the class in the first five minutes and, ah, take care of your problem.  Or ask someone to help you, if you so desire."

"Really," said the waitress.

"Mm-hmm," said Derek, nodding solemnly.

"Wow," said the waitress, "I wish we'd had The Program when I was in high school."

When she'd gone, Derek observed, "You know, I think she's going to go find herself some Rule Four right now."

Meredith and I burst into laughter.

"What," Derek said innocently, "you could tell!  She was totally turned on!"

"Y-Yeah," I managed to gasp out, "and you did that on purpose!"

"Who, me, Derek asked, the picture of innocence.  Which he immediately ruined by putting a finger to his mouth and saying, "Hmm, she must have quite an exhibitionistic streak.  I wonder if we'll see her come to work naked one day."

I just shook my head and laughed.  Derek was quite a guy.

The other visitors were George Baker and Penny Stefanopulos, freshmen at Whitehill University, ten minutes' drive away, and alumni of Westport High.  They'd been through The Program its first year, riding the wave of initial excitement, and they were eager to compare notes—especially when they found out that Arie and I were the first wave.  They were cheerful and confident and outgoing, and their unconscious vigor drew us out as well.  We talked about the way The Program had evolved at Westport—and, by implication, the way it might evolve at Mount Hill—and we came away with a lot of suggestions and ideas.

"I've got to warn you, though," I told them, "we're not exactly your average Program participants."

"I can tell," George said, "look at your pal over there."

"Yeah, well, she's just had a major shock to her system."

"Just had some certain floodgates unlocked," Penny asked with a knowing smile.

Arie spoke without looking up from her salad.  "I just found out that I'm not the only one in my family who thinks about committing suicide."

George and Penny's eyes widened as one person's eyes widen, and the distance between them narrowed, even though they didn't move.  I'm not sure how else to explain it.  They weren't like leaning towards each other, but they were thinking towards each other.  "Okay," said George.  "I see what you mean about 'not your average participants.' "

"Well, The Program's always been about drawing people out of their shells," I said, intending a peace offering.  Was it true?  I felt like I had to say something, and that was what came from my lips.  "We just have much deeper shells than most people."

Evidently it was true, because no one disputed it.  Instead, George muttered, "Ambitious principal."

I grinned.  "What, is your guys' principal practically in charge of The Program too?"

"Bob Tilling?  You betcha."  Penny laughed.  "I think he hand-picks the candidates himself.  You should've seen how many couples he managed to put together last year.  It was hilarious."

"Did that include you two," Meredith asked.

George and Penny glanced at each other, and I saw the way their smiles brightened.  "No," George said.  "We went through it before they implemented the Buddy system.  Different weeks.  But I noticed her when she went naked."

"And then two weeks later, I noticed him," Penny said, grinning.

"I asked her out on my Wednesday," George said.

"And now look where it's gone," Penny said, offering her hand.  On her finger was a slim band of gold with a single inset diamond.

After we had been vocally appreciative and they had beamed proudly at us (and they were really cute together), George said, "So what about you two?  The Buddy system working its magic once again?"

"Don't be ridiculous, George," Penny said, "look at them."  She gestured at me and Meredith.

Meredith grew still and cold.  Derek and Arie and I looked at her.  Oh my God, I thought.

"Uh," said Penny.  "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," Meredith said through ashen lips.  "Nothing wrong."

"Uh, maybe we should go," George said.

"No," said Meredith, "stay."

But that was really the end of it, and they left.  And though Derek did his best to salvage the conversation, that was really the end of it for us too.  And as we stood up to leave the restaurant, Trina threw one more furious glance in our direction, fitting punctuation to our evening that, for a while, had taken us out of our problems, only to be forced back in on the swordpoint of Trina's glare.

W.6

The walk back to the music building was somewhat subdued for the four of us.  Arie seemed still absorbed in her problems, and Meredith had withdrawn.  (Jeez, and just when I'd gotten used to thinking of her as a friend too.)  Derek was watching the world around him, but he seemed content to let silence reign.  It seemed to be up to me.

"I never had a chance to ask you," I said to Arie.  "Do you feel better about last night?"

"Yeah, speaking of that," Derek said.  "What was up with you two after choir yesterday?"

I blinked at Derek.  I hadn't realized he'd seen anything.  I hadn't realized there'd been anything to see.  Guess that just shows me.  But Arie's face was bleak and cold, and she said, "We slept together."

"Ooooh," said Derek immediately, "how was it?"  And I wondered at the hurt he was concealing in his gut.  If I'd found out Derek had slept with someone I had a crush on, I'd be jealous.

Arie looked up at me slowly.  Then she held up her forearm.  Despite the clammy, slanting orange light, the three red lines were clearly visible.

"Oh," said Derek.

I sighed.  "That's what I thought."

"What, did you expect anything else," she said.  "You didn't like it."

"Yes I did," I said.

"You said no."

"I did not," I said.  "I hesitated, but I never said no."

"Isn't that the same thing," Arie asked.

"There's this old saying I've heard," Derek supplied.  "'No means No, Maybe means No, and Yes means No in the morning.'"

I laughed.  I couldn't help it.  It was a really accurate saying.  "Dammit, Derek, shut up, I'm trying to convince her that yes means yes in the morning."  And he grinned and shut up.

"Look, Arie," I said, serious again.  "I've been where you are.  Exactly where you are."

"Right," she said, clearly not believing.

"I have," I said.  "I was in a situation once where I pushed for it, and...  The other person wasn't as sanguine about it."  I decided it was safer to keep Sajel's identity a secret for now.  "I tortured myself about it for two years.  Until last night."

"What changed last night," Meredith asked from my right.  Good, she'd returned to the land of the living.

I shrugged.  "I got put into the other side of the situation.  And I realized that there's no point in regretting it, because it can't be changed.  Only learning from it."

"Call this my lesson, then," Arie said, holding up her arm again.

"I don't," I said.  "I call that needless self-torture.  Learning is all well and good, but you don't need to incise it into your skin."

She sighed.

"Look, Arie," I said, treading carefully.  When Sajel had told me this, it had only made me feel worse; maybe if I was careful, I could make Arie feel better.  "I enjoyed it.  It was fun.  I don't have any regrets about it.  I hesitated because we were just friends—but we still are just friends, and we still had fun.  It could've turned out worse, it could've turned out a lot worse—like, one of us could have an unreciprocated crush on the other—but it didn't.  So don't beat yourself up.  You got what you wanted, and I had fun too."

She sighed again, but later I learned that it was a sigh of ending, not of grief.  She'd remembered the revelation at Steve's and Shannon's hands—Don't grade down, grade up.  Arie wasn't feeling particularly guilty about manipulating me, as I had about pushing Sajel; instead, she'd worried about the repercussions.  Now there were none, and as sexual encounters go, it had been a pretty good one.  The issue about whether or not I was really into it was the only thing that had gone wrong.  A bunch of other things had gone right.  If you assume that everything's going to be a mess, and then work your way up...  We'd done a pretty good job.

"You know," Arie said, "it's kind of funny.  We're supposed to be in The Program to become comfortable with our own bodies.  With sex, with our sex, with having sex...  But I think I'm already comfortable with that."  She gave me a rueful smile.  "Part of it yesterday was that I hadn't gotten laid in forever.  I just wanted it so bad."

I smiled.  "Glad to have been of service."

"So...  What's the point of me being in The Program," she asked.  "I'm already comfortable with people feeling me up, with having sex, with...  All that stuff."

I wasn't sure if that was the truth or not—had she ever asked for relief?—but now wasn't the time to challenge it.  "Maybe..." I said, "Maybe you have to get used to the other parts of yourself."

Arie was silent for a moment.  "You mean these," she said, indicating her arms.

"Yeah," I said.

Arie was silent for a long time.

"George and Penny are cute together," Derek said into the gap.

"Yes, they are," Meredith said.  "You could almost see the connection between them."

"Yeah, it's on her finger," Derek said.

"Before that," Meredith said.  "More than that.  Brandon, you saw."

And I remembered their reaction when they heard about Arie's sister, the way they had turned to each other without thought or question, turned to each other for support.  I remembered the way they stood, and the way they walked—always oriented to one another, always aware of each other.  And I nodded.  "Yeah.  I saw."

"I didn't see," Arie said crossly.

"That's because your face was buried in your salad bowl," Derek said cheerfully, and we laughed, and even Arie smiled a little.

"You learn to see it," Meredith said.  "You'll catch on."

But Derek was looking at me—no, past me, at Meredith.  No, not at Meredith.  At both of us.  And he had the strangest, most serious expression on his face.  And I said, "What, what is it," but Derek just shook his head slowly and turned away.

Now I was the one who wasn't seeing.

When we got back to the music building, things devolved into a sort of chaos.  The musicians that had gone home were beginning to arrive again, dinnered and ready to go, but we still had fifteen minutes before we had to assemble, do our last-minute run-throughs and rehearsals, and then troop over to the auditorium (the gym) and perform.  Mr. Gunderson and Mrs. Bickson didn't bother trying to establish control; they just told us to be back at 7:30 on the dot, and then let us go.  I wondered how many people would be late.

One—another—pleasant surprise was the advent of an old stranger, wearing the black shirt of the orchestra and bearing a clarinet.  "Hi, um.  Brandon.  I'm Christa Sternbacher, and I'm in your English class."

"Yeah, I remember," I said, shaking her hand.  I had no idea where this was going, but decided to be polite.  "Didn't you...  Err, weren't you sitting with us at lunch on Monday?"

"Yeah, I was, along with Meredith," said Christa.  "I, um.  After that, I was all set to give you the benefit of the doubt, but...  Well, what you said.  About The Program being a school-wide thing, you know?  You were really right.  And, after English class, when all of us..."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Derek start to ask a question, and then back down.  "Yeah," I said, not really wanting Christa to go through it all again.  (Derek and I have got to start taking some classes together.)

"I don't know, seeing you, and seeing Arie...  It's a little weird, you know?  Because...  Because you're different.  You have this difference, you have this depression thing...  And the whole time while you were standing up there, I kept trying to tell myself, It's no difference, it's nothing at all, it's only skin-deep, you talked to him, you know, and..."  She sighed.  "I couldn't make myself believe it."

I said nothing.

"So, I...  I just wanted to apologize," Christa said.  "For...  You deserved better than that, from all of us, for being brave enough to share—well, everything, even if part of that includes your need for Relief—you deserve better than that, and I'm sorry I chickened out."

Well, isn't that interesting.  "It's okay," I said.  "It's not...  We're scared of things we don't understand.  Human beings, I mean.  It's not always easy to conquer that.  And, at least you're trying.  You deserve points for that."

"And so do you," she said.  "I just wish we could've met half-way."

"We're trying," I said.  "Hopefully we'll get there."

"Well, I just wanted to let you know that...  If you need relief again...  I'll try to be better about it next time."

After an instant's astonishment, I decided to essay a small joke.  "Why, Miss Sternbacher.  If I didn't know you better, I'd say you'd just propositioned me."

"I—  No, I—"  Christa Sternbacher turned an alarming shade of red.

"It's okay, I was joking," I said.  "I appreciate the sentiment."

"Well, I sure hope you were joking!" she said, and I heard tones of Jane in her voice.  "I mean, don't, like, don't work yourself up or something!  I'm just saying that...  I'm just saying that, there's someone out there who's going to try to do better from now on."

"Okay," I said, smiling.  "Thank you."

And just like that, I had another friend.

But while Christa had joined the conversation, Meredith had disappeared somewhere.  Over the past few hours I had gotten used to seeing her nearby, and it was somewhat strange not to have that.  "Hey, have you guys seen Meredith anywhere," I asked them, and they could only tell me that she'd gone out into the lobby—maybe to the bathroom, maybe elsewhere.  I went out to look.

It wasn't too hard to find her.  She was sitting on the same bench she'd found me at all those months ago...  Yesterday.  Less than thirty hours ago.  She was hunched over, her arms across her stomach and her hands curled around her elbows; and even at this distance, I could see the pain on her face.

She had such a beautiful face.  She was so beautiful.  The sad, crying look on her face only brought out the clarity of her skin, her full lips and softly-rounded cheeks, the elegance in the way her features had been painted.  The strength of her emotions made her look defenseless; her vulnerability in this public place made her look strong.  My throat tightened under me—part grief; part lust.

"Whoa, you look unhappy.  Something at dinner disagree with you?"

Her dark eyes were huge.  "No.  Not that."

"Um."  I rubbed at my hair.  "Do you wanna talk about it?  I know I'm just a, a weird bass with no clothes on, but, um.  You know.  If you want to talk, I'd like to listen."

Meredith Levine looked up at me for a moment, but I got the feeling she was not looking at me, but rather was looking past me: away, at some distant thing only she could see.

Then she sighed.  "All right.  I guess I might as well."

I sat down next to her.  And then, I did something I wouldn't have ever done, if not for how much time she'd spent touching me at dinner.  Normally I just don't hug people, because I figure they'll take it as a come-on.  But Meredith had been touching me and holding my hand and everything all through dinner; I figured she was just one of those touchy-feely types.  I figured she'd understand I was just being a friend.  So I did what I wanted to do—I reached out and gathered her into my arms and held her.

And as she settled back into my arms, just as naturally as if she had always lived there, she gave a deep, grievous sigh, and I felt as though some enormous weight had left her shoulders.

I didn't know what to think about her.  It was easy to just treat her as a friend, to just...  Play around with her.  To assume there was nothing else, to ignore the deep beauty in her eyes, the sweet curve of her cheek, the warm feeling of her body against mine.  I didn't know what she thought.  I liked her.  I wanted to ask her out.  But I didn't know what she thought.  I wanted to ask her, I wanted to find out...  But what if the answer was just a wan, "I'm sorry, Brandon."  Then...  That would be too much to be borne.

No.  Better to stay still.  Better to say nothing.  Better to just be supportive and pleasant and cheerful.  Better to ignore how comforting it is to feel her next to me, how much I love the way the light falls on her cheek, the smell of her hair, the sound of her voice.  Better to just be...  A friend.

"So, it wasn't something you ate," I said.  "What's wrong?"

She was silent for a moment, not moving, not fidgeting, not even breathing.  "You really don't see it?"

I snorted.  "I seem to be the only blind one around here.  No, I don't see it."

"I thought you knew."  Her voice was quiet, almost grieving.  "I mean, you know, here you are...  I thought you were just playing with me."  Her hand moved to cover mine, her fingers twining delicately with mine.  "I thought it would be obvious."

My heart pounded.  Her body was warm and light and long in my arms.  I could feel the press of her shoulder blades against my chest.  The seam of her pants pressed against my leg.  The palm of her hand rested on the back of mine.  Her cornsilk hair grated against my cheek.  It smelled of strawberries.  I could feel the rise and fall, the shifting, as she breathed.  When she spoke, I could feel the faint vibrations of her voice.

"I didn't want you to catch on," she said, looking away.  I thought I heard tears in her voice.  "I didn't want you to realize.  I don't know Jane Myers that well, but well enough.  I know she'd blow a gasket."

Jeez!  And just when I'd finally decided to treat her as Just A Friend, too!

Well, good thing I wasn't dating Jane then, because Meredith was right.  If Jane couldn't stomach me hugging my best friend, or someone in pain...  Though, interestingly enough, both Sajel and Arie were people I had had sexual contact with.  Not to mention how Arie had been naked.  For someone who stomps on her urges that much, Jane can be awfully prurient sometimes.  He's hugging someone, it must be a sexual threat!

"I didn't want you to have to make a choice," Meredith was saying.  "Because...  Because I know who you'd choose."

"You do," I asked.

"You and Jane don't have sex," Meredith said.  "You don't even make out.  I mean, she's close-mouthed, but if you're in classes with someone for three years, you eventually find out these things.  I don't see you two together that often, but I don't remember seeing you two even kiss, PDA rules or no.  And I've heard Sajel talking to her, that you complain enough about how little time you two get together.  She says you feel really marginalized.  But you still stick with her.  There's gotta be something holding you to her, something strong.  And... I guess I can't compete with that."

My first thought was, Wow, she's gonna be surprised.  My second was, How the hell does she know all this?  I didn't know she knew Sajel, I didn't know she shared any classes with Jane, I didn't know how she'd heard about me...  But she had most of her facts right.  Except for the last conclusion.

"So, here I am," she said, "and I'm trying not to cry, but, but it's not working, and, I'm sorry if I'm weirding you out, but I'm going to sit here and enjoy this moment, because I know it won't ever happen again, and—"

"Jane and I broke up," I said.

She was silent, not moving, not fidgeting, not even breathing.

"Just this morning," I said.  "For basically the same reasons you said."

"You did?"  She whirled to face me, startled.  Her eyes were huge.

I shrugged, or at least as much as I could, held against the wall by the gentle pressure of her body.  "I do feel marginalized.  And yeah, there was something holding me to her.  I wanted to see what she was protecting with that shell of hers.  I figured it would be something to behold.  But the thing is...  She didn't want me to see it.  She didn't want to let me under it.  And once I really realized that...  There wasn't really any point in staying."

Meredith nodded.  I knew she understood what I was saying.  Sometimes you talk to people, and you can tell there's a missing connection somewhere—not so with Meredith.  In fact, never with Meredith.  She just always seemed to...  Know.

"You, on the other hand," I said.  "You do want me to see."  I don't know how I knew that, or why I said it; only that I did, and I did.  It felt right to me.  I looked at her and I just knew.  "You want me under the shell.  You want me to be more than just a friend, you want me to be a part of you."

"How do you know these things," Meredith whispered.

"How did you know how I felt about Jane," I asked.

"I don't know, it...  It just..."  She shrugged.  "It felt right.  If I'd been dating her, I'd have felt the same way.  It probably wasn't for the sex, so you must have figured there was something beautiful there."  Which was, of course, spot-on.

"Well, it's the same here," I said.  "All I know is that it's how I feel about you.  I want you to see.  I want you to be part of my life.  And then this sense that...  We're similar, somehow."

I could hear the wry smile in her voice.  "So, what?  If it's true of you, it's true of me?"

"It's fine with me," I said, smiling, "I'd rather have someone I understand."

"So much for opposites attract," Meredith said.

"Well, adventure and excitement is cool.  But I get that from my normal life anyway.  I'd rather have someone I can depend on."

"Hmmm," said Meredith, a smile audible in her voice, and she closed her eyes and sighed happily.

"Is this where that thing on Monday came from," I asked.

"No," she said.  "Well, sort of.  Monday was partly...  That, and partly feeling bad about what happened in math class.  On Tuesday, I really fell for you."  She gave me a smile out of the corner of her eye.  "I just didn't have the guts to say anything."

"You did today," I said.

"Yeah," she said.  "I still can't—  I mean, wow.  It worked.  If this is a dream, I swear I'm going to kill myself when I wake up."

I winced.  "Don't say that.  It's not a thing to joke about.  And besides, you have nothing to regret.  It's not a dream.  And you were incredibly brave to open yourself up like that.  I don't know if I could've done the same."

A vocal smile: "Hmm.  I guess I made the right move there."

"Definitely.  Great way to start, with him in total awe of you."

She turned to look at me.  "Are you?"

"Absolutely," I said, totally honest.  "The most beautiful girl in school, and she has the heart of a lion.  What's not to like?"

"Hmm," she said again, and settled back against me.  The silence stretched as we sat there, contented.

"So," I said eventually.  "I suppose I should probably ask if you'd like to go out some time."

Meredith sat up; immediately I felt colder, and my arms felt empty.  She looked me in the eye.  "No, I don't think that's a good idea," she said.  Before I could panic, she continued: "Jane, remember?  How do you think she'd feel if tomorrow she saw me on your arm?"

"Who cares what Jane feels," I asked.

"You do," she said, not disapproving.  "Maybe she's not your girlfriend anymore, but she's still your friend, and you don't like seeing her unhappy."

I grimaced.  "Yeah, you're right."  How selfish could one man get?

"And besides, it'd make us look bad," she said.  "You dump her and immediately find me?  I mean, I know Hollywood people do that all the time, but I like to think we're a bit smarter than that."

"Yeah, that's true," I said.  Maybe it was just incredible luck, but no one would interpret it that way.  Well, the ones close to us would, and who cared what anyone else thought—if they weren't willing to listen to our side of the story, if they were going to judge from ignorance, then their opinions weren't worth much anyway...  But I guessed we might as well keep up appearances.

"Besides," Meredith said, sitting back again (Ahhhh...).  "Maybe we can't go out, but we can still be boyfriend and girlfriend."

I laughed.  "Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?  Date first, then boyfriend?"

"Do you care?" she challenged, grinning.

"No."

"Well, see then?"  She giggled, and I laughed too.

We sat like that, in a companionable silence, communing only by the satisfactory pressure of skin on skin, the warmth of our bodies.  Until finally Derek ventured out into the lobby to say, "Oh, there you are.  It's time, guys.  We're up."

W.7

Open House was hardly a new experience for me; I've done three of them so far.  But in some ways it was utterly new, because for the first time, I, Arie Chang, was naked in school.  Naked in Open House.  And boy, did people stare.  I was just glad that none of the parents could see my scars.

We musicians were the opening act, so we had to be seated and ready on our metal chairs under the gaudy yellow-white neon lights before Dr. Zelvetti went up on the little stage that had been erected underneath one of the basketball hoops.  I swear, they need to change the chairs out here, get us some plastic ones.  My pussy lips are going to freeze and fall off!  To our right, closer towards the wall, were risers for the choir to stand on, but when they weren't singing, they sat in chairs behind us.  Stupid Brandon.  He had a bunch of people to hide behind while he sat, whereas I was at the tip of the semi-circle, displayed in profile in all my nude glory.  Yeah.  What glory.  If I were pretty like Sajel, or had boobs like Shannon Salvolestra, who was standing at the back next to Steven Proust and the two sophomores...  But nope.  The week I have to be on display is the week everyone sees what a dumb body I have.

Then it was time to play, and I had other things to worry about.

First off we did the Pachelbel Canon, which I'm sure you've heard of.  We play that every year, as many times as we can.  I wonder if there's some Guinness World Record for number of times an orchestra manages to play it, because all my friends who play in other orchestras say that they play it a lot too.  Too often, as far as I'm concerned.  Yeah, it's nice, but not after fifty times a year.

The Mozart song, Ave Verum, is not very difficult to play or sing.  But it's harder than it looks.  It's like playing Mary Had A Little Lamb on the piano: anybody can do it, but how many can do it well?  How many can make art out of it?  It's so simple that the slightest error or deviation sticks out like a sore thumb.  And this Ave Verum is just the same.  In retrospect, I'm a little surprised they let us do it.  High school students aren't known for their precision.  But people applauded, and that was what mattered.

And then we were done and it was Brandon and Meredith and Derek's turn.

I don't normally pay attention to the doings of the choristers.  It's boring, you know?  Especially when you're depressed.  I'm sure it sounds nice, but I have no idea what's going on, so they can do whatever they want.  If you've never tried to listen to classical music casually, it's hard to do.  You have to study it, as opposed to popular music, which is just right there for you.  Classical music, I think, you can't really understand and enjoy unless you've played it.  I've never sung in choirs.  So it was just noise to me.

I actually listened, though, this time.

Their first song was by Igor Stravinsky, an Ave Maria—not the usual Bach one you hear (and I've played).  This was really different.  Most classical music tends to stick with thirds and fifths and sixths—chords named for the number of spaces between the notes, assuming the first note is 'one'.  Like, you go to a piano, you press one white key (doesn't really matter which) and then press another one several spaces to the right (you always count upward), so that there's three unpressed white keys between—that's called a fifth.  Likewise, if there's only one unpressed white key between them, that's a third.  Those are the most frequent chords you hear—especially both together, which is called a triad because there's three notes being played.

Stravinsky had none of that.  Instead, there were sevenths—yeah, five unpressed white keys between.  Try playing the One, Three, Five and Seven at the same time—that's the sort of noise Stravinsky was making.

(Me?  Oh, no, I'm not like a composer or anything.  You just pick this sort of thing up if you've been playing music for long enough.  I have ten years of experience, I'm bound to know something by now.)

And the Palestrina was even nicer.  It was slow, it was luxurious, and absolutely gorgeous.  And I can't explain to you how it sounds, you're just gonna have to learn to read music.  Or find a copy of the song somewhere.  It's called Sicut Cervus, and the composer's name is Giovanni Palestrina.  Tell him Arie Chang sent you.

Then, after the parents applauded, Dr. Zelvetti took the stage.  She said basically what you'd expect: This is a great school, but it's made better by your contributions; your children and their talents are what make this place great; we're cool, we kick ass, blah blah blah.  Then she introduced some of the students standing at the far wall of the gym.  All of them represented important student organizations.  Steve Proust, Shannon Salvolestra and several others were here on behalf of the athletics department (applause); Candace Bernholtz, the sophomore girl participant, was the ASB secretary (applause), and her Program Buddy, John Warfield, represented the Society of Technology (applause); Claire Redecker and Roland Smits were here to showcase the art department (applause); and so on and so forth.  All of these people would be available for conversation in the Tegman Room, also known as the cafeteria; it was simply the largest enclosed space the school had, and the presence of plumbing didn't hurt when catering to large numbers of people.

"Oh, before we go," Dr. Zelvetti said.  "One more thing.  You may have noticed that several of our students have no clothes on.  This was not an organizational oversight."  Polite laughter.  "Instead, there's one more program that will be represented at the Tegman Room: The Program.

"I'm sure you've all heard of it.  In the eleven years since its inception, it has spread to over a hundred schools around the country.  Most recently, Westport High started a version of it three years ago, though it took them two of those three to really get it to work.  We've decided to follow their example.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Naked In School program has been instituted at Mount Hill High.  The first eight participants are going through it as we speak, and we're lucky to have six of them here tonight.  You've met Mr. Proust, Ms. Salvolestra, Ms. Bernholtz, Mr. Warfield; and involved in our music department are juniors Arie Chang and Brandon Chambers."  The other participants had all stepped forward as their names were called—not that they needed to; their lack of clothing drew eyes as surely as light draws moths—and Brandon and I, exchanging startled glances, stood in our places when Dr. Zelvetti gestured for us to do so.  "These young adults will also be in the Tegman Room, representing The Program."  There was polite applause mixed with generalized murmurs.

Brandon and I just exchanged glances; Brandon and Meredith and Derek and I.  Nobody had told us this was coming.  What exactly were we going to say?  And naked!  Naked in school!  I had scars on my arms!  Other kids were one thing, but the parents—  And my parents!  Fuck, how was I going to hide those things from them!

"The decision to implement The Program here was not taken lightly," Dr. Zelvetti was saying.  "Westport has had a rough track record, including several participants hospitalized for assault or nervous breakdown.  Even if, this year, The Program succeeds spectacularly there, they will still only be hitting two for four.  Nonetheless, The Program has succeeded spectacularly there, which I believe mitigates some of its earlier crises.  I have met personally with a number of The Program's strongest proponents at Westport; they are all mature, well-adjusted, intelligent, cheerful...  And completely comfortable with their bodies.

"But, as Mr. Chambers reminded us only today—Brandon, stand up again."  Brandon did, blood simultaneously rushing to and from his face.  I didn't know you could pale and blush at the same time!...  "Brandon reminded us what The Program really is.  It's a crash course in coping with human sexuality.  The theory our children learn from Sexual Education in sixth grade, seventh grade, eighth grade, is very different from its actual application.  It's one thing to know how a penis works, what a clitoris does, and quite another to be confronted with the actual organ.  Mr. Chambers, just to name one example, has had to learn, over the past three days, to be comfortable with his body.  And every other student has also had to learn to be comfortable with his body.  Because it's there, it can't be ignored...  And shouldn't be.

"I believe in The Program," Dr. Zelvetti said.  "I believe in its fundamental message—that our bodies and our sexuality should be cherished and embraced.  That is what The Program is about, ladies and gentlemen.  And to hear the truth of that, you need only to speak to these participants—or to myself, for I too am a representative of The Program.  And proud to be one."

And then, with no fuss or fanfare, she took off her clothes.

Dr. Zelvetti's pubic hair was salted with white; her skin was the color of coffee.  She had breasts like pillows, capped with prominent, chocolate-colored nipples.  She was a large, heavy woman, but she carried herself with grace.  In her curves, the svelte lines of her body, the fullness of her breasts and buttocks and hips, we saw the mother goddess, the nurturing female who birthed us, bathed us, watched us grow, let us go—the eternal mother, watching over us in benign complacence, arms and bosoms always ready to receive us home.

As soon as the assembly ended (the orchestra and choir packing up and heading back to the music building), I caught Dr. Zelvetti's attention.  Brandon, clearly having picked up my mood, backed me up.  He was muttering to himself in abject shock: "She referenced me!  Jesus fucking Christ, she referenced me!  In front of the parents!"

"Ah, you two," Dr. Zelvetti said, clearly unperturbed by her lack of clothes, by the variety of looks the parents gave her.  "I need you to circulate for about half an hour.  You don't have to stay 'til ten, 'cause I forgot to tell you that I'd need you, but—"

"Dr. Zelvetti," I said, "I can't."

"Why on earth not," Dr. Zelvetti said.

"My parents are here."

"Her scars," Brandon said.  "They don't know about 'em."

Dr. Zelvetti's eyes focused on me, and I squirmed.  Suddenly I wished Derek were there.  Brandon was solid, but I bet you he had other people on his mind.

"You haven't told them about your condition," Dr. Zelvetti asked.

I shook my head.

"You said you would.  When I asked you to, it wasn't a three-weeks-from-now thing, Arie, it was—"

"I haven't been home all day, Dr. Zelvetti," I said.  "I've been here.  We had rehearsal until five and then Mr. Gunderson and Mrs. Bickson took some of us out to dinner."

Dr. Zelvetti regarded me, implacable and unmovable.  "Then," she said, "maybe this is the time to tell them."

"I can't!" I said.  "Not here!  There's billions of people here!"

"So take them outside to the quad, there'll be no one there."  The cafeteria was one side of the quad.

I sighed.  Easier said than done.  What are these marks, Arie?  Oh, they're just some scars I inflicted on myself because I'm fucked up.  Riiight.

Dr. Zelvetti sighed, and suddenly all the ire was gone from her face, and there was only compassion, tired compassion, in her voice.  "Look, you.  I'm not doing this to be mean.  I'm doing this because I care.  I care, Arie, why do you think I let you make that deal in the first place?  I don't like to see you suffer.  Sure, maybe you got problems, but there's a nice girl under them, fighting to get out.  Look at the friends you made in the past half-week.  Steven, Shannon, Brandon...  There's hardly anyone I'd recommend above them.  And you did it even buried under all that stuff you gotta deal with."

Brandon, behind my right shoulder, was throwing waves of startled shock.  I just felt wary.

"So, who put all that stuff on you?  It's your parents, Arie, that's the truth of it.  They don't see who you really are.  And you gotta show them.  It'll be a long, hard road, child, no question of that, but you're ready for it now.  You got all the friends you'll need; you got all the confidence you'll need.  And you got no clothes to hide behind, either.  It's the perfect time to be honest with them.  All you need to do is do it.

"You're in there for half an hour.  If you can think of a way to avoid your parents, I give it to you.  I'm not going to make you confront them or anything.  And no, maybe this isn't the best place to do it.  But you know in your heart, you, that you're only delaying the inevitable."

She turned away, her attention already in the hands of someone else, and I sighed.  Yeah.  I did know.  Brandon gave me a concerned look, but I said, "Give me a minute," and he nodded and stood away for a time.

My mind reeled.  Tell them?  No, oh hell no.  But I have to.  Yes.  No.  Yes.  No.  Yes, no.  Yes no yes no yes no yes no.  Gahh!  Banging my head against a wall probably wouldn't shut up the argument, but maybe I could at least put myself into a coma.

In the end, though, it wasn't me who decided it.  It was Trina.  The sight of Trina, flitting away with her friends.  That long, lauded hair of hers floating on the air like mist.  The bird-trill of her laughter, the bounce in her step.  The secret, unbearable knowledge of what she was hiding.

We depressed people—we're not so good at loving ourselves.  Depression is born of a root feeling of inadequacy: I'm not good enough, I'm not worthy.  But we make up for it with the strength with which we love others.  For one, it's what Brandon calls the 'shoelace cycle,' after the analogy he uses to describe it.  (There's probably a real psychological name for it, but none of us know it.)  You've got someone who can't tie her own shoelaces, she can only tie other people's.  So she figures, "I'll tie someone else's shoelaces, in the hopes that they'll tie mine."  And so she does.  Sometimes it even works.

But for two, it's a response to those feelings of worthlessness.  We see ourselves as worthless, but maybe we can find some value in someone else's eyes.  And, besides—if we can't love somebody, if we can't help somebody, if we can't make their lives somehow better...  What worth do we have at all?

So, in the end, it wasn't really concern for myself that swayed my heart.  It was compassion.  It was concern for my sister.  My sister the bitch; my sister the callous.  My sister, the suffering.  Trina.

I guess Brandon understood the look on my face.  "You're going to do it."

"I have to," I said.

He smiled at me, and squeezed my hand.

"But not here," I said.  "Not now."

I wasn't sure if he'd approve of that or not.  I'm still not sure if he did.  But he at least accepted it.  "So, then, you need a way to hide from your parents for half an hour.  Or at least hide your arms from them."

"And they'll be looking for me, you can bet," I said.

Brandon was appraising me candidly.  "You know, they're not that visible."

I snorted.  "Yeah right."  Every second of the day, I can feel them.  I'm honestly surprised no one else had ever noticed before: in my mind, they burn through the clothing I hide them with.

"Meredith, Derek," Brandon called, and put the question to them.  Derek was judiciously optimistic, but Meredith shook her head.  "Maybe, but I wouldn't bet on it.  I'm sorry."

I sighed.  "I'm fucked."

"Can't you just—"  Derek was having a brainstorm; his face was animated, and he pointed with one hand and bounced up and down on his heels.  "Look how Meredith's standing."  She had her hands clasped behind her.  "Can't you just stand like that?"

Looking over at her, I imitated the stance.  I could feel the skin of my forearms, rough from the row of scars, against the tops of my ass cheeks.  Derek immediately rushed around to inspect the view from the back.

"Well, you can't see a thing from the front..." Brandon said.

"And not a whole lot from the back either," Derek said.  "If someone else asks, you can say that you, I dunno, you got into an accident as a child or something.  And if your parents ask..."  He trailed off into thought.

"Will they?" Meredith asked.  "Arie, you talked about—I dunno, their vision of you or something.  If they don't see your scars with their own eyes...  And they won't.  And they probably won't pay attention to your back either.  So.  With your scars hidden, will they even notice?"

Meredith had a point.  'Out of sight, out of mind' was a literal truth where my mother was involved.  "Maybe there is a hope of pulling it off."

"And besides," Derek said behind me, "anyone standing back here will be paying attention to something besides her arms."  And he slapped my ass.

Brandon and Meredith burst into laughter.  I fixed Derek with a cool stare.  He grinned unrepentantly.

We went with it.  "If we wait until everyone leaves the auditorium, maybe we can hack some minutes off," Brandon said, and we did, standing around nervously, trying to look inconspicuous.  When most everyone else had left, we finally joined the exodus.

Oh, man, it was cold out there!  Derek laughed.  "There, that'll solve your problems even more—now people'll have something to look at from the front too."  He meant my nipples, which of course had shriveled up.  If he'd slapped my boob, though, I would've kicked him.

Brandon and Meredith, in front of us, exchanged smiling glances, and the next time I had a chance to see her from the front, I noticed that her nipples were visible too, making impressions against her shirt.  She rolled her eyes and then pushed her chest out as though for my inspection and approval, a sardonic look on her face.

She actually has really small boobs, does Meredith.  Probably no larger than a A-cup.  I know she wishes for bigger ones sometimes.  I'm really glad she found Brandon, then, because I'm not sure how many people besides him wouldn't complain about small boobs.

We managed to evade my parents until the last few minutes of our allotted half-hour.  Meredith and Derek wandered around with us, across the blotched, streaked linoleum floor of the Tegman Room, under that bizarre neon light, wearing their red shirts with the choir logo on the breast and that ridiculous dancing-man-with-rainbow glyph on the back that was the music department's logo.  That helped identify us to the gaggle of parents.  The two with the clothes fielded most of the questions about the choir; we dealt with the Program-related questions.  Though occasionally Derek or Meredith would have to forward an orchestra question to me.  People always looked a little surprised when this happened.  What, did they think that, because I was naked, I had no other function?  "I feel ornamental," I said to Brandon after the umpteenth surprised look, after Derek had been asked the umpteenth question Brandon could've answered just as well, and he nodded in agreement.

Not that there weren't a lot of Program questions.  The parents were skeptical—understandably; they were old and hadn't quite caught up with the times—but Brandon came up with the perfect response for me, which was to point out that, if not for The Program, I wouldn't know or be friends with any of the three people around me.  Brandon, for his part, spouted something about having been ostracized all his life, and The Program having changed that.  At first I thought he was lying for the sake of politics, until we ran across Claire Redecker, who was standing proudly beside her display of photographs.  Because quite a bit of surface area was devoted to pictures of Brandon.

"See, that's what I mean," Brandon said.  "I have mostly been picked on.  This is probably the first time a stranger has talked to me in a positive manner.  Zero to one, that's an increase of, like, infinity percent.  I'm not complaining."

The centerpiece was a black-and-white close-up on Brandon's head in profile, his fingers steepled across his lips.  Behind him the sky shone in light grey.  His brow was knitted in concentration, and he gazed out in contemplative silence.  He looked solemn.  He looked introspective.  He looked handsome.

Meredith gazed at that photo for a long time.  Then she turned her head to Brandon and took his hand, and they looked at each other wordlessly for a long time.

Claire insisted that Brandon stick around—"So that people can connect the striking, magnificent man in the photos to slack-limbed, cave-chested ol' me," Brandon joked—and it was there that my parents found me.  And it was there that all our subterfuge went for naught.

"Arie.  Arie.  There you are.  We've been looking for you."  "Hi, Mom."

"Who are your friends," my mother asked, and I made the rounds, introducing them to my mother and father, who was hanging back and saying little.  He's always like that at public functions.  "Your singing was beautiful," Mom told the three choristers, and they all thanked her.  Then she turned back to me.  "Arie, why didn't you tell me you'd be here at this talking thing?"

"Because I didn't know," I said.  "The first I heard of it was when Dr. Zelvetti told you guys—"  Meaning the parents.  "—that all six of us would be here."

"I may have to have some more words with the School Board," my mother said.  "First she wouldn't take you out of The Program.  Now she's forcing you to go naked amongst all your classmates's parents.  What everyone must think of you!"

"They think I'm brave, Mother," I said, "for being the first to go through The Program here."  And most of the parents who had stopped to ask about The Program, had said that.  Especially the few who had noticed the results of my 'childhood accident.'  What exactly had happened to me?  Had I gotten my arm caught in a lawn mower or something?  I reminded myself for the umpteenth time to keep my arms behind my back and my elbows tucked in.

"How much longer are you going to be here," my mother asked.

"Not that much," I said, "Dr. Zelvetti said I only had to be here for half an hour.  Then I need to grab my stuff from the music building.  And my clothes at the south entrance."

"I can give her a ride," Brandon offered suddenly.

My mother paid him no mind.  "And how much homework do you have?  Remember, you have your violin lesson tomorrow, so you have to get some of Friday's homework done tonight."

Yes, Mom, I did remember, thank you.  "Not much," I said.  It's not so much that I mind her nagging; it's that she assumes she has to remind me of everything.  Most of it I remember.  But she makes me feel like some sort of deficient retard.  "Just some reading for History, a lab report in Chem, pre-Calc homework...  I think that's it."

"Well, then, come home soon," my mother said.  "We'll be waiting in the car."

"All right, mother," I said, needlessly annoyed with her and glad to be free of her.  And made my one fatal mistake—I turned my back on her.  Give me space, give me some room...  It worked every other time.

Today was the exception.

My father said, "Arie...  What happened to your arms?"

My heart pounded in my chest; blood rushed in my ears.  My knees wobbled.  I wobbled.  The clamor of voices around me dwindled to nothing.

Out of Sight, Out of Mind works on my mother.  But my dad, in case you haven't noticed, is not my mother.

"Arie..."  My mother's voice, louder.  "What happened to your arms?"

Then I felt my mother's long nails at the small of my back, grasping one of my wrists.  I didn't have the wit to resist her.  She pulled my arm away from my back, turning me with it until we faced each other, her eyes glued to my upturned forearm, to the rows of scars there.

"Arie!" she said, horrified.  "What happened here!"

In the absolute silence around me—perceived?  Real?—I could feel the stares of my friends on the back of my neck.  Without needing to look, I knew that Brandon's and Meredith's hands were intertwined, hanging onto each other with fearful intensity; that Derek was balanced on the verge of reaching out to me, blocked only by Claire Redecker's outstretched arm; that Claire was staring at me, at my other arm still behind my back, at the scars now so clear to her vision, scars she had never seen before and never heard about yet, staring in shock, staring that single message: why?

Courage welled up within me from somewhere and I said, "I'm not going to tell you."

"Arie!" my mother shrieked.

"Arie, we're your parents," my father said, "and I think we have the right to—"

My mother's cry cut him off.  "How could this happen!  Why did this happen!  Arie, who has been hurting you!"

Now, that's the question, isn't it.  I let a grim exultation fill me.  I could tell you, but you'd never believe me.  "I'm not going to tell you, mother."

"You had better!" my mother said.  As a threat it meant nothing, and I laughed.  No, Mom, I had better not.

"You had better," my mother said again, and this time there was anger in her voice.  "Why will you not tell?  What reason is this?  What...  What madness is this!"

You got it right with the second one, Mom.  "Tomorrow," I said.  "I'll tell you tomorrow."

"What," my mother said, overpowering but only underscoring my father's reply: "Why not today?"

"Because," I said.  "I have to think about how to tell you."  And that was the unbridled truth.  "I have to figure out where to start, and where to end."  And where to work Trina into it.  And how to tell it all in a way that you can understand.  You can understand, Dad, you haven't lost your links to reality.  But Mother...  She lives in her own little world.  I could tell now.  But it would make no sense to her.  And she would only overreact.  Like she was doing now.

"—become involved with...  With this...  Whatever it is!  My daughter, my poor daughter!  All these lines on your arm!  How will you find a husband!  Who will marry a girl with—"

"Mother," I said.  "You're making a scene."

Mom kept going.  "—with all these lines, this deformity, this—"

"MOTHER!"  If there wasn't silence before, there certainly was now.  "Maybe you had best go home."

"Yes, that might be best," my father said, taking advantage of the silence in which Mother gasped, goggle-eyed, like a beached fish.  "But you will explain, Arie.  Tomorrow."

I nodded.  It was a promise.  "Tomorrow."

Dad herded my mother out the door.  Every pair of eyes in the room watched them go.  But when they turned back, Brandon and Meredith and Derek and Claire were standing in front of me, a shield of human bodies.  "Sorry folks, show's over, nothing to see here," Derek was saying, and people were starting to look away.

I sighed.  I had never felt this tired in my entire life.  And the party, I had a hunch, was just beginning.

W.8

It's probably just as well that things calmed down after that.  I don't think any of us could've stood any more emotional right hooks.  In the course of only fourteen hours I had gone from Brandon Chambers, unwilling lover of Arie Chang, to Brandon Chambers, naked in school; Brandon Chambers, speech-giver extraordinaire; Brandon Chambers, ex-boyfriend of Jane Myers; Brandon Chambers, both sighted and blind; Brandon Chambers, boyfriend (but not date) of Meredith Levine; Brandon Chambers, Program Representative...  Just how many roles could one guy fill in a day?

And poor Arie.

It was a subdued group that shuffled back to the music building to retrieve our clothes and backpacks.  It was really starting to be cold out, and we sat around in the choir room for quite a while, ostensibly trying to find body heat from somewhere, but really just reluctant to leave—reluctant, because of all the things that had happened; what if someone left before the shit stopped flying?  It would be such an act of betrayal.  None of us dared to be the first to go.

I had a solution for that, for part of it at least.  "I guess I'll be giving you a ride after all," I said to Arie.  "Anyone else need one?"

"If you don't mind," Derek said, raising his hand, his cell phone halfway to his lips.  "That way my parents don't have to pick me up."  As it turned out, he and Arie lived about fifteen minutes' walk from each other.

I was kind of hoping that Meredith would need a ride too, but no, she drove.  At the door, we exchanged hugs and went our lonely, separate ways.  "No kissy," Derek asked, and I shook my head: "Too tired."  And not entirely sure how she'd react.  But more than that—secure, somehow, in the knowledge that I didn't need to try.  That tomorrow, when we were both feeling more rested, less rattled by the chaos of the day—tomorrow, if I wanted to kiss her, she'd be game.  That it wasn't a question of if, as it had so often been with Jane, but rather a question of when.  And later was fine with me.  It was that constant, irrational no that I'd had problems with.

After we dropped Derek off, Arie said, "Brandon...  Can we go to your place again?"

I stared at her.

She sighed.  "I don't want to go home.  I'll have to walk in the door with my violin...  I'd have to deal with my sister's bitching...  I'd have to deal with Mom pecking at me like a duck...  I'd have to put my face on.  I wouldn't be able to hide.  I can't take that right now."

"So you wanna come to my house," I said.

She made a smile that wasn't happy.  "It's emptier than my house is.  And more full, too.  It's got more people in it that I can trust."

"And how long were you planning on staying," I asked.

She shrugged hopelessly.  "What would be the point of going back?"

"So, you want to stay all night," I said.  "Were you...  Were you planning on things happening?  Like...  Yesterday?"

"No," she said.  "Oh God no."

I wonder where my brain was.  Because I said, "It's been a while since I've had a sleepover," and put the car into gear.

Digging into a spare room, I found a sleeping bag for her to use; digging into my father's closet, I found an oversized T-shirt for her to wear.  This took about twenty minutes, during which Arie took a shower, aided and abetted by some of my mother's bath supplies.  Once she got out, I got in.  The bathroom was still filled with billows of steam and fragrance; in them, her presence lingered, tangible and undeniable.  For just a moment, I was horny again, horny for her body, horny for that undefinable, unquenchable quality that we call woman; then water cascaded down, bringing with it a memory of Meredith's silent face, and I had other, more mundane things to worry about.

Arie looked lonely in the navy-blue sleeping bag, pale and lonely and sad.  It seemed to dwarf her, coming up to her chin, swallowing her whole in its maw.  I felt really bad for her.

"Arie," I said, and then stopped.  What was I supposed to say?  I'm sorry.  Well, it wasn't your fault, was it?  Get well soon.  What does that have to do with it?  O, but if mine eyes were daggers, slicing mothers thither'n yon...  Yeah, I don't think we have to answer that one at all.

"Arie, I guess it doesn't mean much, but I care."  They were words, and they tumbled from my mouth before I realized they were there.  "And I hope things get better for you soon."

She opened her eyes.  "No.  It means a lot."

There didn't seem to be much else to say after that, so I turned out the light.  But it was only a few minutes later that Arie spoke again.

"Brandon," she said.  "I'm cold."

"I could get you another blanket, if you want."

"Could I..."  The source of the voice moved as it spoke, suddenly near my ear.  "Could I come up there and join you?"

I blinked.

"I don't want to be alone down here."

"Are you sure nothing's going to happen," I said.

She sighed; I could feel her breath blowing across my face.  "Brandon, I'm too tired to start anything.  I just need a friend."  Not a lover, the unspoken message painted beneath her words.  A friend.

It was late, I was tired.  It was all a little surreal to me.  I held the covers open and moved to the far side of the bed to make room.

"If you wake up and notice I'm hard," I said, "ask before you kick me.  We get those at night sometimes, I can't just turn it off."

"I know," she said.  There was no moon out, and no streetlights anywhere near.  It was hard to see her face.  "I've been in men's beds before."

"Are you going to be all right," I asked her.

The vague, pale Arie-shaped blob that was her face turned towards me.  "I don't know," she said.  "I'll tell you when I find out."

Less alone in our solitude, we slept.