W.1

When I woke up in the morning, my first thought was, Today I get to go out with Mark Spencer.  My life will never be the same.

Which, I think, is probably the most prophetic opening statement I have ever made.

Of course, I didn't know exactly how my life would change.  I had my assumptions, just like everyone else did; after all, I had signed myself up for that ultimate insanity—Christa Sternbacher, naked in school—because I wanted to get asked out, by the likes of Mark Spencer.  He was everything a girl could dream of—smart, funny, an accomplished sportsman, very polite—what, I don't mind when people open doors for me.  A woman's station has some dignity, and I appreciate people who think that way.  Like Mark Spencer.  At least, I think he thinks that way; I mean, it's not like we particularly know each other, he and I.  But then, that's what we're going out on a date for.

Today, I get to go out with Mark Spencer.  My life will never be the same.

WHOOO!

My brother Tommy looked up from his breakfast when I came clattering down the stairs.  "Hi, sis."

"Hi, brother," I said, unaccountably beaming.  Today was such a great day!  I gave him a kiss on the cheek and swung around to get a bowl of cereal.

"Uh," said Tommy, giving me a guarded look.  He's thirteen, and kissing still reeks of cooties to him.  "What's up with you today?"

"I dunno," I said, bobbing across the kitchen.  "I just feel happy."

"Uh.  Ohhh-kay," said Tommy, and buried his face in his cereal.

My mother came into the kitchen, a swish of rustling skirts.  "Hello kids, please hurry, we're already running a bit late."  Mom's able to get into the office on time if she drops us off a little early and then hurries, but it's a half-hour run to drop me off at Mount Hill High and Tommy at DeClessey Junior High, through moody and variable traffic, so she tries to get us out the door as fast as possible, to provide everyone with a buffer of time.  Her supervisors at work are understanding and sympathetic, she says, but I can tell she'd still rather be there on time, of her own ability.  I don't blame her.  Counting on someone else's mercy is never a smart idea.

It was that one statement, and then my mom rushed out again...  Only to return, slowly backpedaling, a thoughtful expression on her face.  "Oh, that's right, Christa.  Today's a big day for you."

"Yep," I said, beaming.

Mom gave me a hug.  "My little baby, all grown up, going on her first date."

I grinned in affectionate annoyance.  "Mother..."

"Oh, is that what's going on," my brother said with a grand indifference.  "I thought she'd hit her head in the night or something."

"Tommy," my mother said, but we were in too good of a mood to really get angry.  Tommy just shrugged and took more cereal into his face.

Mom delivers Tommy first, because DeClessey is closer to our house than Mount Hill, but even then I was there about half an hour early.  Ten minutes of that, easily, went into the undressing at the front of the school; it was kind of surprising how many people were sitting there waiting for me.  But they got their money's worth, I imagine.  Certainly nobody seemed displeased.  One guy even came up and fondled me for a minute or so.  He was no Mark Spencer, though.

Neither Megan nor Debbie was around; or, at least, they weren't at the normal place by the ball closet.  So, a little less ebullient, I swung by north Stetsen.  Zach wasn't there, nor Sajel nor Derek nor Arie; just Brandon and Meredith, watching the crowds, talking in low voices, once sharing a quick, undisturbed kiss.

For a second, I felt a little uncomfortable watching them.  Not twenty-four hours ago I had been determined to win Brandon for myself.  There was no such idea now—Mark Spencer had destroyed the need for it; how things change in twenty-four hours!—but I still felt a little guilty.

"Hey, Christa," Brandon said.  "What brings you around these parts?"

I shrugged.  "Just, hanging around, waiting for school to start."

"You normally get here this early," Meredith asked.

I nodded.  "Mom has to get in to work on time, so she drops me and my brother off a little early."

Meredith nodded.  "That makes two of you."

"Two of who," I asked.

"Well, Zach's here pretty early sometimes, for basically the same reason," Meredith said.  "Kind of appropriate, you know?"

I shrugged.  I suppose you could see it that way.  Me, I wish I knew where Mark Spencer normally spent break times, so that I could hunt him down.

"How is Zach, anyway," Brandon asked.

I blinked, startled out of my thoughts.  "You're asking me?  I thought he was your friend."

"Well, he is," Brandon said, "but he's been...  A little bit close-mouthed recently, because of something unrelated—"

"He and Sajel had a spat," Meredith said blandly.

"Oh," I said.  "That explains why she was coming to hang with us yesterday at lunch."

"Yeah," Brandon said, evidently not fazed by the fact that two of his friends were in a state of open hostilities.  "Anyway, he's been...  Well, quiet.  It's not like him."

I laughed.  "No kidding.  Understatement of the century."

"And we saw you two in that practice room yesterday," Meredith said.  I jumped, startled—were they mad or something?  But no, Meredith simply continued: "He isn't talking to us, not really.  We thought you might have some insight."

I blinked, thinking about it.  Was there anything I knew that might help?  "No, not really," I said.  "We just...  Talked.  He has seemed down in the dumps, but he hasn't told me why."

"Hmm," said Meredith, frowning.  "Guess it's an unsolved mystery."

"Maybe he doesn't trust you enough," Brandon said.  "Which isn't meant to be an insult," he added hastily.  "He's just...  Careful about who he trusts."

"No, I understand," I said.  "I'm much the same."

Meredith smiled at me, as if she knew a secret.  In a second I figured it out: that she and Brandon, somewhere along the line, had become two of those few people I trusted.

"So," Meredith said.  "How's The Program treating you?"

"Nothing from the badlands, if that's what you're wondering," I said.  My hand touched the whistle around my neck, which I had not yet needed.

"We never once suspected," Meredith said.

"But besides that," Brandon said.  "Goodness knows there's more to The Program than staying away from the badlands."

"We're a little interested," Meredith said.

"We have a small stake in it," Brandon added.

"We?" I asked.  Brandon being interested I could understand, but unless I'd missed something...

Meredith indicated Brandon with an incline of the head.  "I go where he goes."

So the loyalty went both ways.  I filed that little tidbit away for future reference.

"And besides," Meredith added.  "Who knows if I might be interested in The Program some day."

"Might be," Brandon said, smiling.  "I helped you fill out the application in October."

Meredith rolled her eyes.  "Yes, dear, and we know you were dreaming about seeing me prancing around naked when you did it."

Brandon gave her a truly ghastly grin.  "Why should I fantasize?  I can see it for real any time I want."

"Any time you want!" Meredith said, a picturesque shock on her face, hands on her hips.  She turned to me.  "A girl decides to be nice to him and has sex with him a couple of times, and look how he starts thinking!"

I shrugged in commiseration.  "They're incorrigible, all of them."

"Did you know," Meredith said, turning back to Brandon, "that in Ancient Greece, women managed to stop a war by agreeing not to have sex with their husbands?"

"Wait, they what," I said.  "How'd that work?  Did both sides agree to do it?"

"No, both sides agreed to not do it," Meredith corrected, "but after they did that, the men had to—"

"Actually, it didn't really happen," Brandon said, a pleasant amusement on his face.  "It was a play from Ancient Greece.  Fiction.  Pure and total imagination.  It was one of their comedies.  Though it's a pretty good idea.  I wonder if you could stop the fighting in Palestine by—"

"I'm trying to make a point, dear," Meredith said frostily, but even I could hear the affection glimmering underneath.  "As I was saying, historically it's always been very easy to lead men around by their phalluses."

"Phallii," Brandon corrected mildly.  "Plural of fungus is fungii, plural of doofus is doofii, plural of phallus is—"

"Thank you, Brandon," Meredith said, now not entirely able to keep a smile from her face.

"Hmm, that's interesting," I said.  "I'll keep that in mind."

"What, the plural of fungus?" Brandon asked hopefully.

"No, the leading boys around by their dicks," I said.  I'm not sure I had ever said that word before, at least not to another person.

Meredith merely looked surprised, but Brandon made the conclusion I was hoping for.  "So your Show Off To The Boys campaign has reached some success?"

"That indeed it has," I said, beaming.

"Ohh, impressive!" Meredith said.  "What sort of success?"

"Well," I said.  "Tonight, at about eight PM, a certain baseball great will be attending the basketball game with a certain young lady on his arm."

"Christa, you play baseball?" Brandon said, totally deadpan.  "I had no idea!"

Meredith broke into helpless laughter.  "What!  Brandon, what does..."

I glared at him.  " 'Lady on his arm'?  What, do I look like a boy to you?  No, on second thought, don't answer that.  Oh God."

Brandon grinned.  "Well, congratulations, Christa, that's good news.  I guess that boy you asked out said yes?"

"Actually, no, he ended up asking me," I confessed.  "But I guess the end result is the same."

"So, who is he," Brandon asked.  "It's not Marcos Grijalva, he's got a girlfriend...  Or," he added in a deadpan tone, "if it is, I'm going to have to be alarmed."

"Actually, it's Mark Spencer," I said, glowing at the memory.  "Isn't that incredible?  It's my first date ever and this totally popular, totally hot guy asks me out!"

Brandon and Meredith didn't answer, and suddenly I realized that the pleased looks had slid off their faces the moment I said his name.

"What, what?" I said.

"Well, that's..." said Meredith.  "Interesting news."

"Very interesting," Brandon said.

"Interesting?" I said.  Something was going wrong here.  I wasn't getting the appreciative excitement I deserved.  "It's the greatest day of my life and all you can say is 'Interesting'?"

"Now hold on," Brandon said, "that's being a bit premature."  At first I thought I had converted him, but then he continued.  "I hardly think it's the greatest day of your whole life.  There'll probably be something a little more important.  The day you get married, say, or the birth of your first—"

"Brandon," Meredith said, mildly reproving, "I don't think that's quite appropriate right now," and Brandon fell silent.  She turned to me.  "Christa...  It's your first date.  We're your friends.  We care about you.  You can't blame us for being cautious."

But I could hear what she wasn't saying.  "Nobody thinks it's gonna work," I grumped.

"We didn't say that," Brandon said cautiously.

"Why, who else said that?" Meredith asked.

"Zach," I spat.  "He thinks it's a disaster."

Meredith and Brandon traded glances, glances that held a significance I didn't understand.  "And Zach...  Said this?" Meredith hazarded, turning back to me.

"Not in as many words, no," I said, "but I could tell he was thinking it."

"I...  See," said Meredith.

"God, does nobody have faith in my dating ability," I raged.  Suddenly I was angry, angrier than I'd realized.  I'd thought I was just annoyed.  But now, as it turned out, just about everyone I'd bothered to ask—Zach, my mother, and now Brandon and Meredith—thought Mark Spencer was bad news.  Even Debbie and Megan had expressed some skepticism.  Well, you know what?  I like Mark Spencer, and I'm gonna go out with him tonight, and if you don't like it, you can just stuff it up your bum!

"Every time I tell people, it's like, Omigod, Christa, that's such a bad idea!  It's like I can't think for myself or something.  Well, you know, maybe I'm all old-fashioned and stuff, but they taught me that when my friends tell me something that I think is a bad idea, I should be supportive anyway.  Because that's what friendship's about.  It's about standing behind someone when they make mistakes—so that they have someone to fall back on."

"Which is what we're doing," Brandon said firmly.  "Christa, you're perfectly free to make your own choices.  We don't agree with this one—no, we don't.  But we'll support you on it all the way.  And hey—who knows.  Maybe we'll be proved wrong.  If you come back and we screwed up, I'll be the first to eat my own words."

"But you don't think you'll have to," I said bitterly.

"Hey: I assume nothing," Brandon said.  "Useful talent sometimes.  What happens, happens.  If I don't have expectations, I'll never be disappointed."

"But you don't think you'll have to," I repeated.

Brandon said nothing, and his silence was all the answer I needed.

"Look, I'm sorry," Meredith said.

"We're sorry," Brandon inserted.

Meredith nodded.  "I'd love to believe that this is the world's biggest case of Beauty and the Beast, where everything we thought we knew about the guy turns out to be wrong, but..."

I sighed.  There was nothing to be done anyway.  I had vented my spleen, and if they still disapproved, they still disapproved.  "It's fine," I said, and Meredith subsided, looking unhappy.

Zach didn't show up until almost the last second before Geometry class started, so I didn't have a chance to talk to him until the passing period between that class and English.  I wasn't sure where he went between the two, either; I tried to catch him, but he eluded me in some way, and the next I saw him, he and Brandon were coming down the hall of downstairs Stetsen together, talking and laughing among themselves, as friends do.  Zach, of course, was naked—to be expected.  I realized I had never had a chance to take a good look at him, though, so I watched him as I stood by the door of the classroom, waiting to get in, watched him as he came down the hallway.  He was tall—as was probably appropriate of a basketball player.  He wasn't seven feet or anything, but certainly scraping six—taller than Brandon, who's getting up there.  His hair was cut short and stayed plastered to his head like a cap, a hedgehog profusion of little spiky tendrils.  Long years of exercise had given him his height, and a wiry physique of long, explosive strength, like a walking series of levers.  As I watched, he and Brandon laughed at some exchanged quip—a smile glimmering like frosted glass, the light in his eyes.  He had a bright smile, a contagious laugh.  I liked them both.

"Hey, Zach," I said.

The humor on his face subsided, fading into a vague downcast expression.  I felt suddenly bad.  I shouldn't dampen his spirits like that!  He should be laughing, he should be smiling—he should be free.

"Uhm," I said, a little hesitant.  "What's goin' on?"

Zach looked away feebly and didn't answer.

"Oh, nothing much," Brandon said, looking from him to me and back again.  "We were just talking, as friends do."

"Ah," I said.

"Yeah," said Zach.  "Yeah."

There was a bit of a silence between us for a moment.

"Listen, Zach, I..."  The words tumbling from my mouth without plan.  "I...  Wanted to thank you."

"Oh," Zach said, his face showing nothing—like he was too tired to move.  "What for?"

"Well, for..."

What did I want to thank him for?  Honestly, I had no idea.  All I knew was that, suddenly, very suddenly, I was really glad to have him as a friend.

"For being my Program partner," I said at last, after much too long a silence.  I was uncomfortably aware of Brandon's eyes.  "I mean, I could've gotten stuck with a real jerk or something, but you've been..."

"Oh, well," said Zach.  "You're welcome."  A sudden, momentary flash of smile.  "It's not like I did anything, Dr. Zelvetti assigns the partner pairings.  You should thank her."

"Well, I will then," I said.  "But I wanted to thank you too.  For not, you know, being a jerk."

A dry, rank smile spread across Zach's face.  "That's what I'm good at."

There was another brief silence, while Brandon's blinking gaze shifted back and forth between us.

"Well, for that matter," Zach said finally.  "I guess I ought to thank you.  I mean, I could've ended up with someone totally uptight and...  And cerebral, and just...  No fun.  But instead, I got this...  This really cute, friendly...  Attractive..."  (I could tell words were eluding him.)  "...Person.  I mean, just...  It's...  It's been great, so...  Thank you."

He says just the sweetest things sometimes.  I guess I was just feeling rather demonstrative that day.  I grabbed him and hugged him.

He jumped.

"Whoa, Zach," I said, smiling.  "It's okay.  It's called a hug.  Friends do this sometimes."

But though he put his arms around me, and I held him for a minute or so, I don't think he calmed down.

I liked being hugged.  I hadn't been hugged in...  Well, a while.  My mom's not especially demonstrative.  And from someone my own age?  Nope, not that either.  I know some girls can just hug their girlfriends, but I'm not one of them, and Debbie's not and Megan's not.  And no guy has ever looked at me before today.  But I liked it—especially this naked thing, the skin on skin, the contact.  I could feel his heart thundering.  It was nice.

And over his shoulder, I could see Brandon, now joined by Arie and Sajel, all of them looking at me with identical wordless stares.

When Zach and I stepped apart, something brushed against my belly: him—Zach, I mean—looking very, very hard.

"Oh, my," I said, smiling.  "Is that for me?"

Zach blushed furiously, so much that it was a wonder he didn't go limp.  But, if anything, he got harder.

"I'm sorry," I said, still amused and somewhat flattered.  It's still news to me that anyone finds me attractive.  "I didn't mean to cause any discomfort."

"No, it's...  It's fine."  He wouldn't meet my eyes.

But when class started and Mr. Cavanaugh asked if Zach needed relief, he did.

Sajel looked away frostily.  A couple of girls volunteered—including Arie, which raised a few eyebrows.  But I looked around, and thought about it, and shrugged, and put my hand up.

What can I say.  I guess I was just feeling generous.  It comes with suddenly feeling really good about yourself.

"Are you sure about this," Zach asked me quietly.

I shrugged.  I grinned.  "I think it'll be a good chance to practice."

Zach looked at me, his expression pained in some way I couldn't explain, and said nothing.

I sank to my knees in front of him, wanting to take a good long look.  I hadn't had a chance on Monday (and the room had been dark too), and since this was my first penis, I wanted to make a good impression.

Megan has asked me to describe one since then—in fact, she asked not two hours later, during break—and I've been at a loss.  It's... a penis.  I'd never seen one before and there wasn't a lot I could explain.  Sure, I can tell you the anatomy and all that—shaft slightly curved, head reddish with engorgement, lack of foreskin, the ridge on the bottom, a whole lot of pubic hair like some sort of misplaced afro—but you really have to have seen one, and held one, to understand.  You can't explain the air of it—the aura of it—the sort of primal beat it throbs to, sitting there in your hand like a live thing only somewhat contained, a live thing you only sort of understand.  It begs to take flight.  It begs to do what it's meant to.  It teeters in your hand, swaying on a balance point, and its only single message is: give me a push, make me go, let me fly.

And I wanted to.

"Uhhh.  Um, Christa, you—you don't have to—you don't have to do that," Zach said, when I took him into my mouth.

"Silly," I said, smiling up at him.  "I want to."  That was an understatement.  My lips were wet with anticipation—and not just the ones on my head.

His taste was...  Well, reddish, I suppose: that warm, salty, slightly raw taste that I've since learned is the taste of all skin.  He was very warm (something I hadn't quite expected).  It was like putting my mouth around a shining flashlight—you can't see it with your own eyes, but you can feel it shining, feel your mouth filling, presence without substance.  That was what it felt like—the sense of this thing, this phallus, in my mouth, on my tongue—begging to be released.  Begging to fly.

I ran my tongue over the head of his penis, feeling its texture, and then across the underside.  Zach moaned inarticulately.  Encouraged, I took more of him into my mouth, until his head was lodged against he back of my throat.  A vague, wild image filled my head—my teeth crashing down, severing him entirely; the spurt of warm blood against my lips—but I forced it away.  That would be somewhat cruel.  Only just a little.  Instead, I formed my lips around his shaft and sucked.

Zach moaned again.

I sucked on him until my lips gave out, and then slid them up and down his length, letting my tongue wander at will, over the bottom and top and sides, rubbing, caressing, feeling that warmth and the motion accelerating inside him, things preparing to come to life.

I loved it.  It was a certainty with me, now: this was one of my favorite things to do.  I could feel Zach stiffening and jolting, hear his formless cries, feel the pressure of his hand stroking hair from my face, and I knew I was doing these things to him which would make his toes knot.  I loved it.

But all too soon it was over.  Zach managed a coherent sentence: "Christa, it's soon—" and I realized what he meant.  Okay, sucking is one thing, but I wasn't sure about swallowing, and to be truthful, I wanted that thing out of my face as soon as possible!

The first spurt landed across my forehead, and I closed my eyes as a precaution.  (Meredith has since told me that this was very wise.)  The next landed on my cheek, and clung there; the rest on my shoulders and a little bit on my breast.  I felt vaguely ridiculous—kneeling there in front of the whole classroom, frosted like a doughnut—but also curiously exalted.  I felt marked, somehow, as if Zach had made some stake to me as his own.  Which was, like I've said before, a really sweet compliment for a girl who only recently has discovered that anyone finds her attractive.

Zach looked down at me, and his eyes tightened in ways I couldn't understand.

"Thank you," he said.  His voice was hoarse.  "That was...  Incredible."

I smiled up at him.  "I should thank you," I said, "it was fun."

Mr. Cavanaugh excused me to the bathroom, and I cleaned myself off.  I couldn't, not entirely; I scrubbed and wiped thoroughly, but still my face felt...  Well, frosted is the right word.  It was as if there was this coating of semen across it that I couldn't get rid of, even though the mirror showed my face was perfectly clean.  Maybe it was just mental.  But I couldn't get it off.  When I returned to the classroom, my face still preceded by that imaginary layer of cum, Zach was in his seat and everything was quiet.  He gave me a cursory glance when I came in, but said nothing.

In the bathroom, I finished drying my face only, to realize that something else was wet, and definitely in need of addressing.  I ran a finger over my labia, and they tingled at my touch.  Too bad there wasn't time for me to ask for relief.

I slipped a finger inside myself, feeling my vagina adjust to the intrusion, feeling the tingling flush spread through my body.  This was incredibly dangerous—not only was I standing brazen in the middle of the washroom, diddling myself, but I had just finished cleaning semen off my face.  If any remained on my fingers, I might get pregnant.  And this was not the time for it to happen.  I didn't think it would, though.  My face might feel coated, but my fingers felt just fine.

Besides, I reasoned, at recess I was going to Nurse Chaplain's office to get The Shot.  ...Wait, I was?  Yes, actually, I realized—because one thing was certain.  If sucking a guy off was such a joy, intercourse would undoubtedly be greater...  And I wanted it.

Mark Spencer was going to be in for a shock.  Who'd think that his proper, demure date was turning into a nymphomaniac!

W.2

"Dude," Brandon said to me when I sat down.  "Is she trying to kill you or what?"  I had no idea, and I just shrugged.  I was so tired.

Hi, I'm Zach Crane, and I'm tired in school.

I'm pretty sure Christa doesn't know I've got a thing for her; as far as I can tell, I haven't said anything about it—anything overt, at least—and I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have done everything she's done this morning if she knew.  Full-body hugs—oh my God.  And then that blowjob.  I went off really quickly in her hand on Monday, and it was just as quick today.  I mean, that's not normal for me, I've definitely got some endurance.  Some of my partners have complained about it.  Of course, no one had in a couple of weeks, because I hadn't gotten any in a couple of weeks.  Maybe that caused it.

Maybe it's just Christa.  Maybe she's just magic.

And then she looked up at me with my cum all over her face, and I realized that there was no maybe about it.

If she and Mark Spencer get together, I'm going to have to kill myself.

She didn't come to us at recess, thank God; it was just Meredith and Sajel, coming in from under the grumbling, overcast sky, discussing the problem in artificially loud tones.  "I dunno either," Sajel was saying as they meshed seamlessly into the conversation Brandon and Arie had been having.  "I mean, if she knew, I'd say she was just teasing him, but I don't think she does."

"Even if she did know," Meredith said (at a much more civil volume), "I'd still be confused.  I don't know if Christa is the kind of girl to do that sort of thing."

"That's true," Sajel reflected.  "She's never struck me as the temptress kind."

"Wait, what's going on," Derek asked, arriving on the scene and wrapping his arms around Arie from behind.  The circle expanded to five.

"We're trying to figure out if Zach's Program partner knows he's in love with her," Sajel announced.

Derek looked down at me, shocked.  "Whoa, you're hot on your Program partner?"

"Yeah, rub it in, why doncha," I grumbled, but I didn't have the energy to put any real anger into it.  Which, of course, is why I was slumped up against the wall off to one side, my bare ass freezing on concrete.  I just didn't have the spirit.

"So say something to her," Derek said reasonably.

"She's hot on Mark Spencer," Meredith said.

"Oh, whoa," Derek said.  "Mark Spencer?"

"He asked her out," Arie said.  "They'll be at the game tonight."

"Well," Derek said, almost to himself.  "That explains that."

"That explains what," I asked.

"Mark Spencer this morning," Derek said.  "While we were waiting for the teacher to let us in.  Just, going on about some hot chick he's discovered.  He says he's gonna bring her to The Lighthouse after the game, Zach."

Perfect.  Just perfect.  The Lighthouse is the basketball team's traditional after-game hang-out.  I guess Mark Spencer wants to show off this hot chick he's discovered.  ...I'd probably want to do the same thing, mind you.  But since it's him and not me that's gonna have Christa on his arm...

"Jane Myers told him off," Derek added in Brandon's direction.

"Jane?" Brandon asked, startled.

"Yeah?" Derek said.  "Mark was all, 'Oh, well, I haven't asked her but I'm sure she won't mind,' and Jane flared up at him.  She's all, you know, 'It's really mean of you to make decisions for her' and all that.  Kinda scared Mark off."

A slow, strange smile touched across Brandon's face for a moment.  "Well, Jane's never exactly lacked for a backbone..."  Meredith looked at him with a small smile, and suddenly I understood the expression on his face: Pride.

"So why do you think she's doing it?" Sajel said.

"Who, Jane," Derek asked.

"No, Christa," Sajel said.  "She gave Zach a minute-long hug before English."

"Which caused him problems," Arie said archly.  I noticed how close Derek was standing behind her and wondered if he was developing problems.

"Does she do that normally?" Derek asked.  If he had problems, they weren't big ones.  ...Not that I'd know anything about the size of Derek's problem.  Ugh.  Shuddery thought.

"No," Meredith said.  "She doesn't do that normally."

"And then when he asked for relief," Sajel continued, "she gave it to him."

Derek blinked at me for a moment.  "Well, you could've just asked someone else."

"Yeah, like me," Arie reminded me.  "I volunteered.  I'm good at giving relief.  Just ask Derek."

Derek grinned.  "Oh yeah.  She is.  So, tell me, Mr. Crane, why exactly did you pass up an experience with my world-class champion blowjob-giver girlfriend here?  You didn't have to ask Christa."

All eyes went to me.

I stared at the ground.

"Yes," I said quietly.  "I did."

When I looked up again, they were all still looking at me, but something had softened in their eyes.

It was impossible to explain.  And it didn't help that I felt like crying.  "She's just so..."

There was a slow, choked silence.  Nobody looked away, which made it really hard for me to compose myself.  Bastards.

"You saw her," Meredith said finally, "and then you couldn't look anywhere else."

"Yeah," I said, sawing at my nose with one hand.  "Yeah, that's exactly right."

"It was like your eyes were drawn," Meredith said, in a quiet, distant voice.  "By a magnet.  There was simply...  No choice."

"Yeah," I said again.

"It happens," Brandon said softly.  "Not so often, but...  It happens."

I didn't care what he meant by that.  I just wanted to get my emotions under control.  Christ, who'd've thought that having a crush on someone would be this draining?

"So what do you plan to do about it," Derek asked me.

"Do?" I cried.  "Fuck.  What can I do?"

"Well, you're not just going to leave her to Mark Spencer, are you?" Derek said.

"Yeah, but...  What if she wants to be with him," I said.

"Oh, grow up," Sajel snapped.  "Do you really think that's gonna last?  So she goes on one date with Mark Spencer and realizes he's a world-class fuckwad, and that's that.  Then what?"

"But what if she doesn't," I said.  "What if she does stay with him?"

"Then," Meredith said, "they deserve each other.  Or at least she deserves him, for having such bad taste.  And you deserve better than her.  There'll be others, Zach, you can find someone else."

The thought pushed me back to the verge of tears.  "No," I said, "no, I don't think I can."

There was a silent moment in which I stared at the ground and everyone around me exchanged looks.  "Whoa," Derek said, his voice quiet, almost reverent.  "He's got it bad."

"Fuckin A he does," Sajel said.

"Folks, we have a winner," Arie said in a strange, dull voice.

Meredith knelt beside me and gave me a hug.  It felt good to have a friend hug me.  And when she returned to Brandon, I realized how much he had wanted to hug me too: a friend, worried about his friend, but held back by social mores.  So he had sent his other half—their missions coinciding, both moved by their concern—so that I could receive from other hands the gift he could not give himself.

It's nice, I thought dimly, to have another half.

"Look," Derek said finally.  "He'll be at The Lighthouse.  So will you.  You can keep an eye on her.  I'll come if you want—"

"We'll all come," Arie interrupted.

"—If you want," Derek emphasized.  "And if something goes wrong, we'll be there.  All of us.  In case either of you need us."

I felt tears of another sort welling up inside me.  "You guys are such great friends."

"Hey: it's what we're there for," Sajel said, a slight smile coloring her words.

When I had myself under control, I thought about it.  "No," I said finally, "I think I can handle it on my own.  I'm not saying I don't want you to come—I mean, that's the nicest thing anyone's done for me, ever—but I'm not going to ask you to, because I don't want to inconvenience everybody.  If you want to, that's fine; if you don't, that's fine too.  I'll have my basketball friends anyway if I need backup."

There were nods.

I drew a deep breath.  The situation didn't seem quite so hopeless anymore—now that I had friends beside me; now that there were things I could do.  Or at least places I could watch from, in case something went wrong.  Maybe there was a chance at salvaging this.

And, if there wasn't—well, at least there were people who would help me out.

"Feeling better?" Meredith asked.

"Yes, actually," I said.  "A lot better.  I think I can handle this."

"Good," Meredith said, her voice very different from a moment before, and I looked up.

"Hey, guys," Christa said lightly.  Her eyes were clear and steady.  Her hair had lost its outward curl and she let it flow loose around her face.  The cold weather had brought out her nipples, small and rosy.  She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

"Zach," she said, "I didn't have a chance to ask you earlier.  How'd it go with that girl you were going to ask out?"

"Huh?  What.  Oh.  Well."  Right, hi, Christa.  "I haven't had a chance to ask her yet."

"Oh," Christa said, cheerful and totally oblivious.  "Did you need any help?  You were such a big help with me and Mark, I just wanted to...  Like, you know, if you want me to talk to her first, I can do that.  Put in a good word for you or something.  Who is she, anyway?"

I didn't look away, but I could feel the glances shooting back and forth between my friends.

"Hey, now," I said, forcing a teasing tone into my voice, "a man's gotta have some secrets."

"Well, the men can keep their secrets, then, because I'm asking you," Christa said with a malicious grin.

I blinked.  "Excuse me.  What's that supposed to mean?"

It dawned on her that maybe her joke hadn't taken.  "I'm sorry, maybe that was mean."

"It's all right."

"Well, if you're not gonna tell me," Christa began, turning to the others.

But Sajel cut her off.  "Uh-uh, no, we're not gonna tell you either."  "Nope," Meredith agreed, and Derek mimed zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key.  What's a key got to do with a zipper?

Christa rolled her eyes theatrically.  "Some friends you are.  Girl asks for help and gets completely turned down."  Then she giggled.  "Heehee, do you like it?  I can joke around like you do, Zach."

"Always a good skill to have," I said, feeling empty inside.  Wasn't she attacking me on Monday for being too frivolous?

"Obviously the sign of an advanced intellect," Derek deadpanned, the only one brave enough to open his mouth.

Christa giggled again.  "Well, anyway.  If you need help with it, just ask me.  Okay?"

"Okay," I said, feeling dead.  "Thanks."

She walked away, her buttocks flashing as she moved.  She didn't have much of a figure, but just enough to get that characteristic feminine swaying.  Or maybe she was just teasing us.  Teasing me.

I put my head in my hands.

"Christ," Derek breathed.  "Are you sure she doesn't know you're hot on her?"

"If she did, I'd be worried," Meredith said.  "Because she's turning into a first-class sadist."

"Yeah, no kidding," I said, without taking my head out of my hands.

I'm not sure what's worse: that she knows, and is doing this all on purpose; or that she doesn't, and means every word.

Somebody just shoot me now.  Please.  Please?

W.3

Poor Zach.  That girl he's on must have him totally in the dumps.  I'm not sure why I offered to help out—I mean, it's a little weird, you know, one of your classmates just shows up and starts trying to sell you on some guy—except that, when I saw him, I just had to.  He looked really bad.  He looked like he needed the help.  And besides, you're supposed to do random nice things to your friends, right?

Hi, I'm Christa Sternbacher, and I'm worried about one of my friends.

"Wait," Debbie asked me.  "Since when is Zach one of your friends?"

What," I said, "am I not allowed to make new friends?"

"Well, on Monday, you weren't pleased that he'd be your partner," Debbie said skeptically.

"Things change," I said grandly.

"Mmm," said Debbie.

All too soon, the bell rang, but something really interesting happened as it did.  Namely, I passed by Mark Spencer on the way to Comparative World Religions, and he stopped me in the hallway.  "I don't know what you've had or haven't had before," he said, his fingers cupping my boobs to show what he was referring to me having, "but you won't need anything after me."

And then one of his hands went between my legs, and I think I almost passed out.

His hand cupped between my legs, one of his fingers nestled between my labia.  The heel of his hand pressed against my mons, and the vague pressure seemed to focus down into my clitoris.  I gasped, spreading my legs, pushing my hips forward, and his hand began to rub up and down.  Yes.  I like.  More!

Unfortunately, he didn't have much time before one of his friends tugged at his sleeve: "Mark, we're gonna be late."  But Mark, ever the gentleman, got me one last time.  He lifted his finger, slightly wet with my juices, to his nose, and breathed deeply.  "Mmmm," he said.  "That's my favorite smell in the universe."  Then he touched my cheek gently with that hand.  "I'll see you later."

I think I floated to Religion class.  And Zach, who may not have smiled all day, looked up, and something lit in his eyes and a small smile spread across his face, and he said, "Well, it's good to see you looking happy, at least."

Unfortunately, when we went into class, I discovered a downside to having had Mark's hands on me for two minutes: I was turned on.  I was horny.  I was way horny.  And when Mrs. Haynes asked if anyone needed relief, I practically jumped out of my chair.

There weren't a lot of boys in the class—I mean, come on, Comparative World Religions?—but most of them raised their hands.  A couple of girls did too, which raised a few eyebrows.  But at some point, all of that fell away.  Because I saw Zach.

He was just sitting there, sure, not looking particularly special or outrageous or anything, but when I saw him, I just...  Couldn't look away.  There was an intensity in his eyes I'd never quite seen before.  I think that's what held me.  I think.

"Zach," I said.

In my peripheral vision, Meredith and Sajel both whipped around to stare at each other.  Mrs. Haynes puttered around looking around for a chair for me to use.  Zach lurched up like a man coming from death.

"I'm sorry about this," I said to him.  "I met Mark Spencer coming here—"

"So Mark got his hands on you, did he," Zach said, with a sort of humorless leer.

Got his hands on me?  Excuse me!  "As a matter of fact, he gave me an experience I shall never forget," I said primly.  "However, it was a short one, and now I'm ready for more."

A look of interest crossed Zach's face.  "So there's expectations I have to meet, eh."

"Yes," I said.  I gave him a haughty look, just to tease him.  "If you can't handle the pressure, maybe you'd best sit down."

Zach looked at the floor for a second.  Then he met my eyes, and there was a furious concentration in them.  "Believe me, lady, I welcome the challenge."

"Well, then," I said.  "Your lady is waiting."  And he came towards me, that reckless grin on my face.  And then...  Well, I'll let Zach explain what happened next.

W.4

Well, the short version of it is: it worked.

The long version...  Well, that's gonna take a while.

First off, I was shaking like crazy.  I mean, Jesus—here's my chance, this is my only chance, maybe, to touch Christa like that.  You know, sexually.  I wanted to enjoy it, but I also wanted to make a good showing of myself, you know?  I didn't know what had given Mark Spencer magic hands—"experience I shall never forget"?  Mark Spencer?  I had no idea he even knew his way around a girl's privates!  ...Not that I'm all that familiar, but I make up for it in caring.  I want Christa to have a good experience.  I want her to enjoy it.  I wanna...

Jesus, Zach, you are far gone, arncha.

Christa moved to the chair Mrs. Haynes had found, and arranged herself on it, smiling pleasantly.

"Any time now, Zach," she said, and, in blatant invitation, spread her legs wide.  A few people whooped and cheered.  Feeling numb and disincorporate, I dropped to my knees in front of her.

I had never seen Christa's pussy before—obviously—and for a moment or two I just looked.  Her sparse, matted pubic hair confirmed that, yes, indeed, she was a natural blonde, and the wetness around her lips confirmed that, yes, indeed, she needed relief.  Needed it pretty badly, so far as I could tell (though my experience is more limited than I'd like to admit).  This probably wouldn't take too long; she seemed pretty much on-edge.

I think the whole pussy area is one of the sexiest features on a woman.  Partially because if she lets me see it, it means I'm in luck.  But, seriously, it's beautiful.  It's got the smell going, it's moist, it's a lovely pinkish shade...  It's soft, softer than I ever imagined skin could be.  Which is exactly what a woman is, to me.  Soft and tender and beautiful.  And ready to welcome you home.

Yeah.  I'm kinda far gone.

Part of me wanted to spend a lot of time down there, but I could feel the clock ticking on the back of my neck.  Instead, I went straight to business—running my hand up her open thigh (the skin so soft, the wiry strength of the muscles beneath), across her dampened pubic hair (the wet tangles, parting before my fingers), zigzagging down the triangle patch towards that every man's promised land.

The serene smile was gone from Christa's face; her eyes were closed, her mouth open, her eyebrows up in that expression you see, occasionally, sometimes, in the porn flicks; that you see more often in the stories: the deep breathing, the frightening intensity (the frightened intensity), the leaning forward—the longing.

She did need relief, didn't she.

I let my finger slide between her lips, across her slit, feeling the wetness and the clasping warmth, feeling the little hard nubbin of her clit.  That, at least, I knew about.  I rubbed up and down her slit a few times, slowly, feeling the petals of her pussy blossom at my touch, feeling the increased wetness, feeling the way she jumped every time I touched her clit.  Her nostrils flared as she breathed and she bit her lip.  I felt a small, bitter flare of triumph—no way Mark Spencer would ever get her to react like that.

...No way I'd ever again get her to react like that.

I bent my face to her sacred valley and sipped of her nectar.

Christa had left silence behind; now every breath was an audible gasp.  I licked my way up and down her slit, the taste of her burning on my tongue—a taste I would probably never experience again.  Her curled pubic hair brushed against my nose.  Her body pushed away from the seat every time I passed her clit.  Her hands, formerly knotted at her belly, moved to my head, rustling in my hair.

I gave her face a final glance.  This is my last gift to you.

I let my lips fasten around her clit, and sucked; my fingers moved up into her, two, moving in and out, feeling the smooth, velvety caress of her pussy.  She moaned and pressed up to me.  I knew she was close.  This would be all.

Christa's body came up off the chair in a final last frenzy, her mouth coming open in a single squeaking gasp.  I could feel her clenching, feel the trembling in her legs.  I held my fingers as deep within her as I could, and sucked for all I was worth.

Then she came back to the chair, my lips falling from her pussy like a leaf from a tree.  And that was all.

The class clapped and cheered.  In the slow aftermath I slowly withdrew my fingers.

I wanted to tell her I loved her.  I wanted to ask her to go out with me.  I wanted to...  Oh, Christ, I don't know what I wanted.  I just knew that what we had did, no one else could ever do.  Something was in us that had sparked these chords, this chemistry, and—here I speak factually, with no malice—Mark Spencer would never approach it.  This I knew, as sun rises east, as rain falls to earth.

I settled for helping her to her feet.  "You okay?"

"That..." said Christa, breathless.  Her eyes opened, focusing into mine.  "That was incredible."

I felt a smile spread across my lips.  "Yeah, seemed so."

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome."

"Well," said Mrs. Haynes, as I took Christa back to her seat.  "That was quite a demonstration.  Thanks go to both our Program participants."  And she smiled and applauded, and the rest of the class did too.

I felt vaguely sheepish.  So I'd given Christa relief.  It wasn't like a striptease or anything.  The girl needed help, and I helped.  But, I guess, how else are you supposed to react, as a teacher, when this really powerful act of sex has just taken place in your class?  From that point of view, Mrs. Haynes didn't do a bad job.

And neither had I, I supposed.

I was glad.  It was my one opportunity, to be treasured above all others—my one chance with the one who had almost certainly got away.  My one opportunity, and I hadn't wasted it.  Sure, I could've come away with better...  But this is better than nothing, I suppose.

This is better than nothing.

W.5

Okay, Zach just totally blew me away with that!  I don't know what happened!  He just...  It was like Mark Spencer, but stronger.  Maybe because I was already turned on, but, like...  It was almost magic!  I don't know what happened!

Hi, I'm Christa Sternbacher, and I am so confused.

Okay, my experience is really limited.  But...  Things of that magnitude don't happen often.  ...Do they?  I mean, it's not normal for some random stranger to be able to come up and just give you an orgasm.  And in only a few minutes!  It takes me like half an hour!  Okay, I guess normally I'm not half that riled up when the festivities begin, but...

I mean, it's so confusing!  What do you do when you're caught between a really hot guy, and a guy who isn't so hot—who's hardly the type of guy you bring home to your mother, you understand—but is really really good at giving you orgasms?  What's a girl to do in situations like this?  I mean, you can't exactly bring the orgasm guy home and tell your mother, "Well, he's good at giving me orgasms."  Moms aren't cool with that sort of thing, you know?  And besides, what's the point if you can't take him home?  Where, exactly, is he going to give you the orgasms?

I must admit, when I went in for The Program, I hadn't realized it would be this complicated.

I mean, life has always been pretty clear-cut to me.  There are the things I have to do—I may not want to do them, but I have to.  That's homework, that's clarinet practice, that's going to school.  I have to do them, so I do.  Then there's things I want to do—hang out with friends, or sleep in on the weekends.  And then finally there's things I haven't been able to do yet.  They mostly concern boys.  Now I'm not saying I'm gonna rush into those; but they're on the table, and I'd rather live my life sooner, as opposed to later.  You know?

Well, I joined The Program to try and kick-start that part of my life—the stuff that I want to make happen.  And it looked like everything was pretty much according to plan.

But now Zach Crane has upset the whole apple cart.

And I don't know what to do about that.

"Christa, would you please pay attention?"  "Sorry, Mrs. Haynes."

The simplest answer would be to just ignore it, to go on as I've gone before.  Who needs Zach Crane.  I have Mark Spencer.  He's all I need.  He's the one for me.  That would be simplest, you see: eliminate all the confusion.  Just thank Zach for the experience and go on my merry way.  That would be simplest.

...But...  Stuff like that doesn't just happen every day.  It happens for a reason.  Doesn't it?

"Ms. Sternbacher, I don't mean to intrude, but in Chemistry class, one generally thinks about chemistry."  "Oh, sorry, Mr. Grumman."  (But I am thinking about chemistry!)

Maybe I'm just optimistic, but I believe in a world where things happen for a reason.  I mean, no one's really spent as much time on my privates as Zach and Mark have, but there was never that thrill, that almost...  Drunken desire.  It was never that good.

And I thought I had found heaven when Mark touched me.  But Zach proved that wrong.

So why did that happen?  How come Zach?  It's not what I expected.  Okay, I didn't expect much in general from anyone except Mark (and, I'd like to point out, most people fulfilled that expectation), but Zach showed me wrong.  Why Zach?  Why did that...

I think that's what I really can't get over—that it was Zach.  Why Zach?  I mean, he's a nice guy, but...  He's not the sort of person you take home to your parents, you know?

"Ms. Sternbacher!"  "Sorry!"  And after that I made a definite attempt to pay attention.  Chemistry isn't exactly easy.  Except to people like Jane, who are just good at it.  We think she's kind of weird—most of the rest of us, Brandon and Zach and Meredith and Derek and Arie, are better at physics.  But whatever.  To each her own.

"Jane, can I borrow your notes for today's class?"

Jane hesitated for a moment.  "Sure, I guess, but next time you should pay attention."

Another time I might've responded to this graceless jibe, but not today.  "Well, sorry, I couldn't help it.  There was something on my mind."

"Like what," Jane asked.

I looked off into the distance for a bit.  Jane is not what you'd call a good listener.

Suddenly I realized where she fit into it.  "What did you think when Brandon asked you out?"

Now it was Jane's turn to look surprised.  "What did I think?"

"Yeah," I said.  "Like...  How did you feel?"

"I...  Felt..." said Jane, gazing into the distance.  "Well, a little surprised—I had no idea he felt that way about me.  And I felt...  Well, pretty, I guess.  I mean, it was the first time anyone told me they thought I was attractive.  The only time, actually.  It's not something I'm used to."

"Did it feel weird," I asked.  "Like, that Brandon was, you know, asking you out."

"Actually, yeah, it did, a little," Jane said, jumping at the topic.  "I mean, nothing against Brandon, but...  He's a little weird sometimes, you know?"

"Yeah."  I nodded.  This was where she fit in.  "I mean, what do you do when someone asks you out who's like...  Totally weird?"

"Well, weird isn't that bad," Jane said, and I realized I might have struck a nerve.  Someone who doesn't care too much for her physical assets, concentrating on the other things, her heart, her mind, her soul—undoubtedly someone had called her a freak somewhere along the line.  And she'd probably taken pride in it.

To avoid that conversation, I said, "So, why did you say yes?"

Jane thought for a moment.

"Because...  Because I knew he would be honest," she said finally.

I said nothing.

"I mean...  You hear stories about how people play with each other.  They play with each other's minds.  It's like, there's no respect for the other person."

I nodded.

"I knew Brandon wouldn't do that," Jane said.  "I didn't know him well before we started going out, but...  I just got that sense."

She smiled.  "Part of it was how he asked me.  He just walked up to me after class one day and said, 'You know, I don't know you that well, but I'd like to change that.  I think you're very attractive.  Are you free on Friday?'  I mean...  You kind of expect a guy to be a little more smooth than that."

I giggled.  "Yeah, instead of like a brick wall."

"But...  I mean, I just knew.  I don't think guys who approach you like a brick wall are...  You know?  Are gonna screw around with you."

"No, but he did want to screw you," I reminded her, remembering our conversation on Monday.

"Yeah, he did," Jane said.  "But he was honest about that too.  We talked about it after we first got together, and he said, you know, 'I'd like to...'  Oh, I dunno...  'Have a physical relationship with you, but it's okay if you don't want to.'  And I didn't want to.  And..."  A faint smile colored her face.  "He never quite shut up about it, but he never pushed me either.  You know.  'I want something different, but you're still the boss.' "

I nodded.  Unfortunately, Jane wasn't helping.  Honesty?  Zach?  More information, please.  "But that was the only thing you based your decision on?"

"Well, no," said Jane.  "I mean...  He has good grades and he's a smart guy.  And I guess I...  I dunno.  I guess it bugged me that no one had ever asked me out before."

"I know how that feels."

"But I think...  I think, really, it was just that...  Well, I mean, why not?  What's the harm?  If you go out once and you don't like it, you don't go out again.  Brandon and I went out.  I liked it.  He liked it too.  We kept going out."

Oh, Christ.  That doesn't help either.  "Go for it"?  Well, what's it?  Who's it?  Zach or Mark?

The conversation didn't yield any more clues, and Jane took the first opportunity to shift things to other topics—for instance, going to the library to Xerox her notes.  I didn't know what to think at all.

"Christa, you've been really quiet all lunchtime," Debbie finally asked me.  "What's going on?"

They listened.  They just sat there and listened to the whole thing—from morning up until lunch, right now.  It felt good to be listened to.  And while they were predictably incredulous at certain parts ("You let him do what?") they understood what was going on.

"I have to say, Christa," Debbie said finally.  "I'm relieved."

"...Wait, you're...  What?"

"You've been sort of...  Cueing on Mark Spencer like he's some sort of savior," Megan said.  "It's been a little weird."

I could see what they meant.

"So...  What," I said, feeling defeated.  "Should I find him and tell him we're not going out tonight?"

"No!" Debbie retorted.  "Don't be silly.  Didn't you listen to what Jane said?  'Go for it.'  You're going on a date with the guy of your dreams.  We're happy for you, Christa."

"We were just worried that you were so fixated," Megan said.  "What if your dreams kept you from seeing who he really is?"

"Why, who is he, really? I asked.

Megan blinked at me and shrugged, fits and starts.  "Well.  That's the thing.  Nobody knows."

"You're our brave explorer, Christa," Debbie said, smiling, her hand on my arm.  "Venturing into unknown territory to report back on what's out there."

"Just, please, don't let your dreams blind you," Megan said.

"But what about Zach? I asked.

"What about him?" Megan said.  "If you don't like Mark, go out with Zach once.  See what that's like."

"Or give him to me!" Debbie squealed.

I blinked.  "What, you like Zach?"

"No," Debbie said, grinning.  "But you've got one more boy than you need.  Share the wealth, girl!"

I burst out laughing.  "Right.  Riiiiiight."

And that was my decision, at least for the short term.  I decided...  Well, not to decide.  To wait and see.  Maybe Mark Spencer was the guy for me.  Maybe he wasn't, maybe it was Zach.  Maybe it would be neither and I'd have to go on alone for another week or month or whatever.  Yikes.  Ghastly thought.  But, if that's the way it goes...

And I felt better, to at least have an idea of what to do next.

Now we'd just have to see what happened when Mark picked me up at six.

W.6

My mother came up to my room while I was getting ready.  "Christa," she asked through the closed door.  "Are you decent?"

"Yes, Mom, I'm fine," I said.  Did it matter?  It's not like it was a secret anymore, what was under my clothes.  I was doing my eyelashes at the mirror.  I had taken a shower, I had gotten my clothes on, I had even remembered to stop by Nurse Chaplain's office at lunch to get The Shot.  It was ten minutes to six.  And putting on makeup was better than throwing up from sheer nervousness.

I heard the door open as my mother came in.  Then there was only silence.  "Hello?  Mom?" I asked, dabbing at my eyelashes.

"You've become a beautiful young woman, Christa," my mother said quietly.

"Why, thank you," I said pleasantly, responding with the faceless politeness I had been trained to.

"Very," my mother said again, in a voice unlike her own, and turned to look at her.  I wasn't sure what I expected to see, but it wasn't this: My mother, standing there, a strange distant look on her face, something like pride mixed with sorrow mixed with love mixed with regret, and unshed tears in her cheeks.

"My baby's going out on her first date," she said.  "And I hope that young man of yours appreciates how lucky he'll be to have you on his arm."

"Aww, Mom."  Faceless politeness fell away, and I got up and hugged her.  "It's not like I'm getting married or anything."

"Well, it's the next step," Mom said, wiping her eyes.  "First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the—"

"Mother," I said.  "You do realize that I'm not eight anymore.  Which was around when I lost interest in that little rhyme."

"Yes, but...  It's true," said my mother.  "Sometimes ancient wisdom is the best."

Oh Christ, has she been drinking or something?  Or maybe just smoking pot.  Not that either of them is anywhere near normal in this house, but what else would be making her hallucinate like this?  "Mom."  I took her by the shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.  "That's going to be years and years from now.  I'm going to college.  I'm going to get a degree.  Then I'll think about marrying.  Then I'll start thinking about marrying.  So please don't go rush down to the Hallmark store and buy about a thousand wedding invitations."

"Okay," said my mother faintly.

I sighed.  That was the best I was going to get from her, probably.  "And it's not like I even have any idea who to marry, anyway..."

"Well, you are about to go out with Mark Spencer," my mother said.

"Yeah, to find out.  Like, what if he's not worth dating?"

"Well, then, don't...  Go with him again," said my mother, still unsteady.

"Yes, but...  Oh, God.  I don't know.  It's so confusing."

"What's so confusing," my mother asked me.

I looked back at her—my mother, Elizabeth Williams Sternbacher, lined face and tangled blonde hair.  My mother, losing her daughter.  Standing there with tears pooling in her dark blue eyes.

I told her all of it—well, most of it.  For the second time in six hours I turned my heart and soul out and gave their contents to somebody else.  Zach and Mark, the two of them, tossing me head over heels.  Megan and Debbie, tossing my dreams head over heels.  I expected much more of a reaction from my mother—I mean, I was basically admitting to her (to my own mother!) that I wanted to have sex—but her only response was a widening of her eyes.  She listened, and said little, until I was finished.

"Well," she said finally.  "I can see why you're confused, then."

"Yeah," I said.  "No kidding."

"Christa," she said.  "I didn't think I'd have to have this conversation with you for a long time, but..."  She sighed.

Inwardly I blanched.  Oh, God.  Don't tell me she's about to go into The Birds And The Bees (TM).  Not with Mark arriving within the hour.

"Christa," my mother said.  "Sometimes...  We get sex...  Confused...  With...  Other things."

...Confused with...  What?  "What, like a baseball?" I said, totally lost.

"No, not exactly," said my mother.

"Good," I said.  I could just imagine some young kid and her mother.  Sex!  No, darling, that's baseball.  Excuse me ma'am, what on earth is wrong with your daughter?

"I mean..." said Mom.  "Sometimes, when we have sex with people...  We think it...  It means something, or it signifies something...  That it doesn't."

I was still lost.  We'd established that sex wasn't a baseball, but that wasn't helping me much.  It could still be The New York Times, for instance.

"I want...  To be careful with Mark," my mother said.  "And with Zach.  They may...  They may do things with you, wonderful things...  But that isn't something to build a relationship on."

"What?" I asked.

"Well, what if...  What if Mark, and his magic hands, as you put it...  What if he's a cruel, insensitive person?  What if he's the sort who has three girlfriends and sits around drinking beer all day?  Please don't tell me you'll stay with him."

"Oh, come on, Mom," I said.  "Like that's really gonna happen.  He gets good grades, I doubt he could manage that if he was drunk all the time."

"You know what I mean, Christa," my mother said, oddly intense.

"Yeah," I said, my mouth going dry.  "I know what you mean."

It was exactly what Megan and Debbie had warned me about.  The truth was, I knew nothing about Mark Spencer.  He could be...  He could be Jesus.  He could be Einstein.  He could be Hitler.  He could be all three.  I seriously doubted he was Hitler—I mean, no swastikas on his sleeves, right?  And he was always polite when we talked.  And he hadn't played me up like Zach had.  He was smart and kind and very handsome to boot.  Surely everything would work out all right.  Surely we'd have a happy ending somewhere.  Surely...

Old dreams die hard.

"I'll be careful, Mom," I said.

My mother smiled at me.  "That's all I could ask for."

After she left, I glanced at the clock.  5:57.  Not enough time to finish my makeup, without a doubt.  I had my eyelashes and one cheek done, and...  That was it.  I looked vaguely absurd in the mirror.  I'd never liked makeup anyway.  I mean, I knew something about it—if you're a girl, you learn; that's just a fact of life—but it wasn't my favorite thing in the world.

Forget it.

When it was all gone, it was just me staring back from the mirror—no pink cheeks, no full red lips, no huge shadowed eyes.  Just my spotty complexion and those weird little cuffs under my eyes that nobody else has (I don't even know what you call 'em) and my too-pointed nose and—  Oh, whatever.  I don't have to please myself with my face, only others.  I just hoped it would please Mark.

As I was about to dash out the door—dressed in my favorite aqua blouse, my good jeans jacket, my black pants—a sparkle of something caught my eye.  It was my whistle, the one Dr. Zelvetti had given us all, to use in case of trouble.  I was going to be naked in school...  Well, in the gymnasium.  Surrounded by other people.  Where probably nothing bad could happen.

I grabbed it and put it on.  Couldn't hurt.  If nothing else I'd score points by appearing conscientious and safety-minded.

When the doorbell rang, I went to the top of the stairs and listened while my mother talked to Mark—not for too long.  I just wanted to make a dramatic entrance.  So I waited until Mark and my mother were focusing on other things before I came down.

Mark's eyes lit up when he saw me.

So did my mother's.  "Ah, Christa.  There you are."

"Hi," I said pleasantly.  "Hi Mark."

"Hey," he said.  "Ready to go?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Now, remember," said my mother, instantly the protective matriarch.  "Be home by ten at the latest.  You've still got school tomorrow.  And I shudder to imagine the state of your homework."

"Yes, Mother," I said, not entirely able to keep from smiling.

"Have fun," she said, and ushered us out the door.

"Is your mother always like that?" Mark asked.

"Only when she's worried," I said, smiling, trying to keep my nerves from rattling too loud.  What happens on a first date?  I don't know.  Mark seemed really calm.  But then, he'd probably done this a hundred times before.  I hadn't.  I had only my dreams—those fallible, untrustworthy things—and any one of them might get proven true at any second, or wiped away forever.  I was walking into a strange new world, and I had no idea what might be out there.  Can you blame me for being nervous?

"Dude," Mark said suddenly.  "Why are you wearing clothes?"

"Uhh.  What?" I asked.

"Well, you're in The Program, right," Mark said.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean I go naked all the time," I said.  "Only in school."

"We're going to the basketball game," Mark said.

"Yeah, and dinner first," I said.  Wild thoughts flashed through my head.  Why was he asking?  Why should he care?  How should I turn him down?  "What happens if I spill something on myself?  I'll be glad to have the protection."  A flash of insight: "It'll look weird if I'm naked and you're not."

It was iron-clad, and he knew it.  Zach might have offered to strip himself—especially in lieu of this week—but Mark clearly had no such intentions.  "Nnn," he said, and went to the driver's side of his car and opened the door.  Without opening mine first.

A sudden, strange flash: I wish it were Zach.  Because suddenly I knew Mark wasn't going to stop asking why I wasn't naked—or take No for an answer.  Zach would be more...  Tractable.  He probably wouldn't even ask it.  (Zach?  The King of Jest?  Not ask?  Well, no, he would ask—he'd joke about it.  He wouldn't be serious.  Mark, on the other hand...)

The restaurant he'd chosen was the Outback Steakhouse, and I was glad I was wearing clothes: it caters more to the younger crowd, to people our age or maybe ten years older at most, and someone might recognize me.  Hey, at school everyone knows your name; but out here? in public? among people your age?  Or, if not, people who are likely the brothers and sisters of people your age.  Or maybe even the parents of...  Well.  You get the idea.

Outback is a loud and noisy place.  I mean, it's a restaurant.  There's televisions on that you can't hear, and dimmish lighting so you can't see, and my dad tells me a lot of people go there for the bar.  Also, it's a steakhouse—which maybe tells you something about Mark's regard for his cholesterol level.  Or maybe he just likes the food here.  There's something appealing about tearing into bleeding hunks of meat.

Mark must have planned ahead; we got a table quickly.  (This isn't normal.  They don't take reservations and the wait times are often up past half an hour—my dad says it's to encourage people to hit the bar.  I think my dad's projecting his own problems on people.)  We got a booth in the middle of the restaurant.  It was loud.  Talking was difficult.

"I think you'll enjoy the basketball game!"
"My pinkish toy is acting all lame?"
"You think that boy is packaged in flame?"
"You drink milk and soy and but it's all the same?"

All right, not that bad.  But...  Not very good, either.  (But still, definitely not that bad. This is why I flunk the poetry sections of English classes.) We sort of chattered inconsequentially, but we didn't really talk.  It was strange, to be picking at my salad (which had too much cheese on it) and sitting five feet away from my date, my first-ever date, and not be talking to him.  Strange, and...  Alone.

(Zach, I imagine, would've used it as an excuse to sit on the seat next to me—the booth was long enough—and probably try to slip his arm over my shoulders or something.  I probably would've preferred it.)

Having said that, the dinner was good.  The food at the Outback is tasty, if not exactly good for your health.  I got to watch Mark unobtrusively for a while—the way he lounged around, the impatient way he gestured, the way he scowled when something displeased him.  Which was kind of often.  Well, it's the first date, maybe he's nervous.  I knew I was.  On the rare occasions when I had nothing to think about or stare at or focus on, I could feel the butterflies galumphing around in my stomach, feel my insides knotting up.  That, and I had just had food in me.  It wasn't comforting.

The back of a sugar packet is very interesting reading material in a pinch.

Mark paid the bill and we walked to his car.  When he stopped and opened his mouth, I knew what was about to come out of his mouth.

"No," I said pre-emptively.  "In the parking lot at school.  Or maybe just in the bathroom of the gym.  There's people here, Mark."

"There's people at school, too," he said.

"There's people we know at school," I said.

"What's to be ashamed of," he said.  "You're pretty.  People'll like it."

I wasn't going to be had that easily.  "At school, Mark."  And he gave in, grumbling.

I felt bad.  I wasn't trying to be a hard-ass.  I just didn't want to stand out too much.  "You know," I said.  "We could both do it.  Then it won't look so weird."

It's a reasonable proposition.  And, honestly, if you were a guy, wouldn't you jump at the chance to go naked with the girl you're dating?  And Mark did jump.  Except, backwards.  "No."

"Oh, come on, it'll be fun.  I bet—"

"No, Christa."  He slammed the car door and honked the horn, evidently impatient for me to get in.

Well, gee, don't get your panties in a twist about it, I thought.

There was silence in the car after that, while we zoomed off to school.  I eventually broke it.  "It's gonna be weird," I said.  "Those gym bleachers aren't exactly comfortable.  I always bring a sweatshirt and sat on it when we had assemblies.  But I guess I can't do that this time."

"Nope," said Mark, completely missing the part of the script where he offers me his jacket.

Undressing was worse.  "Excuse me," I said, getting out of the car, and hoping he'd take the hint—and then when I had my shirt half over my head, I heard the other car door slam, and there were his eyes, glittering in the dark, above his expressionless face.  Had he smiled once this whole time?  It felt much less safe to uncover myself with those two pinpoint spotlights focused on me.

For a second I contemplated telling him No—I wasn't sure what that meant, but I knew I wanted to tell him.  But then pride took over, and determination.  Give him a chance.  It's his first date with you.  It's your first date.  You're both nervous.  You're jumping at shadows.  Give the guy a chance.  And I slid my pants down over my hips, and tossed the bundle in the car.  And that was that.

In the general crush of people trying to get into the gymnasium, we came up straight against Meredith and Sajel and all those others.  I was a little surprised to see them—but glad, too, to have some friends around.  "Hi."

"Oh, hey, Christa," Meredith said.  "How's it going?"

"Pretty well," I said.  "I guess."

"Pretty well?" Arie asked.  Her eyes raked over Mark's expression—or rather, his lack of one.  He seemed to have zoned out.

"Well, it is a first date," I said.

There was a flickered exchange of glances among them.

"Oh, that reminds me.  Bad manners.  Guys, this is Mark Spencer."

"The baseball guy, right," Brandon said, moving forward, extending his hand.  "Hi, I'm Brandon Chambers."

"Derek Strong," Derek said, leaping right in.  "I understand you guys are playing the Habloch Steamrollers next week."

"Yeah," Mark said, brightening instantly, "it's gonna be hard, but I think we've got some good ideas going.  We've got this—"

Suddenly there was a buffer of guy-talk around them, and Meredith turned me away.  "How is it, really?"

"It's...  Weird," I said.  "And not just because I'm naked."  A little more to do with the fact that, because of the way his eyes were pointed, I could tell Mark had been staring down my boobs.  That's a discomforting feeling when he's standing beside you.

"Well, naked's a minor problem," Arie said glibly.

"It is your first date," Meredith said.  "Don't be too hasty."

I blinked.  "Why, what do you mean?  Am I not supposed to jump into bed with him?"

Meredith laughed.  "No, that's not what I meant.  Though you're not."

Arie laughed.  "You did."

Meredith gave her a laughing sort of glower.  "Yes, I did, so I would know.  What I meant was...  Don't judge him too quickly.  Everyone's different.  Maybe he's just...  Really different."

That's exactly what I've been thinking.  "Meredith, I didn't realize you were behind me on this."

"Well, one should always try to be objective," Meredith said.

The guy-talk meeting had broken up—suddenly I felt Mark's breath on my neck, his presence behind me.  Christ, he must be practically standing on top of me.  "So, are we going in, or..."

"Well..." Arie said, drawing the word out.  "Christa's...  Naked."

"Really," Meredith said in a dry, vaguely intrigued voice.  "You don't say."

"Aaaaand...  She's nervous," Arie said, still dragging her words.  "About that."

"Well, perfectly understandable," Meredith said.  "I doubt anyone else here has no clothes on."

"Sooo..." said Arie.  "Maybe we should change that."

There was a bit of a silence.  I stared at them.

"You know, that's a good idea," Brandon said.

"We have nothing to hide," Arie said.

And then, without any further comment at all, they started stripping.  Well, one comment, from Arie to Derek: "Here, hon, hold these."  And promptly gave him her bra, the cups face down in his hands as though he were holding real breasts, and the straps dangling over the sides.  Derek gave her a quizzical look.  "Yeah, you like that, bitch," Arie said, completely bland, and kept undressing.

Derek looked at his half-naked girlfriend.  And gave the bra to Meredith, depositing it in the same way Arie had given it to him, and took off his shirt.  Meredith grinned and said in that vaguely dry voice of hers, "Looks like we got a volunteer.  Ding ding ding."

"So, what about you, Mark," I asked again, turning to him.

He gave me an ugly look, as if to say, Don't be stupid, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well, fine," I said, annoyed, and turned back.  Brandon was stepping out of his pants, Derek was crouching to untie his shoes, and Arie was just stepping back into her flipflops, free as a bird.

I looked at Sajel and Meredith.  Their eyebrows went up and they shook their heads.

"Oh, come now," Brandon said to Meredith.  "And with you having signed up for The Program back in October."

"Yes, but I didn't sign up for it now," Meredith said, smiling.

"Oh fine, fine..." Brandon said with an air of defeat.  "I'll just have to look odd being naked with a clothed girlfriend on my arm."

"Hey, how do you think I feel," I exclaimed.

Mark scowled at me.

Not to be intimidated, I pressed on.  "Ooh!  I have an idea!  Meredith, we'll trade."  Meredith laughed.  "You can go with Mark—"

"No, that's all right," Mark said, and the peremptory turn of his voice set us back another minute.

In various states of dress or undress we filed into the gymnasium, managing to secure seats down near the bottom, with Mark and I on the next row down and a little off to the right, so that Brandon, the end of his row, was right behind me, and Meredith to his left.  If there were other Program participants, I couldn't see them; eventually I realized that the bleachers had segregated, either by design or unspoken consent, so that all the Mount Hill people sat on my side, with the other school (Trentwood High, I think it was?) across from us.  For a while it was only chaos, with people wandering to and fro, talking to friends, talking to members of the basketball team (Zach was in there somewhere, an occasional flash of pink amidst a sea of navy blue and gold), crossing the floor to talk to people from the other school.  And, of course, staring at me.  Mostly the people from Trentwood, that; I could see a lot of people pointing.  Of those from Mount Hill, only a few of them were staring at me.  The rest were more startled at Arie and Brandon and Derek.

Including Mark.  "What's with her arms?" he asked me.

"I don't know," I said.  I had been there during Brandon's little dissertation in English class, the first day of his Program week, but a lot of that had fallen into disorganization in my mind.  If I was really pressed, I could try to explain—but there were definitely much better people Mark could ask.  "Ask her yourself."

Instead, he asked Brandon.  "What's with her arms?"

"They're scars," Brandon said.

"No shit, Sherlock," Mark said, "where'd she get 'em?"

I glanced at Brandon.  His face was markedly placid, but his voice was brittle.  "Arie engages in a form of behavior known as SI, self-injury.  Or self-harm.  Or cutting.  It's a form of stress relief, involving the infliction of cosmetic, non-threatening injuries on one's self."

"What, she does that herself?" Mark said.

"In times of great stress or pain, yes," Brandon said quietly.

"Why?  I mean, why that?  Why not...  I dunno, smash plates or something."

That one I could answer, at least a little.  "Stress relief.  Runner's high, I think you said, Brandon?"

"Partially," Brandon said.  "That's the physiological answer—when you're hurt, your body releases natural painkillers, which make you feel good.  I imagine you feel the same after a good workout.  Cutting is no exception.  But there's more to it."  A strange, wry smile crossed his face.  "It's deeply psychological."  He didn't say it, but I heard it anyway: I wouldn't expect you to understand it.

Mark didn't.  "So, what, is she psycho or something?"

A moment of displeasure flickered in Brandon's eyes.  "Yes, you could say that.  I prefer the term 'depressed,' but you could say that."

"Dude," Mark said, turning back to the basketball court.  "That's fucked-up."

And Brandon's reply, gentle, almost sorrowful, so soft that Mark probably never heard it: "We're sixteen now.  Life isn't always that simple anymore."

After that it was more of the same.  Lots of chattering, lots of shoes squeaking on the floor.  It was louder in the gymnasium than it had been at the restaurant.  Dr. Zelvetti came over at one point, chuckling.  "And how are my fine Program participants today?"  And Arie and Brandon immediately started chanting, "Out-reach!  Out-reach!  Out-reach!" with the rest of them picking it up, and Dr. Zelvetti laughing, and Mark and I looking vaguely confused.  Later I found out it was a tradition—whenever they see Dr. Zelvetti walking around naked, which she does sometimes, they yell that.  Or if she comes over clothed and they think she should strip.  Dr. Zelvetti held up her hand and shook her head, and my friends let out a collective groan—"Awwww!..."—and gave it up.

Dr. Zelvetti had not been gone a minute when there was a sudden outburst from the basketball team and Zach came tearing out of the huddle, pursued by another teammate, someone I didn't recognize.  He ran screaming around the gym, with the other fellow—tall, lanky, with a shock of curly hair almost like an afro, despite his white skin—pounding after him, holding out in great anticipation his weapon of choice: a felt-tip marker.

"What's going—" I heard Meredith say.  And Brandon's answer: "I have no idea."

Zach was down below us now, still yelling in terror: "—aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh oh hey guys I didn't see you, how you doin?"

The person caught up to him and pounced.  "A-ha!  Gotcha now!"  Securing Zach's by the shoulder with one hand, he reached out with the pen and, delicately and with great care, began inscribing a vertical line down Zach's back.

"Gah!" said Zach.  "Gavin, go away!  No marking my back up!"

"Look, Coach said you gotta have the number," Gavin said, grinning.

"So write it on a piece of paper and tape it to my back!" Zach said.  "Don't draw on me, I'm not a canvas!"

"What if the paper falls off?  Will you stop and go for it?"

"Uh..."  Zach's eyes flashed wildly and it was clear he was trying to decipher his way through this trick question.  "No!"

"Well, you better, before somebody slips on it—"

"Nobody's gonna—"

"I mean, that's a total foul right there, penalty shot and we're down two points."

"Nobody's gonna—"

"And what about paper cuts?  What if somebody's trying to grab the ball and you turn and you manage to paper-cut them with that thing?  That's another foul, we're down by another two points, and all because you—"

"Oh fr cryin out loud!" Zach yelled.  "Fine!  Fiiiiine..."  And he stood still and let Gavin inscribe the number 47 on his back.  "The sacrifices I make for my art."

"Hey, it's me doing the drawing," Gavin said, squinting with concentration.

"Fine, fine..." said Zach again.  He waved to us.  "Hi, guys.  Good to see you.  Arie, lookin good as always..."

"Hey hey," Derek said, standing up.

"And Derek, looking..."  Zach let his smile fall away from his face with exaggerated shock.  "Derek, looking very...  Uhm...  Guys."  A sigh, heaved deep.  "There's something I have to tell you."

"Hey, don't move your back!" Gavin cried.

"It's...  A secret I kept for a long time, but..."  Zach looked artificially crestfallen.  "Derek?"  He reached out his hand, like a bad actor in a play.  "I love you."

Derek made a face like an Oscar winner overwhelmed with tears.

"But not the way you're thinking!" Zach said.

"Oh," said Derek, crestfallen.

"I wanna have sex with you!" Zach crowed.

"Oh, Zach!," Derek said, and sobbed theatrically into his hands.  There he stood until Arie reached up, grabbed his shoulder and yanked him down into his seat.

"God, Zach, now you look like 46 instead of 47," said Gavin.  "Can you stop moving?"

I was laughing my ass off.  I love these guys, I really do.  But Mark was giving them all weird looks, and he said, "...Those guys are strange."

I sighed.  Clearly a sign of—  ...How had Derek put it?  Clearly the sign of an advanced intellect.  Or rather, clearly the sign of a lack of one.

The basketball game was probably entertaining.  I wouldn't know.  I don't know the slightest thing about it.  I asked Mark, but he seemed disinclined to explain, and when he did explain, it was so garbled and filled with jargon that I didn't understand a word.  Brandon rescued me: "See that orange ball thing?  Each team tries to throw it through the hoop on the side of the court across from them.  Whoever does it more, wins."

"Well, I knew that," I said, "how else does it work?"

"Search me," Brandon said.  "I just cheer whenever Zach gets his hands on the ball."

That seemed as good a strategy as any.  Though Arie started laughing uncontrollably when Brandon explained it to her.  "Yay, Zach's touching the ball!  Zach's got his hands on the ball!  Zach stole the opponent's ball!  Zach's..."  And then she was laughing too hard to continue, while Brandon rolled his eyes and gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Derek," Meredith said in a pleasant conversational tone.  "Judging from Arie's choice of subject matter, I think you need to take your girlfriend home tonight and give her a good and very thorough fucking."

I nearly choked.

"I'll keep that in mind," Derek said dryly, a smile evident in his voice.

I'm so totally out-of-touch with basketball that I wasn't even sure who won.  Though our team was jumping around whooping with their fists in the air.  Maybe it was them.  In any case, Mark dragged us out of there as soon as the game ended, so I didn't even have a chance to say goodbye to the others—though, for almost the last half-hour of the game, there had been a low constant mutter of conversation behind me, and they got up almost as soon as we did.  I hoped nothing was up.  I mean, I wasn't sure what they might have to face, but I hoped it wasn't bad.

Though, judging by Mark's expression when he drove us away, maybe I should be more worried about the things I might have to face.

This date has not quite been going as expected.

W.7

Okay, I guess Christa doesn't know anything about basketball, because: when the whole team starts jumping up and down the way she described, yes, it does mean we won.  And even more than that, we won narrowly.  Like, by two points.  It was close.  That, and it was the first game of the State tournament.  Only a slight bit of pressure there.  But we got through all right.  Hell, we won.  That's better than all right.

I showered and changed in record time and came out to look for my friends.  But none of them were there.  Well, none except Derek, shuffling around with his hands in his pockets.  "They all went back to Brandon's house," he said.  "Arie's...  Not having a good night."

It wasn't good news.  It had happened once before in November, and once just a month ago, in early February.  When you've got a girl with all those scars on her arms?  And a stockpile of poisonous medication?  Having a bad night is really not good news.

"So...  Why are you here," I asked.  "I mean, Arie's at Brandon's house, right?"

"Well," Derek said.  "I told you I'd be here for you, right?  And...  Well, Arie'll be fine.  Meredith and Brandon are good with her.  Just because she's having a disaster, doesn't mean I should ignore my other friends."

If I had been a girl, I would've kissed him.  As it was, I had trouble just grabbing him and hugging him.  "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."

"Hey, don't overwhelm me with the testosterone vibes," Derek said, grinning and looking away.

It was a pretty loud and noisy group that busted into The Lighthouse that night, chattering about the events of the game and the great shot Bill had made at one point, and this one steal Gavin had made, and...  Well, you get the idea.  I wasn't listening all that hard; I mean, I'd been there.  Instead, I was glad to have some clothes on—it wasn't a school-sponsored event, and Coach Wolfe wasn't pushy.  Instead, I was looking out for Christa and Mark.

They were hanging out in the back.  You know how some places are sort of P-shaped, with the stalk in the back?  That's where they were.  They were talking to a bunch of people I didn't know.  Mark's friends, presumably.  They had the look of college kids about them: a little taller, a little more built, a bit less outrageous style of clothing.  You can see it if you look.

"She's still naked?" Derek asked.

"Why?" Gavin said.  "Is that your friend, Zach?"

"Yeah, friend," I said absently.  "And Program partner."

"And he's totally in love with her," Derek added.

"Yeah, that too," I said, my mind focused elsewhere.  Why on earth would she not have clothes on?  She looked bored with the conversation—her face held that vague, calm-eyed glaze people have when they aren't involved.  Her eyes flickered around the room.  Her face lit up a little when she saw us, but her eyes kept moving.

"Why's she over there, then," Gavin asked.

"Well, see Mark Spencer?" Derek said, pointing.  "He got to her first."

"Eew."  Gavin looked at me, his face a picture of sympathy.  "Sorry, buddy."

"Well, the good news is," I said, more conscious now, "she doesn't look really happy sitting there next to him.  Maybe she'll dump him.  It's only their first date."

"So go up and talk to her," Gavin said.

"Uh," I said.  Suddenly that gaggle of college guys looked awfully threatening.

"You're her friend, you're her Program partner," Gavin said.  "You're on the basketball team.  So'm I.  We'll all go."

"Wait, how do I fit in?" Derek asked.

"You're our slave, obviously," Gavin said loftily.  "You get us drinks and we try to get you onto the team."

"Oh really," Derek said, laughing.

"So come on," Gavin said to me.  "What've you got to lose?"

"Hey, you were in the game tonight, right?" one of the college guys said when we walked up to them.  And just like that, we were in.  They were from Whitehill University, but I was surprised at the respect they showed for high-school-level basketball.  From the way you sometimes hear people talk about high school, you'd think people would distance themselves from all of it, as soon as possible, but clearly that wasn't happening here.

The question of my nakedness (former nakedness) came up, of course, and between Derek, Gavin, myself and those university students who had some knowledge of The Program, we were able to make the concept clear.  The objective was not, I asserted, just to have naked people walking around—"though I doubt you'll hear anyone complaining."  Everyone laughed.  "But seriously.  The first two juniors who went through The Program were...  Well, screwed up in some ways.  They've both thought about committing suicide, and they're both not exactly out of...  Out of that state.  Out of The Hole, as one of them puts it."

"So why'd they do it," someone asked.  "Why'd they go into The Program?"

"Well, partially it's...  Well.  Our principal chooses who goes.  I mean, we all sign up, it's not like she can just point to someone and say, 'You, you're in The Program.' "  At least, not normally.  Brandon had decided to keep quiet about Dr. Zelvetti's indiscretions, and we respected his choice.  "But she goes over the applicants and she gets the final say of who and when.  And we know for certain that she's going to be picking people who are ready to come out of their shells, you know?  As to why they signed up in the first place...  Well, that, I don't know."  I shrugged.

"Why did you do it, then," the guy asked.

"The sex," I joked.  Everyone else laughed too.

Except Christa.  "No, that's not it," she said, looking straight at me.  "There's more to it than that.  That wasn't the only reason.  You can get sex any old time you want it.  That's not why you entered the Program, Zach, it's not."

There wasn't anything I could really say to that.  I mean, she was right—I had been joking about it.  I just wasn't entirely sure what the other reason was.

Christa, for her part, seemed startled by her own indiscretions.  "I'd gonna go to the bathroom," she said, and scampered off.

Gavin and I traded winces.  The bathrooms at The Lighthouse are not exactly sparkling.  Girls tend to be squeamish about that sort of thing.  Hell, there are some guys who prefer to hold it in.

"So, what do you think?" Mark asked his friends.

I looked up.  What did I think of what?

"She's pretty," one of the guys said, mixing up his E's and R's.  She's purrdy.  "But she doesn't talk much, does she."

"She's got hella guts, man, walkin around with no clothes on."

"Yeah, I got her to do that," Mark said eagerly.  "See, I told you you guys'd like her."

"She's gotta put out, acting like that."

Gavin and Derek and I looked at each other, a long, silent moment, and I worked on controlling myself.  It's one thing to hope that Mark Spencer is the sort of jerk who'd totally gross a girl out.  It's quite another to find out you were right.

"So what, you gonna take her home and fuck her?"

"Try to," Mark said.  "God, she's been such a pain.  So uptight."  His voice shifted to a falsetto mimicry.  "No, I'm not gonna, no, I'm not gonna...  Christ, she better put out."

Gavin was a picture of barely-controlled shock, and I knew he thought I should do something.  Or say something.  Or rip my shirt open, revealing my superhero costume, and save the day.  Trouble was, I didn't have a superhero costume.  Trouble was, I could tell these guys wouldn't be impressed by my views on morality.

But I couldn't just leave Christa there.  I had to do something.

Christa was hovering near Mark's shoulder.  "Uh, Mark...  It's past ten, my parents are probably getting worried."

I could see the instant gear-shift in the guys sitting at the table—how smoothly and quickly their masks came into place.  They were old hands at this, it was clear.  Only Mark was glitchy.  He scowled and said, "Come on, it's not that late."

"It is when you've got school tomorrow and your homework isn't done," Christa reminded him.  "I need to go home, Mark."

"Fine, fine," said Mark, acquiescing with bad grace.  "See all you guys later."  The door swung shut behind them.

There was a bit of a pregnant silence after that, as Mark's five college buddies regarded the three high-schoolers he had left behind.  I felt very exposed.  I wanted to get up and rush after them (after her), but I couldn't think of a good excuse.

Gavin glanced at his watch and suddenly started.  "Holy...  Guys, I'm sorry, but I gotta get home.  Same deal.  School tomorrow.  Shit like that.  Come on, Zach."

I blinked at him.  "What?"

"You're my ride, remember," Gavin said.

He was lying like a rug, of course, but something in the back of my mind pinged—He's giving you an excuse!  You can leave!.  Unfortunately, the rest of me was still in shock.  I said, "Buh?"

"You're both our rides," Derek said smoothly.  "I wanna get home too."  He turned to the college folk, suddenly apologetic.  "You know how it is.  Girlfriend's at home, waiting for you in bed..."

They all chuckled.

"So come on, Zach," Derek said, his eyes steely on mine.  "You're wasting time here."

I was half afraid Mark and Christa were going to see us as we spilled out the door, but they weren't anywhere in sight.  "Where'd they go," I said.  "Where are they?  They couldn't've driven away, we would've heard them."  Because of the peculiarities of The Lighthouse's parking lot, you can hear every car that comes or goes.  It's impossible to miss them.

"They may be parked round the back," Gavin said.

"So what do we do?" I asked.

"We sit here," Gavin said, reclining against the trunk of his car and gesturing with both arms.  "We sit here until we see them drive past."

It was a good idea in theory.  But after five minutes had passed, I was starting to doubt its wisdom—if Mark and Christa had decided to engage in any sort of make-out session, for instance, they wouldn't be coming by any time soon.  Even Derek was starting to look fidgety, and I knew he was probably thinking about Arie.  Poor guy.  It was ten-thirty at night, his girlfriend was potentially hovering on the edge of a breakdown, and here he was, marking time by the flickering light of the parking lot's neons, while things happened just over the horizon.  Over both horizons.  How could he possibly take it?  I was nearly going insane with only one battle to fight.

I was on the verge of telling him to go see to Arie when we heard it.  At first we were confused.  "Coach Wolfe?" I said, looking around.  But no, Coach was nowhere in sight; the last we'd seen of him, five minutes ago, he'd been inside The Lighthouse.  Besides, he'd agreed not to use his whistle anymore, because of The Program.  That way, whenever you heard a whistle blown, you knew it was because someone was in danger.  For Coach Wolfe to be blowing it was irresponsible, to say the least—

My hand flew to my solar plexus, where the whistle wasn't hanging anymore—I'd taken it off for the basketball game, and it was currently stored in my duffel.  But suddenly I knew where that shrilling breeet! noise was coming from.

When we rounded the building, Christa was wide-eyed and her hair was mussed, but she was as angry as I'd ever seen her, and Mark's face was already showing a palm-print.  "Is that enough to convince you," she was yelling.  "Or do I have to kick you in the balls, too?"

Mark looked up, and his eyes flashed.  "It won't hurt," he said scornfully.  "You're not even wearing shoes."

"No, but I am," Derek said.

"No, but we are," I corrected, before Mark had even finished turning around.

There was a half-second of silence eternal.  Mark's eyes met mine.  I didn't dare glance at Christa.  Flaps of newspaper tumbled with the wind.  If he or I had had revolvers, I knew our hands would be twitching to grab them.

"What's it gonna be, Spencer," I said, forcing rough bravado into my words, into knees that felt like Jell-O.  "Our word against yours?  The four of us?  Or do you want to fight it?  You against the three of us?"

"The four of us," Christa said loudly.

"You're outnumbered, man," Gavin said, "it's not a good place to be."

Mark's eyes flashed hatred, but even then he was no fool.

"Go home," I said.  "Go home and don't talk to her again."

"You have nothing on me," Mark snarled.

"And I don't want anything on you," I said.  ("We," Derek corrected.)  "What we want...  Is peace for our friend."

Mark said nothing.

"Your choice, man.  Leave, and we'll forget you were ever here.  Or stay...  And face the consequences."

Mark was smart enough to know when he was defeated.  Before he slammed the door, he glared at me.  "I won't forget this."

There wasn't any appropriate answer to that.  I stepped back and let his taillights dwindle into the distance.

Christa's chin was quivering.  Her shoulders shook.  Tears rolled down her cheeks.  She had been standing near the back bumper of the red car and in its absence she seemed small and very alone.  On her face was the most stricken expression I had ever seen.  Her lips worked soundlessly, a silent mantra:  "Oh Jesus.  Oh Jesus.  Oh Jesus."

"Zach," Derek said quietly.  His eyes were clear and sad, a wilderness of compassion.  "I think somebody needs you."

My knees had gone from Jell-O to pure water.  Something inside me churned, on the verge of throwing up.  I was exhausted.  My adrenaline had peaked long ago, back at the basketball game, all those years ago.  I had nothing right now.  I needed to sleep.

"She's calling your name, man," Gavin said.  His eyes were wide on me, clinging to the only thing he knew.  "Listen to her.  She's calling your name."

Oh Jesus.  Oh Jesus.  Oh Jesus.

My feet crunched gravel.  I felt the stars above as if they were all staring down at me.

I think somebody needs you.

W.8

I have never been so scared in my life.  When Dr. Zelvetti gave us those whistles, I never expected anyone would need them.  I never expected I would need them.

Someone was walking towards me.  Zach.  "Christa, are you...  Did he...?"

"You were right," I said.  My voice was hitching and trembling.  I should've been crying, only I think I was crying too hard for any tears to come out.  "You were right, Zach.  You all were.  I let my dreams get away with me.  I wanted too hard for them to come true, and so I didn't see..."

Zach's voice, calm and authoritative.  "Derek, Gavin...  Thank you for your help.  I...  I'd like to ask you to leave us.  Derek, if you wanna check on Arie, go for it.  I'll be along as fast as I can.  And Gavin, I...  I have no idea how to thank you.  Either of you."

"Hey, we didn't do nothin," said an unfamiliar voice.  Gavin?  "You made it all happen, buddy."

"Chuh.  Yeah, because I had friends behind me."

"Hey."  Derek.  "It's what we're here for."

Then there were retreating footsteps, muffled by distance, and a bit of muted chatter; then there were hands, guiding my shoulders.  Zach had the presence of mind to take off his jacket and spread it across the pebbly concrete before he sat me down.

Then there was only silence for a bit, while I felt the welling of his presence beside me, while I stared at the ground and felt very, very small.

"Did he hurt you?" Zach asked finally.

"No, he...  He didn't touch me," I said.

"Then what was going on," Zach asked.

"He...  He wanted more," I said.  "I wasn't sure what, he didn't say, he was very...  Unclear.  But you could tell from his eyes."

"He expected something of you."

"Yeah.  And...  I didn't wanna give it."

"That's what the whistle's for," Zach said, and in his voice I heard his confidence in me.  "I'd use it if someone wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."

Another silence.  Newspapers rattled in the chill breeze.

"Where are your clothes," he asked.

My clothes?  Oh, yeah.  "In Mark's car," I said.  "Miles and miles away from here."

"Fuck," he said.  "We'd better get you home, it's getting cold."  I felt him getting to his feet.

"No," I said, reaching out blindly.  "No—  Not yet."  I wasn't ready yet.  I couldn't face my mother like this.  I was going to break apart at the slightest touch, and my parents would react as all parents would—with alarm, with surprise, with panic.  With too much attention.  They'd smother me.  I'd break apart.  It wouldn't work.

I'd die.

He resettled back onto the ground.  "Okay..."

"Please..."

God, how was I going to face them.  How was I going to face anybody.  My dream, my dream had died.  It had gone out with a whimper, broken against the hard truth of Mark's reality.  It had gone from me.  I didn't know what I would do.

Everything around me was strange now.  Always I had been able to face the world with a faith in hope, in dreams, in clarity—with a faith that things would come true.  That I could make them come true simply by hoping they would.  And Mark had become that dream, the symbol for everything I had wanted and hoped to achieve.  But I had let my dreams get away with me; I had ignored all the signs, all the dangers, because I believed too strongly in this one thing.  And now it was broken and gone, and all I had left were the jackals, the shards—the people like Zach, who would laugh at me when I fell.

I didn't know what I would do.

Now there were tears.  I covered my face in my hands and cried.

"Oh, God, Christa...  No, don't cry, it's okay...  You're safe now, it's okay, there's nothing to worry about...  Don't cry...  Don't cry..."

His arms were around me, and I buried my face in his shoulder.

When I had cried myself out, there was a wet spot on his shirt.  "I'm sorry," I said.  How embarrassing.  How truly embarrassing.  "I didn't mean to—"

"No, it's okay," he said.  Our faces were close enough together that I could feel the whoosh of his breath.

"I'm just so out of it right now, I—"

"It's all right, friends are allowed to do that, you..."

We sort of trailed off, staring at each other in our confusion.

Then he kissed me.

Not long, not hard, not even insistent—just a gentle brushing of lips.  I had barely the time to realize before he went away again.

When I could see his eyes, they were calm.  Whirlwind fragments of memory and speculation suddenly combined into a clear picture.  So obvious.  So obvious.  Why on earth hadn't I seen it.

"I'm sorry," I said.  "I had no idea."

"I know," he said.  "I never exactly let on, did I."

"That was me you were talking about," I said, the events of the past three days flashing through my head, assembling and reassembling themselves.  "Every time."

"Just about," he agreed.

"And here I kept asking you...  Asking you about—"

"It was okay.  I mean, you didn't know, I couldn't really ask you to stop."

A sudden, panicked thought crossed my mind.  I'd just barely gotten out of Mark Spencer's clutches.  Was I now about to fall into Zach's?  "Zach...  Are you really—"

"What," he asked.

"How do I know if I can trust you?" I asked.

His face changed, and suddenly I could see how much I had hurt him.

"You don't," he said quietly.  "Because you never can.  So you take a chance.  The way you did with Mark Spencer.  And you make sure someone's there to bail you out if things go wrong."

His hand gripped mine.

"Like you," I said.

"Like me."

"Doesn't that mean I shouldn't date you then," I asked.  "How can you bail me out if you're the one I have to be bailed out of?"

"No," said Zach.  "Because I'm not that cruel."  His eyes were steady and his face was devoid of the normal flippant humor.

Looking into those eyes, I felt I could trust him.

We drove in silence, marking time by the flicker of passing headlights, the twitch of the car's LCD clock.  A radio station blared blurry music.  I heard nothing.

My mother was surprised to see me without clothes on, given the hour of the night.  I had Zach's jacket, but obviously it wasn't enough.  She was also surprised to see Zach.  "Well," she said.  "Mark!  You've...  Changed!  Since the last time we saw you!"

"Mom, this is Zach Crane, my Program partner," I said.

"Oh," my mother said.  "And...  Where is Mark?"

"Gone," I said flatly.  "We won't be seeing him again."

"Oh," said my mother, concern crossing her face.  "I take it things didn't go exactly as planned."

"No," I said.  "Not exactly."

"Well," said my mother.  "I see.  Come in, come inside, it must be cold."

"Actually," Zach said, "I should probably be going.  It's late, my parents will be wondering where I am."  I didn't think he cared all that much for what his parents thought—or rather, I didn't think they cared much; they probably knew by now that he could take care of himself—but when he looked at me, I suddenly realized that he was trying to do me a favor, to let me deal with my parents and the unavoidable questions alone.

"All right," said my mother.  "Thank you for bringing her home."

"Oh," I said, starting to return his jacket.

"No, it's okay," Zach said.  "You need it more than I do."

"I'll bring it to school tomorrow," I said, feeling vaguely uncomfortable to be in his debt.

Mother looked between us suddenly and said, "Well.  I'll be just inside if you need me, Christa.  Thank you again, Zach."  And then there were footsteps receding, and she was gone.

"Zach, I..." I said.  What did I want to say to him?  I had no real idea.  Thank you for being my friend?  No, I'd said that already.  Thank you for rescuing me?  Thank you for looking out for me?  Thank you for being the one touch I could bear, the one to hold me together when everything was flying apart at the seams?  For reminding me that, yes, maybe dreams do come true?

I kissed him on the lips—slow, gentle, offering nothing but my thanks for his presence.  What did I want from him?  I still didn't know.  But it was good to know what he wanted from me.  I thought I understood him now—and it's hard to mislike someone you understand.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I told him.

He nodded.

"Bye."

After he was gone, I took a long, slow shower, taking my time, letting the battering water wash away all other complaints.  I may have paid special attention to my breasts, to my privates—I don't recall.  My mind was a million miles away, walking through it all by rote, stopping in now and then only to enjoy the rush of the water.  I probably should've been faster—when I got out, all the lights were out and my parents were asleep.

I sighed.  The questions could wait until tomorrow.

The house was silent and still around me.  Tommy was off to bed long ago.  As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling in the blue warmth of night, I went over all the things that had happened today.  A mountain of firsts: my first experiences with oral sex, both giving and receiving; my first orgasm from someone else.  My first date.  My first kiss.  And those from two totally different people.  One of them was out of the running, without a doubt.  Now the only question was what would become of the other one.

Zach.

And what, I wondered to myself, will tomorrow bring?