F.1

When I woke up on Friday morning, the first thing that occured to me was that I really didn't want to get up: it was warm in bed, and comfortable—for some reason more so than normal—and I didn't want to leave.  I didn't hear any alarms going off, suggesting that I had time to go back to sleep...  But first I wanted to see what time it actually was.

When I opened my eyes, I didn't recognize the wall, and the clock wasn't where it should be.  But when I tried to roll over, I felt an arm around me, and suddenly remembered why nothing made sense.

Hello.  I'm Meredith Levine.  I'm in bed with the love of my life.

He was smiling at me when I turned to look at him, and I moved up to kiss him—forget morning breath.  "Good morning," I said.

"Good morning, beautiful," he said.

"Did we seriously just do that?" I asked.

"Do what?" he said.

"Sleep together," I said.  "In the same bed.  Without our parents knowing."

"Well, I snuck downstairs and used the fax machine to send your parents a message," Brandon said, "so they know.  And I bet my dad will notice the extra car in front of the house eventually."

"Why the fax machine?" I asked.

"So that they'd notice a message had arrived, but it wouldn't wake them up," he said.

"That's clever," I said, smiling, tracing his face with my hand, feeling the sudden urge, the need to touch him.  "It's always nice to have a clever, considerate, caring boyfriend."

"I also avoided alerting your brother," he added helpfully.

"Courteous as well," I said.

"And I seem to be inspiring excessive alliteration in my girlfriend," he said.

"Oh, you have inspired a whole lot more," I murmured, and pulled his head to me.

Honestly, I don't know what came over me.  And neither did Brandon: "Hey, whoa, hon, what's come over—"  And then he stopped and appeared to have gotten the message: that I wanted him, and I was going to get what I wanted.

I think it was...  Safety.  It had been a long, long week, and I had felt threatened and exposed for a lot of it.  All the normal sanctuaries were gone—home, my friends, Brandon's house—invaded by foreign forces like confusion, jealousy, dishonesty.  It's hard for me to be on my guard for a long time; I get tired.  I like to be able to trust and be trusted.  But now, despite all the chaos of the past week, Brandon and I—no, just Brandon—Brandon had been able to eke out some measure of safety for us, a place where we could retreat and be...  Safe.  Unguarded.  And where I could put everything aside and show him just how much I loved him.

I reached between us and drew him out of his pants, feeling his soft skin and the incipient firmness; his breath rushed warm in my ears, over my face.  We kissed with growing abandon, our tongues caressing each other, our bodies pressed against each other with his hardening member between.  His T-shirt around my upper body clung to my skin, and I felt as though I was his in every way, marked and covered by him.  I pushed him over onto his back, rolling on top of him, leaning down over him, kissing his nose, his face, his throat, as his hands found my panties and began to work them down my hips.  It was a bit of a struggle, with our bodies and the bedsheets all in the way, but ingenuity—or perhaps just hormones—eventually prevailed.  And not a moment too soon.

We moaned as one as I settled down over him.  I felt his hardness within me, opening me up, pushing at my walls, filling me up, the most immense thing I had ever felt... and yet not large enough, not possibly enough to sate the hunger inside me.  This was heaven; there was nothing better than to be here, in his arms, in his bed, watching his face as breath escaped him in a rush, and he opened half-focused eyes to look up at me.

"Oh God.  Meredith."

I kissed him.

It was a new experience to be on top of him, not one we'd often experimented with before.  I guess we're simple people; we find something that works and stick to it.  Simple, or boring.  But I liked to be under him, covered by his body and with movement limited, but yet knowing that he possessed me in every way; and now I liked being over him, feeling his hands worming under my shirt (his shirt) to cup my breasts, looking down at his straining face and feeling him struggle to meet me, to press further into me, to take me all at once, and knowing that I was making him feel this way, that I held him just as much as he had ever held me.  They were both good, in their own ways; and everything was good, because everything was Brandon.

And as always, there was his hardness inside me—his manhood, his penis, his member, his cock, whatever you wanted to call it—that.  Inside me, stroking in and out, spreading me open as I clung to him, grasping vainly after him as he withdrew; and I felt the base of his cock brushing against my clit every time I settled down on him, and his girth inside me, inciting strings of running fire; feeling the heat coursing through me, rippling and rebounding, building in intensity as the fire reached up from under me.

I could tell he was close, by the look in his eye, by his moans and whispers, by the way he writhed inside me; but I was too, I realized.  I was very close.  It wouldn't take long for either of us.  Because we were together.  Because we were one being.  Because we loved each other, and here we were, and that special thing we had was extending its power over us—I could feel it in the beat of his heart, in his breath, in the look in his eyes, in the way I pressed to him, beckoning him closer; in the strange, delirious air around us, urging us forward, whispering in our ears.  There was nothing better than this.  This was what we wanted—the two of us, together.  As we always would be.

His hands left my breasts and clasped my hips, pulling me down, burying himself in me—and then he moaned, and I felt his cum inside me, the burst and the dizzying rush; and then orgasm swept over me, and I arched against him, feeling his spasms reverberate against mine, feeling the unexpected pleasure burst and overflow and drain out of us, as we moaned and clenched and panted and finally collapsed, one atop the other, and all that I felt was his heartbeat.

Gradually I became aware of his breath, rushing in my ear; of his arms around my waist, gently stroking the skin of my hips and rear; of his body, solid and reassuring under me.  Of his lips, kissing the top of my head.

Of the alarm clock buzzing, drawing us back into the real world.

There wasn't time to fool around in the shower, but it was another new thing for us—having to be conscious of the other person, of reaching for the soap and not finding it, of having to pass the showerhead back and forth.  "It's inconvenient," said Brandon.  "But I don't mind it."

"Why not?"

"Well," he said, turning to give me the shampoo, "imagine the alternative.  What if I didn't have to think about you?"

Then he lathered my hair.

That man can say the sweetest things sometimes.

When we arrived downstairs, the housekeeper—Mrs. Shaw, I think her name is?  I rarely see her—was preparing breakfast, with Brandon's father and mother waiting impatiently, trying to look calm by reading the newspaper.  "Hello, Brandon," said Mrs. Chambers, turning to meet us, "did you sleep well last..."  That was when she stopped.

Brandon's father looked up to see what had interrupted his wife.  "Her again??  Is that whose car is out front?  Does she live here or something?"

Brandon seized upon this idea.  "You know...  I'm not entirely certain.  Meredith.  Do you live here?"

"Well, not exactly," I said.  "All my clothes are still in my closet at home, and so's my bed.  But I go where my man goes."

They looked at us for a moment.  I think it was the first time they had seen us as a couple, instead of two people who happened to be having sex together.

"Well," said Mr. Chambers, extending his hand, the epitome of courtesy.  "Since you're here, you might as well have some breakfast.  Shaw, make sure you make extra."

Brandon and I sat down.

"When did you get here, Meredith," said Brandon's mother.  "It wasn't in the last hour or so, or we'd have heard you."

"Last night," I said.  "Probably around eleven or eleven-thirty."

"Why?" said my mother.

"It beat staying at home," I said, and some of my bitterness must have reached them, because they looked across to Brandon, beckoning for explanation.

"Meredith isn't fond of her brother," he said.  "They have...  Differences of opinion."

There was a round of flickered consultation between them; then his mother said, "Probably normal among siblings," and his father said, "Yes, probably," and I caught the odd emphasis in their statements and wondered if they had both been only children.

"She decided she didn't want to be around him for a while," Brandon continued, "and came here."

"With permission from her parents, I hope," his father said.

"Her parents do know she's here," his mother asked.

I felt guilty—I'd scampered off without so much as a by-your-leave—but Brandon, bless his heart, had covered for me.  "Yes, they do.  I left them a message by fax machine last night.  I'm sure they've seen it by now, or they'd probably have called here, asking if I'd seen Meredith recently."

"Well, we've not received any frantic phone calls asking where their missing daughter is, so I assume you're correct," said Brandon's father, and I heard the grudging respect in his voice, and suddenly wondered what sort of legal disaster he had begun to contemplate before being reassured.

"What do your parents do, Meredith," Mrs. Chambers asked.

"Well, my father works as a financial advisor," I said.  "People or companies hire him as needed."

"Good with investments, eh," Mr. Chambers said, and I sensed that I had finally said something he respected.

"And my mother used to teach grade school, but she's thinking about retiring soon," I said.  "My dad's starting to make enough money that we can afford it."

Brandon's mother said, "Clearly a man who knows how to treat his wife."  Something about the brittle quality of her voice caught me, and I suddenly wondered if these two were good at false faces, and whether it was safe for me to believe anything they said.

"And you have a brother," Mrs. Chambers said.  "Younger or older?"

"Older," I said.  "He's a senior."  Technically.

"Your parents were busy for a couple of years," Mr. Chambers observed.  "A newborn and a one-year-old?"

"Actually, no, I, uh, skipped seventh grade," I said.  "My best friend's still a sophomore."

Mr. and Mrs. Chambers nodded complacently, as if this happened every day.  Brandon threw them a disgusted look and said: "Wow, Meredith, that must have been really difficult."

"Well, I guess it could've been worse," I said.  "I was borderline, a little bit—see, normally when somebody's smart, they have them skip an early grade, because it's easier to make the transition when you're younger.  So, the fact that I skipped later in life either means that I'm really smart, or I'm barely smart enough to have qualified."

"Well, you seem well-adjusted to me," Brandon said brightly.

"You're supposed to say that," I retorted, grinning.

His parents were not impressed, and if their expressions were anything to go by, Brandon's little set-up for me to deliver that spiel had not gone undetected.

"What do you think," Mr. Chambers said to his wife.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Chambers.  "She's very polite, to be sure, but there's also the matter of what we caught them doing on Monday night.  That could be a sign of extreme adjustment.  It could also be a sign of intense immaturity."

"That was my feeling too," said Mr. Chambers.  "You know how kids like to play at being adult."

The only protest I could muster was a mute, gape-jawed stare.

Brandon was not so reticent.  "Oh, God, guys, can we get over that for just one second?"

"Brandon, what you two were doing was highly inappropriate to your age and station," said Mr. Chambers.  "Whatever claims you might make to maturity are thrown out the window by that one thing."

"Maybe when you grew up," Brandon retorted.  "It's a new generation, Dad.  Sex isn't inextricably linked to reproduction anymore.  Now it can just be for fun.  And now it is just for fun, for a lot of people."

"And what if there's an accident?" Mr. Chambers said.  "Birth control isn't infallible; it fails...  What, one in a hundred times?  More?  What happens if tomorrow Meredith comes to you and says that someone new will be entering your lives in nine months?"

"I'd ask her what she wanted to do," Brandon said sharply.

"Oh," said Mrs. Chambers.  She had heard Brandon's hasty hesitation.  "Is that all?  No concerns about, about raising the child?  About putting her education on hold?  About how much it costs to raise a child nowadays?"

"Of course I'd worry about those," Brandon said.  "When I said I'd ask her what she wanted to do, I meant in the short term.  Like, Do you want to go through with this at all.  Do you still trust me.  Do you want me to be present in this baby's life.  Do you want to have this baby at all."

"And you'd just...  Meekly go along with—"

"There's no 'meek' about it," Brandon said.  He took my hand, which was resting on the table—visible, unmistakable.  What they didn't see, what only I felt, was the rigid tension in his grip, the clenching of his jaw.  "I love Meredith.  What I want is for her to be happy.  What she wants, I want.  And I'll support her in whatever that is, even if I don't agree with it."

There was a flickered exchange of glances between his parents; no matter how sentimental an answer it might have been, this was clearly the 'correct' one, and they hadn't expected to hear it.  "Well," Mr. Chambers grumbled.  "At least he wasn't talking about proposing to her because of a failed condom."

Brandon started to open his mouth.  I gave him a warning look, and mercifully he fell quiet.

The housekeeper delivered the food at that exact moment, breaking the somewhat misaligned impasse; in the enforced politeness of passing plates and utensils we managed to cobble together some form of decency.  I could see Brandon was no longer ready to explode; and his parents, though offensive, had thus far been polite.  I had no desire to ignite a civil war in this family.  They had enough problems as it was.  And then, with a touch of dark humor: Let's leave the civil wars for my family.

"Brandon," said his father suddenly, "isn't it considered appropriate for a man to tend to his woman at table?"  To prove his point, he ladled some eggs onto his wife's plate, the serving spoon making loud noises against the glassware.

Brandon said, "I suppose so."

I said, "Absolutely not."

His parents blinked at us in owlish confusion.

"I mean, there's such thing as courtesy," I said, jumping into the gap, "but there's also such thing as being patronizing.  I'm not so helpless that Brandon has to fork food into my mouth or something."

"Yes, but..." said Brandon.  "But isn't there an element of...  Well, I mean, when someone's so important in your life, you...  You want to take care of them, don't you?  You want to look after them.  You want to show them how much they mean to you."

"Yeah, but to the extent of destroying my autonomy?" I said.  "You know as well as I do that they used to use 'proper respect for women' and all that to keep them in a cage."

"Maybe they did, but I wouldn't," Brandon said.  "It would be counter-productive.  You may be beautiful as a decoration on the living room couch, but you're more beautiful moving 'round and talking to people."

"Uh-huh," I said, feeling cautious.  I love Brandon, but I won't let myself be caged by anyone.  Not even him.

"Look," he said.  "It'd be pointless for me to try to tie you down in any case.  If you love me, you'll stay with me and be a much better asset at my side than in a china cabinet somewhere.  And, if you don't love me, I wouldn't be able to change that by clinging to you.  I could delay the inevitable, but not change it.  So, I'd let you go, because I'd hate myself if I chained you down like that."

"And what would you do if I left you," I said.

"Lie down and die, most likely," he said.  The total seriousness of his tone unnerved me.  Brandon says what he means and means what he says.  And sometimes that's not such a good thing.

"Well," I said, forcing a laugh into my voice.  "Good thing I never plan to leave you then."

"Yes," he said, taking my hand.  His eyes never left my face.  "A good thing."

There was a short silence while Brandon's parents tried not to look at us.  Eventually he and I found some shards of public decency and turned back to them.  Breakfast proceeded quite shakily for a few minutes.

Finally Mr. Chambers looked up from his breakfast and speared me with a gaze.  "So, Meredith.  What are things like in your family?"

"I...  I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"What's your home life like," said Mr. Chambers, which was a much better way of putting it.

"Oh, well, it's...  Pretty calm," I said.  "I...  You know, I do homework, I watch television, I...  Sometimes I have arguments with my brother, but, you know, not all the time...  I sing, I practice oboe, I do...  Pretty much what any teenage girl does.  Except for that whole fashion thing.  I'm really not interested in that."

"You don't believe a girl should look her best," Mrs. Chambers said.

"No, it's not about that," I said.  "I think that a girl can look any way she pleases.  If she wants to show herself off, she can; and if she doesn't, she doesn't have to."

A strange expression crossed Mrs. Chambers' face, that I couldn't identify.

"What I don't like about fashion is the way it practically requires you to sign away your life," I said.  "It's not just about interesting clothes anymore, it's practically a religion.  I think it's stupid that some people try to define themselves by what they wear and how new and expensive it is.  I don't want to get into that."

"Mmm-hmm," said Mrs. Chambers, nodding her head with that same unreadable expression on her face; and I wondered if I had just scored points or dragged myself down.

"How about your brother," Mr. Chambers asked.  "What's he do?"

"Oh, well..." I said.  Wow.  A question more apt to get me in trouble, he could not have asked.  It would be a fine line to walk, skirting the nasty parts without actually lying.  "He was at a...  Boarding school, actually, for the past year and a half or so...  So, we've actually been out of touch, for the most part.  He just graduated from there, though, as a senior, so my guess is that he's going to enroll at a community college somewhere and transfer to a university after..."

I could see from Brandon's face that he thought I should have skirted the truth somewhat farther.  Well, he was my brother and not Brandon's.

"Why was your brother at a boarding school," Mrs. Chambers asked.

"Well, he was...  A bit of a wild child," I explained.  Again, that was, strictly, the truth.  Just not all of it.  "It got bad enough that my parents felt there was nothing they themselves could do, and that they had to send him away.  So...  They did."

"And they've been...  Distant...  Ever since, I imagine," Mr. Chambers said.

There was a moment of silence, as befitting such a bizarre shift of topic.  I finally found my voice: "What?  What makes you say that?"

"Well," said Mr. Chambers.  "It's understandable.  A son so far away, in such a difficult position...  Of course their thoughts would be with him for a great deal of the time.  I do hope your brother appreciates the heartache they must have gone through—"

"Now hold on a second," I protested.

"Is that why you think you've done a good job at parenting," Brandon exclaimed.

"After my parents had to send Michael away, they didn't just zone off," I said angrily.  "They paid attention.  They realized that they'd been making mistakes in how they raised us, and they decided they weren't going to do that anymore.  They talked to me.  They listened to me.  They didn't turn themselves into, like, magic parents that would let me do anything I wanted...  But they stopped being evil parents that expected me to do anything they wanted."  My voice dropped away, snatched by sudden emotion.  "They started treating me like I existed.  It was all I needed.  Now I believe them when they tell me they love me.  And I hope they feel the same when I tell them."

Mr. and Mrs. Chambers looked at me soundlessly.  Brandon passed me a napkin and I tried to pretend like I wasn't crying.  Awful time to be overcome by emotion.  Awful.

"Then," said Mr. Chambers finally.  "If you have them...  Then why do you need Brandon?"

The napkin dropped from my hand.  "Is that what this is about?"

"Jeez, you guys," Brandon said tiredly.

"I don't spend so much time with Brandon because I need some, some surrogate parent or something," I said.  "I spend time with him because I love him.  Yes, I love him—I enjoy his company, I like the way he makes me feel.  But it's not like I couldn't live without him.  I'm not dependent on him.  I don't—  Well, if he suddenly stood up right now and told me to never speak to him again, I'd be very sad.  But I'd survive.  And I'd keep going with my life, and find someone else.  And that would be that."

"Guys," Brandon said.  "Having been suicidal once doesn't mean that the person's screwed up for life.  Everyone has bad days.  Some people just have worse ones than others.  But having worse ones doesn't mean something's wrong with you."

"You can believe that if you want to, Brandon," his father said, his tone icy.

"I will," Brandon said.  "Because it's the truth."

Mr. Chambers' eyes were icy.

"And I suggest you admit it," Brandon said.  "Before you have to live with the shame of having a son that something's wrong with."

Mr. Chambers flinched.

"That's clear enough," Mrs. Chambers said, surging into the gap.  "Because no son of ours would ever show such disrespect to his parents."

Brandon favored her with a grim, sardonic smile and said no more.

His father checked his watch.  "I do need to be getting off to business.  Brandon, I'll see you in a bit.  Have a nice day, Ms. Levine."

Mrs. Chambers watched him go, and then said, "And I as well.  Shaw, thank you, we'll not need you for the rest of the day, you're excused.  Brandon, clean up, won't you?"  And with that she swept out as well.

Mrs. Shaw looked at Brandon.  Brandon shrugged.  "I guess you've got the day off.  Don't worry, I'll make sure you get the full day's wages."

Mrs. Shaw sagged in relief.  I wondered what her financial situation was, that the money was so important to her.  What kind of person signs up as a housekeeper-cum-cleaning-lady, anyway?  The kind who doesn't know what else to do, I guess.  Which is probably why Brandon promised to make sure she'd be paid as if she'd worked the full day, even if she hadn't; he can be selfless like that.

"Well, let me help you with these, at least," said Mrs. Shaw, moving towards the table.

"Nope, nope," said Brandon, grinning, "Mom told me to do it, and I'm gonna do it.  You head on home, spend some time with your family."

"I'll do it," I said, standing up.  "You can go...  Well, I dunno, check your e-mail or something.  I ought to pitch in.  You've been looking after me for the past twenty-four hours or so."

"Nonsense," Brandon said, "you're my guest here, I can't put you to work."

"I've put you to work," I countered.  "You deserve a rest.  I'll take care of it."

"No, I'll take care of it," Brandon said.

"No, I'll—"

Mrs. Shaw pushed between us, picked up the abandoned dishes, gave us both a look of glowering amusement, and marched to the sink.

"That was the weirdest argument ever," I said.  "Don't most people argue over who's not going to do the dishes?"

"Clearly a sign of arrested development," Brandon intoned in an officious voice.  "Highly emotionally immature.  Surely too young, totally fooling themselves about being in love."

Then we giggled like idiots.  Brandon's mother, passing by on her way out of the house, gave us a confused look and then left, shaking her head.

F.2

The first thing I noticed when I woke up on Friday was that my arms hurt.  And the first thing I saw when I woke up was that some of my cuts had broken open during the night, and there was blood—actual blood—on the bedsheets.  Drying, but very much there, very red, very obvious, for anyone to see.

After that, I found out just how quickly you wake up when your adrenaline system kicks in.  Who needs coffee?  Just get somebody to scare the living daylights out of you first thing in the morning, and you'll be good to go.

Hey, I'm Arie Chang, and I'm making valuable research discoveries on the behalf of science.

Mom gave me weird looks as I piled down the stairs with my bedding bundled into a ball in my hands.  "Arie?  What's wrong?"

"I, uh," I said, improvising fast.  A-ha!  "My period kicked in overnight and I didn't have a pad on."  It was about that time of month anyway.

"Oh, I see," said my mother.  "Better wash that, then."

"Yeah," I said, hurrying past her.

My worst nightmare would be if Mom was already running a load in the washing machine at this very second; but clearly luck was with me: it was empty.  I shoveled the stuff in and was adding detergent when Mom popped back in, a quizzical expression on her face.  "Arie...  Why were you...  Not wearing underwear in bed last night?"

I froze for a second, my mind making the proper connections.  Oh yeah.  Even if I had had my period, only a pretty heavy flow—about a gallon, more or less—should have managed to soak through my panties.  Mom knows I don't have anything like that; no one in our family does.  Thus, the only logical conclusion...

I scowled, annoyed at being seen through.  "Mom, why the hell are you thinking about whether I'm wearing panties?"

My mother flinched and looked away.  "Never mind."

Hunh, I thought as she walked away.  How about that.

Mom was microwaving frozen waffles when I actually got to the kitchen, her back to me; I looked around a little bit as she bustled around.  Surprisingly enough, my dad came in and sat down at the table.  Normally he's left for work by now, but today, here he was, poking unconcernedly through the morning paper.  "Good morning, Arie," he said in his unaccented English.

"Hi, Dad."

"What time did you get home last night," he asked, his eyes never lifting from the paper.

"Uhm...  About ten-thirty, I guess," I said, thinking back.  After Brandon had dropped me off and I'd gotten into the house, the night had become lost in this blur of endless homework.  Strangely, oddly, I was able to focus and get it actually done—something that's really not normal for me; generally I'm at my desk from the instant I come home to the instant I go to bed, either doing my homework (trying to do my homework) or puttering around on the Internet.  Then I go to bed at one in the morning and wake up at like six-thirty.  It's not great.  Maybe I should do something about that.

Now he looked up.  "You were at...  Brandon's house?"

"Yeah," I said.  "We were..."  Mindful of my mother.  "Working on a project."  I don't think my mother quite understands what goes down at these Save-Arie Fests.  I'm certain my father does.

"I hope the project was successful," said my father.

"You could say that," I said.

Trina came grumbling into the room.  "Who the hell's using the washing machine at this time of day."

"Sometimes there are accidents, Trina," said my mother.  Jeez, Mom, you don't have to be so snobbish about it.  Just because you never had to lie to your parents...

"Humph," said Trina, and shoved herself into a chair.

"Good morning, Trina," said my father, not looking up.

"Hi," said Trina flatly.  Then: "Wait a minute, what are you doing here?"

He gave her a long, level look over the top of the newspaper.  "I was supposed to be at a meeting this morning, but they realized they didn't need me.  So, I decided to take a few hours off and spend a little time with my family."

Trina recoiled slightly.  "Oh, well.  Okay, uh."

The microwave beeped, and a few moments later, Mom was there, delivering a plate stacked with waffles.  Grabbing plates, utensils and condiments, we dug in.

"Mmm," said Trina after a few bites.  "Are these...  Blueberries?"  Those are her favorite.

"Yes, actually," said my mother.  "I found some new waffles that have the fruit in them.  Do you like them?"

"I didn't say I didn't like them," Trina said quickly.  "Actually I—"  She took another bite.  "Mmm.  It's interesting.  I never would've thought of that.  Putting blueberries directly into the waffle."  She grinned as well as she could with her mouth full.

"Well," said my mother, clearly unsure how to accept Trina's reaction.  "I'm glad you like them."

"Oh, Arie, I've been meaning to ask you," said my father.  "Is there any news in terms of—your boyfriend?"

I didn't want to talk about it.  But my parents were not the type who accepted it when you said No.  I could answer freely...  Or they could press me and gradually worm the answer out of me.  Might as well surrender now.

"No," I said, "He hasn't spoken to me since...  Tuesday, basically."

"Have you spoken to him?" my mother asked.

No.  I hadn't.  "It's not as easy as that, you know," I cried.  I should have tried to.  I should have walked up to him.  I'm such an idiot.  "He told me maybe we shouldn't see each other anymore, okay!  If he's gonna be such a flake that he can't even deal with a little stress—"

"Yes, but who dumped who," Trina said.  Her voice was conversational.  Her eyes were murderous.

"It's not as easy as that, you know," I cried.  "I had my reasons!"  That were bad.  I should have given him a second chance.  I'm such an idiot.  I can't believe how lonely I—  "He's like totally slobbering over his Program partner, and she isn't even—"  Well.  No need to go into details about what he and I do.  But really, if the way to a man's heart is through his dick, why did I lose him?  "I shouldn't've let him go.  But he shouldn't be fawning over that crazy bitch like she's made of glass or something—"

"Then you should tell him that," my father said.  "Tell him you think he's been remiss, but that you're sorry, and you'd like a second chance."

"It's not as easy as that, you know!" I cried.  I mean, how do you tell someone that?  Where do you begin?  Especially someone like Derek, especially someone so important, the proverbial One That Got Away—it hasn't been three days and I'm already regretting—I'm such an idiot.  "I can't just walk up to him and get down on my knees and beg or something!  I mean, he—"

Suddenly I heard myself.  Suddenly I heard what I was saying.  How much I was beating myself up over this; how angry I was, how much I was lashing out defensively.  And totally inappropriately, as well; even Trina had offered good advice, though hers had been at gunpoint.  They were trying to help.  And I was...  Reacting like they were going to attack me.  Like I was guilty of something.

I knew what I was guilty of.  Aside from the raw ache in my chest where Derek was missing, there was the constant chug of the washing machine to remind me of where I'd gone wrong.  Of how selfish I could be.

Why shouldn't Derek look out after his Program partner?  Why shouldn't he be worried about his sister?  Both of them were in pretty bad situations—Jenny was about to become an unwed mother, and Faith was being publicly exposed to the sort of interest and attention (read: fondling) that she might not even understand, much less know how to deal with.  Remember how, when we were kids, we all thought kissing was gross?  Why would two people want to mash their lips and tongue together?  Taken at face value, it's a pretty weird habit.  There's saliva, there's icky teeth, there's the aftertaste of whatever the other person just ate...  That's kind of nasty, you know?  And the rest of sex is even weirder.  Why would anybody want to touch the place where another person pees out of?  The ulterior motives, obviously; the pleasure—but kids don't (or at least might not) know about that.  And Faith is...  A kid.  A kindergartener.  She needs someone to hold her hand when she crosses the street.  It's almost certain that she doesn't understand why anybody would want to touch her haha.

I sighed.  "I guess I have to say something."

"I'm glad," said my father.  "We don't like to see you upset, Arie."

I felt the automatic reply rising to my lips: I'm not upset.  And, meeting my father's eyes, realized just how far my lies really took me in this house.

"Trina," my mother said.  "Did you finish all your homework last night?"

"Yes.  Yes, of couse I did," Trina said instantly.  "Why?"

My mother gave her a bland look.  "Well, I—  When I went to bed last night I saw you still bent over your desk.  I assumed you had a lot of homework."

This was a naive assumption on my mother's part.  Both Trina and I spend a lot of time procrastinating via the Internet, and we're always still bent over our desks when they go to bed.  What could they figure out?

But Trina said, "Well, yes, I—  Actually, I had a lot of—  Well, see, there's this project I have to do, and I'm working with these three other people and they're such jerks, they're so lazy, we keep missing deadlines because they never get anything done, so I like have to do the whole fucking thing myself, and—"  I noticed how my parents flinched at and then quietly ignored Trina's cursing.  "And..."  Trina puttered out and sat there staring and panting at us.

"It's all right," my mother said soothingly.  "In a few days it'll all be over."

"What?" said Trina, whip-crack sharp.  "What do you mean?"

My mother gave her husband a careful glance.  "Well," she said in a voice that was clearly meant to be a whisper but really didn't succeed, "you know how things get during that time of month."

"...What?" said Trina.

"Your bedsheets," said my mother.  "Arie's, ah, Arie's—"  She groped helplessly for an appropriate metaphor.  "Arie started early," she said finally, "and didn't have the proper...  Precautions in.  Which is why she's washing her bedsheets.  Since women in the same house tend to...  Have simultaneous times...  And since you are also looking for the washing machine..."

Comprehension flashed through Trina's eyes.  "Oh," she said.  "Oh.  Yes.  Yes.  That's true.  I guess I should—"  She shrugged, rubbing her elbows against her sides.  "I guess I should apologize to my group members for being so—"

The real reason for my bedsheets being in the wash were burning under my long sleeves.  I gritted my teeth and ignored them, staring instead distantly at Trina's plate of waffles...  And suddenly noticed how she was moving her arms.  With her elbows pressed in like that, her arms could move inside her shirtsleeves, while remained pinned in place.  Her long shirtsleeves.  As if she had something to hide...

The anger of her responses and the flashing defensiveness struck me between the eyes.  How angry she had been, how much she had lashed out, how quicksilver her responses and evasions—taking escape routes the instant they had opened to her.

I wondered what Trina had really been doing, hunched over her desk.

But this wasn't the time to say anything.  I had said something once...  And brought down ruin.  If nothing else, I knew to keep my mouth shut.

But there's a theory I've heard, about people who dislike each other a lot, or who rub each other the wrong way.  Meredith says that it's because they're actually alike.

Whether I liked it or not, evidently there was more in common between Trina and I than just blood.

And as Brandon would say, So what?

For the first time all week, I didn't really see Derek in school.  Mostly because I was too busy thinking.

Who am I, really?

Anybody?

F.3

"Will not."

"Will too."

"Will not."

"Will...  Why do I have the feeling we've had this conversation before?"

Jenny shook her head and traced hair behind her ears.  "Because we have."

"So.  Can we not have it again?"

Jenny gave me a hopeful look.  "One more time?"

I rubbed my face with a hand.  "It wasn't all that fun the first time, Jen."

"Yes, but I need the help," she said.

After getting a bit of distance from Michael Levine, my sister Jennifer had finally realized that my way was the best—she should just march up to Trevor and tell him what was going on.  Score one for Derek Strong.  Now it was just a matter of psyching her up to do it.  I was glad Arie wasn't anywhere nearby, because it meant I had the resources of all my friends to help me in this project.  At least, until the bell for first period rang.

They clustered around us.  It was good to be among friends.

"I mean, it's not just something you can walk up to him and say, you know," Jenny said.  "'Hi, Trevor, guess what, I'm having your baby.'  Yeah right.  It's gonna be hard."

"So—" Brandon began to say, but Meredith elbowed him in the ribs and he fell silent.  What was that about?

"It will," said Meredith, in a tone far more gentle than Brandon's had been a moment before.  "But, unfortunately, sometimes life is hard.  Thankfully, not often.  But sometimes.  And...  It's in times like that that we find out what we're made of."

"Fear, most likely," Jenny grunted.

"And there's nothing wrong with that," Christa said.  "Everyone feels scared sometimes.  It's a natural response when we know something might go wrong.  But you don't have to let it rule you."

"I don't mean to be sexist," Zach said, "but, I'd like to point out that a million guys every day face this kind of fear.  They have to pull up their pants and ask a girl out.  That's not an easy thing to do."

"Especially since girls tend to move in packs," Brandon interjected.

"Honestly, I've always thought we're kind of underappreciated for that," Zach said.  "I mean, you tell a girl, 'Maybe you should tell that guy how you feel,' and she's like, 'No, omigod, I couldn't!'  But guys don't even question it, they know they have to."

"Yeah, but, there's societal pressure too," Christa reminded him.  "Some guys don't like it if a girl's too forward."

"Some guys are stupid," I said.  "If a girl likes you and doesn't mind telling you that, what kind of idiot would turn her down?"

"We're getting kind of far afield here," Meredith said gently.

"Look," said Brandon to Jenny.  "What's the worst that could happen?"

"He could break up with me," Jenny said.  "I'd be a single mother and my college plans would be shot."

"And what's the likeliness of this happening," Brandon asked.

"I dunno," Jenny said, "about fifty-fifty."

Brandon blanched, but I said, "Oh, come on, Jenny, you know that's not true.  The chances of him overreacting are, yeah, about three of four.  But he doesn't permanently overreact.  Once he calms down a little bit, he'll think it through and realize he doesn't want to leave you."

"But what if he does want to leave me," Jenny moaned.

"Then he's the scum of the earth and it's better to be rid of him," Sajel said brightly.  "I mean, what kind of asshat abandons his girlfriend when she's about to have his child?"

"Some people do," Jenny said morosely.

"Some people are stupid," Brandon said.  "And besides.  Pregnant women are sexy."

Christa turned an amazed look on him.  "How would you know this?"

I turned to Meredith, half expecting the logical answer—but she turned to him too and said, "Yeah, how would you know this?"

Brandon shrugged.  "Too much porn."

Meredith rolled her eyes and slipped her arm through his.  "My boyfriend, the Internet connoisseur."

"We're getting rather far afield here," Sajel said.

"Yes," Brandon said, "we are."

"So what we're saying," I said.  "Is that: the likelihood of him breaking up with you, permanently at least, is low; and even if it does, it'll be for the best."

"But what if he panics," Jenny said.  "He does that.  He might decide that I hate him and don't want to be with him anymore."

"Then you calm him down," I said, ignoring the cold feeling of ice in my gut.  What if Arie were to decide—  I pushed the feeling away.  "You're good at that, Jenny.  You're good at talking to him.  And you're the only one who can.  None of us can get through to him, certainly."

"But what if I panic," Jenny moaned.  "What if he says something and I start—  See, look at—"  She sniffled and wiped at her eyes.  "What if I can't handle it?  What if we—"

"Jenny," I said.  "Is it worth fighting for?  What do you want?  Do you want him to be with you?"

"Y-yeah," Jenny said.  "Of course I do.  I love him.  I—  I'm having his baby."

A thought occurred to me that hadn't ever struck me before.  We'd all been focusing on how big of a crisis this was, but what if...  "Does that make you happy?"

"I...  Well...  Yeah," said Jenny, and even through her tears we could see the brightness of her smile.  "He's...  We talked about this, we always said, 'Well, maybe in five years...' "

"Well, life doesn't always go according to plan, but it's better than the alternative," I said.

"Yeah," said Jenny.  "I mean, what if I didn't know him at all?"

"What if you couldn't have babies," Sajel said.

"What if he were shooting blanks," Zach offered.

"What if you were having fertility troubles," Christa said.

"What if you were in the sort of constricted relationship where you couldn't discuss this sort of thing," Meredith said.

"What if one of you was dead," Brandon deadpanned.

"What if you shut up," Sajel said to him.

"So..."  I shrugged.  "Go tell him.  Go tell him the good news."

Jenny did.

We watched her go, heading downstream towards the gym, where Trevor and his friends normally hung out.

"Wow, Derek," said Meredith finally.  "I think you did it."

I took a deep breath; and I felt a smile rising to my lips.  "Yeah, I guess I did, didn't I."

"He found the miracle shot and he made it work," Brandon said.

"Hail the newly-come savior," said Sajel.

"Well, sometimes you just...  Gotta do what you gotta do," I said.

"That's what we've been telling her all week," Brandon said.  "But you're the only one who got it through to her."

I felt vaguely uncomfortable being the center of attention like this.  "So.  That's one problem down.  How many more to go, three or four?"

"Just one," said Meredith.  "Arie."

"Yeah," I said, feeling a sour taste in my mouth.  Gotta do what you gotta do, indeed.  "Arie."

After that, the group sundered into its usual dozen conversations; I just stood there, for my part, and wondered.  Where was Arie right now?  I hadn't spoken to her since that thing with Faith yesterday.  How did she feel?  She'd been the one to leave me after all...  But did she miss me?  The way I missed her?  Did she wake up in the mornings and feel hollow, like skeletons and innards were missing?  What would I do if she didn't want to get back together with me?  Where would I go?  How would I feel?  What would I...

I'd never understood Jenny's or Trevor's propensity to panic.  When you faced a situation, it seemed to me, you should just take it as it was, and deal with it.  Their habit of overreacting wildly, of working themselves into a panic over the tiniest possibility of disaster, never made sense to me.

At least until now.

What would I do if Arie didn't want me anymore?

Jenny's face was streaked with tears.  "Derek...  He wants to tell our parents."

I stared.

"Hmm," said Zach, "I suppose your parents aren't going to appreciate their daughter being knocked up—"

"Well," Christa said, "I guess they have a right to know, but..."

"What exactly did he say," Meredith said, stooping to look up into Jenny's face.  "Maybe we're reading too much into this..."

"Does he seem happy about this?" Brandon asked.  "Is he telling them out of desperation, or because they're going to be grandparents?  I mean, some parents love that sort of thing.  They might—"

The babbling chaos increased.

Sajel caught my eye.  "Oh boy," she said with a sardonic smile.

I took a deep breath.  Oh boy indeed.

Welcome to Derek Strong.  Population: Insanity.

And yet somehow...  I wouldn't have it any other way.

F.4

During third period, a little slip of paper arrived for me via courier.  It was green, which was a bad sign, because the school color-codes messages according to what they contain, and the Big Green meant you were in deep shit.  Why else would the principal be summoning you to her office on the spot?

"Brandon?" said the teacher, Dr. Stevens.  He didn't approve of students leaving class for any reason, save urgent disciplinary call, Armageddon or, as he put it, gastronomical cataclysm.  "Are you leaving us?"

"Oh," I said, unfolding it.  The forms and boxes and lines were all filled in the right places.  Brandon Chambers, in the Principal's Office, at recess .  And then the date, and Dr. Zelvetti's signature.  I fought the urge to add a murder weapon; ever since Zach pointed out how similar these things are to the game 'Clue,' I can't get the association out of my head.  "It's not urgent," I said to him.  "I'm supposed to go at recess."

"Too bad you can't get out of here now," whispered Tim Sheldon behind me as Dr. Stevens resumed what promised to be a consistently boring and uninformative lecture on Plato.  'Ancient Philosophers' had sounded like a good class on paper.  Factor in Dr. Stevens, though, and you've got a very different situation.

Dr. Zelvetti was waiting for me in her office when I arrived out of the bustle and clamor of a Friday recess.  She reclined in her chair, her fingers steepled.  On the desk before her was a sheaf of paper, stapled at one corner, the top page covered in what looked like an official letter or document.

"Sit," she said.  "Do you know what this is, Mr. Chambers?"  She gestured to the papers.

"Err...  No, I'm afraid I don't," I said, resisting the urge to crane my head.

"That's very interesting, then, because they come from your parents," said Dr. Zelvetti.  "The..."  she picked up the letter.  "'The worthy and honorable Mr. and Mrs. William Fitzsimmons Chambers, suing the school district and Dr. Yvette Zelvetti...'  It continues, but the part that irks me is this: 'on behalf of their son, Brandon Percival—'"  She stopped and peered at me.  "Percival?"

"I didn't choose it," I muttered.

"Mmm," said Dr. Zelvetti.  "Well, with a name like Fitzsimmons, I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

"Is that the lawsuit, then?"

"That's the lawsuit," Dr. Zelvetti agreed.  "Delivered at exactly ten this morning—"  About forty-five minutes ago, then.  "—by a very stuffy, very officious-looking fellow.  A Mr. John Thomas Krenshaw.  Your family's lawyer, I believe."

"Yes," I said.  The scars on my wrists tingled.  "Among other things."

"So, what's this about, Mr. Chambers," Dr. Zelvetti said.  "I've always been fond of you.  And I'd hate to think I might have to stop."

"Well," I said.  "It's pretty simple.  This is the sound of my parents trying to blame their problems on someone else."

Dr. Zelvetti sat back in her chair again, her steepled fingers hiding her face from the eyes down.  "Explain."

"Well, first, we have to establish a few things about my parents," I said.  "They've been gone for six years, and now that I'm starting to develop my own values and identity, they don't know how to respond.  Especially since they don't like the values and identity I've chosen."

"Continue."

"My parents have an odd way of looking at the world," I said.  "They basically think that wishing something should be true, or saying it is, will make it true.  Now, you and I know that that's not the way the universe works.  But they don't, and boy, do they get confused when things go wrong."

"You're starting to lose me, Brandon," said Dr. Zelvetti.

"Okay," I said, forcing myself to calm down and collect my scattered thoughts.  There was a whole lot to say, and my academic career might be on the line, not to mention Dr. Zelvetti's respect for me.  And of the two, it wasn't my transcript I was most worried about.

"It's hard to know where to begin," I said.

"Start from the beginning," she said.  "I didn't know your parents were home."

"They weren't, until Monday," I said.  "They decided to surprise me."

"Since you and Meredith spend so much time together, I imagine it was they who were surprised," Dr. Zelvetti said.

I blinked.  "How did you know?"

"It wasn't all that hard," Dr. Zelvetti said, smiling.  "I hear what's said about you by your teachers, and they hear what's said by your friends.  And I've seen the way you two look at each other.  Combine that with the fact that your house is always empty unless you decide to bring someone home, and the conclusion is obvious.  Did they just walk in, or did they, oh, walk in?"

My cheeks heated.  "The latter.  Um.  Fortunately, we'd barely gotten started.  Um.  Unfortunately, it was, ah, round two that we were starting."

Dr. Zelvetti nodded sagely.

"Wow.  I can't believe I'm telling my principal details about my sex life," I said.

"Well, one presumes you have one," Dr. Zelvetti said.  "It's a new age, after all, and you're a healthy, attractive young man dating a healthy, attractive young woman.  What would be more logical?"

"Um," I said.  "Yes.  Well."  After all, it hadn't been too long ago historically that premarital sex would have been grounds for death—it still was, in some places.  And it hadn't been too long that Jane had been in my life.  If she and I had still been together, it would have been...  Ages and ages, basically, until we'd have started contemplating doing what Meredith and I did.  And it would have been an even more epic disaster if my parents had walked in.

—For Jane, at least.  I suddenly wondered if my parents would have gone for it.

"So, they've met Meredith," said Dr. Zelvetti.  "Do they like her?"

"Not...  Not really," I said.  "Their first impression seems to have lasted."

"Really," said Dr. Zelvetti.

"Yeah," I said.  "They can't seem to get over the fact that we're having sex."

"And how are they responding to that," Dr. Zelvetti asked.

"They don't like it," I said flatly.  "They don't like her.  They think she's luring me down the path of sin or something."

Dr. Zelvetti's eyebrows rose.  "Meredith is?"

"Yes," I said.  "Because God only knows that no son of theirs would ever be irrational enough to have a sexual relationship outside of marriage.  Since there's nothing wrong with me—being their son and all—it must clearly be Meredith's fault."

"Meredith is doing this to you?" Dr. Zelvetti said.

"See, that's what I meant earlier when I said they expect things to be true because they think it," I said.  "There are certain things they believe, and those beliefs don't change even when they're factually proved wrong.  They believe that they have taught me to be a moral, virtuous, upstanding young man who doesn't have sex—"

"And they're right, except for that last part," Dr. Zelvetti murmured.

I pushed on, stumbling past rising embarrasment.  "—and, if I am having sex—since all those traits come in one parcel and if you lose one, you lose 'em all—if I am having sex, then clearly it's because something is perverting me.  The fact that they haven't been around for six years has absolutely nothing to do with it.  Because they taught me.  They taught me.  And nothing will ever change that, not even cold hard reality."

"Hmm," said Dr. Zelvetti.

"So," I said, slumping back in my chair, suddenly drained.  "That's my parents."

"They sound like they don't much respect facts," Dr. Zelvetti said.

Respect facts.  That was a different way of putting it than I'd ever heard before.  "Yeah.  Yeah, they don't."  I liked it.

"But how does this account for this—"  She gestured to the letter.  "—lawsuit?  It seems to me that they would be better off suing the Levines, if Meredith is to blame."

"Well, she's not," I said.  "It's just symptomatic.  There's a bigger issue at stake here."

"The Program," she said.

"The Program," I said.  "They're suing you because you brought me into it against my will."

"And what don't they like about that," Dr. Zelvetti asked.

"Well...  I dunno," I said truthfully, " what does it say in the letter?"

"It has some line about 'setting a bad precedent' and 'endangering the autonomy of the community at large and our precious children in specific,' and a lot more noise about blackmail and abuse of powers and that sort of thing.  But I don't think they really care about that.  Do you?"

"Well..." I said, squinting.  "Maybe."  Peering into my parents' mutual psyche is not something I'm particularly good at.  "They're not around a lot, but I know they maintain a lot of e-mail correspondence with people in the neighborhood, because those people will drop by on occasion, you know, say hello and all that.  They all figure, 'Oh, how terrible, they're so hardworking that they're even willing to be away from their only child for most of the year,' and I just nod and smile.  Actually—heh.  Actually, every now and then, somebody drops by and tries to nominate them for city council, and I have to tell them, 'Actually, the reason you never see them in meetings is because they've been out of state for about ten months now,' and the person goes, 'Oh, uh, well' and walks away."  I rolled my eyes.  "Great folks.  Truly devoted to the community."

"So it would appear," said Dr. Zelvetti.

"Yeah, so it would," I said, "and that's the thing.  I'm honestly not sure how important image is to them.  It's hard to tell, because they're, you know, they're not home most of the time, and also, the...  Well, I mean, you know?  Image is what we live by—Arie, Meredith, me, Jane—we have these walls up, and we're susceptible to them.  We can't see through each other's walls very easily.  And it stands to reason that I learned this behavior from my parents, and that if my parents have those sorts of facades up, I wouldn't be able to see through them.  On the other hand, they could be serious.  But, I mean...  Who knows."

Dr. Zelvetti's eyes drilled me.  "What do you think?"

"I..."  I let my mouth hang open.  This would look ugly.  "I think they're faking it.  I think they're just in it to look good.  But...  I'd rather give them the benefit of the doubt."

"So it could be an image thing," Dr. Zelvetti said.

"It could be," I said.  Something twisted in my stomach as a new thought occurred to me.  "It could also be something else."

Dr. Zelvetti beckoned with her eyes.

"I...  Well, you have to understand, between my father and my mother, it's my father who's often in control, and, when I say 'my parents,' I really just mean 'my father.'  He...  It's mostly his policies, his rules.  And...  He's..."  Feeling my way in the dark now, not really sure if I was telling the truth or only airing my private suspicions.  "Very vindictive, in his own way.  When somebody...  When somebody does him wrong, he tries to get back at them.  Now obviously he's not petty or anything, he hides behind rules and always tries to achieve this, you know, this higher moral ground, so, it doesn't look like he's vindictive, it looks like he's being a hero and standing up for, you know, for truth, right, justice and the American Way."  I gestured to the paper.  "As you can see here.  He's using the rules, he's using, you know, moral justification, he's using—  Hell, he's using me.  What could be more understandable than a father fighting to defend his son.  But that's just appearances."

"You think he's using the system to his advantage," Dr. Zelvetti said.

"I honestly have no idea," I said, "I haven't met him in six years.  These are just my gut reactions."

"Trust them," Dr. Zelvetti said.  "Six years or no, you still know more about your parents than anybody else alive."

I squirmed.  What a responsibility.

"Well..." I said.  "He may be here just to get revenge."

"On me," Dr. Zelvetti said.

"Yes," I said.  "Obviously it's no one's fault, but you have to remember: my parents think they're perfect.  And since I am, you know, a part of them, since I am one of them, since I am of them...  I must be perfect too.  So all of this is...  Clearly some sort of perversion.  I have fallen into iniquity or whatever.  And, so far as they can tell, it all traces back to my time in The Program."

"Do they know about..."  Dr. Zelvetti considered for a moment.  "Do they know about the events of your freshman year."

My scars tingled.  "Yes."

She squinted at me.  "Do you think they're going to try to pin that on—"

The door behind me suddenly opened.  "Dr. Zelvetti?  Are you—  Oh."

I turned to look over my shoulder.  "Jane?"

"Uh.  Hi Brandon," said Jane.

"Jane, I'm...  In consultation, unfortunately," Dr. Zelvetti said.  "I'm not sure we'll be done before the end of the recess period, but if you'd like to wait..."

"All right," said Jane, "I'll just be in the waiting room."  She shut the door.

I blinked.  "Is Jane in trouble or something?"

"You know I would not be at liberty to say if she was," Dr. Zelvetti said.  "But, as it turns out, she's not.  She comes in to chat every once in a while."  She looked at me perceptively.  "She's a very nice girl, Brandon."

"Yeah," I said, some of the old guilt flooding through me.  I worry a lot about Jane sometimes.  She is a very nice girl: smart, hard-working, friendly, surprisingly generous, very loyal...  And the thing is, I'm not sure if people are smart enough to notice that.  I'd feel horrible if she ended up old and unmarried because nobody had the brains or guts to get to know her.

"But lonely, I suppose," I said.

"Yes," said Dr. Zelvetti.  "She doesn't have a lot of friends, and she tells me that you're often preoccupied with Meredith."

"There's truth to that," I said.  "Though, in my defense, Meredith is a very...  Engrossing person."

"That she is," Dr. Zelvetti said, smiling.  "But.  To the subject at hand.  You say that your parents are aware of your suicide attempt.  Do you think they'll try to fault The Program for it?"

"Would they...  Hmm.  It wouldn't make sense for them to do so.  Because that would involve, like, time travel."

"Indeed," said Dr. Zelvetti.

"Having said that, you have to remember that my parents think backwards.  They start with a conclusion and develop a thesis that supports it.  In this case, the conclusion is that The Program screwed me up.  And since my...  Problems... in freshman year are clearly symptomatic of me being screwed up, they probably will try to pin that on The Program.  Or at least try to link them in some way."

Dr. Zelvetti's eyebrows bobbed, and she said nothing.

"And...  That probably won't look very good in court," I said.

"How are you planning to deal with this," Dr. Zelvetti asked.  "You'll probably be called as a witness on your parents' side."

"I know," I said.

"What do you plan to do," Dr. Zelvetti asked.

"Tell the truth," I said.  "The whole truth and nothing but, sohelpmeGod."

Dr. Zelvetti's eyebrows came up lopsided.  "And what happens then?"

I shrugged.  "My parents lose the case.  The facts are not on their side."

"Perhaps, but there's another factor you've overlooked," Dr. Zelvetti said.  "Your parents are suing the school district to get them to remove me from my post."

My eyes went wide.

"How, Brandon, do we deal with that?" she asked me.  "Regardless of whether your parents win or not, there will still be a great deal of attention drawn to my decisions—and, for that matter, your actions.  Thus far, your participation in The Program hasn't been much discussed; the fact that you flourished the way you did, simply suggests that I picked well.  And I did."

"But not from the pool of candidates you were supposed to pick from," I said, a sinking feeling in my gut.

"Precisely," Dr. Zelvetti said.  "Abuse of power and all that."

"Why did you do it, then?" I asked.  "You knew you could get in trouble."

Dr. Zelvetti sighed.  "I did," she said.  "I did know.  And I took the risk, because I felt that the potential benefits were worth it."

"And they were," I said.

"And they were," Dr. Zelvetti agreed.  "Arie needed drawing out, something you were able to do.  And, in the meanwhile, you yourself were drawn out.  I had to force you both into the spotlight, but in hindsight, it was obviously the right thing to do."

"You can't argue with success, after all," I said.

"But that's the thing, Brandon," Dr. Zelvetti said.  "You can.  In this country, at least.  And your parents intend to.  If your reading of them is correct, then they intend to go to court and claim that our success, yours and mine and everybody's, should not have been allowed to occur.  And since I allowed it, they intend to remove me from my position."

"You can call me as a witness then," I said.  "And Arie, and Derek, and Meredith, and everyone who's gone through The Program.  You know we'll support you.  We all know that rules sometimes have to be broken, when they do more harm than good.  If you can prove that this was one of those cases, then..."

"Yes, if," Dr. Zelvetti said, leaning back in her chair, passing a hand over her eyes.  Suddenly I saw how tired she was, how much this all took out of her.  And not just lawsuits—being a good principal, being somehow there over everyone's shoulders, knowing everything that went on in this school, and quite a lot of what went on outside of it.

"I'm sorry about this, Dr. Zelvetti," I said, feeling totally inadequate.

She gave a wan smile without opening her eyes.  "It's hardly your fault, Brandon.  You don't control your parents."

"You're seeking a lawyer, I suppose," I said.

"The school district keeps one on call for situations like this," Dr. Zelvetti said.  "And my husband was one, so I know a few on the side."

"I'll keep looking for things we can use too," I said, standing up, sensing intuitively that our interview was at an end.  "I...  Perhaps it's improper for me to say this, but..."  I hesitated, teetering on the edge of a decision, and then blurted it out.  "I won't let my parents get away with this.  They're wrong to do this.  You're the best principal anyone could have."

I felt remarkably silly for saying that, but the smile on Dr. Zelvetti's face was worth it.  "Thank you, Brandon."

But as I left, I wasn't half as confident.  My parents were undoubtedly saying the same thing about Dr. Zelvetti: She's wrong.  We won't let her get away with this.  And, unlike us, they knew what they were doing.  They had done the law circuit, they had done the bureaucracy, they knew the ins and outs of the rules.  They had the connections we didn't.  This could be bad.

"What's going on?" Meredith asked me.

"They delivered the lawsuit," I said.

"Oh," said Meredith.  Then: "Are we going to be in trouble?"

I grimaced.

"I hope not," I said.  "I hope not."

F.5

When it rains, it pours, huh.  Get done with one problem—Jenny's situation—and another crops up.  I feel like we haven't taken a deep breath in ages.

And honestly, I'm a bit scared to.  Because then I would smell Brandon on my skin—it's been six hours but I can still smell him, feel the aftershadows of his caress—and I would want to grab him and jump his bones right then and there.  Never mind how it's lunchtime and we're out in the middle of nowhere.

Hello.  I'm Meredith Levine.  I'm a problem-solver, and, when I'm not, I seem to be horny.

(...I wonder if anyone else has ever said that sentence in the whole of human history.)

All right.

"Are your parents always this...  Vindictive?" Christa asked around a mouthful of her lunchtime sandwich.

"Sometimes, yeah," said Brandon.  "They...  Well, they see life as just a lot of obstacles they have to mow over, I think.  It's their way or the highway."  He gestured with his pizza.  "And their way is, you know, so far from the highway that it's, like, this back-country dirt road that isn't even paved, and, like, you need really good shocks just to deal with it.  And you probably pass horse-drawn carts every now and then."

Everybody looked at him.

"Uh, Brandon, sweetie," I said.  "There's metaphors...  And then there's just no."

"I may make bad jokes, but at least I don't make literary pontifications," Zach said.

"Zach!" Sajel exclaimed.  "Where did you learn that word?"

"It seems you've been a very civilizing influence on him," I said to Christa.

"I've done some good work," Christa said, beaming.  She slid her arm through Zach's and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Ook ook," said Zach.  "Me talk pretty one day."

"We're getting rather far afield," said Sajel.

"We seem to do that a lot," said Christa.

"Hey, guys, has anyone seen Arie," Derek asked, skidding to a stop in the middle of our camp.  We all looked up.

"No, actually," said Brandon, "I haven't seen her all day, except in class.  I wonder where she is."

"Normally I think she's in the computer labs," I said.

"Nngh," said Derek, rubbing his face with his hand.  "Thanks, guys."  And off he went again.

"Is he trying to get back together with her," Christa asked when he had gone.

"I think so," I said.

"Best thing for them, really," Brandon said.  "They've both been at loose ends ever since Tuesday."

"Kinda worrisome, though," Zach said.  "I mean, they've been really out of kilter.  Is it safe for two people to be so...  Important to each other?"

Sajel stared at him.  "If I hadn't seen it, I'd would never have believed it.  Zach, thinking about consequences for once in his life?"

To hide my discomfort, I said, "Christa, you have been a civilizing influence on him!"

"No, seriously," Zach said.  "I mean, Christa means the world to me, but...  There are ways in which I hold back a little.  I mean, you know the odds of relationships working out, and of...  Well, I mean.  The sad fact is, honestly, that we're probably gonna break up.  So I hold back some."

Christa gave us a disgruntled look.  "And this is the man I'm sleeping with?"

"No, I—"  Zach shook his head.  "I'm coming across wrong.  Christa, if we were to break up, I'd be miserable.  I'm sure I'd get over you—sure, after several years, and a long scavenger hunt to find the pieces of my heart, which you ripped up and scattered across the known universe.  But I would get over you.  And we'd run into each other at, like, our graduating class's five-year reunion, and we'd reminisce over old times and laugh and admire Brandon's and Meredith's kids and introduce our current dates to each other and hopefully we'd all get along fine.  I mean, whoever I end up dating in the future—or marrying, if it comes to that—if the person isn't you, I'd be really pleased if you and she could be friends.  But...  Arie and Derek aren't gonna be like that.  They're just too important to each other.  They gave each other too much.  And now they're walking around hollow like all the life has been sucked out of them, and I'm worried that we won't see them at the five-year reunion 'cause they'll be, like..."  His face worked.  "Dead."

We were all silent.  Brandon's hand nudged mine, and I looked into his eyes.  Hadn't we just been having this conversation on Wednesday?  And the irony of course was that Zach seemed to think we were set in stone.

"Zach the sensitive one," Brandon mused.  "And wise, too."

"He's right," Christa said.  "They look like they're...  I dunno, like the life has been sucked out of them.  Like they're dying on the inside."

I said, "Given Arie's disposition and habits, I don't think it's really proper to be joking about her death."

"Given the situation, I don't think we're joking," Sajel said.

"I don't mean dead like literally dead, six feet under or whatever," Zach said.  "I mean...  Spiritually dead.  Like, you know those stories about the woman or man who was emotionally scarred and has to learn to love again.  I can really see that happening to them.  And that's kind of worrisome, you know?"

I turned away, leaning nearer to Brandon—solely for the purpose of speaking to him privately, of course.  "Is that what's going to happen to us?"  Maybe I should've kept my mouth shut.  "Is that our fate?"

"So what if it is?" Brandon asked.

I gave him a cross look.  "Brandon, I don't want to be emotionally retarded by a crashed relationship."

"Neither do I," Brandon said.  "But in some cases, it's worth it."

I blinked at him.  "What do you mean?"

He sighed.  "You know how, every now and then, maybe once or twice a lifetime—  Listen to me, talking as if I'd been alive for fifty or sixty years.  Anyhow.  Once or twice in a lifetime, you run into someone where you just know, you just instantly know: 'If I don't manage to get close to this person, it'll be the one that got away.'  You know that feeling?"

"I...  I think so."  I didn't think it would be appropriate—or really conducive—to mention that the one person I'd ever met, who fit that description, was Brandon himself.

"Well..."  He sighed.  "Even if I'm emotionally scarred by our break-up and can't date again for another ten years..."  His arm circled my waist.  "At least she didn't get away."  His eyes were clear and steady on mine.  "And that's worth all the world to me."

That man can say the sweetest things sometimes.

We probably would have gotten very involved with each other, but a shadow fell across us, blotting out the light.  I turned to look and was presented with a quite direct view of someone's penis.

"You," said a voice.  Bernard's.  "Partner."

"I'm sorry," Brandon said loudly, "I don't know anyone by that name.  Do you know anyone by that name, Meredith?"

"I'm sorry, no, I don't," I said.  "I wonder who he's referring to."  I was torn: I'd rather have Brandon put up a sterling example of proper, polite behavior.  But at the same time, who wouldn't swoon when someone charges in to protect them?

"You are my partner, Meredith Levine, are you not?" Bernard said.

"Yes, that would be I," I said.  "What can I do for you?"

"You can partner me," Bernard said.  "I haven't seen you since Wednesday, besides class."  Sadly enough, this was relatively polite for him.

"I guess you want more advice," I said.

"Yes," said Bernard.  "Not from you," he said to Brandon.

"That's too bad," Brandon growled, "because I've got a few tips I could offer you."

"Shut it, fuckwad," Bernard said.

"I'll shut it when I hear some of the respect I deserve," Brandon said, his eyes narrowing.  "If not, you'll just have to put up with me all day long."

"You want a piece of me, bitch?" Bernard shrieked.  Heads turned from all directions.  Bernard's fists were clenched and he was shaking.

"Brandon," I said.  "Thank you.  I can handle this."

"I can handle him too," Brandon said, "and it'll be much more the way he deserves than what you'd offer him."

Boys.  Knight in shining armor is one thing, but fisticuffs is quite another.  "No, you can't handle him," I said.

"He's kinda scrawny," Brandon said.

"That may be so," I said, "but you still can't win."

"Why not?"

"Because he has nothing to lose," I said.

Brandon eyed Bernard, and the palpable rage on his face.

"And so you expect me to sit here and watch you march into the lion's den," he said.

"I expect you to sit here and let me do what I do best," I said.

"Which is?"

"De-clawing lions," I said.

Brandon looked at me wordlessly.

"All right," I said to Bernard as we walked away.  "First off, we're gonna set some ground rules down.  I don't know what it is that makes you hostile to everything, but for the next ten minutes, you keep it in check or I walk away.  It's Friday lunch; I'll be done with you in a few hours, and you're wrong if you think I won't break rules to be done with you sooner.  You are rude, belligerent and extremely unpleasant, and if you think that all of that isn't causing you social problems, you're too stupid to be wearing those glasses."

He looked at me.  "Are you threatening me?"

"I'm stating some facts," I said.  "You wanted advice?  You got it.  It won't be stuff you like hearing."

"Well, then, can it," he said.  "If I don't like hearing it, I don't want to hear it."

"Then go home and jerk off," I said.  "You wanted advice?  You got it.  Now, are you man enough to stay and listen to it?  Or are you going to run away sulking?"

It was language I'd never used before in my life: I wasn't generally this vulgar, and I certainly don't believe in all that gender-role crap they lob at us.  But it seemed to work with Bernard, because he took a deep breath and said, "I'm staying."

"Good," I said.  "Then let's start at the beginning.  Did you know that you're almost always angry?"

"No," he said quickly.

"Then you heard it here first," I said.  "You're always angry.  I've never seen you but that you're breathing fire and pissed off about something.  Now, let me ask you this.  If you saw somebody who seemed as likely to say hello to you as he was likely to punch you, would you be interested in saying hello to him?"

He squinted and frowned into the distance.  "I don't know."

"Then take another deep breath and think," I said.  "You do know the answer, you're just having trouble getting to it."

He took another deep breath.  Squinted into the distance.

"No," he said at last.  "I'd stay away from him."

"Smart boy," I said.  "Now.  There's someone I know who seems as likely to say hello to me as he is likely to punch me.  Do I need to tell you his name?"

"No," said Bernard.  Strangely, he sounded miserable.

"So, that's the first thing you might want to look into," I said.  "Anger management classes."

"I've tried those already," Bernard snarled.

"Try them again," I said.  "Or different ones.  Whatever you do, you have to stop acting so hostile to people, because it makes them avoid you.  That's just the simple facts."

Bernard gave me a strange glare, and sudden fear bloomed through my mind: Oh God.  What if he's like Brandon's parents?  What if he's one of those people who doesn't respect facts?  But then he nodded, once, short, and said, "Fine."

Lord in Heaven.  Progress!

"I've...  Thought a little about what you said on Tuesday," he said, almost grudgingly.  "You...  May have had a point about...  Looking at people who are more like me."

"I may have," I allowed graciously.  "But you have to remember, Bernard, that in part it's all about packaging.  There are probably certain types of people who are attracted to you now, and certain types that you're attracted to.  But if you know how to approach them, you can make just about anyone your friend."

"Hasn't worked so far," he retorted.

"And we've already discussed why your current approach is severely lacking, now haven't we," I said.

"Easy for you to say," he snarled.  "It's not fucking easy to just suddenly change."

Let's try a different tact—after all, he was right.  "What makes you so angry, anyway," I asked.  "Bernard, being furious 24/7 isn't exactly normal."

"What, are you saying I'm some sort of freak," he flared.

"No, no, of course not," I said, suddenly aware of the treacherous ground underfoot.  Such an extreme aversion to the office of freakdom—  A sudden understanding of his situation jammed into my head: how often he'd been reviled for his nature; the teasing and casual, callous hatred he had suffered for his entire life.  "It's just that—  Well, being angry takes a lot of physical energy, for one, and I'm surprised your body can handle it.  But that doesn't mean you're screwed up, it just means you're different, which is in fact quite normal.  Everyone has their own tics and traits and idiosyncrasies."

"Don't seem normal to me," Bernard snarled.  "All my life it's been, 'God, you freak.'  Every single person.  Every single day.  What, is there some fucking rule that I'm not allowed to be different?"

My instincts were confirmed, and some of his anger fell into focus.  He was probably exaggerating a bit, but at the same time, I knew high-schoolers could be cruel.  Actually, no, cruel's not the right word: they could be despicable.  Facing that sort of constant hatred—hearing, day after day, that he was somehow defective and unworthy—it was honestly understandable that he'd grown so bitter.

"Tell me about the girl you're interested in," I said.  "She's...  The cheerleading type, isn't she?"

He gave me a glare, but a gruff nod.

"What's her name," I asked.

This time his glare was long and speculative.  "Lenora Walters."

I knew her.  As a cheerleader, she was just a bit out of his league, but her beauty ran along more Victorian lines, of pale face and slim limbs and a bit of the open-mouthed ingenue—impefections that kept her off the A-list.  And there were hidden depths to her, a sense that her habitual silence hid not an empty brain but impossibly complex thought.  Most of the other cheerleaders you could detect by their chatter from a mile away—it was all Gucci this and Prada that and Sketchers whatever.  Next to that, anyone quiet would look smart, but when Lenora did open her mouth, something intelligent tended to come out.  In truth, I quite approved of his taste.  And I was glad I did—it proved that there were instincts under his anger that had not been blurred or corrupted by years of hatred.

But instincts or not, she was still a knockout beauty, and there was too much clutter on his person to make it easy to see him clearly.  "Why her?" I asked.  "Besides, you know, the whole good-looks thing.  Is there something about her you particularly like?"

"Why not her," he said.

"Well...  She's kinda a little bit out of your league, Bernard," I said.

"Bullshit," he said.

"And besides, she's got a boyfriend," I said.  Tad Jenkins, one of the football types.  My guess is that she probably wouldn't have him for long, but at the moment he was still there.

"So what," he said.  "I mean, what's he got that I haven't got."

I blinked at him.

It was such an outrageous question: what didn't Tad Jenkins have that Bernard didn't?  Popularity, a well-toned physique, good grades, the ability to accept responsibility, a car, a driver's license, normal parents (I don't know the Castagne family personally, but I'm not making any bets about his family life), a girlfriend...  Normal friends...  A non-abrasive personality...  Tact...  A whole mess of things that Bernard just...  Hadn't got.

But at the same time, it was a sentiment I understood completely.

Standing off to one side, watching Stasya flirt with Caleb.  Looking on in dismay as my latest crush suddenly appeared with a brand-new girlfriend hanging from his arm.  Watching the airhead cheerleaders girls, the girls on the sports teams, the student body presidents and vice-presidents and secretaries and treasurers and yearbook editors and newspaper editors—all the Big Women On Campus, in other words—watching all of them hook up and break up and make incredibly stupid decisions about who to kiss and who to sleep with, and wasting these opportunities that had been given them out of the sheerly random miracle of popularity.  Watching Christa get boyfriends, watching Arie get boyfriends, watching in disbelief as Jane—Jane, of all people!—somehow got picked up.  Picked up by a loser, surely, and someone who was clearly desperate, to have gone for her (what was his name, Brankin?  Brankin? Chambers?), but regardless: how had she managed, when I had just gotten dumped by my then-boyfriend?

Watching all these things, alone, without someone of my own to cling to; and thinking, It's just not fair.  I mean, what have they got that I don't have?

And in that moment I knew that Bernard had hidden depths of his own, that there was more to him than anger.  That there had been times when he'd sat down in the privacy of his own room, of his own heart, and brought his soul out of its pocket and dusted it off and taken a good long look at it, and figured that, while it certainly wasn't the most flashy or fashionable or desirable of things, it was servicable, there wasn't at least something desperately wrong with it.  That there were qualities he nursed that he never showed anyone, that there were selling points on this boy's resume that, just, none of us had had the chance to know about.  Because—yes, because he'd hidden them from us; but they were there, and there they were.

After all.  What did everyone else have that he didn't?

It must be frustrating, trying to hold to one's own self-worth, trying to hold to a sense of being non-defective, when it seems like everyone in the entire world is attacking you and destroying your sense of self over some half-perceived defect.

No wonder he was always angry.

I didn't know why he'd become the way he was; I didn't know why he'd been singled out like that.  I'd dealt with the symptom but not the disease.  But hopefully he'd get around it somehow.

And in the meanwhile, he was still looking at me—Bernard Castagne, with his eyes devoid of anger for the first time ever.  I mean, what's he got that I haven't got.

"Only one thing," I said truthfully.  "Appropriate advertising."

Bernard frowned.  "I don't want to lie to people."

"And well you shouldn't," I said.  "But remember, we all choose the image we project.  Maybe not consciously, but we choose it in the end.  And the image you project...  Accents all the wrong things.  You let yourself come across as hostile and impatient, instead of, you know, friendly and approachable.  And with that in mind, it's no wonder that everyone thinks you're hostile and impatient—it's what you make them think."

"Not on purpose," he said.

"No," I said, my heart going out to him, "of course not, not on purpose.  But...  There's a lot that we do—we, as humans—that we're not aware of or conscious of.  There are things that we do without meaning to.  And I think this is one of those things.  You try your best, but your heart is too occupied with anger, and you get distracted and things come out wrong."

"I didn't choose it," he flared.

"No, you didn't," I said, "but you can still choose against it.  Are you angry right now?  You've been pretty calm for the last few minutes or so.  You can put away your anger.  It'll be hard...  But it's possible.  And it'll be worth it in the end."

"What if Lenora doesn't like me," he asked suspiciously.

"Well..." I said.  "There are, after all, other fish in the sea.  And, besides, this isn't just for Lenora.  Look at yourself, Bernard.  Do you honestly want to keep on being who you are today?"

He actually did look down at himself for a moment.

"No," he said, his voice coloring—with anger; and, strangely, with grief.  "I hate who I am."  More of his psyche fell into place.

"What more reason to change do you need?" I asked.

His head came up.  I gave him a sad smile.

"If you're expecting it to happen overnight, you're going to be very disappointed," he said.

"Change is always difficult," I said.  "But I know you can do it.  And, if you can keep your temper in check for a few moments, you're always welcome to stop by and ask for more help."

He gave me a strange glance, and I wondered suddenly if anyone had ever before invited him, of their own free will, to come talk to them.

"I may do that," was all he said.

He didn't thank me.  But I guess we'll take baby steps for now.

Brandon watched him walk away.  "Is he...  Actually not-angry?" he said in tones of disbelief.

"He's...  Calmed down a bit," I said.  "Obviously he's not perfectly fixed, but, the groundwork is there.  Maybe he'll remember some of what I told him."

Brandon fixed me with a look.  "You're not a lion de-clawer, you know."

"Oh?" I said.

"No," he said.  "You're a fucking miracle worker."

I shook my head.  "Only under extenuating circumstances."

Well.  Two problems down.  How many more to go?

F.6

The fact is, I couldn't find Arie all day.  I didn't have a chance to talk to her until recess, at which point we'd already had our two classes together and she'd disappeared off to...  Wherever it was she went all day.  How annoying is that?  The one time I actually want to talk to her, and I can't find her.

Hey, I'm Derek Strong, and I can't find my girlfriend.

And before I knew it, I'd lost my chance, because it was Friday, and my week in The Program was over.  Brandon and the gang collected me and Meredith from outside of our final classes (no choir on Fridays) and congratulated us on surviving The Program.  "Another pair of veterans for our little circle," he said, grinning.

"Yeah, we, uh, we found you some medals, but they, uh, they have pins, and you don't have anything to pin onto," said Zach, "so, uh, we got you these instead."  He held up two of the yellow smiley-face stickers that Ms. Petersen uses to denote properly-done math homework.  "Uh—  Here," he said.  He gave one to Brandon and stuck the other onto my chest, about where a police badge would go.

Brandon took his and blinked at Meredith for a moment.  In case you haven't noticed, there's really nowhere to touch a girl's chest where you aren't hitting something you're not supposed to.  So Brandon just did it anyway.  He put it in the same place Zach put mine: on Meredith's left breast, halfway up or so.

Meredith looked down at it.

"No, too high," said Brandon—peeled it off, and stuck it to her nipple.

Meredith looked down at it.  Meredith gave a long-suffering sigh.

Thus properly attired, we convened at the south entrance to officially rejoin the world of the clothed.

There was a lot of chaos running around: it was, of course, everyone's last chance to Rule Three—or, more significantly, to be Rule Three'd, since no one had ever been known to go through The Program twice.  Bernard was there, but predictably nobody touched him, and I saw another stumbling block Meredith's miracle would have to overcome: attitudes take a long time to change.  Bernard might come to school a new man on Monday, but it'd probably be about this time next year before anyone noticed—if they did at all.  The guy might be stuck as an outcast until college.  And if that wasn't a recipe for getting pissed off, I didn't know what was.  I made a note to tell Meredith about this ASAP.

But not now.  I was looking for Arie.  The south entrance is where her mother comes to pick her up, so she'd have to pass through here eventually.  And when she does, I told myself, I am going to catch her.  Even if I have to hop after her with my pants down and my wank waving and only one arm through its shirtsleeve.

So, perhaps appropriately, this was exactly the state I was in when I saw her walking by.

I didn't get a chance to hop.  There was too much of a crowd around me that I had to try and push my way through.  And I had barely gotten through to the edges of the mess when someone bobbed into my vision with a brilliant smile.  "Hi Derek."

"Hi Faith," I said distractedly.  Arie was getting away.

"You look different with clothes on," Faith said.

"I feel different with clothes on," I said distractedly.  Arie was getting away.

"They make you look like a grown-up," said Faith.  "It's nice."

I turned to Faith.  She had all her clothes on: tan corduroy pants and a pink blouse, plus a backpack.  "Look, is this important?  I'm kind of busy."

"I'm quick," said Faith.  "I'll be so fast you didn't even notice me."  Her eyes flashed and flickered and she giggled.

I'm noticing you now, lady.  "What is it?"

"Well," said Faith reasonably.  "I just wanted to thank you for being such a good Program Partner.  You were nice to me all week.  Most people won't even talk to me, but you did, and Arie did, and you got all those people to notice me yesterday, and the day before...  It was very sweet."

"You're welcome," I said.  I looked around for Arie.

She was standing in the doorway to her family's van, and the instant my eyes fell upon her, she whirled away and jumped in.  Suddenly, somehow, from the whiplash of hair, from the hasty way the door slammed shut, that she'd been seen me talking to Faith—and that she was crying.

Fuck.

"I do my best," I said, feeling new weight sink into my belly.  That's Derek for ya.  Too nice to say No.

The blue van whipped past us, drowning out my words.

"Well, I appreciate it," Faith said, beaming.

"Glad you do," I said dully.

"I hope we can still be friends after this," Faith said.  "You're always welcome to come find me and talk to me."

"I know," I said.

"And since Arie's out of your life, I suppose you need new friends," Faith said.

"Well," I said.  "Arie's a little more than just a friend, Faith."

"I know," Faith said brightly.

Suddenly I took a closer look at her face.  She had been unusually lucid this afternoon.  Her eyes remained steady on mine, not flickering randomly the way they normally did.  And her commentary was...

She wasn't...  She didn't mean...

Did she?

"Uhm, uh, oh dear, um, I'm sorry, Faith, but I've got to go now, that's my sister over there, waiting by the car, she's gonna drive off if I don't—"  Jenny was doing no such thing, she was in fact talking to Meredith and Brandon over by the clothing boxes, which is probably why, when Faith looked over her shoulder, she didn't see her.  "Sorry, but I've got to go.  See you next week."

Now I hopped.

A lot.

"What was all that about, you look like you've seen a ghost," said Meredith.

"I know she's a little weird, Faith isn't that scary, is she?" Brandon said.

I squeezed my eyes shut.  "You don't want to know.  You really, really don't want to know."

All I have to say is this: Sometimes there's safety in clothing.

F.7

And then it was all done and I had my clothes back on me, and it felt a little strange in some ways—it had only been a week, but my skin was already strangely unaccustomed to the fetters and shelters of clothing.  Where was the wind stirring the light hairs on my arms, the sun smiling on every inch of skin it could find?  What was all this cloth stuff, cuffing my legs and torso?  It was really odd in some ways.

But at the same time, I was glad I could make my boobs look bigger again.

Hello.  My name's Meredith Levine.  I'm insecure.  How are you?

"So," Derek asked me, "what's the plans for the weekend?"

"Well..." I said.  "I've got my birthday thing tomorrow that you're all invited to...  Three o'clock or so, no idea when it'll end.  Why?"

"Is Arie coming?" Derek asked.

I blinked, wondering whether I should trick him into coming by saying she wasn't.  "Yes," I said finally.  "Are you coming?"

"Yes," said Derek.  "I have got to talk to her.  Can I bring Jenny?"

"Sure," I said.  "Stasya, Caleb, Erica, Gavin, Jeff...  They're all coming.  The more the merrier."

"Is...  Do you...  Anticipate that your brother will cause...  Trouble?" Brandon said.

"Ugh, how do I know?" I said.  "I hope not."

"The more the merrier," Derek said, "and the easier with which to counter disruptive brothers."

"Sounds good to me," Brandon said.  Something of what I felt must have shown on my face, because he said, in a quieter tone, "Don't you worry about a thing, sweetie.  It's your day.  We won't let anything ruin it."

"The fact that we even have to think about that makes it half-ruined already," I said.

"That's a bit of a pessimistic attitude to take," Derek said, but I couldn't see his face because my eyes were closed and I was clinging to Brandon as if no one else existed.

They must have exchanged some sort of signal, because Derek said, "Well.  I'll see you guys tomorrow then."

"We will," Brandon said.  "And thank you."

"Nnh," said Derek, and was gone.

We sat on one of the benches lining the sidewalk, surrounded by the dissolving bustle of an after-school Friday afternoon.  I sat in his arms and closed my eyes and tried not to feel.

"I guess it won't be easy," Brandon said.

"—Hmm?  What won't be easy?"

"Facing up to your brother.  Or to your parents for that matter.  Too bad Arie's not around, we could ask her for tips."  And I knew that he had picked up on my train of thought, on the unknown abyss of what exactly Michael had been doing at Whitehill University yesterday, and how I should tell my parents about it.  I sighed.  I didn't want to think about it.

"If—"  His voice was tentative now, like poking through quicksand.  "If you...  If you want me to be there, I..."  The worry in his voice was evident.  An absurd gift, one he wasn't sure would be even appropriate; one he had to offer anyway.

I kissed his cheek.  How many people would volunteer to march into the lion's den with you?

"No," I said.  "I...  I think I have to do this alone."  Declawing lions is, unfortunately, not a multiplayer activity.  Not to mention the facing-down of the lions themselves.

The lion is for you.  It's your lion.  There's no one else who can defeat it, that's why it's your lion.  And anyone who stands in the way...  Simply gets hurt.

Sometimes I don't know where my life went.  Just a week ago I was pretty normal teenager: went to school, did my homework, had friends, sang in a choir...  Okay, sure, so I had a boyfriend who's more like a husband, but besides that it was normal.  And then my life had turned around, just reversed in the blink of an eye.  When the brother of hell came home.

I didn't like how it'd turned around like that.  I didn't like how much my life had simply stopped being about me.

But that was such a selfish thought, because no one's lives are really about them; there are too many things that can just wander in and destroy us.  Take—  Well, here comes somebody in a car right now, I can hear them driving towards us though I can't see them, taking the loop that swings by the curb and then out onto the street.  What if the driver were to look away for just the wrong second—look away and climb the curb and smash Brandon and I to paste.  What could we do, how could we stop that?  Like it or not, our lives are at the mercy of many, many things.

(The car turned past us, the engine thundering into the distance.)

And I remembered Arie's words, Arie's report of Trina's words, the thing that had brought us all to Brandon's house yesterday night.  'You did it to look good in their eyes, you did it to get back at me.'  How, exactly, would I be doing anything different?

Brandon started to say something, but I shushed him off.  "Can we just not talk about it, please."

"Okay," he said.  "...What should we talk about, then?"

All right, I love him, but sometimes, that man is just...  "Anything."  A whisper.  "Please."

"What do you want for your birthday?" he asked with gratifying immediacy.

"I dunno, how about you?" I said, not really caring what was coming out of my mouth.

"I, uh.  I think that can be arranged," he said.  "But, we'd probably better send people home first before you, you know, unwrap your present."

"I don't care," I snapped, drawing him closer.  "I'll fuck you on the coffee table in front of everybody.  Michael can come and watch if he wants."

He was silent for a moment, and rigid.  "Meredith...  It's okay."  His body relaxed, becoming that warm pillow I knew so well, the cocoon that absorbed my pain and gave me strength.  "I wouldn't give you up for anything.  I love you.  There's nothing you could do that would ever make me think less of you."

"I like it when you say that," I said.

"I'll say it again, then.  I love you."

"Even if I'm hateful," I said.

"Aren't you always hateful," he asked bluntly.  "Aren't you always spiteful?—aren't you always cruel?  Aren't you always terrible?  Aren't you always you, who is all those things and more, much more—who is gentle, and kind, and loving, and the most generous person I know.  Who declaws lions, for heaven's sake.  Who...  Who I would never forgive myself over if I let her go."

I hid tears behind humor.  "So...  So what if I one day got tired of you?"

"Nope," he said.  "Sorry, nothing doing.  You're stuck with me for life.  I'll cling to your leg and you'll have to drag me around."

"I feel better when you say things like that," I said.

"Well, then," he said.  "I shall advocate clinging to your appendages on a regular basis from now on."

"Okay," I sighed, and settled close to him.

"Can we go to your house?" I said.

"I wish," he said.  "But my parents want to go over the lawsuit stuff.  I'm already late."  A humorless laugh.  "They're gonna be pissed."

I raised my head to look at him.  "Maybe you should go."

"No," he said.  "You get first priority.  Besides—"  A humorless smile.  "—they're trying to sue the school district over The Program, which has done nothing but good things for me."  His hand brushed my hair, guided my head gently back to his shoulder.  "As far as I'm concerned, they can wait."

I closed my eyes and settled against him.  I was going to get him in trouble.  But I was too tired to care.  I need him more than you do, I thought crossly at the memory of his angry parents.

"Oh, there you are," said somebody suddenly.  Stasya.  "I've been calling your cellphone for the last ten minutes."

"Uh, Stasya, if it isn't important, I, uh, I think it might be best to let Meredith alone for a little," Brandon said.  "I don't think she got a lot of sleep last night, and..."

"Oh—" said Stasya.  "Oh.  Okay.  I was just going to ask if Meredith wanted to—  Well, I guess the mall is probably a pretty loud place if—"

"Wait, no, hold on," I said, opening my eyes.  I can't stand malls.  "What about it?"

"Well..." said Stasya.  "It's your last day of being fifteen years old.  Where better place to celebrate than the mall?"

Brandon blinked a few times.  "Is...  Am I losing sleep too, or did that actually kind of make sense?"

"No, it kinda did," I said.  "You know, I think I will go."

Brandon blinked.  He knows I can't stand malls.  "Are you sure about this?"

"Better that than going home," I said, standing up.

Brandon's eyebrows bobbed, and he made a sound of assent.

And so that was where my afternoon went: getting lost in the vast, echoing vaults of our modern temples to consumerism.  Like I'd told Brandon's parents earlier in the day, I'm not against fashion; it's nice to be able to wear nice things, and to choose what you wear.  But I don't want people to see only what I wear, and ignore the face above the clothes and the person inside them.  And, besides...  Malls just rub me the wrong way.  There's something entirely claustrophobic about them, about the displays and the mannequins trying to show things off to best advantage, about the almost panicked way all these things are shoved in your face: Buy us!  Buy us!  PLEEEAAASE!

When Stasya dropped me off at home at about six, I had the most massive headache on earth.

"Oh, there you are, hello Stasya, Meredith you know you're supposed to call in when you go somewhere," my mother said.  "Do you have any idea how much I've been worried about you?  Brandon didn't pick up his cellphone, Brandon didn't pick up his house line, you didn't pick up your cellphone..."

Strangely, I felt better.  Nothing like a mother's love to pick you up.  "I'm sorry, Mom.  I didn't think."

"Well, think next time, honey, you're getting straight A's, that gray matter of yours must be good for something."  This rendered with a smile, so that I'd know she was joking.  "Stasya, if it's not too late, would you like to stay for dinner?  We rarely see you around nowadays."  My mom makes friends with my friends.  It's one of the things I like about her.

"I'd love to," Stasya said, "but, unfortunately, my parents need me home tonight.  I'm sorry.  I'll be back tomorrow, though," she added brightly.

"Yes, that you will," Mom said, smiling.  "We'll see you then."

As the door shut, I looked around.  It seemed awfully quiet.  "Where's Michael?"

"He's been up in his room ever since he came home," Mom said.  "He's been really quiet.  I don't know what he's up to in there."

I shrugged helplessly.  It wasn't hard to do.

"Well, dinner will be ready soon," Mom said, "so, don't eat anything."  She went back into the kitchen.

At the top of the stairs, I stared at the closed door of Michael's room.  I felt as if the world was falling away, or perhaps like I was falling away from the world—dizziness, a ringing in my ears.  In retrospect I don't understand how I managed to keep upright.  But at the time, I didn't really notice: I was focused too strongly on that white wooden door.  Open up, I seemed to be saying to it.  Reveal your secrets.  Show me what you're hiding.  Show me what's going on.

The door remained closed.  No Michael emerged.

In my room, I lay face-down on my bed, feeling the dizziness retreat, feeling the headache return.  God, it hurt to think.  Maybe I had a brain tumor.  What was I going to do?  I was absolutely sure Michael was hiding something in there—I was pretty damn sure about what he was hiding in there too—but what proof did I have?  Bad evidence.  Nothing that would be admissible in court; or, at least, nothing anyone would be foolish enough to admit in court.  My boyfriend and I cut class to go follow my brother's off-campus excursions.  Oh yeah right.  But no, this was family; things you'd never admit in public, you could say among family, and you'd be understood.  My mother was suspicious too.

Suddenly—a lightning brainstorm—I realized just how easy it would be to polarize my parents against Michael.  Just as he had used the threat of drugs to turn them against him participating in The Program, so I could influence them against him.  The simple fact was, they were nervous; they didn't know how to deal with this new fellow in their life, this manling that had once been their son but wasn't anymore, not really, and yet still was, and how do we deal with this?  They didn't know.  They were emotionally vulnerable and I could use that to my advantage.

No.  My heart rebelled, thudding within me.  No, no, that would be wrong, that would be awful, that's exactly what Michael did to them.  I'm not going to do that.  I'm not like him.  I don't do the shit that he does.  I'm not like him.

No.

My mother's voice was calling us for dinner.

My father was already sitting at the table when I came down, and Mom was just setting down the last dish; but where was Michael?  "Michael?" my mother cried, "are you coming down?"  And back came the muffled answer, bent by angles and carpetry and the rules of physics into near-indecipherability: "Just a minute, be right there!"

"I swear, that boy..." said my mother, sitting down.  "He's been up there all day."

"He could be looking at porn," I offered helpfully.  "He's got a computer, he's got the Internet..."

"And why is it," Dad asked, a twinkle in his eye, "that my innocent fifteen-year-old daughter knows about these sorts of things?"

"Sheesh, Dad," I said, grinning.  "I've got a computer, I've got the Internet..."

"You've also got a boyfriend," Dad said.

"But he isn't as cut and hunky as the people on the Internet!" I said, wide-eyed, trying not to blow the whole thing by grinning.

"Neither are the men in porn, nowadays," Dad said.

"Roger!" said my mother.  "And how exactly would you know that?"

"Well..." said my father, still grinning.  "I've got a computer, I've got the Internet..."

My mother tossed her hands.  "Am I the only one in this family who has not surrendered her decency?" she cried melodramatically.

"Yep," I said, giggling.  "Sorry, Mom.  We're all deranged mutant sex addicts."

My mother made a half-annoyed, half-amused noise.  "Ohh.  Eat, you two, before the food gets cold."  And, surrounded with laughter, we did.

But when Michael came down the stairs a minute later, I remembered what it was our laughter was covering.  Staying in his room for long periods of time had been one of the main symptoms before he was sent away.

He came laughing.  He came excited.  He came bouncing.  He plopped down into his chair and grabbed for a piece of chicken.  "Hey, gang!  What's going on?"

My father, bless his heart, made an attempt to maintain the air of levity.  "Actually, Michael, we were just discussing how the Internet corrupts the minds and morals of today's young people."

"Oh, yeah, that happens sometimes," Michael said.  "There was this one girl, at lockdown, who was all like, 'The Internet has taken over my head!  The aliens are using it to brainwash me!'  And we were all like, you know, Yeah right, what aliens, but then, she started doing this really weird shit, man.  Like, she'd be walking around hopping on one foot and sort of, sort of like clawing at the air, man, and then one time she tried to smash the television using a board game, which didn't work because it was like, you know, cardboard, and she was all crying and everything, and I think they eventually took her away 'cause she just disappeared one day, and she definitely wasn't better.  She was all saying the aliens were going to abduct her and take her back to her home planet.  Hey, come to think of it, maybe that's where she went."

"Well," said my mother, her face pale, "there's plenty for all."  I don't think it was his monologue that made us scared, but rather just the spitfire automatic quality of it.  It came straight out, no pauses, like something he might have rehearsed.

"So, Michael," said my father.  "How was school?"

"It was pretty good, man, pretty good, but I'm totally not down with that Program thing.  I think they're gonna make me do it next week, and if not the week after that, and I really don't wanna, it's gonna fuck with my head, I don't wanna do it, I don't think I should have to do it, it oughta be something you have to sign up for."

"Well," I said.  "You're technically graduated.  You don't have to go to school if you don't want to."

"Yeah, that's what I said, except that Dr. Zelvetti said it'd be illegal and all that shit."  He didn't look at me.

"I'm surprised, Michael," I said, my voice studiedly casual.  "Since when has breaking rules ever bothered you?"

Now he did turn to me.  Was it a trick of the light, or were his eyes somewhat glazed?  "Hey, hey.  I don't appreciate that, little sister.  I don't know about you, but, maybe I've changed a little bit while I was away.  Might be nice to wake up and smell the truth.  Right?"

"Right," I said—knowing I shouldn't; unable to help myself.  "You do seem to have gotten more offensive over the years."

He looked at me, his gaze flinty.  "Okay," he said.  "I get it.  I get the shift in the wind."  He turned to face all of us, a picture of wounded dignity.  "You may be all high-and-mighty and 'Oh, I've never had to deal with anything bad.'  But I have.  And I've tried to move beyond it.  And at least I can see the world for what it really is.  And now you know the truth."

My parents' eyes flickered back and forth.  Michael's impassioned protest seemed to have lost us about halfway through.

"Aww fuck it," Michael said, shoving his chair away from the table.

"Michael, you haven't eaten anything," Mom said.

"I'm not hungry," Michael said.

Suddenly I felt words rising up out of my throat—a sudden surge of courage, fear, desperation, vomit.  "Wait.  Wait.  Michael, if you could..."  They seemed to be leaping from my tongue without my approval.  "If you could stay, for a minute.  I have...  Something to tell you."

Michael looked down at me, his face a thunderhead.  "What?"

"I..."  Words deserted me.  Whatever had shoved the previous sentences out of me was gone now, and I was alone, staring up into the frightening planes of his eyes.  "We..."  Deep breath.  Start over.  "Brandon and I...  We followed you on Thursday."

The brief shift and flicker in his face was all the acknowledgement I was ever going to get.

"Thursday?" said my mother.  "When on Thursday?"

"Where did you follow him to?" my father said.

"It was...  During lunch," I said, suddenly wondering if I should edge away from him.  The glare he was giving me...  "He walked to Whitehill University and we followed him."

"Why," my mother said.

There were all sorts of excuses I could have given.  We were worried about his safety.  We thought he might get lost.  We thought he was lost.

I said, "Because we didn't trust him."

My parents said nothing.  A part of me rejoiced in the twisting on their faces.

"And so?" Michael grated.

"We saw him...  We saw you...  Talking to that guy in the camouflage.  And later we found out from Stasya's boyfriend, Caleb, who goes to that school...  We found out that he might do drugs."  At that magic word, my parents flinched.

It suddenly occurred to me how many pauses, how many hitching hesitations I was putting into the whole delivery.  But Michael looked ready to spit lightning bolts, and I was scared of him.  That was part of it, at least.  That was some of it.

"Did you see what...  They did," my mother asked.  "Why was he talking to this person?"

"We don't...  We don't know," I said.  "They walked off and we couldn't follow, or else we'd have been noticed."

My father looked at me in consternation.  "You mean you followed Michael the whole time and he didn't even notice you?  That's, like, a mile and a half!"

We looked at Michael.

"I was...  I was lost in thought," he said sullenly.

"About what," my mother said.  "About what in the house you could sell for money?"

"No," said my brother, "no, I was..."

"Now hold on," said my father.  "The report of a friend of a friend and a random sighting aren't hard evidence.  It's been a year and a half since we've seen any of Michael's friends; this could be...  What, what was his name, Stan?  He was always a bit of a wild child."

"Yeah, yeah," said Michael.  "You don't know that guy's name.  How do you know that isn't Stan?  Maybe he.  Maybe he skipped a grade like you did."

"Look," said my mother.  Her face and voice were harsh.  "We can sit here talking forever.  Or, we can go and find out what's going on in the one way that matters."

"Now, Andrea," my father said in a calm-down-let's-discuss-this sort of voice.  "We don't need to go jumping to conclusions here."  I could see he meant to take this logically.

My mother rose.  "Roger, do you mean to tell me you intend to just sit there and let this family fall apart again?"

My father's eyes hardened.  She'd shifted logic right out from under him.  "No," he said.  "Of course not."

And I suddenly saw how much work my mother had done for me.  She'd been primed from the start, as I'd suspected—it had only taken a little prodding to send her spiraling down on the conclusions she'd been meant to take.  And now she was leading the crusade up to Michael's room, my father and brother in tow.

In his room, my parents turned on the furnishings as if possessed.  There was an urgency about them now: they wanted to get down to the bottom of this.  They tore at his bed coverings; they dump-emptied drawers; they swept things off shelves.  It was madness.

There were several storage spots that the police had found.  It was these places my parents checked first: a gap in the bedsprings; a hollow in the chest of bureau drawers.  Spots where things could be easily hidden from prying eyes, but remain near to hand, should they be needed.

Michael hadn't even changed his hiding places.

They stood there, looking bizarrely dishevelled despite the relatively minor effort they had exerted—the whole search had taken less than a minute.  Dangling from their hands were sandwich bags filled with that hated white powder—not even the Ziplock kind, but rather the older Glad bags made by folding a single sheet of plastic over and sealing it on three sides to create a little pocket.  Some of it drifted from the bag my father held and spiraled loosely to the floor.

"We'll have to call the police again," my father said, his voice dead.  "We can't know for certain what this stuff is.  It could just be baking soda."

"Check for a rolled-up dollar bill or something," I said.  "He might have one in his wallet."

"Michael, let me see your wallet," my mother said.

"No," said Michael shrilly.

"Michael," said my mother in a voice I never want to hear again.

Michael stood for a moment, his arms folded across his chest.  Then, in a convulsive motion, he yanked out his wallet and hurled it at my mother.

Then he turned on me.

"Why'd you have to do that, huh?  Why'd you have to do that?  What'd I ever do to you!  I don't bother you, I stay out of your way!  I leave you in peace!  Sure, maybe I think your friends are shit, maybe I don't trust that Brandon guy any more than I can throw him.  But I keep my fucking mouth shut!  But you!  You—  You just—!"

"Michael, they let you out of Altamont Springs," my father said.  "Doesn't that mean you're, you know...  Cured?  Doesn't that mean you're recovered?"

"Recovered bullshit," said Michael.  "Nobody cares in that place.  Nobody tries to fix you.  And nobody tries to get fixed, either.  You just do enough Good Behavior and get up to Level Three, and then they let you out.  But you're not fixed.  They can't fix you there.  You just learn to work the system."

"Yes, we'd like to report a case of illegal substances," my mother was saying into the phone.

"Then if we send you back there, your knowledge may serve you in good stead," said my father.

"Why'd you have to go and do that, huh??" my brother said again, rounding on me.  "Why'd you have to—  You busted it wide open!  I was all set to just go back to normal.  I finally got out of that damn place, I was getting back to my friends, there's this girl that likes me—  I had a sweet deal!  And you busted it open.  Why?  What'd I ever do to you?  Why'd you do that??"

I looked at him.

I didn't say anything.  There was nothing I could say.

There was nothing I needed to say.

"Oh is that right, little sister," Michael raved.  "Is that so?  Is that so!  Well, you'll see, little missy!  I'll get you!  I'll be back one day, and I will hound you and hunt you down!  Nobody fucks with me!  You'll see!  The fury of a thousand suns will not compare to the hatred which I will rain down upon you!  Nobody fucks with me and gets away with it!  You hear me?  Nobody—"

I shut the door.

I didn't hear his ranting and raving, which only quieted when my parents locked him in his room.  I didn't hear the sirens, the heavy tread of the policemen, the Miranda rights being read.  I didn't hear my parents, knocking at my door, begging me to come downstairs, to have some more dinner, please, we'll talk, it took so much bravery to do what you did, please come down, we, we lost one child already today, we don't want to lose another.  I didn't hear the phone ring, didn't hear Brandon's voice on the other end, begging for an answer, bobbing with forced encouragement, finally giving up in despair.  I didn't hear the final silences, as my parents retired to their bed, to their worries, to the tears and whispered recriminations and the whispered reassurances and the eventual stillness as sleep took them away.

There was too much in my head to hear already.

I'm Meredith Levine.  I won.  And yet...  I lost.  Because I defeated the evil...  By being no better than him.

Let fire rain down on all the impure.