M.1

Being naked is a lot less simple than it seems.

Of course, I didn't know this at the time.  I rather blithely signed up only a few months after Brandon and I got together; I think I had some mad idea of boiling his blood in his veins.  Which was a perfectly good idea, of course, and still is; this was during the time, you realize, when we were essentially drunk on each other.  People frequently told us to get a room.  Which, sometimes, we did.  But in any case, I signed up in October, but got called in later May, right before my birthday, when enough time had passed and things between Brandon and I had cooled down a little—which is not to say that our love had soured, just that we had gotten a little more used to each other by then—and besides, things at that time were a lot more complicated than I expected.

Hello.  My name is Meredith Levine.  I'm Naked In School.

Dr. Zelvetti's office was about two-thirds full; aside from the monarch herself, the only face I recognized was Jeff Gainesborough's, whom I used to be much better friends with before Brandon came into my life.  There were no other juniors in the room, so I had no idea who my partner this week might be.

That question was quickly answered when the door swung open and Derek Strong came in.  Aside from Stasya, he's probably my best friend; we talk a lot online nowadays, especially where our respective significant others are involved.  He grinned and sat down next to me.  "So, ready to strut your stuff around for a week?"

"Me?" I said, amused.  "Stuff?  What stuff am I going to strut, exactly?"

"All right," he admitted, "maybe the wrong person to say that to.  But I really don't think you're going to be totally ignored either."

I thought about Brandon.  "No, I don't think so either."

"Does he know you're here?" Derek asked me.

"I decided to keep it secret from him," I said, smiling.  "Does Arie know you're here?"

Derek shook his head.  "No time.  I just got the call last night and after I got to school I had to come straight here."

You may notice that we basically assumed we'd be partnering together.  We assumed this because we both knew who our real partners would be, and it wasn't the ones Dr. Zelvetti was going to assign to us.  So why bother breaking up two pairs instead of one?

At that moment, the doors opened again and the remainder of this week's contingent of juniors entered.  I don't know which one startled me more.  "Faith Bennett??" I said, staring.

"Bernard Castagne?" Derek said in tones of total incredulity.

"Must be parents," I said, alluding to the option for parents to put their kids through The Program.

"Must be," Derek agreed.  "But that's gonna suck, isn't it?  I mean, you know...  Faith."

"No kidding," I said.  Faith is a beautiful girl by anyone's standards—long blonde hair often looking somewhat windswept and tangled, as though she was constantly at the mercy of the elements; wide, blue-gray eyes and a smile like the breaking dawn.  But she didn't have the sort of super-sized female accoutrements that seem to be in style nowadays.  She's...  Well, a beautiful girl, really.  As opposed to, say, last week's Erica Taylor, or Stasya, who are very much beautiful women.

"And pairing her with Bernard?" Derek said.  "That's gonna be harsh.  If anyone looks at him crosswise he practically darts under a table."

"And sometimes he has trouble holding onto his temper," I murmured.

"Yeah, if by 'Sometimes' you mean 'Always,' " Derek said, which was unkind but entirely accurate.  "Not to mention you can't tell what he's thinking.  Those are the biggest glasses I've ever seen."

"You can't even call them glasses," I said.  "You have to call them spectacles."  They were simply too large, and, along with the world's most virulent case of acne, they dominated his face.

"That'll be a nasty pairing," Derek said.  "I wonder what Dr. Zelvetti's thinking."

We should have known she would be listening in.

Within a few moments, most of the remaining participants had filtered in, and Dr. Zelvetti began the proceedings.  She handed out whistles and pamphlets and went over the four rules: enforced nakedness; mandatory participation in class activities structured to take advantage of one's nakedness; the infamous Reasonable Request; and, last but not least, Relief.  The Pamphlet had been updated with a fifth rule, involving the use of the safety whistles.  She also explained the personal accounts we'd be required to write (this thing, in other words) and turn in, a tradition that had been born out of the firestorm surrounding Arie's and Brandon's experiences in The Program.  Then she began naming off Program partners.  As each person's name was called, they would stand and drop trou (and just about everything else), and then meet their partner.  I wondered why Dr. Zelvetti had chosen to do it that way, creating a situation of inequality—one Partner naked and one clothed when they first met each other.  Admittedly it was a very short interval, but nonetheless.

The seniors went first; the four of them were checked out quickly.  Then it was our turn.

"Meredith Levine," said Dr. Zelvetti.

And so I stood up, shrugged off my backpack, stepped out of my shoes, took off my shirt and pants, took off my bra and panties, put them all in the juniors' clothes box at the foot of Dr. Zelvetti's desk, returned to my seat, and, conscious of the fact that everyone could see my pubic hair, waited for Dr. Zelvetti to call Derek's name.

She did...  But she mispronounced it "Bernard Castagne."

Bernard stood up and shucked off his Star Trek t-shirt and pants and underwear.  And that was it.  Except for Derek's surprised stare.

There wasn't much of a crowd outside the Homer building, which honestly didn't surprise me; Dr. Zelvetti had set a trend, back when she picked Arie and Brandon, of paying special attention to the outcasts, the minorities, the non-entities around this politic and well-governed body we call high school.  Nobody was interested in the geeks and the nerds and the throwbacks.  So there was a small crowd hanging around waiting for us—mostly guys (and a few girls) hoping to cop a quick feel—but not much else.

The most unnerving thing happened at that point.  Bernard and I successfully navigated the gauntlet of the lecherous, which wasn't as hard as it sounds; most of them were deterred by Bernard's total lack of physique and my total lack of boobs.  So, in a spare moment, I said to him, "So tell me, Bernard, how'd you get into The Program anyway?"

In general, when one starts a conversation with somebody, one expects to be answered.  So I was understandably irked when I received no answer.  I turned, meaning to drive my point home—  And realized he wasn't standing next to me anymore.  A very quick scan of the vicinity revealed that he wasn't anywhere there either.  It was like he had just gotten swallowed by a hole in the ground, except that there were none nearby, or dove into a bush, except that there were none of those nearby either.  It was extremely disconcerting.  I felt like a tumbleweed should have come rattling by.

When Faith and Derek came out, I was leaning in what I hoped was an unconcerned manner against the handicapped-access railing, trying to look like everything was normal.  Derek, likewise a casualty of underdeveloped physique, was regurgitated by the crowd quite quickly and came over to see me.  "Hey.  What happened?  Where's your partner?"

"He's disappeared," I said.  "He may have turned invisible."

Derek blinked at my matter-of-fact tone.

"Where's yours?" I asked.

"Still in there somewhere," Derek said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

"Err.  Derek, I hate to be a worrywart, but...  Is that safe?"

A startled look flashed across his face.  "You know, you've got a point, she being who she is...  Hey.  Hey!  Excuse me, let me through, I'm her partner..."

Derek waded into the sea of humanity and was quickly lost to view.  Only a moment later an unexpected set of arms circled around my waist.  A voice growled in my ear: "God, I love the smell of fresh girl in the morning."

I burst out laughing.  "You what!"

"Well, sorry, I only had about three seconds to come up with a pick-up line," and Brandon and I laughed together.

Arie was there too, looking around in confusion.  "Where's Derek?  That's Stacy Jones coming out, she's a sophomore, right?  Shouldn't Derek have been let out already?"

"Derek's somewhere in there," I said, waving my hand haphazardly at the crowd.  I wasn't going to be put off by Arie being a worrywart.  I was standing next to the man I love, and his hand was in mine, and his smile was just off to one side; everything, suddenly and quite pleasingly, was now right with the world.  Though he doesn't know he's the man I love yet.  We agreed, way back at the beginning, not to use the L-word until we were sure we meant it.  (This was mostly because we saw Derek and Arie just flinging it around like poisoned water.)  I have meant it, for quite a while now; I just haven't said it.  I wonder if he's felt it on the tip of his tongue for months the way I have.

"Derek, huh," Brandon said.  "He's your partner, then?"

"No, actually, he isn't," I said.

A fleeting look of panic crossed Arie's face.  "Who is his partner, then?"

"Faith Bennett," I said.

Brandon and Arie gave me identical looks, as if someone had just punched them between the eyes.  "Faith Bennett," Arie repeated.

"I know," I said, "I didn't believe it either."

"Look, here comes Gavin," said Brandon, pointing—and, indeed, Gavin Strickland was detaching himself from the crowd around Faith and Derek.  Brandon waved, and he came to join us.  His new girlfriend, Erica Taylor, also wandered over from where she'd been loitering near Stetsen. "Hey guys.  What's up?"

"Is that really Faith Bennett in there," Arie asked immediately.

Gavin put on the aspect of a news reporter.  "Well, Arie, eyewitness reports are sketchy, but it does appear to be Faith Bennett—"

"Faith Bennett," Erica said incredulously.

"You know," I said dryly to Brandon, "I hope we're not getting tired of hearing that name, because it's going to be blurted out many, many times before the day is done."

"How'd she get into The Program anyway," Arie asked.  "It's not like she has brain cells."

"Oh, that's nice of you," Brandon said.

"No, seriously," Arie said, wide-eyed innocence.  "It's not a putdown or anything.  I mean, obviously, she's still breathing and her heart's still beating, so something's in charge, but it's not a brain.  Or else, she wouldn't be so...  I dunno, out there."

"You know, actually," Brandon said.  "That's a good point."

"See, told you," Arie beamed.

"Is Faith your partner," Gavin asked me.  He and Erica were another Program pairing that ended up dating.  They had gone just last week.  I wondered, vaguely, how often they ended up sneaking off to get a room.

"No," I said.

"Well, I don't see any other naked juniors," Arie said.

"Who is your partner," Brandon asked.

"Bernard Castagne," I said.

"Old Geek-Breath," Arie said.

"Didn't the school, like, hire him to rebuild their website," Gavin said.

"Where is he," Brandon asked.

I shrugged.  "He disappeared.  One minute he was standing there, the next he was gone.  I guess it's some kind of nerd thing.  Remember that guy with the glasses in that game we were playing, who could turn himself invisible?..."

Brandon rolled his eyes.  "Meredith, dearest, how many times do I have to tell you?  Video games aren't real."

"Well, shoot," Gavin said immediately.  "So that means touching flowers won't let me throw fireballs?"

"Don't make me dump you," Erica said, sticking her tongue out at him.  "Isn't that Jeff?"

"That is indeed," Gavin agreed.  "Catch y'all later."

"Faith Bennett," said Arie again, once they had gone.  "Will wonders never cease."

Brandon put his arm around me: "I don't know, they seem to be working out well as it is."  I leaned in next to him, remembering my earlier resolution to boil his blood in his veins.

Arie gave us a glance and then rolled her eyes in exasperation.  Children.  Brandon and I giggled and kissed again.

The crowd was finally starting to break up around Derek and Faith, probably due to Jeff Gainesborough's Program partner, who was a certified babe.  Though she had the misfortune of being named Evergreen.  Evergreen Forrest.  We really wonder what her parents were thinking.  In any case, Derek finally emerged from the chaos, Faith trailing behind him, most likely because he was holding her hand.

Brandon and I traded glances.  Arie wouldn't like that.

"Hi guys," said Derek.

"Ahem," said Arie.

"What," said Derek.

"Ahem," said Arie, this time glancing conspicuously at Derek's hand.

Derek looked down, seeming to notice for the first time that he was holding Faith's hand.  He let it drop.

"Thank you," said Arie.  Derek rolled his eyes.

"All right," Brandon said, "I think we got off on the wrong foot there.  Derek, start over."

"Hi guys," Derek said obediently.

"Hey hon," Arie said pleasantly.  "Where'd your clothes go?"

"I'm in The Program now," Derek said.  "Dr. Zelvetti has 'em."

"And who might this fine specimen of girlhood be," Brandon asked brightly, giving a significant glance at Faith.

"I have no idea," Derek deadpanned.  "But this, is my Program partner, Faith Bennett.  Everybody say hello."

"Hello," we chorused obediently.

Faith turned.  She had been staring at the sky.  "Oh, hello," she said.

"How are you, Faith," I asked.

"Oh, I'm just fine," said Faith.  "The sky makes me tingle."

We blinked at each other.

"What's so interesting about the sky anyway," Arie asked.

"It's different," said Faith, her eyes heavenward again.

"Why, is it orange?" Arie said.

"Noooo," said Faith, wide-eyed innocence.  "It's tingly."

"Maybe it's because you have no clothes on," Derek suggested.

"Maybe," said Faith.  "I think the sky is always tingly, but you can't feel it if you have clothes on."

She had something of a point.  It's very different to stand outside with no clothes on.  I was certainly feeling a tingle.  Though, of course, that might have had more to do with how close Brandon was standing.

"I'm just glad it's not cloudy," I said.  "Remember last week?  I don't know how Gavin managed."  He and Erica and Stasya and the entire crop had gotten rained on a couple of times.  I'd spent the entire weekend checking Weather.com and praying fervently to the sun.  So far it looked okay, but we hadn't even had our first Monday class yet.

"Rain tingles even more," Faith said.  "It's like Bobby Crestmore."

The four of us traded glances again.  Bobby Crestmore was a cute freshman, but I don't think any of us quite understood how he resembled or might be made to resemble rain.

There was no time to ask, though, because right about then, the bell rang, and we were due in class.  Giving Brandon a single last kiss—pressing myself against him—feeling his arms around me, the beating of his heart, the quickening in his breath—I thought to myself, This is going to be a week to remember.

And it was.  But not quite in the way I expected it would.

M.2

Being naked is a lot less simple than it seems.

Now, pretty obviously, this is one of those things you just have to live through to understand, so I hadn't the slightest idea what I was getting into when I signed up.  It was mostly Arie's idea.  —No, that's a lie, it's not like she signed me up, I signed up.  But it was mostly Arie's idea.  "Hey, Derek, wouldn't it be cool if you were in The Program?"  "Why would it be cool, Arie?"  "I dunno, it just...  Would."  This while we're lying in bed after some great sex.  "Why don't you sign up?"  And when you've just had great sex with your girlfriend, you'll agree to just about anything she says.  And so there I was.

Now, this isn't to say Arie set me up or anything.  I don't think she thought about the consequences either.  It was just an idea she blithely tossed up and I just as blithely agreed to.  Neither of us quite knew what we were getting into.  Not in the slightest.

Hi, I'm Derek Strong, and I'm naked in school, and I think we should blame Arie.  Not that it's really Arie's fault that I got set up with Faith Bennett.  But, I mean, she's convenient to blame, right?

"This is all your fault," I told her over recess.

"What, what's my fault?" Arie asked, startled.

"This," I said, indicating myself.

Arie gave me a critical eye.  "You look about the same as you did yesterday."

"He does," Sajel agreed.  "But...  Something's missing..."  She put her finger on my arm.  "I just can't put my finger on it..."

"Might it have something to do with the fact that I have no clothes on?" I said.  Sajel managed a very effective double-take.

"Well, besides that," Arie said.  "And besides, how could that be my fault?"

"Did you steal his clothes," Christa asked.

"Nooo," Arie said.  "He's in The Program!"

"Well, that must be your fault then," Zach said.  "Did you, like, dress up as him and sign him up in secret?"

"No!" Arie said indignantly.  "Why would I do that?"

"Okay, Derek," Sajel said, turning to me.  "Why's this her fault?"

I shrugged.  "She's easy to blame."

"Hey!" Arie said.

"Oh, okay," Sajel said.  "Arie, this is all your fault!"

"What!" said Arie.

"You heard me!" Sajel retorted.  "And it's probably your fault that Mr. Cavanaugh gave us that pop quiz this morning too."

"And that Meredith's in The Program too," Zach said.

"And that Zach's cum tastes so bad," Christa said.  "What exactly have you been feeding him lately!"

"Okay, yuck," Sajel said.  "TMI.  Minus fifty points."

Arie was staring at us, stricken.

"But it's okay," I declared magnanimously, striding forward and wrapping her in a hug.  "We love you anyway."

"And I hate you!" Arie protested, but she hugged me back.  Behind me, Zach and Sajel and Christa snickered.

"So, who's your partner then," Sajel asked me once Arie and I had untangled ourselves.

"Faith Bennett," Arie said.

"What!" said Zach, Sajel and Christa all at once.

I rolled my eyes.  "Here we go again."

"And this loser—" said Arie, giving me a shove.  "—was holding her hand."

"Faith Bennett," Christa said again.

"Yes, Faith Bennett," I said.

"Faith Bennett is your Program partner??" Zach said.

"Yesssss," I said.

"And he was holding her hand!" Arie said.

"You were holding Faith's hand," Sajel asked me.

I tossed my hands.  "Is this going to continue?  Seriously.  How many times can you say one name?"

"Arie, there's nothing wrong with that," Christa said.  "Faith is...  She's like a kindergartener.  You hold her hand when you cross the street because it's not safe otherwise."

"But Faith isn't five years old," Arie maintained stubbornly.

"Mentally she is," Christa said.

"She can't be," Arie said.  "She doesn't have a brain."

"So now she needs even more help," I said.  "Why, what should we do, let her get run over?"

"Darwin would approve," Arie said brightly.

"Arie, that's very cruel," Christa said.  "That's very cruel.  You shouldn't even joke about that.  Faith is no different than you."

"I have a brain!" Arie protested.

"Yes, and so does she," Christa said patiently.  "But with both of you, there are...  Conditions.  Factors.  Things that make it hard for you to act and survive normally."

Arie said nothing, her face blank.

Zach pitched in.  "How would you like it if we said, 'Oh, something's wrong with Arie, so we should just leave her to get killed by that wrong thing.'  How would you feel?"

Arie's face softened, wrinkled, as if she had bit into something sour.

"So don't say that about Faith," Christa said.

"All right," said Arie softly.  She gave a mock sniffle.  "Any more of this and I might start thinking nobody likes me."

"Now, now, that's not true," I said, smiling.  "I like you."

"Yeah right," Arie sulked.

"I do," I said.

"Prove it," Arie said, and her face was about three inches from mine, so I did what any intelligent boyfriend would do.  I turned her to face me and drew her to me and kissed her, soft and tantalizing, as much promise as I could offer.  Behind me the others cheered and whooped.

Arie, with a speculative look, said, "Hmm, not quite enticing enough.  Again."

"Pfft," Sajel said.  "And here we have further proof of Arie's stupidity, when she receives the hottest kiss in the history of mankind, and still says—"  And then her voice was lost to me in the touch of Arie's lips, the sound and smell of her breath, her arms around my neck, her body pressing to me, her hair tangling in my fingers as my hand went to her cheek.

When we came apart again, there was need in her eyes.

"Dude," Zach said judiciously.  "Kisses like that mean only one thing."

"What?" Christa asked.

"Get a room, you guys!" said Zach.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Sajel grumbled.  "Zach, don't say that."

"Why shouldn't he say that," Christa asked, confused.

Arie's mouth was open, her nose almost brushing mine.  I could see the question on her face; I knew she could see the answer on mine.  Or perhaps simply feel it, down below, prodding at the material of her jeans.

"Because whenever he does," Sajel retorted, "they do.  It's like a curse or—  See, there they go."  Her voice fading as our feet pounded the pavement.  "Where do you think you're gonna find some privacy!"

I made to turn left, to head for the bathrooms, but Arie drew me in the other direction, deeper into Stetsen.  "I have a better idea."

"Derek," said Mr. Trineer, opening the door to his classroom at our knocking.  "Arie.  What can I do for you?"

Arie opened her mouth to answer—and it was as if something got stuck.  "Well—  Uhm—"

Mr. Trineer took in the flush of her cheeks and my obvious state of arousal.  "It looks to me as if someone is in need of relief."

"Yes, you could say that..." I said.

"Two someones, actually," Mr. Trineer corrected himself, "despite one not being in The Program any longer."

"That—  That could be true," Arie allowed.

"And you were looking for a place to...  Shall we say...  Attend each other's needs, I suppose?"  Now there was a smile on his face, amused and hinting.

"Yes, that sounds about right," Arie said.

"Well, just remember, the bell rings in twelve minutes," said Mr. Trineer, and he locked the door and stepped out.  We were alone in the room.

"Arie," I said, "you're brilliant!"  Mr. Trineer was The Program's biggest sponsor before it was officially adopted here, and remains one of its foremost champions.  And even if not, I doubt he would have turned us down.

"No," said Arie, "I'm not."  She fixed me with a direct stare.  "I'm horny."

"Well, all right, that too," I said, "but imagine if you hadn't been brilliant.  You'd still be horny at the end of recess.  And you can't ask for relief like I can."

"Look, I'm not brilliant, I'm horny," said Arie.

I sighed.  "All right, all right, be modest if you want."

"I'm not being modest," Arie said, beaming.  "I am brilliant."  Then she moved forward, a hunter stalking her prey.  "But right now there's something else I am, even more than I'm brilliant.  And I kind of need you to help me."  She punctuated this by grabbing hold of my dick.  "Does that make sense to you?"

I looked around for a coupling spot, and didn't find any—the room was dominated by the three long trestle tables at which students sat, and the rows of seats to service them.  But Arie had better ideas.  She sauntered over to the head of the middle table, casually undoing her pants.  By the time she had arrived, her jeans were in a pool around her ankles, and the curves of her ass were showcased by white cotton panties as she bent over to present them.  I could see the beginnings of a wet spot at the crotch of those panties.

She looked over her shoulder and smiled at me.

I gulped.

She giggled.  "You like what you see?"

"Uh-huh," I said, gaping like a monkey.  "I think you forgot something though."

"What?" she asked in feigned astonishment.  "What'd I miss!"  And so what's a guy to do, but reach out and tug her panties down?

"Oh-h..." said Arie.  "Silly me.

I kissed both buttocks as I passed them, following her panties down, and then that most secret of places, deep pink and already wet with her juices.  Arie moaned and pressed back to meet me.  I traversed my way up one fleshy lip and then down the other—hairless now, as they had been for some time—and then, at the bottom, the little pearl bud that was the center of her pleasure, the reason we all lived.  I gave it a lick with my tongue, and she shuddered, and a fresh wave of her juices broke forth.

"Derek," Arie moaned, "Now...  Put it in me now..."

Gone were the days of underconfidence.  Arie had trained me well—and besides, six months of with a nymphomanic girlfriend will do that to you.  She was ready; I knew her well enough to tell that.  There were no pants to take care of; just line up and dive in.

And then everything felt really good.

"Wow," Arie whispered.  We stood there for a moment, savoring.  "You've never gone this deep before."

"I guess we're horny," I replied.  Every slight movement made my cock twitch inside her pussy, her pussy shift around my cock, and we had rushed into it a little too much.  It was like I could feel everything down there: her pussy caressing the rim of the head of my cock, the ring of muscle around her entrance, her pussy lips clasping me on either side, even the faint bud of her clit, brushing against my balls.  There was no way we could remain motionless for long.  It was like hanging at the top of a rollercoaster, that quivering moment of equilibrium right before the drop.

"I'm glad I thought of a place," Arie said.  She turned her head again to look at me over her shoulder.  "I would've gone insane otherwise."

"Well," I said, "you could've just torn my clothes off and boinked me right there at Stetsen."

Her eyes went wide and her face flushed, and I wondered if I had hit a nerve.   "I would not have," she said primly.  As primly as she could manage while stuffed full of cock.

"Oh really," I said, smiling.  The idea had never crossed my mind until now, but I must admit, it had a certain...  Appeal.

"I couldn't have," said Arie, wide-eyed propriety.  "You weren't wearing clothes."

"Pfft," I said.  I reached forward to her breasts, dangling but constricted by her white spaghetti-strap tank top, not to mention bra.  "You're still wearing clothes, for that matter."  I felt her nipples hard even through the layers of cloth, and squeezed them between my fingers.  "Maybe we should do something about that."

She moaned again, her body twisting (her pussy shifting—tingle tingle tingle); and then, recovering, said, "Now now, we'll have none of that."  She reached between her legs, grabbed my balls, and gave them a tug.  Involuntarily, I pulled back.  And then we had other much more pleasant things to think about.

"I think it's time to stop talking," Arie said, and pushed back against me to take me back into her.

My hands left her boobs and moved to her ass, holding the corners of her hips, bringing us apart, and then together.  We did a lot of, actually—sneaking away during school hours to fuck, since we don't have the sort of privacy or access Brandon and Meredith have—and doggy-style is uniquely suited to sex on the fly.  Her breasts dangling down into my hands, full and perfect (regardless of what Arie herself might think), her small brown nipples burrowing into my palms, were hardly new to me, and I had grown very fond of seeing her rounded ass cheeks moving back and forth above my cock, her pussy lips around my cock as I moved in and out of her, her hips pivoting back and forth as she swung from side to side, bringing my cock into contact with new places in her pussy.  Her fingertips brushed my balls—she was playing with her clit, pacing herself furiously onward.  For a moment I could only marvel at the sheer impossible luck that had dropped her into my hands, this beautiful girl.  Then I drove in again, and she bucked to meet me, and it was business as usual.

What was new were the sounds.  Arie was being very vocal today, something different for her.  (I gave a glance at the open windows before deciding that I didn't care if she didn't.)  The gasps, the moans, the sighs, the slight, high-pitched squeaking as I moved inside her.  I wasn't used to it at all, and it turned me on immensely.

We had only been rocking back and forth for a few minutes, but already I could tell I was close.  Arie nodded and gasped, "Me too," and pushed back against me, her buttocks flattened against my hips, digging me as deep in as I could go.  That was her signal, one we had developed—when I came, it was best for me to be as deep as possible, because (she said) nothing could make her come faster than the feeling of me cumming inside her, as far in I could go.  Which was fine by me, because there was nothing I enjoyed better than the feeling of her pussy walls clasping me, consuming me as I came, drinking my cum and begging for more.  (Thank God for effective birth control.)  I started taking short, shallow thrusts, just barely within her pussy—I had read somewhere that the outer third had most of the nerves.  It might not be true, but Arie had never complained before, and her vocal praise rose in concert with my thrusts.

But all too soon I felt the inevitable boiling up my shaft, and I lengthened my strokes, moving in as far as I could, as fast as I could, driving her towards the peak now that mine was at hand.  And then all thoughts of altruism were driven from my head as the first rush of semen came up my shaft like a runaway train and I exploded deep within her, my cum going out into her pussy as she moaned and arced and shook and we spasmed together in waves of release.

When I came to, I was hanging over Arie, somehow still on my feet, and she was draped forward over the table, her hair in its ponytail fanned out around her head, her eyes closed.  We were still together and every slightest movement sent quivering aftershocks through us.  I reached out and touched her shoulder, and her eyes opened.

"That was intense," she said.

"Yeah," I said.  It was an extreme mental effort to speak instead of nod.

"I don't think we've ever come at the same time before," Arie said.

"You came," I asked.  All these words.  How on earth was she managing?  Must be a female thing.

She raised her head and twisted to look at me more directly.  "Uh-huh," she said.  "It was you coming inside me.  I could feel you spurting."

"Is... that unusual?"

"Yeah, I don't normally feel it, actually. But this time, I did, and, I just... Lost it."

I smiled.  "Well, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

"Very much," she said archly.

The art room turned out to be a smart hide-out for one of the reasons we also like the bathroom: to clean up a little.  There are sinks and paper towels, to facilitate watercolor experiments (and probably to clean up after spills).  We found this out the hard way once—the clean-up, not the watercolors—when Arie left fourth-period Spanish one day with a visible wet spot at the crotch of her jeans, which had she had not had when she came in.  Combined with the unmistakable smell of cum, it was obvious to half the class what had happened.  (The other half must have fallen asleep in Sex Ed.)  Arie had said it made her feel sexy, walking around full of my cum, but by the end of the day I bet she was just embarrassed.  From then on it's been strict clean-up, which is fine with me.  I think it's cool she'd want to keep me close by, but not with consequences like that.

As we scrubbed and daubed with paper towels (either too sharp or too cold from being wettened—not a great exchange), Arie looked at me with a strange expression.  "Derek...  Do you think I'm...  Odd?"

There was no way to answer that.  "In what spirit is the question asked?"  Most people don't have a phalanx of scars on their arms, for instance.  Likewise, I'm pretty sure we're one of the few couples in a school of two thousand students who sneaks away for sex during breaks.  I guess we're just horny like that.  There were a number of ways I could evaluate either situation.  First, I wanted to know what she meant.

"About..."  She blushed, looked away.  "About wanting to strip you down and fuck you right there at Stetsen."

"Oh, uh..."  I said.  I hadn't realized she'd meant it.  Joking is one thing, being serious is quite another.  "Arie, everyone has fantasies.  I don't think you're weird for imagining doing it."

"Yeah, but..." Arie said, "what if I really wanted it?"

I blinked.

"Isn't it...  Kind of odd to...  To want to have sex in public?" Arie asked me earnestly.

I thought about my answer for a second.  One thing was sure, a misstep could land me in deep water.  She was dead serious about this.

"Well..." I said.  "Arie, I'll tell you the truth, I like being seen with you."

She looked up, confused.

"I like it how affectionate we are in public," I said.  "I like that you flirt with me, that you tease me, that everyone around us can tell we're going out.  Because you're really special to me, you're really important to me, I love you—  You're just the most..."  Struggling for words now.  "The most incredible person, the best thing that's ever happened to me.  I want people to see that.  I want people to notice you.  I want them to look at you and see just how great you are.  And if that means kissing you in public, well hell, sign me up."

A strange smile hovered about her face.  "And if fucking in public is the next step?"

"Well, that's kind of a big step," I said.  "But hey: I bet it'd turn people on.  You're also the sexiest girl I know."

"And you want everyone to see it," Arie said.

"Arie, you deserve the best.  You deserve to be admired and respected and, hell, even lusted after.  Anything I can do to bring that to you..."

She smiled.

"But having said that...  Sex in public is kind of a big step," I said.

"Yeah, true," Arie said, and suddenly I saw that she had had her reservations too.  (Well, obviously; hence all this reassuring.)  "It's funny.  We've been naked in school, we've been fondled in public...  But sex, we're not so sure of."

"Well," I said, suddenly reticent, suddenly remembering the sounds she made, the looks, the smiles...  "I think it's nice to have some privacy."

"Yeah," she said.  "And besides..."  Now a warm smile, that rare but warming glow.  "Everything you said about me, I could say about you.  But I wanna keep you to myself."

I grinned.  "Now that's selfish."

She stuck her tongue out at me.  "So I'm greedy.  Is that a crime?"

"Well, the jury's kind of out of commission due to an especially potent case of post-sex delirium," I said, grinning, "so..."

"Hmmm," said Arie, smiling.  "I'll have to keep that in mind."

"And for the record," I said.  "Having sex in public is probably not as weird as it sounds.  I mean, there's all sorts of other weird stuff."

"Like what?" Arie asked, intrigued.

"I dunno, like gerbils or something."

"Gerbils!" Arie said.

"Don't look at me, I just read it on the Internet," I said defensively.

"I'm going to keep a close eye on your porn sites from now on," Arie said, wide-eyed.

And after that, the bell was ringing soon, so we put our clothes back on—well, she did—and within minutes it was back to the daily grind.  Sans wet spot on crotch, of course.  But I thought about the conversation and was glad that something hadn't come up: specifically, Arie's anxieties.  All the stuff about her being selfish would have been a perfect segue into how honestly clingy she is—she tends to bring it up, mostly to guilt me over something.  She worries (or says she does) that someone will come along and snatch me—maybe literally, if better boobs or a nicer smile or unmarked arms don't catch my eye first.  And there's never anything for me to say when she brings that up, because I've said it as well as I can already—that I'm hers, body and soul; that you couldn't make me look at another woman to save my life.

But I'm also Faith Bennett's Program partner.  It's my responsibility to look out for her.  And I can already tell you, that could end up rubbing Arie the wrong way.  Way the wrong way.

M.3

The unofficial Program philosophy here at Mount Hill High has always been, 'Look Closer.'  It's part of why Dr. Zelvetti keeps choosing the oddball outcast types to go into The Program.  She wants everybody to have their fifteen minutes of fame.  But the corollary to the philosophy statement is that, simply, things will happen to you that you would never, ever expect.

Hello.  My name is Meredith Levine.  I expected wrong.

It wasn't out of Brandon, to be sure.  Brandon...  Well, Brandon's like my other half, to be honest; I know him like the back of my hand, and he knows me like his.  We're pretty predictable to each other by now.  And on the way to 6th-period Pre-Calculus I'm pretty sure he got me all stirred up just so that he could give me relief, and Lord, what a ride that was.  No, Brandon's a known quantity; he isn't who I mis-predicted.

Bernard, on the other hand...

Despite his name, he isn't a native French speaker.  I can tell because he's in French 3 with me and he doesn't do a good job.  Madame Dambier is a native speaker and she doesn't put up with anything; she can get away with ridiculing people publicly if their homework isn't up to par—and yet Bernard hasn't yet caught on to this.  It's strange that a nerd can be so...  Oblivious.

Whatever the case, we arrived at French 3, which was our first class of the day—wherever Bernard had escaped off to before school, he was here now.  We ran into each other as we entered the classroom, and he gave me a glare, stopping me short.  What, what had I done?

We were among the last students to enter, and Madame Dambier gave us distrustful looks.  She's about sixty thousand years old, give or take a century, and this new-fangled sexual freedom nowadays has never sat well with her.  She's an excellent French teacher, that's for certain, but that doesn't make her any easier to deal with when she gets up on a soapbox.

Like she did now.  "Bonjour, Monsieur Castagne. Pourriez-vous nous expliquer la raison de votre absence de vêtements ?"  Despite the formality of the statement, there was no welcome in her greeting.

I translated in my head.  Could you explain to us the reason for...  Hello, Bernard, why are you naked?  Maybe I'm an over-achiever, but Mme. Dambier expects us to listen to conversation even if we're not involved in it; no small number of students have been caught by surprise when she shifted focus to them without dropping the thread of discussion.  The fact that I, too, was naked, only made it more likely that I'd be the next to tremble in Mme. Dambier's spotlight glare.

Bernard answered, stumbling (as usual) over even the most simple things.  "Je uhm.  Je suis dans le Programme, Madame Dambier."

Mme. Dambier gave him a hawk's stare.  "De quel programme s'agit-il?"  What Program, I translated.  She knew; we all knew.  She wanted to see Bernard scrambling for his vocabulary.

He did, like a beetle scuttling away from harm.  "Le programme...  Le non-école no that's not right...  Le programme Nus à l'école, madame."

Mme. Dambier's eyes could have cut glass.  "Et Mademoiselle Levine également ?"

"Non," Bernard said, sending a jolt through me, "c'est juste une cochonne qui aime se promener nue !"

I'm a what-now!  Mme. Dambier had taught us the word cochonne; God only knows why.  It was a sort of slangy way of calling someone a pervert.  I'm a...  My brain struggled to unpack the language even as I shrank away from Bernard, who was about five feet too near for my liking.  ...I'm a dirty pervert who likes going around naked.

...Okay, where did that come from!

If Mme. Dambier had cut glass with Bernard, then I was diamond, and she intended to slice me all the same.  "Est-ce exact, Mademoiselle Levine ?"

"Non, bien sûr que non ! Je suis aussi dans le Programme !"  That, and I am going to have some words with my partner.  He knows I'm in The Program.  Why on earth would he go around saying that about me?

"They're Program partners, Mme. Dambier," someone offered, in quite the wrong language.

"Merci, M. Stevens," said Mme. Dambier mechanically, squinting at the pair of us, clearly deep in thought.

After what seemed like an eternity, she turned away from me.  And towards my partner.  "Bernard, votre réponse était insultante et déplacée.  Présentez immédiatement vos excuses à Mademoiselle Levine."

Bernard looked at me.  "Pardon," he said, apologizing as Mme. Dambier had instructed him to.  Clearly his heart wasn't in it.

Mme. Dambier sensed it.  "Aviez-vous une raison d'insulter votre camarade," she asked, clearly intending to get to the bottom of this.  I wanted to know too.  What had I done to deserve such anger?

"Pardon," said Bernard again.  "Je fus en colère."

"J'étais en colère, Bernard," Mme. Dambier corrected.  English and French grammar aren't always the same; Bernard had messed up his sentence structure by attempting to speak English in French.

"J'étais en colère," Bernard repeated obediently.

"Ça n'est pas une raison pour m'insulter," I retorted.  If everyone insulted people when they were angry, this world would be a really ugly place.  Self-control is really sort of an expected quality nowadays.

"Pardon," said Bernard again, shrugging, "j'étais...  En colère."

You were angry about what, I wondered; but I decided to let it go.  I'd rather just sit down and get the lesson over with.

Mme. Dambier appeared to have the same feeling.  "Bien. Nous n'obtiendrons apparemment pas d'autre réponse de Monsieur Castagne. Nous allons donc passer au cours.  Ouvrez tous vos livres à la page 192. Stéphanie, veuillez lire à haute voix, s'il vous plait..."

It bugged me for the rest of the day.  It seriously did.  Did people really think that of me, or was it just Bernard's bizarre little take on the universe?  So I did what any self-respecting young woman would do: I asked my boyfriend.

"Brandon, do you think I'm a slut?"

Brandon, who had been walking with me to the south entrance so we could get my clothes, gave me a dubious look and said, "What on earth makes you think that?"

"Do you," I pressed, feeling an awful dropping sensation in my gut.

He blinked at me.  "No, of course not.  You're a perfectly normal woman.  You happen to be highly sexually liberated, which I admit is something I enjoy about you, but I wouldn't call you a slut."

"Even though I slept with you on our first date," I said.

Brandon rolled his eyes.  "What's this about, Meredith?  Do you want me to call you a slut?  Fine, you're a slut.  Alternately, you're not, if that's what you're looking for.  Now, what's going on here?"

I smiled to myself.  Typical Brandon—direct and to the point, as subtle as a hammer to the forebrain.  As I dressed, I explained the French conversation.

"Don't listen to Bernard," Brandon said immediately.  "The only naked women he's ever seen before were downloaded on his computer.  He has no perspective."

"I know..." I said, feeling strangely safe now that I wasn't naked.  Sexually liberated, uh-huh.  "But, still.  You didn't think I was...  Too forward?  On our first date?  Or a month ago?"

Brandon colored at the mention of our six-month anniversary, but he plowed forward through the conversation.  "Our first date was...  Well, next to Arie and Derek, we seem relatively conservative, but...  I dunno, I have to admit I was startled."

Now it was my turn to blush.  "Well.  I hadn't planned on it happening, if that's what you're wondering.  But..."  I looked up at him; my hand twined into his.  "It was like magic.  It was like we knew each other already.  I'm sure you felt it."

He nodded.  "I did.  It was like...  I dunno, I felt almost like we were married already.

Wow, now that's a sort of a jump.  I pushed myself past my inner shock and pressed on.  "When we got to your house, I think we both knew it was going to happen eventually, and pretty clearly we both wanted it to happen now..."

"So it's..."

"Perfectly explainable.  From the outside, yeah, I might see somebody who slept with her boyfriend on their first date—three days after he broke up with somebody else, no less—and say, 'Yeah, she seems like a slut.'  Or at least she's got ulterior motives.  But there were extenuating circumstances in our case.  It was special.  I—"  I love you.  Oh wait, yeah, I'm kinda not supposed to say that yet.  "...Think you're really special," I finished lamely.  Supposedly, six months or less is too fast.  Even if you already know it's true.  "We have something special together.  Something strong.  Of course we're gonna get into bed on the first date.  Who wouldn't, with something like that?"

"Sounds like a bit of self-justification to me," Brandon said, smirking.

"Oh shut up," I said.  "Do you want me to never get in bed with you again?"

"That would be fine," Brandon said, unperturbed.  "We rarely if ever do it in a bed anyway.  We're mostly on the couch."

"Oh, you."

We drove to this house, the wheels thrumming on the pavement, our music on the radio.  It's kind of alarming how much time I spend there: it's gotten to the point where, if I don't come home after school, my parents assume I'm at his house.  He's my ride to and from school in any case.  It's an arrangement we worked out to save my mom some commuting time.

I've gotten used to the echoing, empty silences of that house of his, the icy calm of rooms whose last occupants were the carpenters and interior decorators who built them.  Walking into those rooms is like walking through water; you can feel the solitude press on you.  It's part of why I spend so much time there.  I hate to think of Brandon alone in that cadaverous monstrosity of a home, the only voice beating against its walls, the only life pulsing through its halls.  Of course, it's not much better with only two of us; but if we're together, maybe, just maybe, we can make it bearable.

Brandon, digging a soda out of the pantry, appeared to be having similar thoughts.  "You know, we spend so much time together, people would start to think we were married or something."

I blinked at him.  "And, uhm, Brandon, why did this occur to you?"

He shrugged, sensing my discomfort.  "No reason.  Just...  Observation."

"Well, all right," I said.  I know I love him, but fifteen is really a little early to be thinking of marriage.  Three years of discarded menstrual pads tells me I'm ready for it, physically at least, but mentally, now...  That's a little bit of a different story.

We did homework; we checked our e-mail; we talked and chattered.  The room with the giant TV had become the center of our life at that house, mostly because of the ease with which things could be gathered to it.  The room itself is practically half the size of some houses, so it's not as if we lacked for space.  The silence was always oppressive, but with each other nearby, we were often able to forget it.  Or, at least, with video games or the TV or some music, blot it out for a while.

As the sun dipped ever closer to the horizon, we found ourselves wrapped up on the couch, talking about randoms and nonsenses, enjoying each other's company.  I remember back when we first declared our (love) interest for each other, right before the Open House—I remember the first time he put his arms around me, the first time he held me, and what a sacrament that was.  Sometimes with all these other things you can do with a boyfriend, you forget just what a joy it is to hold him in your arms, to be held by him.  I haven't forgotten with Brandon; I'm glad to say.

"So, honey, how was your day," Brandon asked.

I snickered.  "'Honey'?"

He shrugged.  "Would you prefer Pookie-snuggie-kins or something?"

"No, on second thought, 'honey' is just fine.  Hmm...  I dunno, how was my day?  You were there for most of it."

"Two classes together and you say I was there for most of it."

"Well, all the important parts," I said coquettishly.

"And how's that?"

"Because whenever you're around, you make things better," I said.

There was a pause.  And then a chuckle, and his shoulders shook a little.  "I guess you have a point there."

The next thing he asked was, "Anything specific you want for dinner?"

"No, not really," I said.  He's been teaching me to cook—both him and my mother, both separately and apart—but he's still the primary culinary expert of this household.

There was another silence.  I enjoyed the feeling of his arms around me, his chest shifting as he breathed.  Despite all the other fun stuff a man and a woman can do together, there is something to be said for just being held.

"You know," Brandon said, "we do seem to use this couch a lot."

"Hmm."

"As opposed to the bed," Brandon said.

"It's a very comfortable couch," I said, which was the truth.  It was a broad expanse of brown leather in the shape of a J, the shorter spoke towards the room's only door and the long middle section facing the television.  It could comfortably seat six or seven people, as a plethora of gatherings had proved time and again.

"Yeah, but...  I mean, you know?  It's a bad precedent.  If I were married to someone, I wouldn't want to be treated like that."

"Brandon," I said, turning, "what's with you and marriages today?  It's been like..."

"I dunno, I've just been..."  He shrugged.  "Thinking about it."

I smiled.  "Is there something you have to tell me?  Did you get me drunk and sneak me into a courthouse or something?"

"No," said Brandon, sounding defensive, "I've just been...  Thinking about it.  We've..."  His eyes turned distant, looking over imagined horizons.  "I mean, we've been talking all day about our relationship, about how much time we spend together, about how thoroughly and quickly we got close, and it just feels like..."

"Like we are married," I said.

"Yeah," he said.  "And then you're here all the time, in this house—Christ, I bet I see you more often than your family does—and—I mean, I don't have a family, my friends are my family, and so having you here all the time..."

"You don't hear me complaining," I said, smiling.

"I know, and, I like it," he said.  "But...  Well, I dunno.  It's only been, what, seven months?"

"I guess we are moving a little fast," I admitted.

"I know, and sometimes it scares me," he said.

I craned my head to face him.  "Why?  What's to be scared about?"

"Well, partially..."  He sighed.  "Partially because it is moving so fast, and, you know: speeding horse at midnight, riding over a cliff, whathaveyou.  But partially because it does feel so right.  You're...  Meredith, You're the most important thing in the world to me right now, out of everything and everyone.  I'm going to get married some day—it's what my life's work is—and...  There just isn't anyone else I could imagine getting married to.  Even if someone offered me, like, the most perfect person in the world...  Well, I don't know how anyone could, because I think I already have her.  And I'm scared that, if I don't just let things play out...  I'll lose her."

This was about the time I was trying to keep from sniffling with joy.  He says the sweetest things, that man.

"And...  Well, I'm only sixteen, maybe it's kind of early.  Okay, yes, it's kind of early.  But, in my heart, sometimes, I feel..."

I turned to him, taking his hands in my own.  "Like we're already..."

"Like, somewhere, in our hearts..."

"Somewhere, a long time ago..."

"We were one," he said.

"And still are," I said.  "Brandon Chambers and Meredith Levine."

Our eyes met, and for the longest time we were silent, as if unwilling to disturb the moment.

Then, finally, Brandon shook his head.  "My god.  What are we, crazy?"

"No," I protested.  Then I thought about what we were contemplating.  Or, perhaps, what we had already contemplated.  "Maybe."

"You're not even sixteen yet."

"Juliet was fourteen when Romeo showed up in her life."

He looked at me.  "You do know there's a difference between reality and fiction," he said, smiling.

"I don't think you should be complaining," I retorted, grinning.  "Unless you wanted a divorce already."

His eyebrows climbed up into his hairline.  "Are you kidding?  I just got what I always wanted."  He moved forward, a gleam in his eye.  "I'm not gonna give it up now."

"Got 'what' you always wanted!" I cried, feigning incredulity.  "Not gonna give 'it' up!  What am I, an inanimate—"

And then his lips met mine, and it was a little hard to speak.

There was instant fury in his kiss, passion and flames, and I knew what he wanted.  I leaned into him, hearing his breath, feeling the intensity of the moment, his arms around me, our lips pressed together, our tongues sliding around each other—and then we weren't careful and our teeth hit each other and we pulled back, laughing, Brandon saying, "Hey, be careful with those, it took four years of braces to get them to look right—"

When we had ourselves together, I looked him in the eye and said, "This is why I love you, of course."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you can make even the most bizarre conversational turn make sense," I said, beaming.

He rolled his eyes.  "Oh, great, thanks, that's exactly what everyone looks for in a husband."

"And," I added in a softer voice.  "You make me happier than I ever thought possible."

He drew me to him.  "Well, that makes two of us."

"Using bizarre conversational turns, of course," I added.

He sighed.  "I guess I'll just have to get used to that," he said, in tones of anguish.

"I suppose," I said innocently.  "I could make it worth your while, though..."

"Hmmmm," said Brandon, and I imagined his eyebrows bobbing in the way they always did.  He pulled back to look me in the eye.  "Is that a threat?"

"I thought it was a wifely duty," I said ingeniously.

"Hmm, good point," he said, smiling.

"And I intend," I said, now pursuing him.  "To be the best wife any man could ask for."

He smiled.  "My lady, I am all yours."

We sprawled out on the couch, kissing.  His hands ran through my hair—hair I wanted to grow out, now, because he likes long hair, and to hell with the perils of trying to grow out naturally wavy hair—through my hair and over my back; mine traced the lines of his arms, his shoulders, his neck, his face.  I could feel his heart beating through his chest and knew there was nowhere else I ever wanted to be.

Our clothes seemed to disappear as if by magic, and now we were lying on the couch, skin on skin, having stopped only to fetch one of the blankets stacked on one side of the couch, blue flannel and warm, but slightly itchy under my shoulders and rear.  But Brandon's body was over me, the dull pressure of his chest against mine, warmer where he met my nipples; his lips on mine, the tickling pressure of his pubic hair, the warm, comforting weight of his body, his erection poking my thighs until I opened for him.  His hand between my legs, cupping my secrets, testing my wetness, seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

We looked into each other's eyes and there was no hesitation at all.

"I love you."

I felt him at my entrance, searching, and then sinking into me, my pussy opening up to him as I pressed my hips to meet his, in and in and in, my depths unfolding to meet him, until we were joined and his eyes opened and looked into mine and we kissed each other with wide-eyed expressions of longing and wonder, feeling the joy of our bodies twining together, as close as we could possibly be.  Brandon and Meredith, he and I.  My husband.  I like that.

When he pulled back, I felt that inexpressible frustration, the need to have him return—and gloried as he slid in, my pussy enfolding him, feeling his every ridge and vein, every nerve tingling.  My hands ran over his back; his chest brushed against my nipples as he pulled back again, and I rose after him, not wanting to let him go.  And when he came down, I backed away, wanting to feel him sliding into me for as long as I could, until finally he was buried again, and our pubic hair meshed, and I felt him brushing up against the back of my pussy, and gloried in even that minor pleasure.  I wrapped my legs around his waist, which I knew, intellectually, would allow him deeper penetration; his back and his hair were both highly sensitive areas, secondary erogenous zones, which was one reason why back rubs and massages were often a prelude to foreplay.  These things I knew.

Intellect was the placid surface of a raging river.

When I came, it was explosive, and silent, and unexpected—I hadn't even realized how close I was until the moment was upon me.  I felt the rising burst inside me, and saw his eyes open wide in startlement—felt the first contraction, my pussy clamping down on his cock, feeling him with every nerve and cell in my body, but especially down there, oh down there, his full warm hardness, the indescribable sensation of being filled, filled with this live, pulsing thing that was now buried inside me, deep as it would go, as my pussy spasmed and contracted on him and around him—  And then there were waves of pleasure, as the pressure overflowed and spilled over and I burned under him with release, pressing to him, unable to return the kisses on my lips for the overriding sensation of his body against me, his cock inside me, as I came; until finally the fire was spent and subsided down into soft, welcoming ash.

When I opened my eyes, I could see he was close, and I kissed him his permission.  He moved inside me again—not the same, insistent pressure; my nerves were still blunted, dazzled.  But it didn't matter.  In a few moments I felt him stiffen, and heard his indrawn breath; my pussy felt his cock expand. Even at the best of times I could never feel him cum, but the way his body stiffened and tensed above me was enough. I drew him in, imagining the warm wetness inside me, watching the look of helpless longing on his face, loving this moment, loving the pleasure I could give him; until it was all over and we lay together in sweating, heart-racing silence.

Our gentle kiss was like rustling leaves after the roar of a hurricane.

Eventually we untangled ourselves, rearranging into a slightly less compromising position; I felt a sense of loss as his softening dick left me; I felt myself closing up behind him, as if trying to cling to him.  Sometimes I wish we could just stay like that forever, him inside me; there is nothing to compare to it.  But that wouldn't work very well.  He turned me up on my side and lay down behind me, tucking the blanket around us, his arm around my waist, in easy reaching distance of my breasts or my pussy, if either of us should be so inclined.  It was comfy and warm next to him, the blanket around us like a cocoon, his receding hardness nestled between the cheeks of my ass.  He seems to favor this arrangement, and it's nice, but there are other things I'd prefer.  ...Not that I tell him that.  It would be...  Unseemly for him to know these things.

"I have to tell you, that...  That thing last month, on our anniversary," Brandon's voice rumbled behind me.  I could feel the vibrations in my shoulder blades.  His fingers gently ruffled my pubic hair.  "That was really cool."

"I know," I said, smiling.  "I kinda liked it, too."

"Too bad you couldn't keep it that way," he said.

"It itched," I said.  "And besides, what if I'd gotten called in for The Program then?  It'd cause...  Talk."

"True," said Brandon.  He'd be very demonstrative in public if he could, but he's conscious of how disturbing it can be to have someone nearby liplocking with their significant other when you don't have one.  He says Zach used to rub it in his face a lot.  He and Christa don't do that now—not that anyone would really complain—but I like it that he's so considerate.  Brandon, not Zach.  Though I'm sure Zach's considerateness pleases Christa in equal amounts.  The point is, it's wise to keep a low profile, and he knows it.

"You, uh..." Brandon said.  "You seem awfully wet down there."

"It's your cum," I said archly.  "It's leaking out of me."

"...Oh."

"Yes.  That's why I always stop for the blanket whenever we do this."

"I suppose I should wash these then."

Now that's just great.  "Yes.  Uhm.  You should."

"The things you learn from your girlfriend," he said dryly.

Then there was silence again, and the feeling of his chest moving as he breathed.  How interested that we had come full circle, starting and ending by just being in one another's arms, talking.

"What did you mean about 'your life's work,'" I asked.

"Hmm?"

"You said that you were going to get married some day because it was your life's work," I said.  "Which is...  A different way to put it."

"Oh," he said.  "Well."

He was silent for a time, thinking.  His hand, quite possibly of its own accord, moved to cover my breast for a moment before slipping away again.  His burgeoning erection rested between my thighs again, and I thought about but decided not to slip him into me again.  If only...  If only.

"It just..." he said.  "Well, you know how it is.  You've met my parents."

"No, actually, I haven't," I said, amused.  "I wasn't able to make it the one time they were around, remember?"

"My point stands," he said, totally serious.  "They're never here.  I don't see them.  I might as well not have parents, for all the attention I get from them.  I can't tell you for certain what kind of person I'd be if they hadn't scuttled off when I was ten, but I know I'd be totally, fundamentally different.  So different I can't even imagine what my life would be like.  Would I have the same friends?  Would I have the same hobbies?  Would Zach and Sajel even be in my life?  I know you wouldn't, because I would've never entered The Program when I did and for the reasons I did, and you'd just go on being that particularly beautiful soprano and I'd just go on being...  Whoever I'd be..."

It was a chilling thought.  No Brandon?  Us never meeting?  I shuddered to think of it.

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly," Brandon said. "So you have that.  And then you have...  Well, Arie's parents, particularly; but also my own; and Jane's to some extent.  And on the other hand you have your parents, and Christa's, and Zach's mom, and...  Very different people with very different kids.  I don't know what effect nature has on our lives, but the nurture effect is very clear to me.  And seeing all this, seeing all that I see...  It's just obvious to me that...  This is the most important thing in life.  Parenting.  Being a good parent.  Being the kind of person your kids come to when they need help, and aren't ashamed of introducing their friends to, and who doesn't screw your kids up so that they end up with scars on their arms.  That's the most important thing.  And that's what I wanna do with my life."

"Do you know," I said.  "You're probably the only sixteen-year-old who has ever thought of it that way."

"Well," he said dryly.  "I'm also probably the only sixteen-year-old who's thinking in total seriousness about marrying his girlfriend."

"Yes, but I'm even weirder," I reminded him.  "I'm fifteen and I'm thinking that."

"Five days," he reminded me.  "You're practically sixteen as it is."

"Yes, but practically's not the same as really," I said.  "I felt so tiny and knowledgeless when they skipped me over seventh grade, and I don't think that feeling has ever really left me."

"God," he said, "what about when I turn nineteen.  It'll be eight months of no sex for us."

"Why?  Oh, the statutory rape laws."

"Ugh."

"Well, that's only if my parents find out," I said.  They're great people, both of them, but I don't think they'd be keen about finding out their fifteen-year-old baby girl has been having sex.  Though, they may be a little more calm when I'm eighteen.  "I think they'll have gotten used to the idea by then."

"True," he said.  "I mean, we'll only have been together for three years at that point."

"We're gonna have babies, you know," I told him, smiling.

"Huh?"  He bolted upright, startled.  "What—you mean—right now?"

"No, silly," I said, turning on my back to smile up at him.  My naked breasts slipped out from under the blanket.  "Eventually.  I'm still on birth control, my parents would freak if I got pregnant.  But we've only been talking about our marriage and how your dream job is to be a parent—what's the next obvious step?"

"Oh," said Brandon.  "Oh yeah.  That makes sense."

I giggled.  "Silly boy."  Reaching up, my arms twining around his neck, drawing him down—the cool air on my breasts felt good, but I knew what would make them feel better, and I wanted it.  "But you're my silly boy."

"Mmm," said Brandon, an assent—or maybe something to do with the fact that his lips were an inch from my nipple.  "Mmm..."

Then there was a beep—we both jumped—followed instantly by a high-pitched, electronic tone.

Brandon stared.  "What the—"

"Could it be Greta?" I asked.

"No," he said, "she leaves at three and she calls if she has to come again."

The house was wired with an alarm system, with sensors on doors and windows.  This was a basic safety precaution for a residence that would contain (when plans were completed) upwards of ten thousand dollars in electronic hardware alone—not to mention furniture, silverware, clothing, books, movies, etc.  Whenever any of these were opened, the alarm system itself would beep out of various speakers and sound emitters (this room's surround-sound system, for instance, which was hard-wired into the ceiling), in sufficient volume to alert everyone in the house.  The tone, on the other hand, was an indication that a door or window had been opened while the alarm system was armed.  Brandon, the cautious sort, set it on Home mode whenever he was indoors; should he be Asleep, an opened portal would trigger a loud siren, not to mention a bunch of light switches that had been programmed to flick on and off every second when security was breached, and then stay on when the alarm was disarmed (if it was).  We had triggered the Asleep alarm mode, just for fun, once; it took the seven of us an eternity to cover the entire house and shut down all the automated lights.

What was going on, in case you got bored with that little description, was, simply: someone had entered the house.  This in itself was not a bizarre occurrence.  However, at this point in time, no one should be entering the house—for that matter, no one should be able to.

And here we were, in a residence containing upwards of ten thousand dollars in electronic hardware—not to mention furniture, silverware, clothing, books, movies, etc.

There was another beep, lower in pitch than the first, indicating that the door had been closed; and then a third, in the highest pitch yet, and the tone cut off.  Its silence was even more chilling.  I spoke the obvious out of numb lips:  "They disarmed the alarm system."  Whoever these people were, they knew the security codes.

Brandon shoved himself out of the blanket and began to put on his pants.

I stared at him, incredulous.  (The blanket, unnoticed, fell to my waist.)  "What the hell are you doing!"

"Somebody's in here," Brandon said.  "I don't know who.  But if it's...  Someone dangerous, I don't intend to be caught with my pants down."

"What are you doing!" I said again.

"I'm going to take a look," Brandon said.

I stood up, reaching for my blouse.  "I'm going with you."

"No you're not, it's too dangerous," Brandon said.  "My house, my risks."

"Brandon, you just agreed to marry me.  If you think I'm going to let you dash off into—  Wait."  I held up a hand, signaling for silence, my ears straining to make sense of a few distant noises...  Rhythmic thumps, with a vague stentorian echo, as from a hardwood floor.  I had heard the sound many times before.

"They're in the kitchen," I whispered.

Brandon flashed a glance at me, leaning towards the room's doorway ear-first.

The treads cut off suddenly, replaced by a dimly-heard swishing sound.  Clothes.  In a hallway.

"They're coming here," I breathed.

Our eyes met, wide.

"The window," Brandon said.  He strode over to the wall, unlatched the window, cranked it open.  (The alarm system beeped again.)  "Can you make it over the sill?"

"I don't have a choice, do I," I said, zipping my jeans closed with as much care as I could manage under the hurried circumstances.  I didn't have my panties on and I didn't want to catch anything in the zipper.  (Brandon must have it worse.)

"Here, help me with the screen," Brandon said, his fingernails dug in.  We strained at the thing, which I don't think had ever been removed before, slowly pulling it out of the window frame, centimeter by infinitesimal—

"What, Brandon.  So upset to see us that you have to escape out the window?" said a rich male voice.

And then a woman, dryly amused: "At least let the young lady put all her clothes on first."

Brandon's face went white.  I turned to see a man and a woman standing in the doorway, resplendent in stern business suits, lined faces, strange smiles.  One had pale blonde hair, the other a dark brown, both lightened by streaks of grey.  Facial features leapt out at me, a composite picture I had spent a lifetime of six months memorizing.  I gasped.

"Mom?" Brandon said.  "Dad?"

M.4

My mom is the dumbest person on the face of the planet.  Absolutely the dumbest.  No intelligence, no common sense, no smarts, no anything.  The dumbest.  And if it's not her, then it's my sister Trina.

Hey, I'm Arie Chang, and I don't know where I got my brains from.

I'm also not entirely sure what I'm doing here.  Derek asked me to contribute to his Program account because, as he put it, "Your experience of the week was vital—no, integral—to mine."  Whatever the hell that means.  I think he's just trying to get out of some work.  But I guess, why not.  Just, let's get this clear: this is Derek's fault.  If someone gets into trouble, you know who it ought to be.

Family therapy has become a sort of a tradition for us, some sort of sadistic Christmas.  Every Monday afternoon we get together (Dad has to get out of work an hour early), go to Mr. Moreau's office, get therapized for an hour, get dinner and go home.  It's always an ordeal, because Loren (he insists we call him that) always has some pretty stupid advice.  Like, a token economy.  He suggested we set up a token economy.  You know how, when kids are like five or six or something, their parents will offer them rewards in the form of 'Gold Stars (TM)' or 'Happy Points (TM)' or whatever, for doing their chores?  Which you can exchange for prizes and stuff?  That's a token economy.  Mr. Moreau said we should set one up because it would encourage me and Trina to actually do the things we're supposed to—like get out of bed on time; like wash the dishes; like do our homework.  Which, actually, is not a bad idea in theory, but is incredibly demeaning when your parents make a big deal out of parading you to the magnetic whiteboard on the fridge and pin a gold star to it in your name.  Not to mention how no one actually keeps track of points anymore.  We're supposed to get five points for doing the dishes, and one of the privileges we can purchase is the right to stay up half an hour past bedtime, at the cost of fifteen points.  Well, it's been three weeks, Trina and I alternate dishwashing duties, but every time, Mom says, "No, you haven't earned enough points.  No, sorry, you haven't earned enough points."  At which point I just slam the door, turn off the lights make the iMac's display really dim.  I mean, honestly.  This is part of why my mother's the dumbest person on the face of the planet.  I also think Mr. Moreau's a total moron, but that's neither here nor there.

("Dr. Moreau?" Brandon said to me when he heard about it.  "Your therapist is named Dr. Moreau?"  And I said, "No, he's not even a licensed therapist, there's no doctor about it."  And I said, "What's so special about Dr. Moreau," and in answer he gave me a map to the school library.  Whatever the hell that meant.)

Anyway, so.  Here we were, early on Monday evening.  Dad sat on one side of the couch with Trina stretched out longwise across its length, wrapped up in a blanket, her feet in Dad's lap.  Mom sat at a right angle to Dad on a wooden chair, and I sat on its twin near the door in mirror relation to Trina.  Finally, Mr. Moreau—Loren—sat in the room's only armchair, right in the middle of the room, the head to our five-pointed star.

We were doing what we call the Week In Review.  Since we only meet once a week, we take a few minutes at the beginning of each meeting to go over everything that's happened in the last week.  Sometimes this sets the agenda for the family's discussion; sometimes it doesn't.  Generally, Trina takes longest; more often than not Mr. Moreau has to tell her to wrap up before she'll stop.  I think it's a power thing; she wants to be the one who wastes time.  I also think she's an idiot.

Trina said, "And so Bobby said—"

"Ah, Trina," said Mr. Moreau—Loren—breaking in gently.  "Time's getting on, so, if you could bring this to a close...?"

"I have just one more thing," Trina said, and composed herself for a final transgression.

"Last Tuesday, I was...  Passing by the bathroom," she said, hesitating in a fawning, childish way.  "Not long after dinner.  And I knew Arie was in there, because I'd...  I'd seen her go and I'd heard the door close.  But when I passed, I heard...

"Retching sounds."

All eyes went to me.

"We'd just had dinner, so I think she..." said Trina, now stumbling.  "I think she was..."

There she stopped, apparently unable to go on.  As far as I was concerned, she'd said all she needed to.  The damage was done.

"Arie?" said my mother fearfully.

Now, okay.  Look.  I can explain what was going on in two very simple words:

Tuesdays suck.

Some people say Monday is the worst day of the week.  I personally disagree.  On Monday you get to see your friends again, which is not what usually happens for me on the weekends because of my parents.  Mom has relaxed some things a bit, but she's almost murder on any suggestion that we go somewhere after school; I think she wants us under her eye.  Derek's house, forget it; Brandon's house, maybe if I'm lucky.  I mean, there's a reason Derek and I have to do a lot of our fucking at school.  So, the point is, Mondays are nice because I get to fuck Derek after a long, sexually-deprived weekend.  And because I get to see Brandon and Meredith and those other people too.

Wednesdays are good because, halfway through it, you suddenly notice you're halfway to the weekend, you're on the home stretch and heading in.  Thursday is even better.  And then Friday—well, yeah, school's out!  You get two days off!  And then Monday hits, and Derek hits, and you start all over again.

But Tuesdays...  No.  Tuesdays have no redeeming features.  They are the butt-ends of the week.  Nothing good has ever happened on Tuesday, and a lot of bad things too.  And that particular Tuesday was the worst of the lot.

It started by me staying up practically all night to study for a Spanish test.  When I woke up to get ready for school I had had way too little sleep and I was groggy and cranky.  Mom and I immediately got into an argument about my sleeping habits, and (more accurately) how they tended to be affected by my study habits.  The mood in the car when she dropped us off was decidedly frosty.

Then we went into Pre-Calculus.  It was good to see Derek again and I wanted to sneak off to the bathrooms then and there, but that wasn't happening, especially since Mr. Bhajra was handing back yesterday's quiz.  ...Which I got about an H+ on. 

If F's start at 50% that tells you where an H falls.  And then we got into English, where I hadn't done the reading—well, I'd done half of it—so of course Mr. Cavanaugh consistently picks me to answer questions—on the half I hadn't read; and then we got into Current Events, which was the exact same situation, except that this time I hadn't done any of the reading, and so of course I got picked to answer all the time.  If anyone had asked me to answer in Spanish, I could've done a damn good job!  But no one did.

And so it's break time, and it's like, Yay, Derek time!...  Except that he had to go xerox something in the library for his next class, and that took all of recess.

And so it's fourth period and I'm pissy.  And while things didn't get worse, they certainly didn't get any better.  And then I get home and my parents are all this and my sister is all that and one thing led to another, and I did what any self-respecting girl would do: I broke out the razor blades.

Now.  You know how when you get really hurt—say, if you get punched in the stomach (which happens inevitably if you've taken martial arts, like Trina and I have)—you feel like throwing up?  (Brandon adds, for the record, that being kicked in the balls produces much the same effect.)  I guess I must have hit a nerve or something.  I didn't throw up—I produced a lot of sound and fury and prayed that no one would overhear—but I didn't throw up.

So, see.  It's all because Tuesdays suck.

But Mr. Moreau Loren and my mother and father were still waiting for an answer, and I couldn't tell them one.  Because if there's one thing you don't talk about in our family, it's self-injury.  Not if you want to keep breathing.

Not that Mom's going to strangle you or anything.  No.  She smothers you with kindness.  And if you don't think that's possible, then clearly you've never had someone dote on you and hover over you and work herself into a state of nervous dread over whether she's going to find you dead tomorrow in a pool of your own blood.  Mom's not good with blood.  She's also not good with dealing with panic.  Pity, then, because she works herself into a panic whenever she sees or smells or thinks blood, and it's a pretty common sight smell thought in our household.

We have a sort of a fucked-up family.  In case you hadn't noticed.

I made the mistake once—just once—of identifying where a wound had come from one morning at breakfast.  Mom wasn't fit to live with for a week and a half.

So here I was, and I couldn't exactly explain where those 'retching sounds' had come from, and at the moment there was only one question on my mind: had Trina brought this up deliberately?

Looking at her—looking at her reclined on the couch, her face to the ceiling, her faux pathos and her pretty little hesitations and who says 'retching sounds', anyway?  Who doesn't just say, 'It sounded like she was throwing up'?  Well, if you ask me, it sounded like she had rehearsed this before.  I think Trina set me up.

"Arie, were you..." said my mother fearfully.

"Arie," said my father.  "You do realize this is very serious news."

"Arie, I can't believe you were..." said my mother brokenly.

"Loren has told us before," my father was saying, "that if he finds out you've been doing such deliberately harmful things, he may have to hospitalize you."

"Arie, why do you have to..." said my mother, practically on the verge of tears.

"Arie?" Mr. Moreau Loren—asked me.  "Is there something you'd like to say to us?"

"I think my sister's a big bitch!"

After that there was a pregnant silence, and yet I felt very, very satisfied.

But Trina didn't even blink.  She just stared at the ceiling with that blank non-expression on her face, stepping out of the way of the avalanche she had just triggered.

"Arie," my father was saying, "I don't think that sort of hostility is really justified.  Trina has just told us something very important, and I think you should appreciate the risk she took in—"

"Arie," Mr. Moreau Loren was saying, "that sort of behavior is indicative of deeper issues, mostly concerning self-esteem and self-image.  Is there anything you'd like to tell us?  What exactly makes you feel so bad about yourself?  Is there anything—"

"Arie," my mother was saying, "don't forget that...  Well, today's image is of a woman with the waist of a pencil, but in other cultures...  Beauty is an inherited thing.  In China and in other places, women who are...  Somewhat fleshy are considered very beautiful, and—"  ('Somewhat fleshy'.  Right.  That's exactly how I want to be described.)

And Trina stared at the ceiling and said nothing, said nothing to deepen the pit she had dumped me into, or to dig me out of it.  That would be all up to me.  Maybe this was a test, to see about my mental agility.  Maybe she'd turn around and say, Ha-ha, got you, that was great.

Maybe my sister's a big bitch.

Life in hell, meet Arie Chang.  I hope we get along okay.

M.5

The unofficial Program philosophy here at Mount Hill High has always been, 'Look Closer.'  It's part of why Dr. Zelvetti keeps choosing the oddball outcast types to go into The Program.  She wants everybody to have their fifteen minutes of fame.  But the corollary to the philosophy statement is that, simply, things will happen to you that you would never, ever expect.

Hi, I'm Derek Strong, and I didn't expect what came, and when I mean didn't, I really really REALLY didn't.

First off—how awful was that?  Arie, I mean.  As soon as she could get away after dinner, she phoned me and we talked the situation out—though, by then, it was already past 8 PM.  The Changs had eaten out, like they normally do on Mondays after Family Therapy Time, and as Arie described it, Mrs. Chang had been...  Persuasive about the amount of food Arie should eat.  To put it mildly.  To put it as Arie herself did, "I think I am about to throw up.  But I better not, or my parents are gonna kill me.  Or maybe themselves.  Or maybe each other.  I dunno."

There wasn't a lot I could say over the phone—especially since our normal form of therapy is to sneak away and fuck like bunnies.  "I could try to sneak over again, if you want," I offered, but Arie declined.  The one time we'd tried it, we'd almost gotten caught—I mean we, outside in her back yard, her just trying to get me into the house, before anything had even happened.

"I still can't decide," Arie said finally.

"Decide what?"

"Whether she meant it."

"Hmm."

"I mean, I...  Well, I don't like Trina.  And I've got a sort of a hunch that she doesn't like me either.  But maybe...  Maybe she was trying to help.  Maybe she was trying to help.  Maybe she honestly figured that...  God, I dunno."

"It's really kind of you, actually," I said.

"...Huh?"

"Well, you could've been all, you know, 'God, I hate my sister, she's such a fucking bitch,' you know?  But instead you're wondering...  You're wondering if she did it on accident.  If she was trying to help.  You're not going on a rampage, you're giving her the benefit of the doubt."

"Yeah, I'm only half going on rampage," Arie grumbled, but she let it go.

"So," she said, a new smile in her voice.  "What's been going on in your life, loverboy?"

"Not a whole lot, really," I said, leaning back in my computer chair, the phone jammed between ear and shoulder.  "I've just been—"

The door to my room banged open behind me, closed again.  "Derek I have to talk to you."

"Hold on a second Arie."  I grabbed the phone by the mouthpiece and turned my head.  "Jenny, I'm kind of on the phone with Arie right now.  Can this wait?"

My older sister looked back at me with wide eyes.  She was pale and her hair was disheveled.  Whatever was going on, she looked...  Off-balance.  And the frightened look in her eyes was all the answer I needed.

I sighed.  "Hold on.  Hey, uhm, Arie...  I'm gonna have to go."

"Aww.  Why, what's more important than me?"

I squeezed my eyes closed.  Oh God, of all the ways she could have chosen to phrase that question.  "My sister just barged in here and she looks like she just saw a ghost.  I think I gotta find out what's going on."  She may be my older sister, but I look out for her, you know?  Most of my friends give my weird looks when I tell them that, because three of them (Zach, Brandon, Meredith) are the only children in their family, and of the rest, only Sajel actually gets along with her siblings.  I don't think it's a coincidence that Sajel's the only one who doesn't find it odd that I look out for my sister.  "It seems kind of important."

There was no sound from the phone, only silence, but I swear it turned chilly in my hand.

"I see."  A pause.  "Another hand you have to hold, is it."

"No, Arie, it's not like that, I'll call you back when—"

"I'll see you at school tomorrow, Derek.  Bye."

Click.

I rubbed my eyes with one hand.  "Fuck it.  Fuck it."

"Why, is something wrong," Jenny asked.

I sighed.  "There's nothing to be done.  If you want me, you've got me."

"Maybe I can come back—"

"Jenny," I said.  "Arie hung up on me.  Before letting me explain or apologize.  If she has problems, they're her problems.  Now.  What do you want to talk about?"

Jenny blinked at me several times like an owl.  An owl that had just flown into a tree or something.  An owl crossed with a deer in headlights, if such a thing is possible.  An owldeer?

"What's up, Jenny," I asked.

She stared at me, and the words spilled out in a rush.  "Derek I'm pregnant."

Oh.

Okay.

Uh.

"Well, umm," I said.  "Unless something got mixed up, shouldn't you be telling Trevor?  He's your boyfriend, after all, and I suppose he's more likely to be the father than I am...  Unless, like I said, something got mixed up somewhere..."

"No, I...  I can't tell him," Jenny said.  "I..."  Her eyes closed and she began to shiver; tears coursed down her cheeks.

I led her from the doorway to my bed (she was shaking, a lot), and sat her down, equipped her with a box of tissues.  Christ, no wonder she looked like she'd seen a ghost!  "Okay," I said.  "Maybe you'd better start from the beginning."

"Okay," said Jenny, gulping, sniffling.  She looked bad, but some of the color was coming back into her face, and she took time to comb strands of brown hair from her face.  Her trademark humor was coming back into play, too, as her next statement proved.

"Okay," she said.  "I hope—I hope it's not news to you that Trevor and I are having sex."

"No, not especially," I said.  They've been dating for two years and I've had plenty of chances to see them together.  Trevor's a great guy.  He's on the varsity swim team and he's never condescended to me or blown me off just because I'm his girlfriend's kid brother.  They're very good for each other, and in today's climate of sexual liberation, I'd figured it was only a matter of time before they started doing it.  "How long?"

"About nine months," she said.  "We gave our virginities to each other on my eighteenth birthday."  They're both seniors in high school and are heading off to Hill Valley Community College in the fall, holding out on the hope of scholarships.

"And you've been using birth control, I assume," I said.  "Otherwise I'd have to wonder why this hasn't happened a long time ago."

"No, I'm on The Pill," Jenny said.  "Remember, back when I was in ninth grade?  They wanted to stabilize my periods.  I'm not sure if you were paying much attention back then.  I remember when I was in seventh grade."

"I noticed," I said.  "I remember.  You're my big sister, of course I pay attention."  That with a smile.  "But, pretty obviously, something went wrong, or else we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Yeah," said Jenny.  "No kidding."

"So, what happened?"

"Well..." said Jenny.  "You've heard of the Male Pill, right?"

"Of course," I said.  "It made the nightly news a few months back, right?  When they were calling for beta testers?"

"Yep, that's the one," Jenny said.

"So...  What's that got to do with Trevor?"

Jenny rolled her eyes with a bit of a smile.  "Duh."

"Duh.  He's on it," I said.  "Wow.  That's pretty cool.  Your boyfriend is helping to test the final stages of a drug that's been in research-and-development for like thirty years."

"Yeah," she said expressionlessly.

"So what happened," I said.  "Routine failure?  I mean, sure, it's only one in ten thousand for the Female Pill, but...  Wow.  If the Male Pill has that kind of failure rates, and, what, guys release like, what, fifty billion sperm every time they ejaculate...  Why would they even bother?"

"No, that's not how it works," Jenny said, combing hair from her eyes, that old familiar gesture.  "The Female Pill works by altering a woman's hormonal balance right before ovulation so that she doesn't release an egg.  You know this, you had Sex Ed class same as I did."

"I remember."

"The Male Pill's a little different.  You don't produce sperm once a month, you're making new ones every second.  So—"

"Wait—  I am??" I said.  I glanced down at my crotch.  "Busy little area, isn't it."

"Well, where do you think they came from," Jenny retorted.  "If you and Arie are having sex and she blows you and then you do the nasty and you come again, that's like twenty million sperm expended.  That's why you have testicles and all those tubes down there, to build and store sperm.  You make like a million a day."

She colored a little.  "Why the hell am I talking about my little brother's testicles."

"Hey, stranger things have happened," I said.

"No, seriously," she said.  "What, did you think they just magically appeared or something?"

"Yes, actually," I said with a bright grin.  "I figured that my balls were like Transformers."

"Transformers??"

"Yeah.  Remember in the cartoons, how they never carried guns around with them, but whenever they needed them, they were there?"

"Yeah, we could never figure that out."

Of course, we knew the real answer—the toys themselves were simply not designed with storage areas for the weapons, for whatever reason (probably too much risk of jamming or breakage), and the cartoons were accurate to the toys.  But we wanted an answer that made sense within the story's universe.  And someone had delivered.

"Well, some guy on the Internet figured that Transformers keep their guns in another dimension, which is just a huge storage closet.  Whenever they need their guns, they open a little portal to that dimension, reach in, grab the stuff, and close it again.  I figured, that's what my balls did when I need sperm."

Jenny burst out laughing.  "You have got to be kidding me."

I shrugged and grinned as widely as I could.

"Your balls may be miraculous, little brother, but not that miraculous," Jenny giggled.

"Hey, you're the one telling me they can make a million sperm a day," I said.  "If they can do that, why not interdimensional portals?"

"All right, anyway," said Jenny, but at least she was smiling.  "So.  You and your...  Package...  Produce millions of sperm a day, every day, until you get old, at which point the number drops by one or two a day.  This isn't just a once-a-month thing.  So the Male Pill works every day, by altering hormonal balance so that the sperm don't grow to maturity."

"How do you know all this?"

"I looked it up on the Male Pill's website."

"So the Male Pill packet doesn't have placebos the way the Female Pill packs do."

"Yeah.  It's just every day, the same thing.  It's like a chemical castration, basically, except reversible.  You and Arie are, uh...  Doing your thing..."  Now she was blushing.  Evidently anger alone had let her spit out the previous descriptions.  "And you... ah...  Climb to the top of the...  Well.  And so you and Arie are having your fun, and your balls look around for sperm that are ready to graduate, and because of the Male Pill, there are none.  So your balls just say, 'Hmm, well, guess Derek's Class of Whatever is going to have a real small graduate pool,' and you do your, uh, your spurting-thing normally, except there's no sperm."

"Wouldn't that...  I dunno, make a difference in volume or something?"

"No, sperm are tiny, we're talking cellular level here.  They're like way-less-than-one-percent of your semen by volume.  God, why am I telling my brother about the contents of his jizz!"

"I bet He's punishing you for getting pregnant," I smirked.

But Jenny didn't take it as a joke.  "Yeah," she said, her face falling.  "No kidding."

"No, yes kidding.  I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd..."

"No, it's okay, you..."

We trailed off awkwardly.

"So, uhm," I said, struggling to steer the conversation back on topic.  "Basically, what you're saying is that the Male Pill turns all my sperm into procrastinators."

"Yeah, that's...  That's a good way to think of it."

"And there are no routine failures," I said.

"Nope, none," said Jenny.  "Either it works or it doesn't.  A 'routine failure' in this case is if it just doesn't work at all.  And they took Trevor in for testing after three months, and they said it was working, he had a zero sperm count in his jizz."

If not for Arie, I probably would have been surprised at the idea that a medication might not work at all.  Tylenol, Advil, Viagra—they all seem to be foolproof.  But Arie and her psychopharmaceuticals—Paxil, Zoloft, so on—have shown me just how fallible the field of medicines is.  In her case, and in Trina's, they basically just slapped her on a med and tested it for a few months to see if it would work, and when (not if) it didn't, they tried another.  There are like ten or twelve major antidepressants on the market—SSRIs, tricyclics, etc—I don't even know what a tricyclic is, you'll have to ask Brandon or Meredith or Arie herself about that—and since it takes as long as several months to test one on a person, it might take years to find them the proper medication.  Next to that little mess, the idea that the Male Pill simply might not take with some people didn't shock me at all.

"Okay, so..." I said.  "So, you were taking yours, he was taking his, and even if you had a routine failure, he still had a zero sperm count.  I don't see how this could happen."

"But that's the thing," Jenny said quietly.  "My period stabilized a while back.  I stopped taking mine."

"Jenny," I said.  "That was really stupid."

There was a silence.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I wasn't thinking, I shouldn't have—"

"No, you're right," Jenny said.  "It was stupid.  It's an experimental medication, I should have been playing it safe—and besides, two forms of protection is just..."  She sighed.

I put my arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze.  "Hindsight is 20/20."

"Yeah," she said lifelessly.

"So..." I said, working the situation through one more time.  "You didn't have yours.  He had his, and it was working.  And there's no way it could've stopped working.  Meaning..."

You know what Sherlock Holmes said," Jenny said.  "When all the possible solutions have been ruled out, the impossible is the answer."

"...Meaning," I said.  "He wasn't taking his Pill either."

"Brilliant, Holmes, brilliant," said Jenny in a dull voice.

"And that's why you can't tell him," I said.  "Because...  You don't want to embarrass him, or..."

"Yeah."

"But Jenny, you're going to have to tell him eventually.  I mean, if nothing else, it'll become kind of obvious when you start to show.  You need to tell him now."

"Yeah," Jenny said, though she clearly didn't mean it.

I let her stare at the floor for a bit, and then said, "So, what are you going to do?"

She sighed.

"I don't know."

She looked up at me.

"Have a baby, from the looks of it."

Hello, Arie.  I...  I know you said not to call, but I thought you might like to know.  I...  I'm going to be an uncle.  ...See you tomorrow.  I love you.

M.6

The unofficial Program philosophy here at Mount Hill High has always been, 'Look Closer.'  It's part of why Dr. Zelvetti keeps choosing the oddball outcast types to go into The Program.  She wants everybody to have their fifteen minutes of fame.  But the corollary to the—  All right, we've heard it enough.  But I don't think anyone was expecting what happened to me any less than I was.

Greetings.  I'm Brandon Chambers, and my parents are home.

I understand Arie's been asked to do this too, so I hope I'm not intruding too much.  Meredith asked me to contribute to her account because, she says, my recollection of some events may be clearer than hers.  And there's probably some truth to that.  She also said the same thing about, you know, 'integral to my Program experience' or whatever—which is also probably true, because...  Well.  I mean, if our lives were centered around each other before that thing on Monday, then it only got worse after.  So, here I am, and I just hope nobody gets in trouble, since I'm technically helping Meredith cheat on her homework.

By the way, Meredith is the bravest person I have ever had the pleasure to meet.

It was very awkward after we reeled the window closed, the four of us standing around glancing at each other sideways and stumbling over cloying pleasantries.  I don't know if my parents ever had sex after the night I was conceived, but it was clear from the smell in the room and the looks on their faces that they knew what had just happened between us, and disapproved of it.  It also didn't help that they'd never met Meredith before.  They knew I had a new girlfriend, through the sporadic e-mails we all exchange, but a name means very little over the Internet.

Finally my parents ran out of patience.  "Well, it's been very nice to meet you, Madeline—"

"Meredith," she corrected pleasantly.

"Meredith," my mother said gracelessly.  "If it's all right with you, we'd like to catch up on old times with our son."

"I understand," Meredith said.

"And where are you going," my father said to me as I followed Meredith to the hall.

"To take her home," I said.  "Did you see any cars in the driveway?  How do you think she got here?"

My parents exchanged glances.  It was clear this did not please them.  "As quick as possible," said my father finally.  "Come right back."

Meredith went to the coffee table and picked up her bra and panties—just went in right under the noses of my parents and picked them up with nary a blush—turned to them at the doorway and said, "Have a nice night," and preceded me down the hall with the sort of composure that wins poker tournaments.

In the bathroom, stopping so she could put those things on, I put my arms around her and drew her close.  "You are the bravest person I have ever had the pleasure to meet."

Meredith dropped the ends of her bra and hugged me back.  "They seem...  Nice..."

"And you didn't knuckle under," I told her.  "You are incredible.  I thought I was going to fall apart every other second."

"You didn't show it," she said, smiling.

"I love you, you know that?" I told her.  "I love you."

She smiled.  "Hee.  I get the feeling we're going to be saying that a lot until we get used to hearing it."

"Good thing I like hearing it, then," I said.

She kissed me.  "So do I.  But not as much as I like saying it.  I love you, Brandon Chambers."

"I love you, Meredith," I said, leaving off the last name because suddenly I wasn't sure which one I should use.

"God, I've had that word on the tip of my tongue for months," Meredith said.  "It's such a relief to finally be able to say it out loud.  Love.  Love love love.  I love you."

"Hmm, that makes two of us then," I said, and got a dazzling smile in return.

At her front door, Meredith dragged me into the kitchen without asking.  "Hi, Mom," she said.

"Hello, Meredith," Mrs. Levine said, smiling.  "Why do you keep bringing this young ruffian home?  I keep telling you to find someone who actually appreciates you."

We grinned.  They tease each other like that.  Andrea Levine knows where to draw the lines, but she and her daughter are friends for the most part, with all the equality of status that implies, and she is one of the nicest parents I know.

"Mom," Meredith said, "Brandon would like it very much if you were to invite him to dinner.  As thanks for allowing me to spend so much time at his house.  In fact, he'd be very much obliged if you were to insist and refuse to take no for an answer."

"I see," said Mrs. Levine, that smile falling away a little.  "Well, I have to ask, Meredith, why is he so interested in this?"  Her wit rose faintly: "For what reason should we provide sanctuary to this rapscallion?"

"His parents are home," Meredith said flatly, moving into the kitchen.  "Do you want to start the pasta noodles, Mother?"

"Now, Meredith," said Mrs. Levine, serious now.  "From what you say, they haven't been home in five months.  I'm sure they want to spend time with Brandon.  It's rather selfish to ask him to—"

"No, you misunderstand, Mrs. Levine," I said, buckling on the apron Meredith handed me.  "She wasn't kidding when she said I would like very much to be invited to dinner.  They may be my progenitors, but they're not my parents."

Something changed in Mrs. Levine's eyes, compassion swinging the gates open wide, but she said, "Brandon, I'm not sure it's wise for me to get between you and your pa—Ah, your progenitors—like this."

"That's why we didn't have this conversation," Meredith said briskly.  "This part of it, anyway.  I asked that he be invited to dinner, and you agreed without asking why."  A knowing smile: "Because, of course, you trust me so much."  Which was the unbridled truth.  Meredith doesn't spend three days of five at my house by sneaking behind her parents's backs.

"Plausible deniability," said Mrs. Levine, amused.  "I see you two have planned this out."

"No, we just improvise really well," Meredith said.

For a moment, Mrs. Levine just stood there, shaking her head and smiling.  Then she said, "All right, well.  As long as I've got you.  Brandon, would you spread some margarine between those slices of bread, and then we'll pop the whole loaf in the oven.  Meredith, yes, I want to get the angel hair pasta started..."

It was a busy, rather cramped half an hour in the kitchen—rather hot, too, with the stove and the oven both going at once—but we were done nearly half an hour early, thanks to Meredith's and my unexpected presence.  "I can't believe it," Mrs. Levine said, "we're done half an hour early.  Now what am I going to do.  You've thrown all my schedules off!  Aaaack!"  All this delivered with her trademark smile—I can absolutely see where Meredith got hers.

Eventually we retired to the kitchen table, furnished with glasses of water.  Mrs. Levine spread her hands and said, "So.  Talk to me.  You guys spend so much time at Brandon's house, I rarely get to see you together."

"We'll spend more time here if you like," Meredith said.

"No kidding," I said, thinking of my parents.

"Though," said Mrs. Levine into her water glass.  "I can understand why you two prefer the privacy of having an entire house to yourselves.  It certainly lets you...  Explore certain things."

Meredith and I blinked at each other.  What exactly was that supposed to mean.

"Certain physical combinations, let's say," said Mrs. Levine with a guarded smile.

Meredith's face turned an alarming shade of red, and I felt my eyebrows climbing into my hairline.

"Oh, come on, Meredith," said Mrs. Levine, smiling.  "I've seen the way you look when you come home.  I've seen the way you smile.  I've seen the way you two look at each other.  And I know he's been in The Program and I know you're in The Program and if nothing had happened before now, it certainly did this afternoon, because, Meredith, you really need to clean up a little better next time, I could smell Brandon's, ah, deposit on you from across the kitchen."

Now Meredith simply looked as if she had swallowed your tongue.  To cover for her brain-freeze, I said, "And you're okay with this?"

"Well, not with the faulty clean-up," Mrs. Levine said to me.  "But with the rest of it...  Yes."  Then she sighed.  "It took me a while to get used to it—I grew up in a family where sex came after marriage no matter what—but times have changed.  I taught grade school for thirteen years, Brandon, and I saw how kids changed even when they were that young."  She's planning to retire into substitute teaching at the end of the year.

"And besides.  Meredith, you're turning sixteen on Saturday, but as far as I'm concerned, you've been an adult for years.  You've been making mature decisions and acting intelligently for long enough that I trust your judgment.  I think maybe it's too young for you two to start, but you've always been ahead of the curve.  Everything you've ever done has been too young.  And besides, nobody really knows what goes on inside your relationship except the two of you.  I don't think it's appropriate, but no one knows for sure except you two, and like I said, I trust your judgment.  And Brandon—"  The shining smile again.  "He treats you like spun gold.  It's obvious that he loves you, and it's obvious that you love him, and there are a lot worse foundations for a sexual relationship than that."

"I'm...  Glad you approve," Meredith croaked, her eyes the size of dinner plates.

Mrs. Levine's smile turned truly wicked.  "Just don't forget to use a blanket."

"We've been remembering," Meredith said numbly.

"Though I only just found out why we use the blanket," I said.

"He hasn't washed them," Meredith mumbled.

"My goodness," said Mrs. Levine.

"I like to think of them as a special reminder," I said, beaming.  "Of very pleasant, happy times."

"That's one way to look at it," Mrs. Levine said in a disgruntled voice, "assuming they don't grow mold first."

My smile faded.  "Of course, now that my parents are here, I guess I better wash them."

"Yes, that might be...  Wise," Mrs. Levine said.  "You've probably noticed that I'm a bit more liberal than most parents, Brandon."

"The thought had crossed my mind, yes."

"Brandon, I'm not sure how well you take advice from older people, so please bear with me.  I don't think you're one of those kids who thinks he knows it all, because Meredith would have never taken to you if you were—  Well.  That's not important.  The point is, try to stay on your parents's good side.  They can make your life miserable if you're not careful."

"I don't see how that'd be any different," I grumbled.  "They make my life miserable as it is."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Levine.  "They're not around fifty weeks a year.  In those fifty weeks, you have freedom.  You have the run of the house.  You have all the money you could ask for.  You have a car, maybe more than one—almost certainly, because I've seen you pick up Meredith in that big white van.  You can have any friends over you want, at any time; you can even have your girlfriend over, in total, perfect privacy.  Don't tell me they make your life bad by not being there."

"Okay," I admitted, feeling uncomfortable at my previous exaggeration, "that's true."

"But..." said Mrs. Levine, her eyes close on me.

"But..." I said, unsure how to begin.

"Mom, his house is like a corpse," Meredith said.

Mrs. Levine looked from one to the other of us, clearly not comprehending.

"He lives alone in a house meant for fifty," Meredith said.  "It's lonely there."

"That's one," I said.  "The other is...  Well, Meredith has a lot of the same freedoms I do.  Not quite as many and certainly not to the same degree, but a lot of them."  Not to mention how all that is mine is also hers, since we are one.  "Plus, she has a good relationship with her parents.  Meredith has grown up into a beautiful woman because her parents gave her the proper guidance and enough room to grow."  (Mrs. Levine glowed with a smile when I said that.)  "I, on the other hand—I grew up into an adult because it was either that or...  Or die, basically; not literally, but the point is that it wasn't a matter of space, of guidance, of—I dunno, of self-actualization or anything—it was a matter of survival.  Do this, or else.  I did.  And by sheer luck I turned out well, but I'm not sure I liked my way better."

"But that's the thing," Mrs. Levine said, her eyes far distant.  "Even if children are raised the way we raised Meredith, sometimes things still go wrong."  And her tone was so strange that there was no way either of us could answer.  I reached for Meredith's hand and was glad to find it.

Finally, to break the silence, Meredith said, "So, uhm.  Speaking of parents.  Isn't Dad usually home by now?"

"Your father.  What?  Oh, yes, uh—  Well, today, he had a...  Meeting to go to," said Mrs. Levine, "but he should be home any—"

There was a rapid series of clicks and the shunk of a turning deadbolt, and, as we all turned to look, the front door opened.

"Dad!" said Meredith, standing up.  "We were just talking about you."

"Speak of the devil," I said dryly.

"Hello, Roger," said Mrs. Levine, smiling.

"Hello, darling," Mr. Levine said to Meredith.  "Honey, I'm home," he said to Mrs. Levine.  "Brandon, pleasure to see you again," he said to me, putting his hat down to shake my hand.  He was dressed in business suit and still carried his briefcase, and his hat was slate gray, the kind of hat you see on old movie posters of Casablanca.  It says a lot about Mr. Levine that he's still able to wear it with dignity.

"Mmm, something smells good," Mr. Levine said.  Behind him, I heard footsteps on the stairs—footsteps?  Where none should be?  After the scare with my parents I was feeling paranoid and quick on the trigger finger, but Meredith and Andrea Levine were already launching into the intricacies of the meal they had cooked, and drawing me into the conversation by crediting my award-winning bread-buttering skills, and my impulse was quickly lost.

"So, Brandon," Mr. Levine said to me when the olfactory furor had died down.  "For what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

"We thought it'd be nice to ask him to stay for dinner," Mrs. Levine said, "to thank him for allowing Meredith to spend so much time at his house."  Punctuated by a look that clearly said, I'll explain later.

"It seems to me he ought to be thanking us," said Mr. Levine, grinning widely.  "When I was his age, I'd have given my left arm to have even five minutes of privacy with a girl as pretty as our daughter."

"Daddy..." Meredith said, blushing, rolling her eyes.

"Meredith has a boyfriend," someone asked, a new voice, high-pitched male.  The blood drained from Meredith's face.

Standing in the doorway was a short, muscular young man, boyish in appearance despite his obvious physical maturity, his short dark hair slicked down in a cap, his T-shirt showcasing his well-defined arms and chest.  He strode into the room with an unmistakable swagger.  Facial features leapt out at me—the same chin, the same wide cheekbones; hair color towards the father, the mother's eyebrows...  I had never met him before, but I knew instinctively who he was.

Mr. Levine looked uncomfortable.  Mrs. Levine fidgeted and glanced aside.

"Wow, Meri," the youth said.  "You've grown up a lot.  Changed quite a bit."

Meredith gaped like a fish out of water, her mouth moving soundlessly.

"And you—"  The fellow turned to me and I felt suddenly the unmistakable magnet power of his testosterone aura.  This was a man who never had trouble with the girls.  The charming, roguish cast of the smile, the confident tilt of the eyebrow, the almost arrogant swagger...  He oozed of self-confidence, of self-assurance.  "You must be this new-fangled boyfriend."  He extended his hand.  "I'm Michael Levine, pleased to meetcha.  Try not to mess with my little sister too much, or I, ah, might have to come for ya."  Wink.

"I'm Brandon Chambers," I said, taking his hand.  I felt like a limp fish.  Over the boy's shoulder, his father looked as if he was being forced to watch a train wreck.

"When did you get out of rehab, Michael," Meredith asked faintly.

He turned, and I felt his flash of annoyance, quickly masked by the ever-present polish, and was suddenly glad to be standing nearer to him than she was.  If something should happen, it would hit me first.  There was no question about it, this boy was dangerous.  The signals were all there.  I didn't know what this viper was doing here or how it had come to be here, but I knew when my beloved was in danger.

"Just now, actually," Michael said.  "Graduated, got my diploma and everything.  I'm out of high school right now.  What about you, still got two years left?"

"One year," Meredith said, her voice cracking.  "I skipped seventh, remember?"

"Oh yeah, I was, uh.  I wasn't paying attention back then," Michael said, with that bright insincere smile.

Mrs. Levine, struggling for control of the situation, said, "It smells like the food is ready.  Is anybody hungry?"

"Yeah!" said Michael, clapping his hands together (we flinched) and flinging them wide (we flinched).  "I've been on a plane for three hours and I'm starving!"

In the scramble of setting out food and choosing chairs, a vague distance and decency reasserted itself, but Michael sat at the head of the table with Meredith at his right hand, and I could see how it frightened her to be near him.  He chattered on and on about things that had happened at the place he had been—rehab—and I wanted to take her hand, but couldn't; we could see, both of us, how fatal it would be to reveal weakness to this creature.  The meal lasted twenty minutes before Meredith excused us to do homework and send me home; it felt like an eternity.

At the front door I had a final, short chance to talk to her.  "I didn't know you had a brother."

"I didn't," she said hurriedly, not meeting my eyes.  "I don't.  He's my flesh and blood but he's not my brother."  Like my parents.

"Where did he go, what happened to him," I asked.

"I can't," she said, looking at the floor, the street, the car, anywhere but me.  "Not today.  Tomorrow.  You have to go now, your parents are going to kill you—"  She pushed me away, out the door, but it turned into a hug as she flowed into my arms and the tears that had threatened her eyes all night, finally gave way.  I held her fiercely until she stopped.

"I love you," I whispered.

"I love you too," she said, sniffling, "see you tomorrow."  And turned and ran up the stairs to her room without even closing the front door.

Mrs. Levine, who could see out the front door from her seat at the table, gave me a questioning glance.  I could only shrug in return.  And then wave, with a sort of apologetic smile, and then close the door.

What a day.

And I suppose tomorrow will be even crazier.