When I awoke, the first thing I saw was Brandon's sleeping face.  So I woke up with a smile.

It was a face I'd seen forever, a face I knew practically by heart...  But sometimes I don't think I see him.  I just recognize that, oh, yeah, over there, that's Brandon, and then instead of actually seeing him there's just this blur, which is labeled, Brandon, kind of like a video game or something—and then I can see his emotions on his face, in his neck and shoulders and hands, but sometimes I don't really see him.

I was seeing him now.

He had hair in an indeterminate shade of brown, short and now a little bit mussed.  His eyes, when open, were a distinct hazel, green and brown predominant.  He had a face that was quick to smiles, quick to laughter; worry lines sometimes found their way there, sometimes profoundly, but they just as quickly faded, leaving little to no trace.  His lips were thin but shapely.  His forehead was prone to acne—I winced at the sight of a brand-new problem developing above his left eyebrow—but that was probably normal for someone his age.  After all, he was only sixteen, though shy only three months of his next birthday.  He looked so young.

I tried to imagine what he might look like in ten years.  Some of the baby fat might have worn off, his face growing a bit more angular; would he wear a beard? a mustache?  What would he look like with facial hair?  Would his forehead survive the ravages of acne intact?  Would his belly start sagging, his muscles turn to water?  Would I come home one day and find him slouched in front of the television, slurping beer and passing gas?

What would our children look like?

His eyes opened in the middle of my ruminations and he smiled at me.  "Hello," he said.

And his smile is enough to make me melt, no matter where I am.  "Hello," I said, reaching out to touch his face.

"Did you sleep well," he asked.

"I think, better than I ever have in my life," I said.

His smile widened.  "Why's that?"

"Well, probably because a certain somebody happened to be in bed with me," I said.  "And this somebody—and not to name any names, but his initials are Brandon Percival Chambers—makes me very relaxed and very happy."

A half-chagrined smile passed over his face.  "Percival.  I should have never let you see my driver's license."

"I like it," I said.  "It makes you sound distinguished."

"Right," he said, "exactly.  Distinguished.  If by 'distinguished' you mean 'dorky.'  You know, you've never told me what your middle name."

I felt blood rushing to my face.  "Well.  I'd...  Rather not tell you.  I don't like it."

"Hmm," said Brandon.  "Where's your license?"

My eyes went wide.  "Oh God you wouldn't dare."  Please no!  Please no!  Please no!  Gaah!

"What?" he said, the perfect picture of wounded innocence.  "That's how you found out mine.  How am I supposed to introduce you to my parents, anyway, when we break the news to them?  'Mom, Dad, this is Meredith, uh...  Meredith Something Levine, she won't tell me her middle name but I'd like to marry her anyway,' yeah, that'll totally inspire their confidence."

"Well..." I said.  I had to find a compromise for him somehow.  Despite how deafeningly loud was the blood pounding in my ears.  The thought of him learning my middle name had taken me straight past embarrassed right into downright mortified.  How come people always get such dumb middle names?  "How about this.  I'll tell them and you at the same time."

"Hmmm..." he said, and I barely had time to react to the very familiar gleam in his eyes before he had lunged over me, pinning my arms to the bed with his hands, pinning my body to the bed with his own.  Instinctively my legs came up to cradle his torso, and suddenly I realized just how close I had come to bringing one knee right up between his legs.  He didn't seem to notice, though: he leaned over me with a truly ghastly leer on his face, and said, "Well.  We have ways of making you talk."

"Oh—Oh really?" I said, feigning sudden terror.

"Ye-eessss," he said.  "There's always torture."

"T-torture?" I asked.

"Mm-hmm.  And I just happen to have my...  Special torture tool here with me right now."

"Really?" I asked.  "What sort of tool?"

"It's a specialized...  Poking device."

"Poking device?"

"Yes," he said.  "For poking.  For poking long and hard.  Long and hard."

"Hmm," I said, wriggling beneath him, letting him feel my body against his.  "I'm not sure that quite sounds very threatening.  You'll just have to give me a demonstration, I suppose."  And if you can't figure out what happened next, you're several brain cells short of a pair.

I don't know what it is about him that makes me so...  Forward.  I think he makes me drunk.

I like it.

After we had finished, and taken a shower to cleanse the residue of our coupling away (twice!  Twice in twelve hours!), we went downstairs to meet my parents.  It was later than normal, so the usual breakfast smells were long gone; but my parents were sitting in the family room, Mom with an embroidery hoop and Dad with the newspaper.  "Good morning," they said.  "Cereal's in the pantry if you're hungry."

"Hmm, that sounds very good," Brandon said.  He set out two bowls and began to pour cereal.  "Mrs. Levine, what's Meredith's middle name?"

"Trinette, why?" said Mom.

I felt myself turning bright red.

Mom saw my expression.  "Oh," she said.  "Oops."

"Trinette," Brandon mused.  "Is that...  What language is that?"

"French," said Mom.  "We thought it was a nice, lovely sound.  And it means 'innocent,' which turned out to be pretty appropriate, don't you think?"

"Now you know why I didn't want to tell you," I said with as much dignity as I could muster.

"Why not?" Brandon said.  "It's a lovely name.  Perhaps not—perhaps not something you would use socially, but it's still a beautiful name."

"It's weird," I said.  "It sounds like kitchenware."

"So?" he said.  "Percival makes me sound like a knight at King Arthur's Round Table.  At least it's not something really weird, like, what, Brunhildalynn or something."

"Bru—Br—  What??" I said.  "Is that even a real name?"

"Sure is now," he said, shrugging, and handed me a cereal bowl.  I went for the milk: he likes his cereal dry for some reason.

"Did you two have a nice night," Mom asked, as if it were totally normal for a girl to have her boyfriend over all night.

I chose to answer her in the same vein.  "Yes, actually, we did.  It was very...  Comforting to have a loved one there with me."

"Judging from the amount of noise, it sounds like he was a little more than 'comforting,' " my father said matter-of-factually.

I turned red again.

"And it didn't bother you to lose half of the bed," my mother asked.  "It took me nearly six months to get used to your father."

"Well, different strokes for different folks, Andy," Dad said.

"Well, while we're being embarrassed," Brandon said, glancing at me.  "Meredith, would you like to, and Mr. and Mrs. Levine would it be okay if Meredith were to, come talk to my parents for a little while today?  I know they will be...  Displeased...  Over Meredith's and my, err...  Devotion to each other...  And I figure we might as well get the unpleasantness over with as soon as possible."

Mom shrugged.  "Your schedule is your own, kiddo.  Just keep your grades up."

"And..." Brandon said, raising his voice a little.  "I wanted to thank the both of you, while I have the chance.  I know that you both have had...  Reservations.  About Meredith's and my actions, and choices.  Despite that, you've been nothing but friendly and polite and trusting to the both of us, which is a, a marked contrast to what we would have seen if you guys had been my parents.  So, thank you, I for one really appreciate it.  I—  I told Meredith not too long ago that I think child-rearing is the most important profession of all, and...  Seeing you guys, especially in contrast to my own parents and their actions, has, has really reinforced that.  So..."  He spread his hands.  "Yeah."

Okay.  Who would ever think of not marrying a man who says things like that?

And my parents...  Smiled, and smiled, and smiled.

"Okay, so, um," Brandon said, after we had discreetly withdrawn.  "We have to figure out who's driving.  I'd drive you, but, then I'd have to drive you back, and I think I should probably just stay home at this point, once I get there...  It'd probably smooth their tempers down a bit."

"I could stay with you," I offered.

He shook his head.  "Bad idea.  They'll...  No.  I just don't think it's a good idea."

Neither did I, but I had to offer anyway.  "I guess that means two cars, then."  I ran over the mental calculations in my head.  He couldn't drive me.  I could drive him...  But then his car would be here, and his parents probably wouldn't like that either.  I could drive him, drive home and then return his car, but...  That left me stranded the same was as if he'd driven, and we'd just wasted gas for no reason.  Two cars it was.  "Are you sure it'll be okay," I said, "being in a house with angry parents?"

He quirked a smile.  "I'm pretty sure I can find somewhere to hide from them in my house."

But this was not the result when we arrived, for the mouth of the driveway was blocked by folding tables, covered in things.  Yard sale, read the sign.  Brandon's parents were moving back and forth between the tables and a station wagon parked further in—theirs, presumably; who can keep track of how many cars they have?—continually moving more merchandise to the tables.

A yard sale, I thought, but what is the point?  There's a mile between this driveway and the next one.  The neighbors will never drop in.  But then I recognized something in Mr. Chambers' arms: a computer monitor.  The last time I had seen it was Friday morning, when it had sat on Brandon's desk in his room.

"Hey!" Brandon yelled, jumping from his car.  "Hey!  What's going on?"

His father spared him a disgusted look.  "Oh.  He returns."

"Okay, what's going on," Brandon said.  "And don't tell me we've suddenly gone poor, because I don't believe it for an instant."

"Well," said his father, grunting, levering a CPU onto the folding table.  "It's quite simple, really."  He turned to face Brandon for the first time.  "You, young man, have shown contemptible behavior.  You have demonstrated a lack of respect for your elders and betters.  You have not listened to their advice.  You have lied to them, cheated them, and taken advantage of their good intentions.  We will not raise such a morally decrepit son.  We will sell your belongings, and then we will go to Mr. Krenshaw and see what we can do about freeing ourselves of our legal obligation to support you."

It was such a preposterous statement that Brandon and I merely stood there for a moment, gaping.

Finally Brandon spoke.  "So is that your opinion of responsibility.  Try it because it seems like a good idea, but if it isn't, just shove it away and pretend it never existed."

"I will not take that tone of voice from you," Brandon's father said.

Brandon looked over all the things on the tables.  It was clothes, photo albums, a digital camera, some of the novels he stored in his room (as opposed to the ones he kept in the other bookshelves around the house), bunches of the knick-knacks and trinkets that every person accumulates over a lifetime.  Some of it was dreck.  Some of it was necessary—mostly the clothes, the laptop.  Despite the possibilities for affluence, Brandon lived simply; those things he did spend money on (video games mostly) he could live without.  A decision came to his eyes.

"Everything on this table," he said—his father, by coincidence, had put the computers and most of the clothes on the same table.  "I'll take it."

"What?" his father said.

"You're having a yard sale, right?" Brandon said.  "Well, I'm buying."

"And you have that much cash on you?" his father retorted.

"His checkbook's in the house," Mrs. Chambers said suddenly.  She had not looked at either son or husband this entire time.

"Well, then," said Brandon.  "If you'll excuse me."  He made to move between the tables and down the driveway.

His father blocked him.  "You are not entering my house."

Ice came to Brandon's eyes.  "Stop me."

I grabbed a shirt off of the table and flung it into his father's face.  "Brandon, go!"  He did, shoving past his father and sprinting down the driveway.  His father flailed and went down.

Mrs. Chamber blinked three times and moved to sit in the driver's seat of the station wagon.  Suddenly I thought she had a very good idea.  I locked the doors of my family's sedan just in time for Brandon's father to yank at the handles, bellowing something I couldn't really hear.  He kicked at the doors and banged on the roof.  Through the torrent I heard something about trespassers and calling the police.  I ignored him, staring straight ahead through the car's windshield at the tail of their station wagon.  When I next looked, he was on his cellphone.

About fifteen minutes later, a patrol car pulled up.  It was manned by a single officer, wide around the middle, who clearly didn't know what to make of the multi-car standoff and the hastily-convened "yard sale."  He conversed with Brandon's father for a short time, and then they both came to tap on my window.  His words came muffled but clear: "Would you step out of the vehicle, please?"

I rolled down my window.  "I don't particularly trust the man you're with, Officer."

The officer shrugged.  His nameplate read McHenty.  "Fair enough, ma'am, but if you could keep your hands where I can see them—  Thank you.  Don't mean to insinutate, but it pays to be cautious.  I'm sure you understand.  Now, what seems to be the problem here?"

"This young woman is tresspassing on my property," said Mr. Chambers.

"Well, seeing as how she's halfway in the street, she's only half tresspassing on your property, Mr. Chambers," said Officer McHenty.  "I should add, young lady, that it's slightly illegal for you to park your vehicle like that, so it might behoove you to park on the side of the road once we're done."

Mr. Chambers evidently did not like the tone of Officer McHenty's voice.  "That's not all, officer.  There is a tresspasser inside my house."

"I see," said Officer McHenty.  "Any idea who this person is?"

"My son," said Mr. Chambers.

Officer McHenty's eyebrows went up—"Is he now"—and I suddenly picked up on the skepticism with which he was approaching the entire affair.  Clearly something about Mr. Chambers had rubbed him wrong.  I listened with increased interest.

"Would you happen to know this Son Of Mr. Chambers, young lady," Officer McHenty asked me.

"Yes," I said.  And then, on impulse: "He's my fiance."

"Hmm," said McHenty, totally ignoring the fact that, behind him, Mr. Chambers had slipped one notch closer to eruption.  "Starting a bit early, arn'tcha?"

A burst of unplanned honesty: "Actually, I've worried about that myself."  I mean, dear Lord, I've been sixteen for less than twenty-four hours.  "But, hey: the earlier you start, the longer you have to figure out if you're wrong for each other, right?"

He smiled.  "A good point.  What's your name, miss?"

"Meredith.  Meredith Levine."

"Well, Ms. Levine, if you feel confident enough to step out of the car, let's investigate, shall we?..."

He led us to the table with the clothes on it.  " 'Yard sale,' huh.  These looks like a young man's belongings to me—"  His eyes flickered over an unopened box of condoms.  Since when had Brandon had those?  "Mr. Chambers...  This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with the reported tresspasser who just happens to be your son, would it?"

Brandon's father drew himself up to full height.  "Yes, actually, it would.  My son is a juvenile delinquent.  I've tried my best to discipline him and set him on the right track, but he has resisted all treatment.  On top of that, he has insisted on associating with this, with this..."  He waved his hand at me, at a loss for words.  "I have reached the end of my rope.  When we are done here, I am going to go to my lawyer and see about freeing my wife and I of our legal obligation to support him."

"Hmm, well," said Officer McHenty.  "Seeing as how that's illegal here, I doubt you'll have much success.  But, I wish you luck."

Mr. Chambers' face operated in strange ways.  "Illegal?"  Evidently the thought had never before occurred to him.  "Nonsense.  That's nonsense.  Anything's possible here in America.  It's the land of freedom.  The land of opportunity.  You can do anything in America."

"Yes, sir, you certainly can," said Officer McHenty.  "But the real question is whether you'll get away with it."

Brandon's father glared.  "This is your fault," he said, pointing to me, but speaking to both Officer McHenty and myself.  "I am sure this is all your fault."

"In-laws."  Officer McHenty leaned over conspiratorily to murmur in my ear in a voice that could be heard a mile away.  "Why, my ex-wife and I, we got along fine, but in-laws...  They can be a contentious bunch."

"I...  Believe I can see that," I said, struggling to hide a smile.

"Wise girl you got here, Mr. Chambers, what's wrong with her?" Officer McHenty asked, smiling broadly.

He insisted on staying until Brandon emerged from the driveway some five minutes later, wearing his backpack, which contained his schoolbooks.  Considering the mile-plus distance from here to the house, Brandon had made good time.  He arrived brandishing a check.  I didn't get a good look at the dollar value, but there were four digits involved, not counting the decimel point.  "There," he said.  "I bought the computer, I bought the clothes, I know how much they cost.  That should cover it and then some."

His father looked at the check.  "You don't have this much money," he sneered.

"Try me," Brandon said.  "My bank account looks like yours in miniature."

"Yes, because we inflated it," said his father.  "The account is a custodial, with joint powers to us, our parents, as well as you.  That money is legally ours."

"Yes, that's true," Brandon said.  "Some of it is.  The rest of it I got from relatives and friends as presents, and my investments have turned out relatively well.  Not enough to live by, maybe, but enough to buy all that from you."

"We could void the check," Brandon's father said, a hellish glee in his voice.  "We could cancel it from your end.  We could burn it, say we misplaced it."

"Be my guest," Brandon said, his voice cold.  He turned to Officer McHenty and shook his hand.  "Hello, Officer," he said pleasantly.  "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Not especially, no, son, but thanks for asking," said Officer McHenty, a great grin on his face.  "Your father asked me to stay around to, ah, neutralize hostile forces on his property."

I glanced at Brandon's father, whose anger had cooled significantly.  "I'd say you're doing a good job, Officer McHenty."

Brandon and I loaded the stuff into the back of my car.  We couldn't take his—it wasn't his.  If I'd've known my car was about to become an impromptu moving van, I would have brought my father's SUV.  If I'd've known his parents were going to overreact like this, I would have told Brandon to go home last night.  As Zach puts it: If wishes were fishes, everything would smell bad.

Brandon retrieved his CD folder from his car, took a fond look around inside it—he's actually quite fond of that car, though he's hardly an automotive buff—and then tossed his father the keys.  His father caught them, his face venomous.

Brandon's mother poked her head out of the car.  "The rest of it?"

Brandon shrugged.  It was books and trinkets, old computer software.  "I can live without it."

"You should still take it," I said in an undertone.  "It's yours."

"Begging your pardon, missy, but that's not necessarily true," Officer McHenty said apologetically.  "Your young man may have done the purchasing himself, but if he used his parents' money to pay for it, it is technically their property."

"Besides," Brandon said, "what would I do with it?  I can transfer files to my laptop and sell my PC; same with some of the clothes.  But all those books and things?"  He shook his head.  "Nothing doing."

I stared at him.  "You're actually taking this seriously.  You're actually gonna try and live out on your own."

"Young man, you don't have to worry about that," Officer McHenty said.  "I've told the rest of these folks already and I'll tell you now: this will not stand up in court.  A child can emancipate himself from his parents, but the parents can't emancipate themselves from the child.  Much as they may dislike it, they're stuck with you."

"Yes," Brandon said, "and I'm stuck with them.  The sooner I get out of here, the better."  There was anger in his voice, but also a strange sort of recognition—that the happy days were over, and the trouble only beginning.  And Officer McHenty, hearing it, gave him a resigned smile and patted his shoulder.

"Come on, Brandon," I said.  "We'll go home.  We'll talk to my parents.  They know good lawyers, they can figure this out.  And you can stay with us for the time being."

"If you ever need help, feel free to call the station," Officer McHenty said.  "Just ask for Officer McHenty.  'Course, I'm kinda obliged by law to say the same to your folks over there, but, well..."  He shrugged, smiled.

"Thank you, sir," Brandon said, shaking his hand again.  "I appreciate it."

The car wheels spun under us, but this time I didn't know where they were taking us.

Su.2

WAKE UP
GRAB A BRUSH AND PUT A LITTLE MAKEUP
HIDE THE SCARS AND FADE AWAY THE SHAKEUP
WHY'D YOU LEAVE THE KEYS UPON THE TABLE
HERE YOU GO CREATE ANOTHER FABLE

It was like the rerun from Hell.  I mean, there's System of a Down, and then there's, My god, why won't my sister SHUT UP??

Hi, I'm Arie Chang, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm scarred for life.

I'm not sure why Trina's been in such a crabby mood all weekend long.  Obviously I'm not totally up-to-date on the inner workings of her life, but so far as I know, things have been okay for her.  Certainly she's been jerking me around on a string all week, propping me up and tearing me down at will; that's gotta put someone in a good mood, right?  So, why's she been so unmanagable this weekend?  Trina only inflicts needless suffering on other people when she's unhappy.

The Internet didn't help.  Flicker had made no new posts today—or, in fact, since Friday.  Reading through those didn't help me understand any better either.  There were no new problems listed, only the old ones I already knew about: OMG school, OMG parents, OMG sister...  All that stuff.  Old news.  Obviously she wasn't very happy with us; but she also wasn't furious at us either.  ...Was she?

She was maddeningly hard to decipher.  What logic drives my sister?  ... If any.

This time I took my mother's advice and asked her herself.  Approaching the door was like wading through a river of sound: it flowed in such torrents that it was hard to move.  "Trina."  I could barely hear myself.  Almost certainly, she hadn't either.  "TRINA!"

The reply blended into the screaming background so well that I could barely hear it.  "Ahat!"

"CAN YOU TURN IT DOWN, PLEASE?  WE CAN BARELY HEAR OURSELVES THINK OUT HERE!"

A moment of no reply.  Then: "Speaking in the royal 'we,' are you?"

Argh.  "TRINA, PLEASE."

Another contemplative moment.  And then, surprisingly, silence: the music cutting off as if it had been never been.  My ears rang in the stillness.

Then my sister poked her head out of the door.  She gave me a charming smile and said, "No."

Slam.

WAKE UP
GRAB A BRUSH AND PUT
Oh dear Lord.

I banged on the door.  "Trina!  Trina, you're—"  To my surprise, it opened.  Normally she locks it.  Oh well.  I charged inside.  Trina had just a chance to give me a surprised look before I hit the Power button on her speakers, shutting them down.  "Trina, you're not the only person in this house, and you have to respect that.  We all understand that it's fun to play music loud, and that sometimes you just need to blast something.  But this has been excessive.  You did it all yesterday and you only stopped when Mom threatened to take away your computer because they had to sleep."

"Since when do you care what our parents think," Trina retorted.

I ignored her.  "There's this basic thing called 'respect,' Trina.  I know it seems cool to shove it off to one side and ignore it, but the problem is it's kind of necessary.  Physically, we need food and air and water to live.  Emotionally, we need social contact.  Our mouths keep us alive.  Likewise, so does respect.  Eventually you're going to need it, and probably sooner than later."

"Like I care," Trina snarled.

"You may not now, but you will," I said.  "Like that one hot boy at school, what's his name...  The guy who plays the oboe?"

Trina turned distinctly red.  "What about him?"

"What's his name, Juan Ramirez...  He doesn't seem the type who appreciates rule-breakers.  You'll have to shape up at some point."

"You know about him," Trina mumbled.

"Hon, you're not the only one who reads the Candlelight boards," I said.  "And you've been kinda loud about it over there."

A grimace of displeasure crossed Trina's face.

"So," she said.  "What do you want?"

I shrugged.  "For you to turn down your music before we all die of headaches."

Trina blinked at me suspiciously.  "That's it?"

I shrugged.  "Why else did I come in here?"

"No, I mean—" Trina said hastily.  "About...  About Juan."

"What about him?" I asked, confused.  So she's got a crush on a boy named Juan.  So what?

"What do you want," Trina said impatiently.  "What do I have to give you so that you won't tell Mom and Dad about Juan."

...What?

"Trina..." I said.  "I'm not..."  Wow.  Is that how she thinks the world works?  By threat, by counter-threat, by bluster and posturing?  "For one, Mom and Dad wouldn't be upset about it.  Sure, maybe you're fourteen, but that's not too young to be getting crushes on people."

"But...  But he's Mexican," said Trina.

"Derek's white," I pointed out.  "And Mom and Dad don't seem to have a problem with him.  They judge people based on who they are, Trina, not the color of their skin.  And besides—even if they disapproved, it's not like they could stop you."

"Do they...  Do they know about you and, uh, you and Derek...  Having sex?" Trina mumbled.

For a moment I was merely flabbergasted.  My sister—embarrassed about something??  Then automatic responses asserted themselves.  "I don't know.  They might.  Some parents are smart enough to pick these things up, but I'm not sure ours are.  They know I'm on The Pill, and after that thing with Bobby Whittemeyer last year they know that it doesn't take long for me to jump someone, so they probably suspect it.  But I'm not sure they know for certain."

Trina nodded.  "I'm not on The Pill, but I could get The Shot pretty easily..." she said, more to herself than anyone else.

I grinned.  "Why?  Planning on making a move on someone?"

She blushed—didn't even seem to be aware of it.  "No.  But...  It's smart to be prepared."

Heh.  Imagine that.  My little sister.        

She glared at me suddenly.  "You can't tell anyone."

"I wasn't planning on it," I said.

She gave me a scornful look.

"Trina, believe it or not, I go through life trying not to offend people," I said.  "I messed up—once—and I've been paying through the nose for it ever since.  I'm trying not to repeat it.  Life's a lot easier if you try to get along with people."

"So you're not going to tell anyone," she said.

"No," I said.  "Of course not."

The expression on her face was less than friendly, and all she said was, "We'll see."  But when I left her room, the music was at a much more civil volume.

It's a small victory.  But I'll take it.

Su.3

When we arrived home, there was a police car in front of my house, and for a wild moment I wondered if Brandon's parents had reported us.  We obviously hadn't done anything wrong, but if I'd learned anything at his house this morning, it was that you could twist anything if you used the right words.  Brandon's and my escape (elopement?) at the so-called 'yard sale' could become a theft and kidnapping, for instance.  What would we have to deal with now?

But the lone police officer sitting at the driver's seat of the car seemed uninterested, watching out the window; he almost certainly saw my license plate number, but thought nothing of if.  What exactly was going on?

Mom met us in the kitchen, looking harried.  "Hello, Meredith, could you—  Brandon?  I thought you were going to stay there."

"There was a...  Change of plans," I said.

Mom peered past us.  "Whose is all of that stuff in your car, Meredith?"  And then, "...Meredith, what happened over there?"

"What's going on over here?" I asked in response.  "Brandon's dad called the police on us there too.  Is there something we have to explain to them?"

"No," Mom said.  "They're here for Michael."

We were silent.

"We're...  We've found a different program for him," Mom said.  "Local.  Still boarding, but this one has a much...  Much more trustworthy reputation.  He won't be in Utah anymore, so we can see him if we want...  And he's going into family therapy with us.  To see if we can fix it and fix it right this time."

Brandon and I said nothing.

"The policemen weren't...  They weren't very impressed when we told them the inpatient program we'd sent him to last time," Mom said.  "They think this one'll be much better."  She covered her face with a hand.  "To think.  Here I am, sending my son away again.  When I just got him back."

I didn't say anything, particularly nothing to the effect of how it was basically all my fault.  But Brandon saw.  I think he sees everything.

"Where is Michael," I asked instead.

"Upstairs," Mom said.  "Packing."

Leaving Brandon to deal with her, I went.  Tracked mud and shoe polish led straight to another policeman, standing in relaxed vigilance near the door to Michael's room.  Inside, I heard the voices of my father and brother, low in discussion.

"Excuse me," said the policeman.  His uniform and equipment and authority made him huge at the top of those stairs.  "You can't go in there."

"Dad?" I called.

My dad poked his head out.  "Hey, Meredith."  He sounded overworked.

"Can I come in?"

His eyebrows bobbed.  "Dunno why you'd want to, but, sure."

"Now just a second," said the policeman.  "She can't just—"

"She can, Officer," said my father.  "She is my daughter, this is my house, and she can go where she pleases."

"I'm not bringing him anything," I said, instinctively twigging on to why the policeman was so agitated.  "I wouldn't, in any case.  I'm the one who found his stuff."

The policeman gave us an eye for a moment, and then nodded.  "Fine.  Go on."

Inside the room was dim and uncertain; the windows were drawn, and what little had not been upset by my parents was now in disarray as Michael hastily stuffed things into bags.  It was the first time I'd been inside this room since I was fourteen.

"What do you want," he said gruffly.

"I..."  I stopped.  What did I want.

"Hey, Dad, have we got something smaller than this," Michael asked, holding up a Nike duffel bag.  "I'm not gonna fill it up."

"I don't think so," Dad said.  "Just take it anyway.  Extra space is good."

"Meredith, pass me those books over there," Michael said.  I looked behind me: novels, mostly archaic fantasy.  My brother, I remembered distantly, had once been a huge fan of Tolkien, enraptured by the imagination, by the nobility of that bygone world.  It was a love I shared.  How many times had I felt like I belonged in some Renaissance or Victorian era, where the formality of my clothes and face would fit in?  Brandon said he loved me because I clung to the old ways.  Michael had been the same, once.  When had he stopped?  Why had he stopped?

With numb fingers I reached for them.

"Meredith!" said Michael impatiently.  "You gonna give those over or not?"

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," I whispered.

All motion ceased.  Michael looked at me expressionlessly.  My father coughed into his hand and watched out the window.

My mother's voice filtered up the stairs.  "Roger?  Roger!  I need you to come talk to Brandon for a minute."

In my father's absence, I couldn't decide if I felt more or less comfortable.  "I'm sorry I...  It was unnecessary.  We could've..."  I trailed off, lamely.  What did I have to say that could be of any comfort—dumb girl standing here with her arms full of books, their corners poking her tits; dumb blonde girl, to boot.  Brandon loves blonde hair, but I guess there's a certain stupidity you just can't get rid of.

Then Michael's face broke into a wan smile.  "Ah, it's okay.  Coulda been worse.  I mean, I'm not going to juvie or anything.  Got a pretty sweet deal.  And...  Who knows, maybe they'll find a way to fix me."

I looked at his face, so hale and hearty, a visage cracked by stress and pain and sweat; he was fighting for his humor, struggling for composure.  And, for the thousandth time, I wondered what he was thinking.

"You...  You gonna read these," I asked, holding out the books.

"If I remember to," he said.  "They didn't let us have anything at Altamont.  It's been a year and a half.  I've been so...  Distracted.  But sometimes I remember them.  And I wish I wasn't missing them so much."

I gave him the books: a boxed set, all four.  They fit neatly into the Nike bag.

"Meredith!" came my mother's voice.  "We need to talk about Brandon!  Please come down!"

Michael touched my hand.  "We're all messed up, kiddo.  All of us.  But maybe we can get better again.  We're beautiful, we shine like stars...  It's only the world that makes us bad."

I wondered how much cocaine was still coursing through his veins.  And I wondered when the next time would be that I would see the boy he had been, the protector and the joker, the older brother I had once so admired and loved, when I looked into his face.

I almost fell down the stairs because I couldn't see through the tears.

Good-bye, Michael.

Su.4

"Well, it's not like they can just tell us not to," Trevor said.  "That's the whole problem with having a baby—you can't just turn it off.  Sometimes you can't even just turn it on, either.  My parents struggled to have me for—"  He cut off at a knocking on the door.

It was Arie.  "Hi, sorry I'm late, what'd I miss?"

"Arie," I said, "this is Trevor Hughes, Jenny's boyfriend.  Trevor, Arie Chang, my girlfriend."

"Ohh," said Arie, shaking his hand.  "So you're the cause of this whole mess."

"Arie," I said.  "That's really not appropriate.  We're trying to—"

"Yep, that's me," Trevor said, grinning.  He looped an arm around Jenny's shoulders.  "Causing trouble one girlfriend at a time."

I wondered if he knew how dead-on accurate that statement had been.

"Soo," Arie said.  "What's going on?"

Jenny smiled faintly.  "Through that door," she said, pointing, "and down the hall, is the family room, where my parents and his parents are sitting.  Which we deliberately set up, I might add."  Her smile widened momentarily.  "In this room, in this body—"  She pointed down at herself.  "—is, potentially, their first grandchild."  She drew a breath, blew it out.  "And we—"  She gestured to herself and Trevor, and then widened the circle to encompass us all.  "—somehow have to tell them that."

"Get them drunk," Arie said promptly.

"That's what Michael said," I said.

"Don't get them drunk," Arie said promptly.  "Anything Michael Levine suggests is a bad idea."

"Even embarrassing people for purposes of blackmail?" Jenny asked, grinning.  She knows Arie's sense of humor.

"Yes, even embarrassing people for I'm sorry, what did you say?" Arie said.

"Look, your parents may bluster, but they can't force you to do anything," Trevor said, drawing the conversation back to the line it had been following before Arie's arrival.  "We're both eighteen.  Legally, we're adults, and we can make our own decisions.  They can give us advice—they can give us a lot of advice, and very loud advice too—but we don't have to take it."

"No," Jenny said, "but they can attach riders on the decision.  'If you don't do this, we'll disown you' or whatever."

"Do you think they'll actually do that," Trevor asked.

Jenny covered her face with her hands.  "I don't knooooow.  All I know is that we can't survive on our own if they kick us out."

"Hey," he said gently, drawing her hands from her face.  "Mine won't.  And I'm sure they'll be glad to take you in."  They stared into each other's eyes.

Arie and I grinned at each other.  Meredith and Brandon, she mouthed.  I nodded.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

"Well," Jenny said finally.  "I'd kind of like it if we didn't have to worry about that.  I think my children should know their grandparents."

"Look," Arie said suddenly.  "I think you're approaching this from the wrong angle.  You're acting like your parents are going to freak out and panic and, you know, kick you out.  Are they really going to do that?  I mean, I wouldn't know myself, but from what I've heard, most parents are thrilled at the idea of grandkids."

"It makes sense," Trevor added.  "A lot of scientists think that our only purpose here on earth is to reproduce.  And what better proof could you ask for, that you did your job correctly, than the sight of grandchildren?"

"So...  Maybe they won't panic?" Jenny said.  "Maybe they'll be excited?"

"Maybe," I said, smiling.

"Not likely," Jenny retorted.  "I'm eighteen.  I'm a little early to be having kids."

"Not two hundred years ago," Arie inserted off-hand.

"Uh, Arie," I said.  "It's kinda not two hundred years ago anymore."

"Well I'm just trying to provide an alternative viewpoint here..." she said.

"So..." Jenny said.  "Basically, either they'll get really excited and happy because they're going to be grandparents, or they'll flip out because I'm too young to become a mother."

"Yes," Arie said.  "And notice how neither option involves them kicking you out."

"She's got a point, sweetie," Trevor said.  "Your parents love you.  They want what's best for you.  Sure, maybe having a baby right this moment isn't quite the best, but kicking you out is a lot less best."

"So...  You think we...  Have a chance at this," Jenny said.

"Yeah, sweetie, I do," Trevor said.

"And sometimes..." Arie said.  Her hand chained with mine; I knew they could see it.  "Sometimes...  You just gotta do something you don't want to."

"Yeah," Jenny said, taking a deep breath.  "Yeah.  Yeah, you're right."

She stood up.

In the evolving commotion, as the two of them began to psych each other up, I turned to Arie.  "Thank you for coming.  I wasn't sure you'd be willing to."

She shrugged.  "Well, the sooner we get Jenny's dilemma solved, the sooner I get you back, right?"  She grinned.  "And besides, you're supposed to try and share your boyfriend's interests."

"Right," I said, giving her a feeble grin.  It was easy to fake off answers like that.

"And besides," she said, quieter now.  "What's important to you, is important to me."

I smiled.  Now that's more like it.

Trevor collided with us before we could quite start staring into each other's eyes.  "Whoa.  'Scuse me.  You guys are together, right?  Of course you are, Derek said so.  And I usually see you guys around.  But not this week.  Did, uh.  Excuse me for prying, I'm not trying to, you know, I'm not trying to bust into anything.  I'm just curious.  But, I mean...  I normally see you guys together, but this week it...  Wasn't like that.  Was something wrong?"

"Well..." Arie demurred.

"Because Jenny said something about, about our uh, our little situation causing trouble between Derek and his girlfriend, and I, well.  If that's true, I wanted to apologize."  He was some inches taller than me, but gangly, with glasses, and he fidgeted.  "This was a big mess, and I know Jenny feels bad about causing trouble, and I do too.  I mean, this wasn't your problem."

"Of course it was," Arie said.  She smiled.  "What else are friends for, if not sharing problems?"

A great relieved grin broke over Trevor's face.  "Yeah.  Yeah, that's right, I guess that's.  I guess that's what they're for.  And I guess that's why it's such a mess when it's your friends who are causing the trouble.  You can't...  I mean, they're screwing things up.  But at the same time, you can't just tell them to leave, and you, and you wouldn't if you could."

"Yeah," Arie said.  "Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

"Yeah."  Trevor smiled.  "So, uhm.  So, are we gonna be seeing you two in the same conundrum any time soon, or..."

Arie and I exchanged glances.

"Well, for one," Arie said, a sly smile on her face.  "I'm not stupid enough to go off birth control."

Trevor gave us a sheepish look.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I guess I deserved that."

Jenny hovered at his elbow.  "Are you ready?"

Trevor nodded.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I'm ready."  He extended his arm.  Jenny slotted hers through it.

She put a hand on her belly.  "Okay, kiddo.  Here we go.

"What would you want to name her," she asked Trevor suddenly.

"Uh..." said Trevor.  "What if it's a he?"

"Then I would like to name him David," Jenny said.

"Hmm," said Trevor.  "I've always been partial to Melindra myself."

"Melindra?" Jenny asked, allowing Trevor to propel her out.  "Is that even a real name?"

Arie grinned at me.  She extended her arm.  I put mine through it, and together we followed them, our hands intertwined.

("Mom?  Dad?  Mr. and Mrs. Hughes?  I, uh...  I have something to tell you...")

Epilogue

Coming to school on Monday was surreal in that, by some strange coincidence, everything happened the way it had the week before.  The same people got off at the sidewalk, the same teacher came out of the office, the same crowd assembled at Stetsen in prelude to the bell (me, Brandon, Christa, Arie).  For a moment I felt only the nightmare horror: had the entire previous week been some sort of savage, extended nightmare?  Was I going to go through the entire process again?  But then Derek arrived, and Jenny, which hadn't happened before; and Christa and Zach pressed face together in a way that certainly wasn't reminiscent of last week, and I sighed in sheer relief.  And as I walked to my first class, I saw naked people—naked people who weren't me.  What a relief it was.

Faith Bennett was never seen again at Mount Hill High.  It's unknown as to where she went.  Brandon and I were the only ones who were really concerned enough to look; we ruled out the idea of hiring any sort of official service, and Google searches yielded nothing.  Of course, Faith Bennett is a pretty common name; we got what was probably several per state, on pages ranging from personal to genealogy to erotic.  Who knows where she is now.  Derek seems strangely glad to be through with her.

Bernard Castagne hasn't been seen much outside of the computer labs recently, but Arie tells us that he's much easier to get along with; he doesn't snap at people and he doesn't pick fights anymore.  He hasn't approached Lenora Walters, that I'm aware of—and I probably would be; it'd be across the school like wildfire—but I suppose it takes a while to work up to such a thing.  I remain hopeful.  Even if he doesn't get his dream girl, at least he isn't breathing fire every second, and every day he manages that is another day closer to his dream.

Jenny and Trevor decided to have the baby, but they're not sure whether they're going to keep it.  Jenny absolutely refused to have it artificially done away with, though.  She's visibly bulging now, but quite beautiful; Trevor seems more smitten than ever.  He got her a ring, and they plan to be married in December, on the anniversary of their first date, after their first semester of college together; coincidentally, it will also be the day before Jenny's projected due date.  Trevor has gone back on The Male Pill; it doesn't seem to make him 'feel funny' anymore.  The manufacturers do claim they've changed the formula.

Brandon got me a ring too.  I don't wear it.  I feel like it would cause too much...  Commotion.  I mean, how often do you see a sixteen-year-old girl with that sort of diamond on her finger?  Instead, I wear it on a chain, where it doesn't fall out of my shirt, but it pokes me sometimes.  I don't mind; it reminds me it's there.  Brandon was upset that I wouldn't wear it—"If you'd given me a ring, I'd flaunt it"—and I wasn't able to explain to him what I feel, which is...  Okay, I wasn't able to admit what I feel to him.  It's somewhere between delirious happiness and unending uncertainty.  How many girls get proposed to at sixteen?  This is exactly the sort of fairy-tale everyone wants to live...  I can't believe it's happening to me.  I'm scared it'll end.  I'm scared of wearing the ring visibly because it might tempt fate and bring a car down on one or both of us.  I'm scared of wearing it because it might tempt fate and bring the relationship to an end.  Ridiculous, I know...  But a girl gets worried.

We're predicting that the next one who'll propose is Zach to Christa.  We're also predicting this won't happen for about five years.

As predicted, the Chambers' attempts to liberate themselves from their son was shot down easily.  Brandon was at our house for only a few hours that Sunday before his parents called back and demanded he return.  I don't know what sort of firestorm erupted there, over the fact that I'd called him my fiance, but I'm pretty sure that it was in response to that argument that he bought me a ring and officially proposed, even though he did that about six weeks later, the day before I left to attend a music camp for the summer.  Maybe that's part of why I don't want to wear it.  In any case, they left town again on the following Tuesday; when the lawsuit against the school district finally made it to court, it was thrown out when the prosecution failed to show up.  They have not cut off Brandon's monetary support, and apparently at least, everything's back to normal.  Brandon, however, is sure this is only the calm before the final storm, and he's looking into part-time jobs, cheap housing, and various ways to keep himself afloat once his parents cut him permanently loose.

Derek and Arie are back to normal...  Pretty much.  They don't have sex as much as they used to, but that's actually probably a good thing.  They're able to talk about their problems now; and if they can't, they come and get me, or Brandon, or sometimes Christa and Zach, of all people.  But I think they know what they have together now, and they aren't going to let it loose.  Now it's mostly Zach and Christa who are doing it three or four times a week; we're not entirely sure how and when they manage this, but they do.  Maybe they've found a hiding place nobody else knows about.

Jane signed up for The Program.  We're not entirely sure how Dr. Zelvetti got this to happen, but she did; Brandon credits it to the number of lunch-time visits Jane has made with her, and suggests that Dr. Zelvetti is either extremely persuasive, or highly contagious.  We're all just worried about what's going to happen.  Dr. Zelvetti probably did it by appealing to Jane's sense of freedom and exploration.  Despite her straitlaced moral attitude, Jane is highly independent and has a surprisingly deep sensual side, at least when it comes to things that don't endanger her virtue.  She also can't resist a challenge.  We hope Jane can make it, but we all know that The Program isn't something she's equipped to handle; and we're not sure Dr. Zelvetti is equipped to handle it either.

Michael is...  So far as I know...  Doing fine.  He's at an inpatient boarding-school program about an hour to the north.  Mom and Dad meet him for family therapy every two weeks (not with that crazy guy Arie's family has, in case you were wondering).  I don't go.  I already know what my faults are.  Mom says his counselors and therapy monitors figure he'll be ready to graduate and enter college next year, when all the rest of us do.

I try not to think about him.  Brandon lets me, but I can tell he disapproves.  Let him.  Michael scares me too much.

Things are good; things are bad.  Things are normal.  I don't think we can expect happy endings; neutral is about the best we can hope for.  Brandon's seen all the worst of me, and he loves me; but I have seen things of him that I'm not sure I can live with.  And I'm scared to bring it up, because I'm scared of losing him.  But I feel us drifting apart because of this thing I haven't been able to admit to myself; and I don't know what I'll do.

I'm scared.

Things are normal.

Eventually, one of us got called again—Jane.  We all saw it coming; once Jane agreed to do it, we knew Dr. Zelvetti wouldn't let her go.  But what happened the day Jane took off her clothes for the first time...  Well, that's a story for another day.