Waking up is all about memory.  We sleep, all of us; we have to disconnect from the world for six or eight or ten hours, and then come back and figure out what we've missed.  9/11 is a good example.  Wake up and your radio alarm is saying something about terrorists and the World Trade Center.  Huh?  At first I figured terrorists had landed in a helicopter or something.  But by the time I got to school, I had the whole story.  I think I liked mine better.

In any case, waking up is all about memory.  Because sometimes sleep can erase the things that have changed, or at least make you forget about them, or make them easier to bear.  This is what people are hoping for when they tell you to sleep on it.

But then I went downstairs and saw the business suits talking to Mrs. Shaw, and it all came screaming back to me.

Greetings.  I'm Brandon Chambers.  My parents are home.

My father was shoveling a batch of frozen waffles through the microwave.  My mother stood at the stove, tending or attempting to tend a pan of bacon, very gingerly since she was already decked out and coiffed in that turquoise suit and skirt that is so distinctly her.  And poor Mrs. Shaw stood in the middle of the chaos, trying to maintain some dignity as these strangers bustled about taking over her kitchen.

"He cooks for himself, mostly," Mrs. Shaw was saying, looking vaguely bleary-eyed.  "Most of the time I don't come in but 'til ten AM.  He knows to take care of himself.  He leaves me notes on the whiteboard—"  Indicating the board anchored to the refrigerator door.  "—if he needs anything."

"That is a five-thousand dollar refrigerator," my mother said, "and you just glued a whiteboard to it?"

"We started off using Post-It notes," I said, drawing all eyes with my dramatic entrance, "but we went through about a tree's worth of them within a year."

"Paper's cheap," my father said dismissively.

I didn't say anything.

"Who drives him to school," my father asked Mrs. Shaw.

"Why—he drives himself, sir."

"Really? is he old enough?" said my father to her.  "I thought you drove him."

"Who signed for you when you took your driver's test," my mother asked.

"Mr. Krenshaw, of course," I said.  "That's why you made him a legal guardian.  In case something should happen and he'd have to sign before you could get home."

"When we made him a co-guardian, we weren't expecting you to use him in that capacity," my dad said.

"He didn't mind," I said.  "Since he was supposed to drive out all the way here every morning and take me to school.  Bit of a hassle for him and Rob."  Mr. Krenshaw was quite pleased to be shut of me, I think.  "Here, Mom, let me take care of that."

My mother surrendered the pan of bacon with a grateful look.  "Now, be careful of the open flame," she said.  "Grease can get into it, make it flare up.  For that matter, the hot oil can pop up and splash all over you, so try not to jostle the pan too much."

"Yes, Mom, thank you," I gritted.

"When you take the bacon strips out, don't forget to shake off the extra oil," my mother said, "it's not too early to start worrying about cholesterol.  Maybe you should—"

"Mother!  I am trying to cook bacon here.  Something I have done about once a week, if not more frequently, for the past few years.  Would you please let me do it."

"How about you get the eggs started too, then," my father interrupted, presenting a mixing bowl and a new pan.  I did, and tried to ignore the unspoken but clearly heard, Since you're such a big hotshot.

Pan on the stovetop.  Burner on.  Oil into the pan.  Sit and wait.  We stood there, the three of us, waiting mawkishly for the oil to ready itself.

Suddenly my father interrupted with a slashing gesture.  "Forget it.  Shaw, take over.  Brandon, sit down."

Mrs. Shaw replaced me at the stove—was that a hint of sympathy I saw in her eyes?—and I sat at the kitchen table with my parents, feeling strangely like an eight-year-old who has just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, feeling angry to be made to feel like an eight-year-old.

My parents regarded me as some object they were being made to dissect for biology class—turning me this way and that, figuring out where to make the first incision.

"Brandon," said my father, "we asked you to be home 'immediately,' not eight PM."

"My apologies," I said, not meaning a word.  "Her parents invited me to dinner.  As a thank-you for driving her to and from school as much as I do."  That wasn't Meredith's original excuse, of course, but in light of the fact that I do drive her to and from school every day, it seemed more realistic.  "I knew you wanted me to get home, but they wouldn't take no for an answer."

My father's eyebrows bobbed.  "That's.  Ah.  Kind of them."

"Madeline seemed like a nice girl," my mother said.  "And it sounds like her family is much the same."

"Meredith," I corrected again.

"She's not exactly Jane, is she," said my mother.  They met Jane, once, when they were home for the summer for a few weeks.

"No, Mom, she's not.  Unless Jane changed a lot."  Like Jane would ever change in that particular way.  Remembering how much my parents had liked Jane: "They're kind of similar, though."

"How so," my father asked.

"Well, they're...  They're in a lot of the same classes," I said.  English Literature AP—my God, I'm a fan of English but even I'm not that crazy.  US History AP, French...  "And have been for a while, if I understand things correctly."  Evidently, Sajel, Christa, Meredith and Jane have all been casual friends for years because of all the advanced classes they shared.  "She's very smart, she's got a great GPA...  Her parents are very nice people...  She has an older brother..."

"That's basically how you described Jane," my father said.

"What's the difference," my mother asked.

That one made me think a bit.  What was the difference?  They are similar, all four of them are; they're all basically cut from the same cloth.  And I don't think it's a coincidence that all four of them are very good friends to me, one's my best friend, I've dated two of them, had sex with two of them...  Basically every significant female contact I've had in the past three years has been with the same sort of smart, forward-thinking, kind-hearted girl.  In a flash of insight, I realized that, once upon a time, probably not too long ago at all, Jane and Meredith had been almost identical.  They had been brought up in similar households, with similar values, having similar experiences—that curiously formal public face; the emphasis on education; the generous, forgiving side seen only by their few friends; their emphasis on self-reliance, on independence, leading to an almost scornful disregard of public convention, especially where beauty standards were concerned.  It had made them lonely: the golden girl at the top of the pyramid, ostracized by her impossible grades, ostracized because she refused to fit in.  But somewhere along the line, something had changed—some experience, some new understanding, some thought, had changed the direction of Meredith's life but not Jane's.  It had made Meredith more pliable, less headstrong, less concerned with total self-sufficiency.  It had made her fit to live with, where Jane...  Was not.

I wonder what the change had been.

My mother was speaking again, jolting me out of my ruminations.  "Does it have something to do with...  What we interrupted.  When we came in."

As I predicted.  They knew.  But their attitude seemed somewhat different than Mrs. Levine's.

"Brandon," my father said, "I'm not sure you should be seeing this girl anymore."

"What?!"

"Jane was a very nice girl," my father said.  Yes, they had approved of her; yes, they had.  "If the only difference between her and this...  Meredith...  Is that Meredith is willing to compromise her...  To make certain compromises...  With you...  I have to say, we do not approve."

I wanted to say something about how that wasn't the only difference, except for how, unfortunately, it basically was.  Which, to be honest, tells you that my parents were right about Jane being good for me.  I still love her—Meredith knows this and, in fact, is almost equally fond of her, though it's hard for either of us to approach her socially these days—and I think somebody will be very happy with her in the future.  But I had seen the other side.  Whatever change it was that Meredith had undergone, I had wanted Jane to go through it as well—as I had gone through it, I realized.  Jane is ready to make that step, but she hasn't; Meredith and I have.  We are in a different place now.  It is, really, the only reason Jane and I aren't seeing each other anymore.  But there it is.

"Being so...  Intimate...  With a girl you've just met—" my father said.

"Just met?" I said.  "Dad, we started dating in September."

"September," said my mother.  "You only told us last month."

"You never asked and I didn't care to tell you," I snapped.

"And why not," my father asked.  "What about your relationship with this girl made you so hesitant to tell us?"

Oh boy, that looks bad, doesn't it.  They're going to assume it was the sex, and to some extent, it was; I knew they wouldn't like the idea, and what do you know, I seem to have been right.  But that's not why I didn't tell them.  It was because, honestly, I didn't want them spoiling it for me; I didn't want to deal with the phone calls, the exhortations, the long e-mail diatribes—Dad does this thing where he requires me to reply to his e-mails on a sentence-by-sentence basis, practically, and there is no way to get out of it.  I knew they liked Jane, meaning that they would defend her to the bitter end; it would be impossible to convince them that Meredith was right for me, because their minds were set.  The simplest answer would be to not tell them, wait for them to come home, and then bring Meredith over and let them see us together, which no one would be able to argue with.  Just about everyone in school thinks we're made for each other, which is at once reassuring and somewhat alarming.  If anything would convince my parents that Meredith was right for me, it would be seeing the two of us together.

But then they came home unannounced, with no prior warning; and, of course, they were at the wrong place at the wrong time.

There was nothing I could say—as far as my parents were concerned, this all led to the bedroom.  Or rather, in Meredith's and my case, the couch.  I was having sex, they knew it, and they didn't like it.  The only difference between Meredith and Jane, so far as they knew or cared, was that Meredith put out and Jane didn't (they'd found that out themselves, the one time they met), and for that reason they disapproved of Meredith.  And there was no way to change their minds; the decision had been made and I would simply have to suffer the consequences.  It didn't matter that I was in love; it didn't matter that Meredith and I wanted to live our lives together; it didn't matter that I was happy with Meredith in a way I never was and probably never could be with Jane.  Nope.  Jane was The Girl For Me (TM).  End of story.  Period.  End data entry, close program.

By the way, I don't like my parents.

Mrs. Shaw saved me from having to blurt all this out by bustling in with waffles, bacon, eggs on large serving plates.  Then she set out a number of smaller ones for us to eat from.  Then she withdrew discreetly from the room.  I glanced at her retreating form and decided that she would get a raise in pay.

My father helped himself to some eggs.  "This is what I think you should do," he told me.  "Go to Meredith at school today and tell her you've had a change of heart.  You were never entirely comfortable with the relationship as it is, and you think things should end between you."

Right, I thought humorlessly.  Monday: Meredith, will you marry me?  Tuesday: Meredith, I 'was never entirely comfortable with the relationship.'  Like that's gonna work.

"Then you can find Jane," said my father.  "I'm not sure what was said between you and her, but I'm sure things are salvageable.  If not, we can talk to her parents.  How does that sound to you?"

I didn't say anything, and he nodded to himself and applied knife and fork to his eggs.

"Dad, do you know how old I am?" I asked.

My father stopped for a moment, thinking—he had to stop and remember how old I was!  "Fifteen, if I'm not mistaken."

"No, I thought he was seventeen," my mother said.

"What year was he born in," my father asked her.

"Wasn't it nineteen—"

"I'm sixteen," I interrupted.  "I'm a junior in high school.  And I am an adult.  I've been living alone in this house since I was ten."

"Nonsense," said my father, "you've had Greta Shaw around.  Don't over-dramatize things, Brandon."

"I've been living without parents in this house since I was ten," I said.  No one disputed that.  "I think I'm old enough to make my own decisions by now."

"Brandon, you're only sixteen," said my mother.  "I don't think that's quite the same as being legally an adult."

"Well you better hope it is," I retorted, "because I've been making my own decisions since eighth grade."

Once again, there was no response.

"I see Meredith because I like her.  I like her because she's smart, funny, pleasant to be with...  Kind, generous...  I admire her strength, I think she's very attractive...  And yes, she, as you put it, 'makes certain compromises.'  That happens to be important to me.  To both of us.  We enjoy sex."  (They flinched when I said that word.)  "But that's not the only reason we see each other.  If all I wanted was sex, there are plenty of other people I could have gone out with.  I don't go with them.  I go with Meredith.  Because besides sex, we also have all that other stuff."

"How do you know," my father asked.

"What do you mean?"

"How do you know you have all of that other stuff," my father asked.  "Brandon, boys your age...  Sometimes get befuddled, when a girl offers them...  What Meredith offers you."

"It's easy to confuse...  Sex... with...  Other things," my mother said, blanching when she had to say the S-word.

I saw where this was going.  "And you think the signals from my head are being overridden by the signals from my other head," I said.  "The one without the brain.  My dick, in other words."

God, how they jumped when I said that word.

"Yes," said my father, managing to find his composure first.  "Yes, Brandon, we do."

"Well, Dad," I said grandly.  "You'll be pleased to know that my dick likes Meredith.  And my heart does as well.  And my brain does too.  All the things I make decisions with are fully in favor of Meredith Levine.  We have a grand agreement, between all three branches of the government.  What is it, executive, legislative and judicial?"

"Brandon," my father thundered.

"Brandon," my mother said in a patronizing tone.  "Are you sure you...  Are you sure the, ah.  The three branches of your government, as you put it.  Do you trust them?  Are you sure your heart and your brain and your...  Other... thing...  Are trustworthy?"

"Well, it's not like I have anyone else's to use," I said.

"Well..." said my mother, clearly taken aback.  "You have ours."

"What," I said caustically, "I have your dick?"

"Brandon!" my father said.  "We are your parents, and in that capacity I think we deserve a little respect."

"Well, I am your son," I shot back, "and in that capacity I think I deserve a little respect as well."

My parents clearly had no idea what to say about this.

"Look.  I have only my own heart and my own brain and my own whatever to use," I said.  "I have thought this over a great deal.  Meredith means a lot to me."  That was the unbridled truth.  You don't exactly contemplate marrying somebody without first ascertaining if you really feel for them what you think you do.  At least, I don't.  "Maybe all my government branches are telling me faulty things, but I still have one thing you don't.  I'm Meredith's boyfriend, and she is my girlfriend.  I'm in the relationship, and you're not."  I sighed.  Thinking about her—the love of my life, my very own angel—thinking about her had blunted my anger, and now I was just tired.  "My initial plan was to introduce her to you when you came back for the summer.  At that point we'd have been dating for eight months, which is a pretty long time, and you'd get to see us under more normal circumstances, you'd get to see what our friends at school see.  None of them think we're only in this for the sex, and I'm pretty sure you would have seen that as well.  It's too late now.

"My point is, you haven't seen anything yet.  You don't know what goes on between us."

"We know one thing that goes on between you," my father thundered.

"Yes, but that's not all we do," I said, grasping for patience.  "Wait until you see it all.  Wait to pass judgment.  That's all I've got to say."

They gave me impassive looks and I was pretty sure they didn't intend to listen at all.

"And now," standing up, "if you'll excuse me.  I drive Meredith to school every day to save her mother an extra commute.  I'll see you guys when I get back."

Mrs. Shaw had either been eavesdropping or she had exquisite timing, because she was in the pantry, right out of sight of the kitchen, when I passed through it.  "You handled that well, sir," she said.

I squeezed my eyes closed.  "Christ.  Christ."

"Don't let them get to you," she said.  "Sure, they here now, but in a few days they gone again.  Leave you peace and quiet.  Don't let them get to you."

"I try," I said.  "I try."

A few minutes later, I was in the car, the wheels singing under me, taking me to Meredith.  Taking me home.  After all, home is where your heart is, right?

It's certainly got nothing to do with parents.

T.2

Waking up is all about memory.  Because sometimes sleep can erase the things that have changed, or at least make you forget about them, or make them easier to bear.  This is what people are hoping for when they tell you to sleep on it.  But then you stop halfway down the stairs, frozen by the sound of your brother's voice, and it all comes screaming back to you.

Hello.  My name is Meredith Levine.  My brother is home.

The doorbell rang right in the middle of breakfast, which was odd—it was probably Brandon, but why was he here half an hour early?  All in all, though, I wasn't complaining.  I think there were some mumbled words, something about How are you this morning and It's nice to see you and Did you sleep well last night, but mostly we just clung to each other and didn't let go.  We were both wound so tightly it wasn't even funny.  And school wasn't even starting for an hour.

It's going to be a long day.

We pulled apart hurriedly when we heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and a good thing we did—it was Michael, looking just as greasy as always.  "Heeey, Bronson," he said, swinging out for a handshake.  "Didn't know we'd see you again so soon."

"It's Brandon," Brandon said with just the slighest hint of annoyance.

"Brandon, Brandon, sorry," Michael said, with his characteristic saucy grin.  "What brings you 'round here so early?"

"He's my ride to school," I said.

"Oh!  Saves on gas and all that, eh?" said Michael.  "Say, I gotta ask you—I'm swinging in that direction too, think you could give me a ride?"

Brandon's eyes flickered and he gave me a questioning glance.  I shrugged helplessly.  "Why are you going to school," I asked Michael.  "I thought you graduated already."

"Well," said Michael, rolling his eyes, still grinning.  "Psh.  Laws.  You know how it is."  That whole 'must be in school if under eighteen' thing, I suppose.  "Plus, Mom says it'd be a great chance to meet some old friends, catch up on some old acquaintences, that sort of thing.  She's got a point."

I felt a vague sense of relief that, apparently, Mom wanted him out of the house just as much as I did.

Brandon was still looking at me for his cue, so I gave him a little nod.  "Sure," he said, as if it was the happiest thing in all the world.  "There's plenty of room in the car.  We can take you."  A glance at me, a wry smile.  "Just, hope it doesn't bother you if we go all happy-couple and all that."

"Hey," Michael said, his hands up, "just so long as hands stay out from under clothes, it's cool with me," and despite the screaming of my danger sense, I had to smile at his charming informality.

After he wandered off, Brandon said quietly, "A thing just occurred to me.  Do your parents know you're in The Program?"

My stomach dropped to my feet, probably taking most of the blood from my face with it.  "Holy shit!" I said.  (Brandon blinked.  He says I have the face of an angel and it's very alarming to hear me swear out of it.  I think he needs glasses.)

"Well, with all the excitement recently, it's understandable that you'd forget," Brandon said.

"No, not that," I said.  "We just offered to give him a ride.  I have to strip off!"  Panic bubbled.  "I don't want him standing there when I strip off!"

"Meredith," Brandon said.

I felt on the verge of hysteria.  Or vomiting.  Maybe hysterical vomiting.  I hadn't gotten much sleep last night and I was already somewhere near the end of my rope.  The idea of my brother Michael standing nearby while I took off my clothes, his eyes roaming my body, that liar's mouth of his tossing out backhanded compliments...  "I don't want him there when I strip off!!"

"Meredith," Brandon said, grabbing hold of my shoulders.  "Start with one at a time.  Have you told your parents?"

His voice, his hands, brought me back to reality.  I swallowed, feeling sweat on my brow.  "No," I said.  "I told you that, Brandon, I thought you had a good memory."

"So, tell them," Brandon said.  "Or at least your mom.  You've got an ally in her right there.  Whatever is decided about Michael, she can help you."

He was right.  He was absolutely right.  Two birds with one stone, elegant simplicity.  I gave him a kiss.  "You're my savior, you know that?"

His arms circled around my waist, a smile lighting his eyes.  "And you're the light of my life, so I guess we're equal."

The solution was as simple as Brandon had prophesied.  I explained the situation to my mom in a few quick sentences—she didn't know I had even signed up for The Program, but she didn't comment on it at all.  (She'd heard the stories about Stasya, about Zach and Christa, even about Arie, so I bet she saw it coming.)  Instead she grabbed her purse and her shoes and said, "Michael, come on, we'd better go to school a little early so that Dr. Zelvetti can find what classes your friends are in."  And before he had even a chance to respond, he was being swept out the door.

And just like that, Brandon and I were standing in the middle of the empty house, totally free of Michael.

"Brandon, you're a genius!" I cried, twirling around on one foot.  It felt like a huge weight had suddenly lifted from my shoulders, and suddenly I was lighter than air, bobbing like a balloon on a string.  "You are the smartest, most brilliant, most...  Intelligent..."

There was a strange, intense light in his eyes, and I suddenly noticed how closely he'd been watching me bounce around the room.  The chasm opened wide.  I stepped closer to him, feeling a tingling in my body as his proximity increased.

"And you," he breathed, "are the most beautiful woman the world has ever seen."

Blood pounded in my ears, and I could feel a throbbing in a very special place; a throbbing, and the beginnings of moisture.  It hadn't even been twenty-four hours!  And yet here I was, ready to go all over again.  Ready to come all over again.  Ready to come.  All over.

Without really understanding how I got there, we were entwined, my arms around his neck, his around my waist, his lips bent to mine as we kissed.  He responded hungrily, drawing me to him, and I felt my own passions rising to meet his.  His dick was a solid lump in his pants; I knew my own panties were going to be soaked within a few—

"No," I said, pulling away—forcing myself to pull away; it was one of the hardest things I've ever done.  My arms fell to my sides.  This just wasn't the time.  God only knows how much we both wanted it, but this just wasn't the time.  "No.  I'm sorry, Brandon, it's..."

"I know," he said, "I guess we're really..." and I knew the flood-tide of our ardor had also caught him by surprise.

"No, it's not...  We have to...  School's in..."  The vague image of myself undressing at the front of school, Brandon's cum dripping from my pussy, flashed through my head, the final nail in the coffin.  Logically, I knew what we had to do.

Logic and emotion are very different things.

"I'm sorry," I said again, not wanting to meet his eyes.

"Meredith," he said.  His finger lifted my chin until I had no choice but to look at him.  "It's okay.  Learning to live with someone is about compromise.  If you don't want, we don't do.  That doesn't change the fact that I love you."

I felt a different kind of welling up inside me.  "I love you too, you impossible man."

As we smiled at each other, a new thought crossed my head, one I liked.  One I really liked.  I reached for the closure of his jeans.

"Uh, Meredith," Brandon said.  "I thought we had just agreed that..."

"Now, Brandon," I said, in the sort of tone I remember my mother using to scold me when I was younger.  Scold us when we were younger.  "You've been a very good boy today, and you ought to receive your reward."

"Oh really," Brandon said dryly.

"Yes," I said, beaming.  "So hold still and let me reward you."

It was warm and hard, extended now to its full length, springing free of the elastic band of his shorts as if eager to see me.  Despite its engorged state, the skin was remarkably soft, spongy to the touch, and the shaft curved a little bit, so that the head with its little hole in the bottom pointed straight at my face as I knelt before him.  A relatively innocuous organ, yet fraught with so much meaning and connotation.  Brandon's cock.

I have to admit: I'm really, really fond of this thing.

Brandon moaned as I took him into my mouth, closing over the spongy mushroom head, tasting the saltiness of accumulated sweat, the reddish, vaguely sweet taste that was his skin; and all the while the warmth, the magnitude of this thing in my mouth, so resilient yet so sensitive, delicate and yet thudding with an undeniable presence.  It was a perpetual mystery, and I loved it.

"Uh, Meredith, you know," Brandon said, as I crept down his length, my tongue feeling the way.  "If your mom should happen to come in right now...  Or your father..."

What a sight it'd be.  Suddenly I saw us as my parents would—me right there, kneeling right by the front door, Brandon's dick in my mouth and a rapturous expression on my face.  It would, I conceded, look rather bad.  "So, what, are you saying you want me to stop?"

"Uhm," said Brandon, grinning sheepishly.  He had, at least, the grace to look guilty.  "No, not especially."

"Good," I said primly.  "Because there's nobody here now except the cat, and she probably doesn't care.  And I don't want to stop either."  And took him into my mouth again.

Yeah, it would look bad—me kneeling here in full view of everybody.  But at the same time, I almost wanted someone to come walking in, to find us, to find me.  See here!  This is Brandon Chambers!  I love him, he's my husband, and I'll show it to anyone who wants to know!  See!  See!

And as he panted, I swallowed, and said, "Mmm.  Protein."  I'd only swallowed a few times before.  Heck, I'd only ever gone down on him a few times before.  It was slightly icky going down, but I could feel him coating my tongue, my mouth, the back of my throat, and it made me feel surprisingly, incredibly sexy.  Anyone who wanted proof of my love for him, after all, would only have to look in my mouth.  There's some dignity in that.

"My God," Brandon said, pulling me to my feet.  "Come here."

I shied away when I felt his lips at mine.  "Brandon!  Stop that!  I haven't even rinsed yet!"

"So?" he said.  "Meredith, if you can swallow my cum like that, I don't care what your mouth tastes like, I am giving you the kiss of your life."  And he did—tongue and everything—and I must admit, I would not have wanted to delay a kiss like that for even a second.

Brandon smacked his lips, tasting, and said, "Hmm.  Not bad.  But next time I'd better go easy on the oregano."

"Oh, you," I laughed, slapping at his arm.

He moved closer, that old familiar fire in his eyes.  "I don't know about you, but I'm totally ready for the next course."

I was tempted—I was so tempted—he's very good at the reciprocal act.  But a glance at my watch only comfirmed my deepest suspicions.  "School starts in half an hour, Brandon, we don't have time."

Brandon looked crestfallen.  "So you've done me but I have to leave you in the lurch.  Now I feel bad.  I was looking forward to it too."

"You were looking forward to it," I retorted.  "I need to change my panties.  They're soaked through!"  Not to mention that going-down-on is one of Brandon's great and unacknowledged skills.  "But you can give me relief in class."

"Fifth period?" he asked, following me up the stairs.  Psychology is the first class we have together all day.

"Well," I said.  "Maybe you'll have to work a little harder."

"I'm sure the class will be pleased," he said dryly, leaning in the doorway of my room.  Despite the fact that I had just seen his cock—despite the fact that I had seen him naked and sweating and in full-blown sexual frenzy—despite the fact that we were going to be married, and would see more of each other than anyone ever would see—despite all that...  I still felt a bit uncomfortable stripping off my pants and panties in front of him.  Maybe because he was just standing there watching.  "They'll have plenty of study time.  It generally takes like half an hour to get you off."  He stopped, thinking.  "You know, I just realized, you came really quickly yesterday."

"You're right," I said.  "I hadn't even thought about it until now."  Not only had I come despite a lack of foreplay, but I had come during actual intercourse, which is highly unusual for me.  "I guess...  We were just really into it."  I couldn't explain it any other way.  Sometimes, on rare occasions, I'll go quickly; generally it's when I'm in that sort of sexual dream-state, like I was yesterday; like I was on our first date.  It's like rose-colored glasses, except with sex.  Normally Brandon has to spend quite a while going down on me.  Even I lose patience eventually.  Sometimes I tell him not to bother making me cum, and to just go for it once I'm wet enough to take him on; sometimes he even listens.  And, I have to say, having him come inside me when I'm not striving towards orgasm actually has its merits; I get to pay a lot of attention to his orgasm, what it feels like to have him inside me, expanding and expelling and exploding...  And I like that.  Feeling him go is incredible, not to mention an incredible power trip—Wow, did I make him do that??  But the point is, he only gets me to orgasm about half the time, and the number of times we've managed it during actual intercourse I can count on two hands.  Yesterday was the third.

"Here, look at this," I said, handing him my panties.  The wet spot was significant; there was no way I could have taken those off in public while maintaining some form of dignity.  "This is ridiculous."

"Hmm," said Brandon, sounding pleased.  "I'm keeping these."

"What!" I yelped.  Brandon already had them half tucked them into his pocket.  "Brandon, give those back!"

"Why?" he said, grinning.  "You don't have any use for 'em.  But now, any time I want, I can just dip my hand in my pocket and remind myself that I can get you hot and bothered."

"And get a hard-on," I retorted.

He gave me a truly ghastly grin.  "Hey, some women would pay millions of dollars to be able to give guys instant cock-stands."  Scarily enough, I think he had a point.

He kept the panties.

In the car, properly clad—for the ten or so minutes I'd continue to wear clothes—and with a bit more dignity, the events of the last few minutes rushed back over me and I suddenly felt bad.  "Brandon, I...  I hope I didn't alarm you or anything."

He blinked at me.  "What?"

"I mean...  At home.  I mean, right there at the front door.  I was so...  Forward."  I sighed.  "I feel like a slut."

"Oh God, not this again," Brandon said.  "Meredith, I told you yesterday, and I just defended you to my parents today—  I don't think you're a slut.  I think you're a perfectly normal, perfectly desirable woman, who happens to be sexually liberated. 
I, personally, like that about you."  He grimaced.  "Which makes me odd.  My parents want me to go back to Jane."

"Are you serious," I asked.  "Are they serious?"

"All they saw was...  All they can see was you and me, fucking," Brandon said.

"Brandon..." I said, wondering how to approach this subject.  "What we did yesterday...  I don't think you could exactly call it fucking."

"Yeah, I know," Brandon said.  "We were making love."  Ah, now there we go.  "But that's the thing, my parents don't see that.  And I couldn't exactly bring it up, you should've seen them dancing around the normal words for it, much less actual styles of...  But, anyway.  They don't see 'making love.'  They just see...  Sex.  Sex equals fucking.  Brandon sex, therefore Brandon fucking, therefore Meredith get out of the picture.  And without even bothering to...  It's fucked up."

"Yeah, uhm, no kidding," I said, a little perturbed by his liberal use of four-letter words.

He sighed.  "But anyway.  No, Meredith, I don't think you're a slut, and no, it doesn't bother me if, sometimes, you're forward like that.  Honestly, it's kind of flattering."  A smile.  "I like the idea that somebody finds me so attractive they'd like to tear my clothes off right then and there."

"Do you want me to do that again," I asked anxiously.  "I mean, if you like it, I..."

Brandon gave me a level look.  "Meredith, I want you to do whatever you damn well please.  I love you, I support you, I'm behind you, whatever you wanna do, I'm for it.  If you like it, if it makes you feel good...  Go for it.  You don't need to be anybody but yourself for me to love you."

I smiled, blushed.  "Yeah, you just keep saying that, loverboy, and we'll get along juuust fiiine."

Brandon smiled.

The wheels hummed beneath us—taking us away, yes; but taking us together.

T.3

It was almost like a circus.  The crowd at the front of the school was considerable; everybody must have had the same idea I did, which was to come like half an hour early, disrobe in peace, and get lost.  For instance, Meredith was there too, and with an audience to boot: Brandon, Stasya, Christa and Zach, packed into the ring around Meredith and the box, yelling suggestions and encouragements.  For my part, Sajel was there, but aside from her, I knew almost nobody else in the crowd.

Almost.

"See, this is why I could never do The Program," Jenny said, reclining against the pole to which the box was strapped.  "I'd have to stand here and let my own brother see my private parts."

"And this is any different for me," I retorted.

"You have less private parts than I do," Jenny said mildly.  "Smaller surface area, you have only one of them...  Mine are larger—"

"Yes, thank you, Jenny, that's quite enough," I gritted, climbing out of my trousers.

"Hey, just explaining why I'm glad I didn't sign up," Jenny said in that same serene tone.

The charivari eventually ended, and the entire mob of us headed towards Stetsen, in two or three orbiting conversations.  Meredith and Stasya chatted about the things they normally chat about (those two being best friends and all) with Zach and Brandon on the periphery; Christa and Sajel, for their part, came to talk to Jenny and I.  They all knew her (except maybe Stasya), at least casually, and when they accepted her, she responded in kind.  It made me smile to see all of my best friends talking together.

Except Arie.  Honestly I don't know what she counts as right now.

"So," Zach said loudly, catching all of our attentions.  "It is sort of a tradition, in certain Program situations, for partners to fall in love with each other.  Christa and I did it; and last week Gavin and his lady Erica did it.  What's the scenario this week?  How do you guys stand?"

Brandon and Meredith and I exchanged looks.  "Err, well...  Zach," I said.  "If it's tradition for partners to fall in love, Meredith and I are sort of out of luck, since we aren't partners with each other."

"Totally ignoring the fact that we've both already got someone," Meredith said.

"Yeah, but still," Zach said, grinning, leading us, walking backwards.  "What do you think?  Could you and Derek go for each other?"

Meredith and I looked at each other, identical startled expressions on our faces.

Then we said, "Eeew!"

"That'd be disgusting," Meredith said.

"That'd be like dating my sister!" I exclaimed.

All eyes looked in surprise to Jenny.  Jenny held up her hands and said, "Sorry, nothing doing."

"So dating each other would be like dating siblings, eh," Zach said.  He held his chin and looked up, as if thinking hard.  "Hmmmmmm.  Derek?  Meredith?  Is there something you guys need to tell us?"

Meredith laughed.  "Zach, it doesn't have to be a big production or anything.  Arie and Brandon became very close friends.  Why not me and Derek?"

"We talk on the Internet a lot," I said.

"Really?" Brandon said, looking over at us.  "I hadn't known."

Meredith's eyes flickered, and I could see she was a bit startled herself.  "Does it surprise you?" she asked him.

He thought about it for a moment, frowning.  "No, not really.  I mean, I knew you guys were close.  I just didn't realize, that close."

"Mostly about our significant others," I added.

From the looks everyone gave me, I'd jumped a connection and left them all behind.  "Online," Meredith explained.  "When we talk online, it's mostly about you and Arie.  He asks me for advice on how to deal with her, I ask him for advice on how to deal with you...  It all works out."

"I thought you asked me for advice," Stasya said in her weird accent.  I understand she's the first child of Russian immigrants born on American soil, but I don't know what a Russian accent is supposed to sound like, so, search me.

"I do," Meredith said.  "I ask both of you.  You both provide different things.  I mean, you're useful for when I need to flesh out an idea, but if I wanna apply it...  Well, Derek's a guy, he has certain...  Accoutrements.  That alter his point of view."

"What do you ask about," Brandon said.

Faint color rose to Meredith's cheeks.  "Well," she said.  "When I was planning our six-month anniversary last month.  I ran certain ideas through him."

Brandon's eyebrows climbed into his hairline, his traditional expression of surprise.  "And he said?"

I grinned.  " 'Go for it, what man wouldn't like that?' "

"What, what, what did she do," Zach asked.

"Oh-hh, you mean, that—" Stasya said, her eyebrows likewise just short of her red-brown hair.

"Yep," Meredith said.  I couldn't decide if she was blushing or grinning harder.

"Did it work," Stasya shrieked.

"He loved it," Meredith said in tones of greatest satisfaction.

"What, what, what'd she do!" Zach whined, totally frustrated.  Brandon smiled in an extremely satisfied manner, and Zach made a frustrated screech at his Cheshire-Cat composure.  Christa rolled her eyes; Sajel watched and grinned.

Jenny leaned over to me and said, "...Is this normal?"  The bob of her eyebrows, the cast of her vision, showed she was asking about the chaos at large.

"Oh," I said.  "You ain't seen nothin' yet."

At the Stetsen site, at a gap in the conversation, Brandon leaned over with questions in undertone.  "So that was all your idea, huh?"

"Oh nooo," I said, "purely hers.  I was just learned counsel and, uh.  Eye-witness reports."

"Does this have something to do with how Arie—"

"Actually, no, the other way around," I said.  Arie had gone randomly naked one day last week, which was the only reason anybody knew about any of it.  "Arie tried it first, a couple of months ago actually, and then passed on the idea to Meredith.  She asked me because obviously I have a bit more experience with—"

"My eyes," Brandon gritted, "almost fell out.  Of my head."

I grinned.  "I think he liked it."

In answer, Brandon made a truly astonishing noise, an almost feral growl.

"It must have been a night to remember, then," I said, leering.

"Yeah, more or—"

"Hey, Derek," Jenny said, tapping me on the shoulder.  "Isn't that Arie?"

Of course it was Arie; Jenny knew what she looked like.  But I had never seen Arie look so timid before.  Maybe the crowd was making her nervous.  Or maybe Jenny's presence.  Jenny recognizes Arie, but I'm not sure if it goes the other way.

Arie seemed to make a decision, and came up the steps towards Brandon and I.  Meredith, seeing, excused herself from Stasya and joined us.  At almost the same time, we were reunited with our girlfriends.

The only difference being that Meredith slipped under Brandon's arm as if they had been made to fit together, whereas I wasn't entirely sure Arie would like it if I touched her.

"Hello, Arie," Meredith said, "did you have a nice night?"

"No," Arie said flatly.  "Trina was a bitch."

"How so," Brandon asked.

"You remember how I was deep in the Hole last Tuesday," Arie said.  Brandon nodded.  Meredith, who had not heard about it, looked confused, though obviously she was able to pick it up from context; I myself had only been informed yesterday, over the phone.  Suddenly Meredith's and my particular in-depth discussions of our relationships did not seem so outrageous.

"Well," Arie said.  "Trina heard me in the bathroom and in therapy yesterday she told everyone I was purging."

Brandon's face twitched.  Meredith, still not quite up to speed, said, "Wait, I don't understand..."

"On Tuesday Arie was—a week ago Tuesday, a week ago today," Brandon qualified.  "On Tuesday Arie was in particular bad shape, she cut, it hurt so bad she felt like throwing up.  I was online with her and she just said, 'excuse me' and was gone for three minutes.  She said she didn't actually puke, but evidently Trina heard the sounds and misinterpreted it as Arie being bulimic."

"Okay, and..." said Meredith; clearly, her understanding of the Chang family's mechanics were insufficient for the current situation.  And, having met Meredith's parents, I think that's perfectly understandable.  I mean, they're like two different worlds.

"I can't talk about cutting to my family," Arie said glumly.  "They overreact and spazz out.  So I couldn't tell them what was really going on."

"And now your mom's being really overprotective and trying to stuff you with food," Meredith inferred.  She doesn't know Mrs. Chang, but she knows people.

"Yeah," Arie said.

"That sucks," Meredith said.

"We're not sure if Trina did it on purpose or not," I said.  Meredith's eyebrows rose precipitously.  (I wondered if Brandon would start blushing.)

"Who's that," Arie said, child-voice in place.  She pointed at Jenny.

Jenny saw.  She came over to us, all eyes tracking her.  "I'm Jennifer Strong, or Jenny for short.  I'm Derek's sister."

"Oh, she's the one who's gonna make you an uncle," Arie said.

The following silence was very loud.

Jenny's face turned with an expression I couldn't fathom; without saying a word she turned around and walked back to Christa and Stasya.

"Wait," Arie said, "did you want that kept a secret?"

Brandon and Meredith and I each grabbed an arm and hauled Arie off to one side.  "Arie, do you ever listen to yourself at all?"

"That was incredibly inconsiderate of you," Meredith said.

"You've been online, you know how to keep secrets," Brandon said.

"Wait, what, what'd I say," Arie protested, looking at each of us in turn.

My shoulders slumped and I sighed deeply.

"Arie," Meredith said.  "What did Trina do to you yesterday?"

"She told something about me I wish she hadn't," Arie said.

"And what did you just do to Jenny," Brandon asked sternly.

Arie opened her mouth to answer—stopped—thinking—eyes open wide—  "Oh shit," she said.

"When people entrust you with secrets, it's because they expect you can keep your mouth closed," Meredith said.  Her voice seemed to roll with thunder, despite the low undertone speaking.

"Just because someone tells you something doesn't mean you can then tell other people," Brandon said.

"You just did to Jenny what Trina did to you," Meredith said.

"Imagine how she feels," Brandon said.  "Or rather, don't bother.  You know how she feels."

I gave them both a second look.  They stood together, not quite shoulder-to-shoulder—Meredith stood before him and overlapping him just a bit—but clearly united, presenting the sort of coordinated argument you normally hear from parents.

"Oh my God," Arie whispered.  And then, in a louder voice, pitched towards Jenny: "I'm sorry!  I'm sorry, Jenny.  I...  I wasn't thinking."

Jenny blinked at her a few times.  "It's...  It's okay," she said.  "I was going to have to tell anyway, tell somebody, eventually...  And, I guess, there are worse people who could've found out..."

"Totally," Sajel deadpanned.  "We're all a bunch of sluts and perverts anyway.  Pregnancy's totally normal for us."

"Congratulations are in order, to both of you!" Christa said, beaming.

"Who's the father," Zach asked.  "Actually, even more important, who's the mother?

"Though..." said Sajel.  "I could just be mistaken, but that tone of voice isn't exactly what I'd call excited."

"She's got a point," Christa said.

"Wow, that's weird," Zach said.

"It's an age of free birth control, after all," Sajel said.

"What's the failure rate, like, one in ten thousand..."  Stasya said.

"How exactly did it happen?" Christa asked.

Jenny, at first, had looked almost alarmed by the continuous barrage of questions; now she was laughing.  "You know, I just had this conversation with Derek..."

We turned back to Arie, who was looking very small.  "I...  I'm sorry," she said.  "I was a stupid idiot."

"Of course not," Meredith said.  "You just made a simple mistake."

"And apologies are all well and good," Brandon said, "but what's important is that you learn from it, so that you don't make it again."

"Which you did," Meredith said.

"We're proud of you," Brandon said.

Arie giggled.  "Heehee.  You guys are, like, parents or something."

Brandon and Meredith exchanged strange, knowing glances, like a reminder of a secret between them.  (What, Meredith too?  God forbid.)

"Well, we cahn't let her off thaht eashy," Brandon said, in a weird sort of chubby, faux-adult voice that reminded me instantly of the Sean Connery impressions on Saturday Night Live's 'Celebrity Jeopardy' skits.  "No deshert for you, young ladeh."

"And straight to bed right this instant!" Meredith said, pointing like a matron, grinning like an idiot.

"Yes mommy," said Arie in a small voice, and we laughed.

Brandon and Meredith returned to the main group, probably to talk with Jenny, but Arie remained behind, and I with her.  "They were wrong, though," Arie said.  "I was a stupid idiot."

Actually, I realized, they had never disagreed with her.  But they'd never punished her for it either, aside from taking her dessert away and all that.  "Maybe it's okay to be that, once in a while," I said, putting my arms around her.

We watched the main group for a little while.  Jenny was unquestionably the center of attention, and with the shifting cocoon of friends around her, she seemed to be coming more and more to life.  She smiled and laughed, answering questions, but feeling more and more comfortable.

"Not as stupid as you, though," Arie said.

I blinked.  "What?"

She turned her head to face me.  "Last night."

I tossed my hands, exasperated.  "Arie, what on earth did I do last night that could possibly be called 'stupid'?"

She pouted.  "Who hangs up on their girlfriend to help their sister clean up after her own mistakes?"

"Normal people, maybe," I said—realizing, a little too late, that it might not be the right thing to say.

"Oh," Arie said, her voice frigid.  "So I'm not normal, am I?"

I teetered at a crossroads.  Stand up for myself and antagonize her even more?  Or back down and let her drive a wedge through my family?

Ah-hah: option three.  Humor.  "Arie," I said, grinning, "you always tell me you like being abnormal.  Makes you, ah, 'Unique and distinctive,' I think, is how you normally put it."

Arie was not going to be had that easily.  "If I'm so not-normal, why are you dating me?"

Oh come on.  What do the two have to do with each other in the first place?  "Who said I'm looking for somebody normal?"

"Well, maybe the fact that my abnormal standards seem to be getting in the way!" Arie retorted.

...Good point.  "Arie," I said, sighing.  "I like you abnormal.  I like you.  I love you.  But just because you're one way doesn't mean I also have to be that way.  It's better to have some variety, anyway.  Haven't you heard of 'opposites attract'?"

"Haven't you heard of 'like seeks like'," Arie challenged.

...Good point.  "Arie," I said again, my voice quieter now.  "My sister is important to me.  She said she had something important to talk about, she looked really upset.  I think I made the right decision in telling you I needed to talk to her, because it took fifteen minutes and I could have called you right back.  I would have explained the situation to you more fully, but you hung up first.  I'm not taking responsibility for that, that was your choice.  But regardless, I'm sorry I hurt your feelings."

"Well," said Arie, finally relenting.  "I guess you're right.  I probably should've—"

But then a voice burst in from behind us, and whatever apology Arie had been going to say, was lost to us forever.

"Aww, what the—" The person was far away, from the sound of things, fifteen or twenty yards, but coming closer every second.  A male, to judge by timbre and octave of voice.  "Dude, man!"  A male, to judge by choice of wording.  "Maybe they changed the decency laws and shit, but that doesn't mean people actually wanna see all that—"

Arie and I turned to look at the cause of the interruption.  It was a dark-haired boy, maybe Meredith's height or a tiny bit taller, a bundle of compact energy, tanned muscles and a cap of short hair.  He would be quite a looker when he smiled—probably could slay women at ten paces with that sort of sculpted handsomeness—but right now his face was contorted in anger and it was ugly to look at.

"—you ever think of the fact that you're standing in public," the boy was ranting.  "Dude, when I wanna air my parts out, I just—"

Then he stopped short as if somebody had hit a Pause button.  He stared at a point just to my left.  "Meri??"

"Hi Michael," came Meredith's voice, like a tightly-wound string, from behind me.

"You...  You don't have any clothes on," the boy said.  Michael.

"Yes, Michael, I'm in The Program.  You know The Program, Michael?  I'm sure Dr. Zelvetti told you about it."

I turned to look.  Brandon was behind her, hovering anxiously, clearly wishing he could insert himself bodily between these two forces.  Meredith, though frightened and naked, stood her ground, her arms crossed to protect her breasts.  Behind her, my friends stood in various arrays of surprise and confusion.  All except Stasya.  Nastasya Fyodorevna, who had known Meredith since—what was it?  Second grade?  Third grade?  Nastasya was gaping, clearly as thunderstruck as it was possible to be.

"Well, yeah, she said something about naked kids walking around," Michael retorted, "but I didn't think she was serious.  And she definitely didn't tell me my sister's in it!"

The jolt of surprise that rippled through Arie's body was mirrored by my own.  Sister?  Meredith was this man's sister?  Meredith had a sibling??  In seven months she had never mentioned this to anyone.  My eyes flickered over my friends, seeing identical expressions of confusion.  There was one different one, that caught my eye—Stasya's; she knew.  Of course she knew.  Wherever this brother had gone, that none of us had ever seen or heard of him before, he had probably been around at some point, and since Stasya had been Meredith's friend for eight years, she was bound to at least have heard about—

No.  No, there was a second expression, a second face who knew.  The face that hovered, shadowed and grim, next to Meredith's own.  Brandon's.

"Does Mom know," Michael asked.

"Of course she does," Meredith said defiantly, almost scornfully; I wondered if she was bluffing.  "I got over the need to hide things from her long ago."

The words seemed to slap him; he rocked back with the recoil.  His face held a strange astonishment, one I couldn't place.  Then his equilibrium was back and the smile fully in place.

"So, Brandon," he said, taking two steps up the stairs, two steps closer to Arie and I; hair stood on my neck, and his smile lit every danger signal I had.  "What's it like having a naked girlfriend around.  Must be pretty cool, eh?"  A conspiratorial nod and a slow, evaluative scan down his sister's body.  Okay, yuck.

Meredith docked under Brandon's arm, a perfect fit.  "It's been interesting," Brandon said with a casual nonchalance that made all of us look up.  "Of course, not nearly as interesting as was being naked around my girlfriend.  That's how we met, actually."

"Brandon was one of the first people to go through The Program at this school, Michael," Meredith said, her chin out.  In the sheer irrelevancy of the comment, we heard her desperation.

"Ah, I see," said Michael excitedly.  "Part of the master plan, eh?  Strutting your manly stuff around, catch the girls' attention, all right!"

Brandon gave him an expressionless look.  "Yeah.  Right.  I suppose."  Brandon?  Strutting?  About as appropriate as Meredith strutting, really.  Whatever book Michael was reading out of, he was way out of page with the rest of us.

"My sister, though, I dunno..." said Michael.  Was that a hint of desperation I saw in his eye?  "I'm pretty sure you could find someone who's a bit more of a looker."  The conspiratorial nod, the unbelieved smile.  "Not much there, eh?"  Once again, the lingering glance, this time at Meredith's exposed breasts.

"No, actually," Brandon said, now practically holding Meredith up, "but she makes up for it by letting me cheat off of her on tests, now if you'll excuse me, our next class is over at Crasilneck, which is a five-minute walk in case you're not familiar, and we need to get going.  Good-bye now."

Suddenly the north porch of Stetsen was a flurry of motion, everyone going every which way (Sajel and Christa taking hold of Jenny without any hesitation), and within seconds Michael Levine was the only person remaining, looking about him in rather startled surprise.

After a moment's indecision, I headed up after Brandon and Meredith, Arie bobbing along after me.  Her next class was right around the corner, at West Stetsen; none of us ever went anywhere near Crasilneck, which was even farther north than the Homer building, but Michael clearly didn't need to know that.

Meredith had managed to make it around the corner, out of sight of her brother, but not very much farther.  Brandon was holding her, his arms gentle around her, while she cried on his shoulder.  Arie and I hung back, out of respect for them; but Arie nudged my hand with a little grin, and I smiled back.  Even in moments of pain, the connection between them was obvious.  It was a wonder to watch them together—like two halves of a single whole.

Arie's hand stole into mine, and we smiled as we held each other fast.

"I'm sorry," Meredith said, sniffling, wiping her eyes.  "I'm sorry.  I'm not normally so..."  She shook her head (Brandon taking a faceful of wavy hair).  "It's Michael.  I'm just not used to having him around..."

"Michael," Arie said, "who's Michael?"  I winced inwardly—it was not exactly the most tactful way to say it.  But from Meredith's expression, the point had been made.

"He's my brother," she said.

"No, what about him," Arie said.  "We know he's your brother, but why does he...  I mean, Derek doesn't make Jenny cry like that."  A grimace.  "If anyone, I do."

"Now now," I said.  "You didn't see her crying just now, did you?  Be kind to yourself, it's okay to make mistakes."

"Yeah, I'd like to know too," Brandon said, which made me feel a little better.  Brandon may not be her best friend—I think that title is a toss-up between me and Stasya at present—but that hasn't stopped them from being close, closer in some ways than Stasya or I will ever be to her.  (And I don't mean sex.  Well, I don't only mean sex.)  I didn't feel so bad about being out of the loop if Brandon was too.

"Yeah, tell us," Arie said.

"Well," said Meredith, wiping her nose with a tissue.  "I...  I think I will.  Yes.  I will.  But not now."

"Aww, why not," Arie said.

"I..." said Meredith.  The answer was plain to all of us: I just don't want to.  "I need to think a bit," she said.  A glance at her wristwatch: "Besides, class is going to start any minute, and I really don't have time."

"Recess?" Arie asked hopefully.

"Lunch," Brandon said, looking at her, and some communication must have passed between them, because Arie acquiesced and allowed herself to be overruled.

Then the bell rang, and we had to go off to class again, to start the daily grind anew.  And, on the way to Calculus, Arie gave me enough attention that I had to ask for relief first thing, and you can guess who I picked; and then at recess she dragged me off to the bathroom for another go-around.  Twice in two days!  Twice in one day!  But even with all of that staring me in the face, the question remained in my head, an undercurrent of doubt:

Brother?  Meredith has a brother?

Lunch couldn't get here fast enough.

T.4

I'm starting to think that, when you sign up for The Program, events begin to conspire against you.  We managed to avoid Michael at the front of the school, when I was stripping down, but not for much longer after that; and bless Brandon's heart, but even he wasn't enough to balance out the trauma of having my brother leering at me.

And Bernard...

Oh, hello.  My name is Meredith Levine.  My Program partner confuses me.

I still hadn't figured out why he'd gotten so mad at me yesterday; as near as I can tell, he's just hostile to everybody.  If someone is mean to him, he lashes out; if someone is nice to him, he lashes out.  Pretty soon everybody is mean to him; or, at the very least, they do what I do and just try to keep their distance.  There are certain things in life you can't help; one of them is the stupidity of other people.  The best you can do is just avoid the person and try to make the best of it.

Only, Bernard wasn't trying to avoid me.

The pall he cast over the conversation at break was instant and alarming.  Sajel noticed him first, and we all saw the way her face firmed; at first I thought it was Michael, and almost collapsed in despair right there.  But when I forced myself to look, it was only Bernard, cave-chested and bristling in the sunlight, his shadow ten feet long.

"You're my Program partner," he said.  It was not a question.

"Uhm.  Yes," I said cautiously.  Bernard might be an improvement over Michael, but he wasn't much of one.  "What can I do for you?"

"You're supposed to support me," he said.

"Yes...  I suppose...  That's true..." I allowed, biting back a few choice words about how slander and defamation are not the same thing as support.

"So, support me," he said, and suddenly I realized that he was presenting himself for a conversation.  No, not a conversation—support.  He wanted advice.

The last thing I wanted to do was talk to Bernard Castagne.  (Well, the second-to-last thing.)  Really, what Derek and Arie had done—that sounded good to me.  Not so much the sex as just...  Getting away from it all.  Just me and Brandon, alone for a little while, with nobody pecking at us for attention.  But Bernard was still standing there, and from the gritty look in his eyes and the way he leaned into me, I knew that he wasn't going to take no for an answer.

He dragged me across the little parking lot to the back of the theatre where the drama people and the orchestra rehearse.  Brandon and the rest watched with mild eyes.

"All right," I said, feeling extremely exposed.  I couldn't see Bernard's eyes, but my nipples and pubic hair prickled, as hair on the back of my neck would.  Bernard and my private parts simply should not be allowed anywhere near each other.  Bernard and private parts in general, actually, especially if he was going to take his aggressions out on them.  That would make great headlines.  Three genitally scarred by enraged nerd.  And then big old color pictures of my boobs and my pubic area.  And then, in subtitle, (Small, ain't she?)

I don't know if Michael was aware of the nerve he hit when he said there was "not much there".  My boobs are...  I am not as...  Fine, let's be as humiliatingly formal as possible: I have small breasts.  They have always been a source of anxiety for me.  American society is fixated on cup size; you have to have a C or higher, it seems, to get any attention.  That, for the record, knocks me, Sajel and Christa straight off the map, leaving only Jane, and Arie if you're feeling generous.  (Brandon seems to have gathered some rather flat-chested people around him.)

When I was a child, I wanted to rise to the top.  My parents were the driven, education-minded, get-good-grades-or-else flavored parents that Arie has, that Jane has, that Brandon has to some extent.  They didn't tolerate failure, it was as simple as that.  So I wanted to be a CEO or a corporate executive or some type of powerful, high-up, influential person when I grew up.  And, to do that, I needed breasts.

Now, those dreams have died; they died a long time ago—the Christmas before last, to be exact; and you'll learn how and why they died later today—and new ones have grown in their place.  Marrying Brandon, now; being his wife, being there to wish him a good day when he goes off to work and help him relax at night if he didn't; having kids, being loved and looked up to the same way my husband is, being the kind of mother that doesn't embarrass my children (the way their grandma doesn't embarrass her daughter)...  Those sounds really good to me.  But one thing has remained from the old days, one belief I just can't unconvince myself about:  To do all that, I need breasts.

Brandon and I look at porn sometimes, if we're particularly bored or out of ideas for what to do next.  Brandon steers away from anything that has women with, as he calls them, "watermelon boobs"—because that's approximately how large they are—the type that are obviously silicone, that are so ridiculously large that the place where they attach to the woman's chest is not their widest circumference, the type that you could probably kill somebody with if you hit them with them.  Brandon stays away from anything containing those.  It limits his options by significant margins.

Stasya did not help.  Nastasya Fyodorevna has been my best friend for eight years, since we first met in third grade; the hardest thing about skipping seventh grade was not having her in my classes any longer.  But Sex Ed is generally dispatched in sixth grade, and we were together when we first found out what reproduction involves, why our mothers always told us to wipe towards the front after we peed, why we bled out of the hole that babies come out of.  The idea that a man would want to stick his thing into that hole was absurd to us at the time, and we laughed whenever we thought about it.  (Obviously we don't do that now.  Stasya has remained surprisingly reticent, but Caleb obviously satisfies her in every way; and as for Brandon, well, we're only getting married, I'd say he does an okay job.)

But we didn't laugh as hard when our breasts started coming in.  At least, I didn't; Stasya loved it.  She was excited, she was eager, she liked the idea of 'becoming a woman,' as she put it, and she induced me to track her progress by means of photography—"It's like measuring your height as you grow up, only, we're measuring my boobs!"  The biannual camera sessions continued for some years.  "Don't you want me to do yours," Stasya would ask, "don't you want to be able to show your kids how you became a woman?"  And I would decline, unwilling to admit that, from the looks of things, 'becoming a woman' had only taken about five months.

Intellectually, I know there's nothing wrong with my breasts.  It's not like I don't have any; for child-bearing purposes, they will work just fine.  Some people are just naturally shorter and slimmer and less buxom; some are naturally less slim, with a higher optimum weight and larger breasts and a certain sleek gracefulness about them, and look cute in glasses and have the sort of lustrous red-gold hair people would die for—not to name any names, you understand.  But just because I am physically less-than those people, doesn't mean I'm biologically so.  I know, intellectually, that there's nothing wrong with me at all.

Intellect and emotion are two very different things.

Brandon, dear heart, has always claimed that he doesn't need more than a handful; besides, he says, he wouldn't care if they were concave, because they'd still be mine.  But it's been a sore point with me for just about as long as I can remember.  Michael had unknowingly hit on one of my strongest insecurities, and even now I was still feeling uncomfortable, defensive, exposed, as though an attack might come from any direction.  At least with clothes on you can make them look good!  But I didn't have clothes; all I had, at the moment, were my natural charms.  Or, rather, my lack of them.  And I didn't like feeling unprotected like this at all.

And it was this emotional state that Bernard came charging into.

"I need help," he said shortly, pacing back and forth in front of me.

"All right..." I said.  And then, a little piqued at his brusqueness: "Well, most things come with instruction manuals.  Sometimes it helps if you read them."

"Girls don't come with manuals," Bernard retorted.

"Well, yes, that's true," I said.  "So why are you asking me about them?  I don't know them any better than you do."

Bernard stopped in mid-stride.  "I'm trying to be serious here," he growled, and I glimpsed a hint of his rage.  He hates it when people laugh at him, I realized.

"So am I," I said, letting my own annoyance show for the first time.  "Not all girls are alike, Bernard.  It would help if you'd specify which one, or ones, you were talking about."

"What does it matter," Bernard said, sounding a bit defensive.  "They're all girls, aren't they?"

Maybe he just didn't want to tell me; a lot of people are embarrassed about having crushes on people.  "Are you the same as Brandon?"  Or maybe he's just an idiot.

"Brandon," Bernard said.  "Brandon Chambers?"  His eyes shifted; strangely, I would swear he glanced at my breasts.  "No," he sneered, "I'm nothing like him."

"Of course you are," I said loftily.  "You're both boys, aren't you?"

Bernard gave me a hateful look and kept pacing.  I waited for him to speak some more, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, but he didn't.  "Look," I said finally, "what problems with girls are you having?  Maybe I can help you figure that out."

He seemed to look inside himself for a moment, as though consulting some inner guidance.  Finally he said, "I want them to pay more attention to me."

I blinked at him.  It seemed like such a mundane goal.  Just about every boy in the world wants that, and the only ones who don't are either already dating someone, or gay, and sometimes those still doesn't stop them.  He wants to be noticed by girls more.  Okay.

"Well," I said, "going naked is a pretty smart way to do that, so I'd say you've taken a good step right there."

"It's not working," Bernard retorted.  "It's been a day and a half and nobody's ever tried to Rule Three me, and whenever I ask for relief it takes like five minutes for anyone to raise their hand.  They're all total bitches," he finished, snarling.

Well, I suppose your attitude wouldn't have anything to do with it.  "Who exactly are you hoping will approach you," I asked.  When his anger threatened to boil again, I added hastily, "You don't have to name any names.  I just need a...  General idea."

"What does that matter," he said (again) defensively (again).

"Well..." I said.  "You said you're not Brandon, right?"

"Damn straight I'm not," Bernard said.

Patience is a virtue.  Patience is a virtue.  "Well, you and Brandon...  Being different people, you understand...  Might look for different things in a girl."  Patience is a virtue.  So is getting through the day without breaking someone's head off.  "For instance, I know from personal experience that Brandon likes the kind of girl who is...  Serious, and studious, and..."  Frowning, grasping for qualities—what's the best way to describe the similarities between Sajel and Jane and I?  "And very kind-hearted.  That's his personal taste.  But he's probably not the only person who looks for that sort of girl.  And so we can group them into a category."

"There are patterns, you mean," Bernard said.

"Yes," I said.  "There are patterns.  If you tell me the kind of girl you like, I can probably predict the kind of boy she likes."

"That's useful," Bernard said, his voice betraying just how useful he thought it truly was.

"The point is..." I said.  Patience is a virtue.  "You haven't told me what kind of girl you're looking for—"  God forbid he be going for the cheerleader type like Shannon Salvolestra, or the sort of center-of-attention glamor-queen Gavin has found in Erica.  "—but if she's not the kind of girl who looks for the kind of boy you are...  You might be in trouble."

"Get to the point," Bernard said.

"It might be...  Wise," I said.  "To turn your attentions to the sort of girl who likes the sort of boy you are."  Play to your strengths, was what I was telling him, which was much the same advice as Zach gave Christa, way back when.  The difference is, Zach believed—rightly—that Christa could snare anyone she wanted; her options were unlimited.  Bernard...  I was not so optimistic about.  I know there are people who like the intellectual type, but Bernard has a crippling set of disadvantages to work around, not the least of which is his outrageous attitude.  He seemed to expect girls to swoon over him left and right.  It wasn't outside the range of possibility—with a lot of work and careful study, he might be able to become that sort of person—but it was totally out of his grasp right now.  No wonder he was always angry.  "There are probably people who find you attractive," I said, phrasing carefully—that 'probably' was a calculated choice.  "Why don't you talk to them?"

"They're all losers," Bernard said dismissively, suggesting (alarmingly) that 'probably' was 'actually'—and suggesting, furthermore, that he'd met those people and turned them down.  That was not a good sign.  "They're all ugly and they haven't got any tits."

Bernard, I'd like to introduce you to a concept called Tact.  Please, for heaven's sake, spend some time together—  "Bernard..." I said, keeping rigid control of my words.  "That's a really bad criteria to judge by."  Feeling so extraordinarily exposed, fighting with every cell the urge to cover my breasts with my arms.  "A woman's...  Bustline isn't a factor she can control."  Patience is a virtue.  Patience is a virtue.  Patience is so a fucking virtue.  "It's mostly genetic."  Speaking for myself, now, as much as that phantom group of people who, by some miracle or bad luck or malicious twist of fate, had actually found Bernard attractive once upon a time.  "I think it's...  Really unfair of you to dismiss people over it.  It's not something they can control."

"Yeah, well, sucks to be them, don't it," Bernard said, his face ugly.

Breaking heads off is looking more and more like an appealing alternative.

"Bernard," I said, feeling my voice trembling.  "I'm afraid I have to go now.  I'll think some more on your problem—"

"Hold on, your advice was shitty, you haven't supported me," Bernard protested.

"I'll think some more on your problem," I gritted, and my face must have been a sight, because Bernard actually fell back a step, his eyes suddenly visible behind those massive spectacles, his eyes suddenly wide.  "And you think about it too."  Think about all your problems, Bernard.  Think about them long and hard.

When I went back to my friends at Stetsen, it was all I could do not to throw up.  And though Brandon held me, it really didn't help much.  It didn't help much at all.

I don't think The Program is all it's cracked up to be.

T.5

When Arie and I got back to the normal place at Stetsen, satiated and well cleaned-up (though there wasn't a person there who didn't know what we'd been doing), Meredith was nowhere to be seen, conversation was dead, and everyone was habitually staring south, towards the little Caspian Theatre.  I had to squint through the rows of cars, but immediately the three situations tied together.

"She's brave," Arie said.

"Yes, she is," I said.  As a male student who is more technology-savvy than most, I've had to work with Bernard on several occasions, and he's exactly what Meredith said: hostile.  Normally it's not this bad; normally he's able to at least be civil.  I think being in The Program must not agree with him at all.  But Meredith stood there and took it, brave to the bitter end, until finally she came away visibly shaking.

But when we saw her face, it wasn't tears, as we'd expected.  It was rage.

"My God Meredith, you—" Christa said, and Meredith didn't even answer, just stood there with head bent, shoulders quivering, a single hand shoved up, warding us away, a single hand like a slap.

We all stopped as if we'd run into an invisible wall, and we stared at Meredith's shaking form.

Then Brandon took a step across the line.  He crossed the distance carefully, as if trying not to make any sudden movements, and he put his hands on Meredith's shoulders.  She jerked away, her head coming up, hair flying, his hands thrown loose; and we saw her face, and it was ugly with rage.

But Brandon stood his ground, and as their eyes met, it was as if he had pulled the invisible stopper on her bottle of anger, and it all drained away.  The shaking in her muscles died away.  Her eyes closed.  Her head drooped again, and suddenly we saw how much energy her rage had taken from her.

"My God," I said.  "If it takes that much out of her to be angry for five minutes, how does Bernard do it?"

"Well," Christa said crisply.  "He's such a huge nerd, he's probably replaced himself with a robot.  Robots don't get tired, you know."

"Turned himself into a cyborg or something," Zach said.

"That's the word I was looking for," Christa said, turning to smile at him.

Brandon held Meredith up as they walked the ten feet back to the porch at north Stetsen.

Arie tore loose from my side and ran over and grabbed Meredith in a hug, and a moment later Brandon's arms were around them both.  It was like a recharger; I saw how the energy came back into Meredith's legs and heart and face, and she smiled at all of us and said, "You guys are the greatest friends in the world, you know that?"

I noticed that Zach and Christa were still smiling at each other, and their smiles had deepened; and I wondered what was going on over there.  But before I could bring it up, Arie asked what had happened, and Meredith explained, and by the time all was said and done, the bell was ringing and it was time for class to resume, and the next time we saw Meredith, it was lunch, and she was due to explain where this fellow named Michael had come from.

We gathered, the seven of us, with our lunches; a number of visitors widening the circle.  Stasya, Meredith's best friend, had been fetched and was sitting at her right hand, and Jenny had come wandering by and been flagged over by everyone.  Everyone except Arie.  It wasn't hard to tell she was displeased.  But it would be inappropriate to make a big deal out of it, so she kept her mouth shut, for which I was thankful; Arie doesn't always care whether something's appropriate.

Arrayed and waiting, we looked at Meredith.

"I suppose you're all wondering why I've brought you here today," she began with a bit of a smile.

"You and Brandon are going to break up," Stasya suggested.

"You're going to tell us your superhero identity," I said.

"You have a penis!" Zach shouted.

"Zach, shut up," Christa said, rolling her eyes and grinning.

"If you need one, steal Zach's," Arie deadpanned.

"Why would I do that?" Meredith asked.  "Whenever I need a penis, I just go talk to Brandon."

Over the whooping and whistles, Brandon said, "We've worked out a time-share agreement.  Meredith's basically self-sufficient for most things, but every now and then you just...  Need a penis.  What was it you borrowed it for the other day?"

With a malicious grin, Meredith said, "I had to smash some spiders."

Brandon's face underwent most alarming contortions.  "And here you told me you just needed a straight-edge."

"I think I also used it to dust under the couch once," Meredith said ingeniously.

"I'm going home and burning that contract up," Brandon grumped.

Jenny, leaning close to me, her eyebrows climbing into the stratosphere, said, "...I see what you meant about 'ain't seen nothin' yet.' "

"In effigy," Brandon said.  "I'll draw your face on it and burn it—"

"Burn it with the passions of sweet, sweet love," Sajel interjected with a malicious grin, "so that she burns for you, she pines, she longs...  And when she sees you tomorrow she throws herself at you—"

Brandon and Meredith looked at each other with a blushing sort of recognition.

"Sajel, you've been reading too much Shakespeare," Christa said.

"It's all Cavanaugh's fault," Sajel said, referring to their English teacher.  "That shit's contagious.  Just the other day I heard myself, I swear, speaking in iambic."

"Your misery within my heart doth resound," Christa said.  "Um.  Verily."

"You broke meter," Sajel said.  "Minus thirteen points Christa."

"Shut up," Christa said, grinning.

Brandon and Meredith were smiling at each other, their hands together, smiles tinged with love, totally oblivious to the world around them.

"...Does a penis really make a good flyswatter?" Zach asked.

"Of course," Arie said archly, "it's perfect.  Just ask Derek."

I blinked my confusion at the pairs of eyes around me.  "I don't want to know how you learned that from me."

"The reason you invited us all here," Jenny said loudly; she was probably feeling a little uncomfortable, not sure where she fit into the group.  Stasya, as well, looked somewhat lost, but she was sticking to her guns, trusting in Meredith's original invitation to see her through.

Brandon and Meredith jumped, startled at the interruption.  "Oh, uh," said Meredith.  "Yeah."

"We've come to tell you about Michael," Stasya said loudly.  It got attention.  We all wanted to know; there was no doubt about that.

"I guess...  I guess I should start from the beginning," Meredith said into the rather sudden silence.  And, taking a breath, she did just that.

"My parents are easy-going.  They haven't always been.  Honestly, Arie, they used to be like yours.  Not...  Not quite as bad as your mother, but pretty close.  Straight A's were the order of the day; my brother and I had very high standards to live up to, and there was no margin for failure.  No gray area, either.  If we didn't have straight A's, we were automatic failures."

Arie nodded.  Christa didn't.  "Your parents were like that??  I can't believe it."

"They were," Stasya said.  "We used to spend a lot of time at her house, because hers were more permissive about certain things, you know, like, it was a little easier to bend the rules than it was with my parents.  But I heard them ream her out a couple of times.  It wasn't pretty.

"I remember this one time..."  She squinted in thought.  "When she was about...  When was it, Meredith?  The rollerblade thing."

"I was ten," Meredith said.

"Yeah, she was ten," Stasya said, "and she really wanted these new rollerblades.  They were already kind of on their way out by then, but she liked 'em, and her parents said, you know...  'Hey, if you, you know, get good grades, if you get especially good grades' rather—I mean, she always got good grades—'then we'll get you these rollerblades for Christmas.'  And she got...  What was it?"

"Three A's, four A+'s," Meredith said.

"Yeah," Stasya said, "which was definitely within the bounds of the agreement, she should have qualified."

"But she didn't get the rollerblades," Christa said, making the obvious conclusion.

"I offered to let her use my bike," Stasya said, "I mean, I never used it myself, but...  It wasn't quite the same thing."

"Basically," Meredith said, "I learned that it didn't really matter.  It was a no-win situation.  I could get bad grades and be punished by my parents...  Or I could get good grades and not get punished, but not really rewarded either."  Brandon had her her hand in his and didn't look inclined to let go.  "It was hard.

"My only salvation...  Was my brother.  He was two years older than me, but he was always nice to me.  He looked out for me.  He wasn't an insensitive asshole like some older brothers.  I really admired him—he faced the same treatment that I did, but he was always able to talk his way out of things, in a way I only wished I could.  I thought he was really cool, and he had all these older friends who knew all these interesting things, and they wore clothes in styles and colors I didn't know existed, and said words I'd never heard...  He didn't mind if I tagged along with him and his friends, and he'd go out of his way to keep me included, or to defend me if his friends wanted me gone...  I really admired him."

We were all silent.  We had witnessed Michael Levine's charisma, the sheer force of his charm, and we could see how a smaller sister—young, naive, a little bit ostracized because of her brainpower, her insistence on self-reliance—could become enamored of him.  And that was with him being the narcissistic asshole who had terrorized us earlier.  If he'd been the gentle, generous fellow Meredith was describing...  Well, there was no hope for it.  No hope at all.  Jenny and I exchanged glances.  We knew—maybe we were the only people here who knew—the sort of bond that can develop between siblings.  We could credit this.  We could credit this easily.

When I turned away again, Arie was glaring at me.

"But the pressures were too much," Meredith said.  "We were all growing up, our parents wanted more of us...  We had to start thinking about colleges, about our futures, about all these things kids don't care about.  I was a year ahead of almost all of my friends and classes were hard, I didn't have anyone I could ask for help.  Our parents didn't seem to realize how damaging all this pressure was, but they pushed us, and pushed us, and pushed us.  Inevitably, somebody was going to snap.

"A few days into sophomore year, Michael was sent to the office.  He was in Mr. Cavanaugh's English class and, according to reports, he'd been acting funny.  He'd been sluggish and hyper by turns, and disruptive enough to warrant attention from Mr. Cavanaugh.  Mr. Cavanaugh asked him to calm down.  Michael exploded.  He started yelling and ranting and screaming—Christa, Sajel, you guys remember.  We were across the hall in Ms. Cheney's English class."  They nodded.

"Well, Dr. Zelvetti had a look at Michael, and took him to the nurse's office.  Nurse Chaplain took some tests, and then called my parents at home.  When they rooted through his belongings, they found, hidden around his room and in various quantities, a total of three ounces of cocaine."

The silence was absolute.

"Dr. Zelvetti recommended a local program," Meredith said quietly.  "There were rehab options nearby.  But my parents...  They didn't know what to do; they didn't know at all.  Michael said the pressures at home got to him, and I think they panicked.  They figured, the best thing for him would be to get him away from home; far away.  They found a rehab facility in Utah, almost a boarding school, and packed him up and shipped him off."

My mind tried to process this information, sluggish and confused.  We knew Michael had been...  Somewhere, somewhere removed enough that none of us had ever met him; for some bad enough reason that Meredith didn't like mentioning it; at some place where he could become as sunken into self-absorption as he was now.  But...  Cocaine?  Dimly I remembered tales of a junior carted away last year for drug abuse; rumors are rumors, and I hadn't paid attention.  Now those vaguely-heard tales carried a new dimension.

"He just got out," Meredith said, "yesterday, and they shipped him home.  Brandon was here when he arrived, but that's the only reason he knows.  Stasya was there...  She knows most of it."

"Is that why your parents are so easygoing now," Christa asked.

"Yes," Meredith said.  "They received the shock of their lives.  My brother, and then..."  She hesitated, glancing around.  "His condition.  He came back that Christmas on a week vacation and he had changed so much..."

I knew what she had been going to say.  It hadn't just been Michael.  You see, I know a secret about Meredith that nobody else does, except for Brandon, except for her family, except for Dr. Zelvetti and a couple of psychologists.  They have to do with the scars on Meredith's wrists, parallel to the ones on Brandon's.  Meredith, explaining the incident to me, had only said that her brother had been home for Christmas—she had always mentioned this, but had never qualified it, and I had never asked.  Seeing Michael now, it was easy to imagine the pall he had cast over the holiday season; it was easy to imagine poor Meredith, forlorn and lost, looking for a way out.

Nobody else knows, not even Stasya.  Evidently she was enamored with her boyfriend at the time—he had descended from college and scooped her up only a few months before, and she was still drunk on the experience.  (Meredith says they met at a dance class.)  Meredith had decided not to dampen the mood, and evidently the news had just never come out.  And, for the most part, nobody notices what they don't look for.

Brandon never moved, but from the way he leaned forward a little, from the intense light in his eyes, I got the sense that, in spirit at least, he was holding Meredith as tightly as he knew how.

"They realized that they'd made a mess," Meredith said.  "They realized that they'd got so involved in making sure their kids would have bright futures...  They'd forgotten about the present.  My mom said it was the most traumatic thing she'd ever had to face—she says it's the worst thing any parent has to face.  Having your child come up to you, that you love, and tell you, 'Mom, I hate to break it to you, but all these things you've done, trying to make us into good people?  They backfired.'  The road to hell is paved with good intentions, after all."

"But they faced that fire, and survived," Brandon said.  "Which explains why they're so confident."

"Right, well, there's some great thinking," Sajel scoffed.  " 'We've seen the worst, so now we can be overconfident'?  Great way to stray down the garden path again, guys!"

"I didn't say overconfident, I said confident," said Brandon with a wry smile.  "They feel they have the measure of the adversity of life.  Who's to say they're wrong?"

"Utah, you say," Arie said.

"Yeah," Meredith said.

"Altamont Springs," Arie said.

Meredith stared.  "Yes, exactly.  How'd you know?"

"Candlelight friends," Arie said shortly.  The name was tickling something in my memory, something Arie had told me about—a Candlelight Vigil member, probably, who had been sent to a 'lockdown' facility, sometimes called a 'tough-love' facility.  I'm not exactly sure what goes on at those places, but from what I hear and have read, it smacks of 'spare not the birch to spoil not the child,' with emphasis on the caning part.  Kids have died at those places.  It's still somewhat in question whether they actually work or not.

"Those places don't have very good success rates," Arie said.  "My friend at Candlelight—she calls herself 'salad-grouse'—got sent to one, and she says she got out just by manipulating the system."  Clearly, as far as Arie was concerned, the question was resolved.

" 'Salad-grouse'?" Jenny mused.

"What was she sent for," Meredith asked.

"Depression, cutting, that sort of thing."

"Well, cocaine addiction is a chemical thing, maybe they have better success rates with that," Meredith said, looking hopeful.  "I mean, at least you can take the drug away and push the person into withdrawals.  You can't do that with depression."

Jenny leaned close to me again.  "They're...  Everybody's taking this very calmly."

It was true.  If Jane had been here, she might have been aghast or astounded or...  Jane might have reacted to this news.  My friends hadn't blinked an eyelid.

"I mean, Arie, I guess I could understand," Jenny said—she knew about Arie's cutting—"but...  I mean, even you."  And it was true.  I had taken all of this news very easily and calmly.  This time last year, I know I wouldn't have reacted half as well.

I thought about the scars on Brandon's wrists, the ones everyone knew about; the ones on Meredith's, that nobody knew about.  I thought about the rows of scars on Arie's arms, the ones that make her skin texture so interesting.  I thought about the scar tissue on our hearts, the buffers now against these sort of revelations.  "We've...  Seen a lot," I said.

Arie, still talking to Meredith, gave me a cross look.

"No kidding," Jenny said.  "I could tell you nuclear bombs were on their way and you guys would just shrug."

"Well," I said, looking at Arie, who wasn't looking at me.  I'm not so concerned about my death, but I'm not so sanguine about hers.  If you gave me a magic shelter that could save one person here from a nuke, I know who I'd give it to.

"Any headway in the Trevor situation?" I asked, trying not to think about Arie being vaporized in a burst of light.  At least it would be relatively painless.  God forbid radiation poisoning, all that skin peeling off—  Okay let's think of something else now!  Trevor!  "Does anybody else know?"

"No," Jenny said, "I haven't even told my friends."

"I'm sorry about Arie bursting out like that," I said, earning another scathing glance from my girlfriend for my trouble.  "We took her aside and had some words with her."

"I saw," Jenny said.  "And it's okay.  —Well, it's not okay-okay, but, no harm done."  She smiled.  "Nobody judged, that helped a lot.  Everyone's just supportive."  She fell silent for a moment, contemplating.  "I have to say, I was kind of surprised they could take it in stride like that.  But now that I've seen you guys reacting to this stuff..."

"Hiya boyfriend," Arie said suddenly, turning to me.  I had the sense of a child plopping down in front of a listless parent.  "Whatcha talkin about?"

"We're talking about my nephew, Arie," I said patiently.

"Is it a boy?" Arie asked, wide-eyed.

"Actually, it's probably too early to tell," said Jenny.  "I'm only three days late and I just took the test yesterday."

"Why did you tell Derek," Arie singsonged.  "Instead of your boyfriend."  A petulant smile.  "Is there some reason Derek should have known first?"  Normally I can take Arie's child-acting in stride.  Today it was starting to annoy me.

"Well, actually, there's a reason for that," Jenny said.

"Why-yy?" said Arie.

Jenny turned to me.  "Does she always do this?"

"A lot of the time, yeah," I said.

"Don't talk over my head like that!" Arie said.  "I'm not a child!"

For a second I just sort of gaped at her.

"If you want a child, you should look at your Program partner," Arie fumed.  "I mean, she's all a kindergartener and all that, she's so delicate, you have to protect her, you have to hold her hand while she crosses the street..."

Jenny, to break the silence, said, "...Does she always do this?"

"A-huh, actually, if you want a child, you should look at her," Arie said, gesturing with her chin at Jenny.  "I mean, it's an era of free birth control, but she's still stupid enough to get pregnant because she's not paying attention.  Unwanted pregnancies practically make national news nowadays because they're so rare, huh—how do you like that, Derek, your stupid old sister's gonna be on TV!  —Hey!  What are you—"

I was standing up and yanking her to her feet.  "You and I are going to have a little talk right now."

I dragged her around the corner, the same retreat Brandon and Meredith had come by this morning.  Another retreat, this time.  But Arie and I were not hugging.

"Now you look here," I said.  I was so angry it was hard not to spit all the words out in a gigantic frothing mass.  Or maybe it would just be my lunch coming out.  "You're free to have your own opinions.  I can't stop you and I don't.  But I respect Faith, and I respect Jenny, and you had better show them some of the same, if you wanna be any kind of decent person."

Arie yanked her arm, trying to free herself from my grasp.  "Derek, let go of me, you better—"

"You had better," I hissed through clenched teeth, my nose an inch from Arie's.  Now she wasn't moving at all.  "There's this thing called 'basic human decency,' Arie.  It involves being polite.  Everyone's expected to have it.  There's another thing I expect you to have, it's called 'don't judge before you have all the facts,' and I expect you to have it because if we judged you just by appearances, before we had all the facts, none of us would want to talk to you in a million years.  You're selfish, you're childish, you have no self-control, and sometimes you piss people off."

Deep breath.  In with anger, out with love.  Rage flooding from me with every breath.  Arie is moving again.

"As a matter of fact," I said, in a calmer voice.  Somewhat calmer.  "There are legitimate reasons for Jenny to have this unwanted pregnancy.  She was stupid, she and I have agreed on that...  After we talked about the situation.  All you did was exploit it so that you could hurt her.  So that you could try to drive a wedge between us.  That's horrible.  If you're the kind of person who will destroy her boyfriend's friendships in order to keep her boyfriend, then I'm not sure I wanna date you anymore."

That brought her up short.  I know—we all know—just how deep her insecurities run; and for that reason, I had never so much as mentioned the idea of breaking up with her.  I don't want to, I love her, she's the most important person in my life...  But if it's a choice between her on one side, and every other friend I have on the other—Jenny, Meredith, Brandon, Sajel, Christa, Zach, because you know it's going to include them eventually—then it's not really a choice at all.  I may be lovestruck, but I'm not stupid.

"And if you have problems with me and my tendency to 'hold people's hands,' as you put it...  Well, I'm sorry, Arie, but maybe you don't wanna date me either.  Because it's a big part of who I am, it's important to me, and I'm not gonna give it up.  And let's face it, you like it, you like that I'd drop everything if you needed help...  When it's you that needs it, at least.  But it's not your exclusive privelege and it never will be.  If you can't live with that..."

I sighed.  Now I was just tired.  How had Meredith stayed on her feet?  My knees felt like Jell-O.

Arie was looking away, off to one side.  When she turned back, her eyes were huge.

"Derek..." she said.  "Maybe we should...  Call it quits for a while."

Ah, now I know how she stayed on her feet.  It's because when your stomach and all your innards drop down there, they make you bottom-heavy, they provide a lot of weight.  Christ, I knew this was coming.  I knew it might happen eventually.  But...  It stings, doesn't it.

"You're right, I...  I can't live with that right now.  I want to be able to...  But I can't."  She was crying.  I'm not sure I've ever seen her cry before.  It was the sound of her heart breaking.  Of our hearts breaking.  "Maybe that just means I should cling harder, but I can't—I can't stand seeing you going off to help other people when—"

"Arie—" I croaked.

"Maybe I'll see you next week," Arie said, sniffling.

Then she walked away.

Fuck.

Fuck.

You knew it was coming, Derek.  You knew way from the very beginning.  You knew it'd get to her insecurities if you ever dared to show her that you cared about someone besides her—not even in a romantic sense, just anybody in general.  You knew that wasn't any reason to stop caring.  You hoped she might learn to live with it; you hoped she might change her mind.  But you knew, you always knew, it was coming.

That doesn't make it any easier to live with, Derek.

Jenny called out to me.  I just kept walking.

Fuck...

T.6

You knew it was coming, Arie.  You knew way from the very beginning.  You knew Derek has the biggest heart of anyone you know, maybe even larger than Meredith's; you loved that about him, you loved him for it, for being so generous, for being so selfless, for being there for everybody.  But you didn't want him to be there for everybody, you wanted him for yourself, because you couldn't bare the thought of having an equal, of not being the first thing in his life.  But you knew that he wouldn't be satisfied with just you, he couldn't be, his heart is too big; even someone as royally fucked-up as you couldn't soak up all the generosity he had to offer.  You hoped it'd never come up.  You hoped he'd change his mind.  But you knew, you always knew, it was coming.

That doesn't make it any easier to live with.

Hey, I'm Arie Chang, and if stupidity were the criteria by which childishness were measured, my quotient would put me as still in the womb.  Or maybe not even conceived yet.  Two little gametes in my parents's gonads.  And maybe everyone involved would've been better off if I'd stayed that way.

I couldn't see where I was going; I didn't care.  I think I may have run into someone.  Left tear-water on their chest or something.  I bet they noticed that in a hurry.  I just walked the campus, my thoughts in a turmoil, my heart in a riot.  What do you do when a single personality trait is both the reason you love him most and the reason you love him least?  How do you deal with that little dilemma?

Was it even worth fixing?  I mean, 'fix' isn't even the right word—you can't 'fix' someone.  Yes, I know that may come to a surprise to some people, the ones who figure that with today's psychopharmaceuticals, you can just throw meds at someone and cure them.  Here, have some Prozac, eat them like M&M's.  No.  That's not how the world works.  My mother is one of the people who thinks you can just snap your fingers and people will change—or maybe if you do one thing, the other person will always respond in a certain way.  No.  People aren't dominoes.  Why would there be psychology, why would their be a study of human behavior, if people were dominoes?  (Though, amusingly enough, Dr. Schlemmer tells us that this very lack of domino-ism was a major argument, back in the day, against calling psychology a science.)

The point is, I can't change Derek.  I have to learn to live with it, or I can walk away.  Is it worth learning to live with?

Of course it is.  I quashed that thought immediately.  Derek is...  There are no adjectives.  Derek is the most wonderful person I've ever met.  I couldn't live without him.  I know that sounds terrible, but...  I mean, if you go without something for a long time, you find out you can live without it.  Brandon says he hasn't watched television since he was a freshman.  (How does he manage???)  If you were to ask Zach, he'd likewise say he hasn't used the bathroom in some years.  (Uh, okay there, kiddo.)  But I know I could never get used to living without Derek.  There'd always be that gap.  There just...  Always would.

...But can I learn to live with it?  A wounded bird or a hungry kitten is one thing.  Faith Bennett is...  Quite another.  This isn't going to be the last time; I know it for certain.  And plus, Faith...  Well, she's attractive, in certain ways, depending on how you look at it.  ...And let me tell you a secret: if you look at the porn on Derek's computer—of course he's got porn on his computer, what teenage boy wouldn't?—of course I've snooped through it, what girlfriend wouldn't?—if you look at the porn on his computer, none of the girls look like me.  For the most part, they look more like Faith: narrow face, large eyes, often a bit open-mouthed.  And Faith's naked.  And I'm not.

Now, obviously the others aren't going to be naked.  But...  Can you imagine us, the two of us, Derek and I, five or ten or twenty years down the road—still together, maybe even married—and I'm still reacting this same way, getting mad at him, feeling displaced, feeling so totally frustrated that this man, who is so important to me...  Is looking elsewhere.  It's like he's having an emotional affair or something!

But it was even more than that—way more, more than I could admit at the time.  In the moment, all I had a strange inkling of fear and worry about how vulnerable both of them were, Faith and Jenny.  It was only much later that I was able to understand that Derek had saved me—had reached into my pain and my suffering, had found me worthy, and had come to lift me out of it with his love, his presence, his patience and encouragement and company.  I think every man has a part of himself, however small, that longs to be a knight in shining armor; in Derek, that urge is strong.  I had managed to be the damsel-in-distress for him, but now there were others, and true to form he was saving them.  And what if that meant...  What if that was all that was holding us together?—this deep insecurity in both of us, the need to protect and be protected?  What if, in saving these other damsels, he realized he didn't need me?  Didn't need me at all?  Now, Jenny's not going to offer him sex (at least I hope not—Ugh, ugh!!).  But Faith...

I'm not sure I can live with that.  Better to leave than be left.  Better to hurt than be hurt.  Better to be strong, to not be in distress, to not need rescuing.  Better to leave than to be left.  Because I'm not sure I can live with that.

...But I can't not live with that, because I can't live without him.

...But I'm not sure I can learn to live with that, because I can't change him.

...But I'm not sure I can...

I was knocked out of the infinite loop by an opening door—literally; I hadn't been paying the slightest attention to where I was going, as I've said before, and evidently I had been passing a door right as it had been opening.  The first I noticed of it was my foot kicking it as I stepped forward into its path; and then I was sprawled on my ass, knocked off-balance, and Mr. Trineer was peering out at me with wide eyes.  "Arie?  Are you okay?"

Faith Bennett's head drifted out like a balloon on a string.  "Did she fall down?"

"No," I said, suddenly annoyed, suddenly angry, "I just scuttle along on my ass for the hell of it."

"Oh," said Faith, unfazed.  "I do that too."

"Well, Faith—Ms. Bennett," said Mr. Trineer.  "If there's...  Ah.  If there's nothing else I can do for you, perhaps it's best if you..."

"Oh," said Faith, "okay," and the rest of her came out of the door, still as naked as the day she was born.  "Thank you, Mr. Trineer."  I noticed that her nipples were stiff.  That in itself doesn't mean much; it just happens sometimes.  I'm told boys sometimes get erections for no reason too.  But Mr. Trineer seemed rather uncomfortable.  These two things, added to the use Derek and I had put Mr. Trineer's room to yesterday—yesterday!  It seems like an eternity ago!—yesterday...  Add those things together, and you get one really big question in my head.  After all, teacher-student relations aren't quite exactly approved of, but they're not actively discouraged either.  Don't-ask-don't-tell and all that.  Hmm.

"I'll leave you two to talk now," Mr. Trineer said.  (What??)  "Good day, Ms. Bennett."  Doorslam.

"So," said Faith, looking at me.

In a panic, I shoved words out the door as fast as I could produce them.  "I don't like talking to you."

"It's okay," Faith said, unconcerned, "nobody does."  A flicker crossed her face.  "It's because the grass has bugs."

I blinked at her.  Right.  If you say so, nutcase.

"Can I talk to you," Faith asked.

"What?" I spat.

"Can I talk to you," said Faith.  I noticed how her gaze wandered, as if she were having trouble holding her head straight—sometimes on my face, sometimes off to the side, swinging back and forth and around and around.  "You don't have to talk to me, but can I talk to you."

"No," I said, "you're a retard."

"Mommy says that if anybody calls me that, they're just angry," Faith said to a point just above my left shoulder.  "Why are you angry?"

"Because of you," I retorted, secretly eager to see her response—wanting to see the blossoming surprise, the unexpected hurt, the confusion.

She gave me none.  "Oh," said Faith to my right arm.  "Because of Derek?"

"Yes," I seethed, "because of Derek."

"Why," Faith asked my boob, confused.  "What did I do to Derek that makes you angry at me?"

I thought about her appearance, her daftness, Derek's longing to be that knight in shining armor.  "You're naked," I said.

Faith's face reflected her confusion, and I was given a sudden insight into why all of us have trouble understanding her: sometimes she jumps links in a chain of thought, the same as I had.

"Derek likes to be a protector," I said, explaining myself, "and you obviously need protecting."

"He's a nice man," Faith said brightly to the ceiling.

"Yes," I gritted, "that's it exactly."  Such... a nice.  Man.

"But..." said Faith, understanding dawning as she looked at my face.  "You don't like it."

"No," I said.  "I don't."

"So tell him to stop," Faith said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.  "I'll tell him he doesn't need to hold my hand too."

I blinked at her.  It was not what I had been expecting her to stay.

"And you," Faith said, fixing me with a disturbingly direct look.  "Don't just give up on him because of a little disagreement.  He really likes you and you really like him.  That's not an easy thing to find.  A lot of people are looking for what you have."

I stared at her, transfixed by her gaze, pinning me like a physical thing.  I couldn't have twitched if I had wanted to.  "Yes, but...  It's hard."

"Is anything worth having, easy to get?" Faith asked cryptically, her eyes burning with intensity.

I wrenched my gaze away from her, shaken.  When I could look again, she was looking in fascination at a blotch on the wall.  "Look," she pointed, "an elephant," and giggled.

"Right," I said, feeling my lip curl in a sneer, "any other brilliant advice to dole out?"

"It is," she protested.  "There, see?  It's his trunk!  Or maybe it's his tail."

"Right," I said, walking away, "you have fun with that..."

Don't give up on him.  That's not an easy thing to find.  A lot of people are looking for what you have.

I wasn't sure what to think at all.  Out of the airhead came forth wisdom.  What was going on here?

I'd heard a theory, somewhere, that if you let an infinite amount of monkeys play with an infinite amount of typewriters, one of them would eventually produce Shakespeare.  Or maybe it was that if you fired an infinite amount of shots at an infinite amount of monkeys, you'd eventually hit Shakespeare.  Regardless, there's a big difference between knowing the theory and seeing it come true in front of your eyes.

So, Arie.  Now that you've got Shakespeare.  What are you going to do with him?

And why do I have the Bard when the one I really want...  Is Derek?

God, what a mess.

Choir practice was torture.  I tried not to look behind me too much—tried not to feel, with that radar sense everybody has, Derek sitting not far away—tried not to hear his voice sticking out like a sore thumb, to my ears at least—tried not to think about that utter feeling of abandonment, about the deep, lurching ache of having somehow failed.

Music's good for that.  Music's hard.  You have to concentrate on it.  But it wasn't enough.

Then it was time to go home, and it was time for the Arie, Trina and Mom in the Car Show.  Getting driven home by Mom is always a The Week In Review session, except only concerning that day.  It also mainly involves Mom talking.  I swear, that woman loves to hear the sound of her own voice.  Once, when the only thing I had to say about the day was that there had been a substitute teacher, she waxed nostalgic for twenty minutes about some incident from her childhood.  I hadn't known they had substitute teachers in Hong Kong.

There's an unspoken rule: we don't tell Mom anything of what's actually happening in our lives: The thought of food made me so sick that I couldn't eat lunch.  I snuck into the bathroom and cut myself during recess.  I had a fight with one of my friends.  These are the things we don't tell her, because she wouldn't know how to respond to them.  She'd panic.  She'd overreact.  She'd make a mess.  So we keep quiet.    A substitute teacher can be the most stunning news.

Today was no exception.  My mother asked in that ever-fawning voice of hers: "So, Arie.  How was your day at school?"  And I said, "Fine, nothing happened," and didn't say another word.  That was all I cared to relate.

"Really," said my mother.  "Nothing happened?  Nothing at all?"

I huffed annoyance.  "Well, I breathed a few times...  And later I had some food..."

I could see my mother's eyes in the rearview mirror.  They were not amused.

"I said a few words..." I continued.  "Oh, and—  I even walked a little bit."  I nodded.  "It was a very.  Eventful day."

"And how about you, Trina," said my mother with clear displeasure.  "Has anything of note happened to you?"

Of course things had happened.  Obviously.  A lot of crazy nasty wild things had happened.  My life had become totally rearranged in a mere eight hours.  But I wasn't interested in relating this to my mother.  Not interested at all.

"Well..." said Trina.  "I think I breathed a little too.  And walked and talked and ate and all those things.  But some other things happened too.  Like, I got my math test back.  I got a 96% on it."

"That's wonderful Trina!" said my mother.  I think she might have clapped her hands together had we not been making a left turn at a traffic light.  Yeah.  Go figure.  Of course she's got great things to tell.  On this day of all days.

"And the reason I was a little late today was because I had to go talk to a teacher," Trina continued.  Oh, that's right, we'd all sat around for ten minutes waiting for her to show up.  Sat around separately.  When Trina didn't show up, I staked out a bench.  Like I'm stupid enough to sit in a car with Mom for longer than I have to.

"Oh, and—" said Trina, her demeanor suddenly meek.  "I think—  I think there's something I have to tell you."

I stifled a sigh.  When you've lived with Trina for as long as I have, you can smell a pity play from a mile away.

"Well—  I heard from one of my friends, that...  That Arie and Derek broke up."

My heart slammed in my throat.  She heard that what?!

Mother's eyes were wide on me through the rearview mirror.  "Arie?  Is—  Is this true?"

My mind raced.  Of course it was true.  Trina wouldn't have said it if it wasn't.  Mom knows she's gullible, she'll stop trusting you if you throw too many curveballs her way.  How had Trina found out?  I hadn't told—  Well, I hadn't told anybody.  Derek might have told—  Who?  Our mutual friends are smart enough to keep a secret, and none of his other friends have links to Trina, at least so far as I—  When had she found out?  How had news traveled so fast?  Basically the only time anybody could have told anyone anything was in the ten minutes we'd all been sitting around waiting for Trina to—  What teacher was she talking to?  Do any of her teachers have Derek in a class?  No, they don't, he's only got Physics and English Literature AP during the last two periods of school, and Trina would never talk to those teachers; and he wouldn't have told Mr. Gunderson, because I was right there—  What the hell was going on??

"Arie?" said my mother more insistently.  "Is this true?"

In the sideview mirror, I could see Trina's face: totally and perfectly composed, eyes lidded, calm, a queen surveying her territory.  OBJECTS IN MIRROR MAY BE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR was getting in my way: I couldn't see some of her very clearly.  Was that the slightest trace of a smirk on her lips?

How come my sister gets to play terrorist with my personal information, anyway?

And people wonder where high school shooting sprees come from.

Hi, I'm Arie Chang, and I hate my sister. How are you?

T.7

I didn't know what happened between Derek and Arie, except for seeing their faces as they left; and since I didn't have any classes with them until choir, I couldn't find out until then.  At that point, they were very carefully avoiding each other, their faces like stone, and it was so totally obvious that I really didn't need to ask anymore.

"You're seeing what I'm seeing, I assume," I told Brandon.

"We always knew she was the jealous type," he replied.  "Not to mention the insecure type."

"Yes, but I'd hoped she might get past that," I said.

Hello.  My name is Meredith Levine.  People in general confuse me.

"We knew this day might come," Brandon said blandly.  "All the signs were there."

"Brandon, stop being so fatalistic," I snapped.  "Can't you at least be sad or something?"

"I am sad," Brandon retorted.  "There just doesn't seem to be anything else to say.  We know how and why it happened.  Now we just gotta see if it lasts."

"Should we say anything to them?" I asked, wondering how to repair the breach in their relationship.

Brandon was clearly wondering the same thing.  "No," he said.  "There's still nothing to say.  It's too soon.  Let them feel raw for a while, let them feel like they're missing their other half.  Then they'll be ready.  Then we say something."  His eyes turned to me, confident in his answer, apprehensive of my response.

"I'm glad I'm not missing my other half," I said to him, smiling, my hand on his arm letting him know he was home.

Choir is a somewhat embarrassing experience when you're a soprano, especially one who isn't tall, because it means you're up at the front.  And in my case, that included my everything—my pubic hair and all my skin and whatever bad complexion I might happen to have that was otherwise hidden by clothing (but none this week; I take very good care of my skin, thank you).  The only reprieve was that Mr. Gunderson didn't make a fuss if the way I held my music folder happened to cover up a lot of things, which is technically against the Program rules.  Evidently Mr. Gunderson didn't care, and I didn't either.  This whole naked thing wasn't shaping out the way I had expected it to.

After choir Arie and Derek walked off in different directions without a word.  Brandon and I exchanged glances and he gave me a resigned smile.

So I started after Derek.

"Wait, what do you want with him," Brandon said, chasing after me.

"To get my clothes," I said.

"...Oh," said Brandon.  His eyebrows bounced.  "Oh yeah.  Heehee.  I had almost totally forgotten."

"You had totally forgotten," I repeated.  "That I had no clothes on.."

He shrugged.  "I got used to it."  And then a truly evil smile.  "It's the sort of thing one likes to see in a girlfriend, after all."

I rolled my eyes.  "Keep it up, mister, and it's something you may never see again."

'Used to it.'  Well, good for him, but, I wish I could get used to it.

Derek's words, when he saw us, were practically identical.  "What do you guys want with me?"

I glowered at him.  "To get some clothes on?  The day is over and I need to go home."

Derek froze for a moment with one pant leg on, staring past me, as if something wasn't connecting right in his brain.  Then he stepped into the other leg.

"I guess you noticed," he grumbled.

"Noticed what," I said innocently, fumbling with my shirt to make sure everything would end up in the right holes.  I kept my voice down—a number of other people were nearby, including Trina Chang, evidently part of a cluster of friends supporting one of the freshman girl participants.  "You and Arie avoiding each other like the plague?"

"Yes, that," Derek retorted.

"Well, considering that you two normally talk to each other at least a little," I said.  "...Yes, I'd have to say I noticed."

"What happened," Brandon said.  "Arie's insecurities?"

"Yes," Derek said shortly.  "That's exactly what happened.  Arie's fricking insecurities."

Hearing the rancor in his voice, disturbed by it: "And is that all that happened?"

He looked at me with a strange expression, thoughts reeling and flickering behind his eyes.

"No," he said finally, his voice unreadable.  "That's not all that happened."

"You like to be the protector," Brandon said.

"Arie's such an adventurous soul that..." I said.

Brandon kicked in, taking the thread one step further: "She hides her insecurity in a show of bravado."

"It's really rare of her to need your protection," I said.  "It's so much an opposite of what she does."

"So when she sees you protecting someone else, she assumes it's the same as her," Brandon said.

"It must be a disaster," I said.  "They must be really in trouble.  Because the only time she ever comes to you is when she's in it deep."

"It must be the same for others," Brandon said.

"The thought that others might be different from her..."

"Just, never crossed her mind, I guess," Brandon said, shrugging.

"But she doesn't want anyone to be as vulnerable to you as she is," I said.

"Because it's one of the things you really share," Brandon said.

"Sex is sex, it's pretty normal for her."

"What's special between you and her..."

"Is the emotional content," I finished.

"And she doesn't want anyone to have with you what she has," Brandon concluded.

Derek peered from one to the other of us in annoyance.  "Does this just come to you naturally, or did you, like, have to learn it?"

"Natural," I said, at the same time Brandon said, "Learned it."

We looked at each other for a moment.

"Well, I guess we had to work on it," I said, overlapping Brandon's, "Actually, it does just come out, really..."

"I...  See," said Derek.

As Brandon started the car up and began to negotiate his way out of the school parking lot, I said, "Brandon, I...  I think I should go home today."

I could see the disappointment in his face.  "What makes you say that?"

"Well...  Your parents," I said.  "From the sound of things, they sound like...  They don't especially like me, and...  We should probably try...  Not to antagonize them."

"You're right," Brandon sighed.  "But I was looking forward to...  Well.  If it can't be done, it can't be done."  He turned a sudden direct look on me.  "Are you going to be okay?"

I could hear the information tumbling around behind that one question: the long, tiring day and the various traumas therein; my brother, home now from school, home now from Utah, and the threats of insanity he pushed on all of us; the simple fact that, in the seven months we'd been together, it had practically become part of our everyday routine to have some quiet time together after school, to have sex or to do homework or just to sit there and hold each other.  I think it was the latter Brandon was hoping for, and I would've liked the same.  But there were his parents to deal with, and there was no getting around them.

"I'll be all right," I said.  "I'll call you if something comes up."

At home, Mom was already streaming around the kitchen getting dinner ready; Michael was nowhere to be seen.  I subsided into my room to do homework.  When my father arrived at home, food was ready to be served and I had managed to put most of the day's events out of my mind, in order to concentrate better.  French homework is always difficult.  It takes a special frame of mind, especially since English is so simple by comparison.  I've often wondered what French people, or Spanish people, or German people, think of our language when they learn it.  Do they find it easy?  Mme. Dambier tells us that English is easier by grammar but much more difficult by spelling; Brandon tells me that this is because the English dictionary actually has tons of words from other languages, meaning that we don't really have a consistent spelling and pronunciation pattern.  He takes Italian and says that, once you learn the basic rules, you can pronounce any and every Italian word you will ever read.  The same is not true of English.  Through and through, it is not true of English, and it's naļve to think otherwise.

Mother was calling me downstairs for dinner.

The dinner table has always been my family's place to catch up with the day's events.  We talk about what's happened, we ask questions, we laugh.  My mother started the tradition, claiming that, since she's a stay-at-home mom—chief domestic officer is how she describes herself—she needs to live vicariously through my dad and I.

She started it three days after Michael left.  He had never been present for one of these sessions before.

Dinner started in silence, punctuated only by the bang and rattle of cutlery on glass.  It was clear that all of us were nervous and not entirely sure how to begin.  At least, my mom and dad and I were.  Michael might have been perfectly at home in the silence, for all the expression he showed.

"So, Meredith," my mom said finally, her voice strangely stifled by the ringing silence.  "How was school?"

I wanted to cringe.  What a pedestrian opening.  "It was okay," I said neutrally.  "Pretty quiet."

"Nothing of interest happening," my father asked.

"Not really," I said.  "Though we're singing something cool in choir.  It's got some great harmonies and it goes into eight-part harmony sometimes too, which is hard because Mr. Gunderson has to sit there and figure out who should split into which part."  I'm one of the 1st sopranos, so I sing the really really high parts.  Not that it goes that high.  "Mr. Gunderson really likes the composer."  That was an understatement.  He practically worships the guy.

"Who's the composer?" my father asked.

"Some guy named Stephen Paulus," I said.

My brother looked back and forth at us.  He had no music background and was clearly confused by all of this.

"And you, Michael," my mother asked.  "How was your day?  I imagine you must have enjoyed seeing all your old friends again."

"Yeah, it was cool," Michael said.  "Half of 'em didn't recognize me, but that was cool too."  For some reason, I knew he had taken that to his advantage.  "Same old teachers, same old classes, but it was fun."  He paused.  "And I saw Meredith with no clothes on."

I wondered how my father was going to react to this.  When he didn't so much as flicker an eyelid, I realized my mother must have gotten word to him some time during the day, or even just recently when he came home.

My mother said, "I see.  Meredith, would you like to explain this?"

"I'm in The Program," I said reasonably.  "It's sort of against the rules for me to have clothes on."

"That sort of thing shouldn't be allowed," Michael grumbled.

"Why not?" I asked.  "It's a free country.  Things are less conservative now."

"Somebody could've warned me," Michael grumbled.

"Dr. Zelvetti didn't?"

"I didn't think she was serious!" Michael said.

"Well, she was," I said.  "It's quite an experience, The Program."  A hinting, teasing voice.  "You should try it."

Michael recoiled, eyes wide.  "God forbid!"

Michael! I thought to myself.  Where did you learn such a word!

There was silence for a while.

"What's it like," Michael said finally.  "Being naked."

"Why, have you never been naked before," I asked.  "What about when you take a shower?  Do you shower with your clothes on?"

"You know what I mean," he shot back.  "In public.  At school.  What's it like being naked at school?"

My parents looked back and forth at us, dismayed.

"It's all right," I said mysteriously, not caring that I was lying through my teeth.  "You get fondled a lot."  Before he could ask what I meant by that, I pressed on: "What's it like, having a naked sister in school?"

"Weird," Michael said flatly, his eyes on me.  "It's like, you're just walkin round the corner and suddenly, bam, whoops!  Oh look, it's naked sister!"

His voice rose.  Mine fell.  "Well, it's not exactly comforting to be walking around the corner and see your brother, either."

"What, is there something wrong with me?" Michael cried.

I decided not to give the obvious answer.

There was another silence.  My mother and father looked unhappy.  They're not big on conflict.

Finally I said, "So what's so bad about The Program?  Forget your sister: there are seven other naked girls to look at, and touch if you so desire.  And if you don't like any of them, wait until next week when eight new ones go.  Or eight new guys, if that's your thing.  You've been in lockdown for eighteen months, Michael, I'd imagine you'd jump at such a chance."

"It's not that," Michael said, and suddenly I noticed the vague sense of panic underlining his words.

"What is it, then," my mother asked.  Clearly she had heard the same.  "What is it, Michael?"

"Well," said Michael, looking strangely near tears.  "Dr. Zelvetti said.  As part of my enrollment, you understand.  That if I wanted to keep attending, or show up at school in any form.  I'd have to enter The Program!"

My father and mother and I looked at him in surprise.  "Really?" I said.  "She wants you to participate?"

"That's...  Quite an interesting condition to put on it," my father said.

"And you have a problem with this?" my mother asked.

"Yes!" Michael screamed.  "I don't want to go in The Program!"  He looked truly upset and under other conditions I might have felt sorry for him.

"Why not," my mother asked.  "I've read the pamphlet and it seems like a good deal for everyone involved.  There's a rule that says that if someone wants to fondle you, you have to let them.  It's a good way to attract attention to yourself—and a handsome boy like you would attract a lot of attention."

It was true—not only that going into The Program attracted attention unto yourself, but that he was good-looking.  And that sort of compliment was the kind of thing a mother would say.  But I found myself wondering if she was trying to appeal to his sense of vanity.  Not to mention how totally strange it was to hear my steel-haired mother talking about getting fondled.

"It's not that," Michael said, clearly mollified by the idea of a lot of girls wanting to get their hands on him.  "It's the principle of the thing.  I don't think I should be forced to go in."

"I don't think you should either," my father said, but in such a way that you could hear the 'but' coming from a mile away.  "Life, however, is full of such necessities.  I don't always want to go to work in the mornings, but I always do."

"But...  That's different," said Michael.  "You're an adult."

"As are you," my mother said gently, "since you turned eighteen last month."

"I don't want to!" Michael said, falling back to his original position.

"Why on earth not," I asked, amused.  "We've already established that it'll be fun."

"I...  I..." said Michael, looking around wildly.

A strange gleam came into his eye.

"I'm not sure I'll be able to handle the stress," he said.

"What," said my mother, jerking to attention, and I winced inwardly.  'Stress' had become one of the watch-words in our family after that big mess last Christmas.  There's a reason my parents have become so easygoing, after all.

"I...  I just got out of rehab," Michael said, fumbling over words, clearly finding a way to piece this argument together.  "I just got out of rehab to get me away from...  From certain habits.  Habits that I, uh... Developed...  Because life was too stressful."

"So you're saying..." my father rumbled.  I checked an annoyed sigh.  It was obvious where this was going.  I hoped my parents wouldn't be fool enough to fall for it.

"That...  Well, old habits die hard, you know?" said Michael.  The tone of desperation was still in his voice, but he was gaining confidence, moving with more speed.  "If I'm shoved into too stressful a situation too quickly, I might..."  God, I wish he'd stop using that word!  "—I might not be able to develop coping mechanisms fast enough.  I might have to revert to old ones."

My parents said nothing.

"So...  I think you should talk to Dr. Zelvetti," said Michael.  "And...  See if you can find a way out of this."

My father said flatly: "Yes.  Yes, maybe we should."

And I looked at them, sitting there in their profoundly disturbed silence, and I realized: he had them.  He had them over a barrel.  He had threatened them with the one thing he had, and it had worked; my parents had fallen for it.  And now that he knew he could do it, he would do it again.

Yes.  He most certainly would.

No wonder there was a smile threatening to take over his face.

I shoved my chair back, leaving my untouched dinner behind.  "I'm going to do homework."

"Meredith..." said my mother, but fell silent, and let me go.

Brandon, wherever you are, I hope you're having more fun with your family than I am with mine.