By the time I had gotten to school, I already knew it was going to be a bad day.

It started with me staying up until about 3 AM trying to study for an English quiz.  I may be Derek Strong, naked in school and staggering around under a shitload of problems, but the grade waits for no man.  The problem was, I couldn't concentrate.  I hadn't spoken to Arie in a couple of days and I was horny.  Which was only the least of my problems, but the most easily addressable—shut the door, whip it out, off you go.  Pretty simple, right?  Except that...  It didn't help, and I spent most of the night squirming and trying not to think about Arie; Arie's body under mine, or over mine, her breasts dangling in my face; Arie's face straining towards orgasm; Arie's laughter in my ear as we cuddled together after.  And that was bad, because as entertaining as such thoughts are, they didn't help much with the analysis of theme in Carolyn Rizzolo's Morning Light.

When I awoke four hours later, my previous libido seemed to have deserted me; I almost wished it was back, because at least part of me would be alive.  I felt like a zombie lurching out from the grave.

My dad agreed with me.  "My word, Derek, but you look like something the cat dragged in."  He slung a plate of eggs, bacon and toast my way.  "How much sleep did you get last night?"

I made a noise that was supposed to be "Not nearly enough" but was probably more on the order of "gblzmpxtrmznktl."

"Your sister asked me to drive you to school today," said Dad.  "She had to go in early."

I nodded.  Jenny was my normal ride to school, but my father worked irregular hours as a computer consultant and was often available if she wasn't.  My mother, a lab technician at the local hospital, was long gone.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell us about," Dad said, saying us but really meaning him.  "Both you and Jenny have been...  Remarkably quiet as of late.  You know we're always here for you."

I warded it off with a shake of my head.  "It's just The Program.  It'll be over soon."  Which was the truth—at least, part of it.  I didn't want to get into any deeper detail if I didn't need to.  Especially not on only four hours of sleep.

At school, I didn't bother trying to find Jenny; I had a hunch that she simply wanted time to herself, and she could have it as far as I was concerned.  For my part, I wanted to talk to Meredith.  She'd gone to bed at a totally reasonable hour last night, meaning that I hadn't been able to get her advice or a sympathetic ear while I was bashing my head against several layers of dense, intricately crafted play.  Normally I'd ask...  Well, we all know who I'd normally talk to.  But she sort of wasn't available at the moment.  Meredith would do.  She wasn't quite on the same wavelength as me, the way that certain other person was, but she would do.

The only problem was, that other person was there, talking to Meredith.

"Hey, Derek.  Looks like you're having a pleasant morning.  Come on over, we don't bite."

You might not, I thought, trying not to look at the other person.  I didn't need to start bawling.  But she looked at me; I could feel her gaze burning.

For a moment we just stood there.  I looked at Meredith.  Meredith looked at me, and then the other person, back and forth.  The other person looked at me.

"You know," said Meredith finally.  "I'm not the only person involved in this conversation right now.  As a matter of fact, there are three people here, and I think two of them may have things to say to each other."

I gave her a hard stare.  "I do?"

"Derek," Meredith said.  "I know you've been unhappy without her.  You know you've been unhappy without her.  Is this really necessary?"

She was right, of course.  I did miss...  That certain person.  I missed her a lot.  But...

"I'm not the one who screwed up," I said to Meredith.  "I'm not the one who keeps overreacting.  I'm not going to go begging to be forgiven for somebody else's mistakes."

"Arie," Meredith said, turning to that person.  "This is your chance.  We just talked about this.  Remember what we were saying about—"

"He doesn't intend to forgive me," said the other person.  "You can hear it in his voice.  He thinks I should just...  I'm not going to ask to be taken back by somebody who doesn't want me."

Meredith shook her head in incredulous exasperation.  "I can't believe you two are—"

"If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go talk to your boyfriend now," said the other person, and went to Brandon.

Meredith squeezed her eyes shut, her face scrunching up in a frown.  "I can't believe the two of you."  She glared at me.  "You and your pride, Derek.  You and your fucking pride."

I gaped at her.  "Wait, did you just say 'fuck'?"  Meredith almost never swears.

"Derek, I love you like a brother," Meredith said, trundling on, "but, sometimes...  You are a total dumbass, okay?  If you had any sense at all, you'd apologize to her."

"For what?  She screwed up, not me!"

"She screwed up in walking away," Meredith retorted.  "You screwed up in not following her.  You screwed up in letting her go.  You let go a girl others would give their right arms for a chance at—"

"She didn't like me!" I broke in.  "She couldn't stand the idea that I might possibly have other women friends, she—"

"And you're going to let that stop you?"  Her eyes drilled at me.  "Derek, there comes a point when someone's so important to us that we're willing to change for them."

I felt embarrassingly childish—and angry at being made to feel so.  "She should have to change."

"You both have to change," Meredith grated, her voice like ice.  "It's called compromise, Derek.  It's critical to social relationships.  Either you learn it...  Or you get used to spending your life alone."

She glared at me.  I glared at her.  And it was I who dropped my gaze first.  She was right.  And I knew it.

"I'm sorry," she said, the anger gone from her voice; I looked up to see her covering her face with her hands.  "I shouldn't have been so...  I didn't get enough sleep last night.  I'm tired, I'm cranky, I shouldn't be—"

"It's all right, I didn't get enough sleep either," I said.  "I'm just...  We're..."

There was a bit of awkward silence between us.

Meredith looked up at me; there was a melancholy smile on her face.  "Our Program weeks just aren't turning out the way we expected, are they."

It wasn't easy to see...  That person...  In class that day.  And what made it worse is that Pre-Calc is not the most engaging of topics; I kept nodding off...  And then jolting awake, and seeing her back, her ponytail hair, the curve of her cheek.

When it kept happening in Current Events, I gave up.  Meredith was right.  We needed to talk.

After class was recess, and I packed my books up in a hurry and managed to slide in next to her as we went out the door.  Immediately she hung a hard right and veered off in another direction.

Almost I gave up right then.

Almost.

"Arie, wait.  Please."

She turned, her arms folded across her breasts.  "There's nothing for us to say to each other, Derek."

"What about, 'I love you'?"

Her face didn't twitch.  "Like that means anything."

"What about, 'I'm sorry'?"

All expression fell from her face and she simply gazed at me for a moment.  Then she said, "Keep talking."

I sighed.  "Walk with me?"  When she nodded, I set out across campus towards the student store, and she fell in beside me.

"I've...  Been thinking," I began.  I stared at the floor, refusing to look at her.  By looking at her I'd have to admit that she was near.  By admitting she was near I'd have to admit that I missed her.  By admitting I missed her, I'd have to admit a whole flood of emotions and confusions that would make impossible to even finish my current thought: "About the way we've been reacting to each other this week."

"Did Meredith have a talk with you," Arie said immediately.

I sighed.  "...A short one."

"I imagine she told you you're an idiot," Arie's disembodied voice said beside me.

"You too?" I asked.

A silence; and then I heard a sigh.  "She said that...  She said that I was stupid to let one annoying thing you do, get in the way of all the nice things you do."  A pause.  "Even if that annoying thing is really annoying."

Meredith hadn't gone into any specifics with me, but the overall gist was the same.

"She also said...  Something stupid about compromising."  The words were inflammatory, but her voice sounded resigned.

"I dunno," she said.  "I don't...  I don't wanna be the one admitting I made a mistake."

I grimaced.  "I know how you feel."  True, I wanted her to be the one admitting she'd made a mistake...  But that was exactly what she wanted out of me.  And the righteous anger that fed the first wasn't enough to overcome the uncomfortableness involved in the second.

"What if..." I said, still looking down.  The narrower pavestones of the Norter Wing area were giving way to the large squares of the central quad; around us was the babble of a thousand students going about their business.  "What if we both were to admit that we..."

"Whoa, what's that," Arie said suddenly, and I looked up.

I felt blood draining from my face.  "Oh, fuck," I said.  "I thought I dealt with them yesterday."

"Dealt with whom yesterday?" Arie said.  Without meaning to or realizing it, I glanced at her face.  It was a perfect picture of confusion.  "Derek, what's going—"

"Look, I've got to stop this," I said.  Yesterday they were already thinking about finding someone to have sex with Faith—an action which, as far as I was concerned, was synonymous to drug-facilitated date rape, since Faith was pretty damn clearly incapable of making decisions for herself.  "Go find Jenny and—"

"I'm not going to go find Jenny!" Arie retorted.

"Meredith, then," I said.  "We'll probably still be—"

"I'm not going anywhere until you explain what's going—"

I hurtled into the crowd, shoving through as fast as I could; but the deeper I got in, the more people started to slow me down, until I realized they were actively obstructing me.  It didn't make any sense; hadn't they liked it when I'd busted in yesterday?  But then I recognized a lot of faces in the crowd that had been here yesterday; they were yelling for people to make sure I didn't get in.

But that wouldn't stop Arie.

"Go to the center of the ring," I told her.  "You wanted to know what's going on, here's your chance.  Go.  They won't stop you.  Maybe you can open a path for me."

Even from ten feet away—ten feet packed with jostling, yelling teenagers—her glare and voice were obvious.  "What makes you think I'm even willing to listen to you?"

I felt frustration threatening to cascade from my throat—probably in the form of vomit.  This on three hours' sleep!!  "Arie."  She was wending into the crowd now, coming closer with every moment.  "Faith is in there.  She's getting fondled, she's getting felt up, she's getting...  God only knows what.  I don't know if they've even bothered to ask her if it's okay—"

"It's Rule Three, right?" Arie said, grandly unconcerned—and now close enough to slap, should I so desire.  "What does it matter?"

"Do you think she's capable of saying no," I asked.  "What if somebody just whips it out and has sex with her.  What if she gets pregnant?"

"What do you care?" she asked icily.

I bit back the retort that threatened to leap from my tongue: Because what the hell chance do I have with you if I've got two pregnant girls on my hands!!  "Don't tell me you don't," I said.  "Don't tell me you're just gonna stand there and let somebody have sex with her without her consent."

She faced me, silently, for such a long moment that I began to think that she'd probably call my bluff and go away.

Then she moved past me.  "Excuse me.  Excuse me?  Can I get through, please?  I'd like to see what's going on.  Excuse me..."

For a moment, I simply stared after her.  Why the hell am I bringing Arie into this?  And why the hell did she agree?  My fuzzy brain glitched and flickered and I couldn't think of anything.

Then I started to push my way through again.

When I got to the center, I gave enough of a glance to confirm that, yes, this was the Molest Faith club; then I looked for Arie.  She was standing not too far from me with a stricken look on her face.  "I should have gone for Meredith," she said.

"I... Don't think that would've helped," I said.

"Hey, Derek!" said Michael Levine, grinning broadly.  I got the impression that he would have shaken my hand if he weren't holding Faith's boobs with them.  He gestured to her.  "Check it out!  She doesn't notice or anything!  Isn't this cool!"

"See what I meant," I murmured to Arie.

"Hello, Derek," said Faith, smiling shyly at me.  "I'm glad you made it."

"What exactly is going on," Arie said.

"He's a very sweet man," Faith said to Arie, beaming.

"I don't think they're giving her a chance to say no," I said in an undertone.  "In fact, I know they aren't.  They were doing this yesterday.  Didn't bother asking, didn't bother listening, just...  Grab."

"I don't like him," Arie said tightly, nodding at Michael.

"Yeah," I said.  "Yeah.  Neither do I."

"Michael?" said Arie sweetly, pitching her voice so that he could hear.

"Hmm?" said Michael.  "Yeah, baby?  You wanna join in?"

"Let go of her this fucking instant, or I'll rip your balls off and shove 'em up your ass," said Arie, beaming.

Michael jumped and started, his hands springing away from Faith as though he had been burned.  He stared at Arie, open-mouthed.

"Oh, cool," said somebody behind Michael, stepping forward.  "Is it my turn?"

"You too, buster," Arie said to him.  "Hands off.  Show's over."

"Hey!" said the second boy.  "It's Rule Three!  You can't make me stop."

"Wanna bet?" Arie said.

"How you gonna stop us," Michael asked suddenly.

Arie looked at me with wide eyes.  At the time, I figured she wasn't sure of the answer.  "Whistle, dumbass," I told Michael, intending to calm her down.  "Don't you pay any attention in—"

"Derek," Arie hissed, "you shouldn't have—"

The other boy moved like lightning.  His fingernails scraped my sternum and I felt a sudden ripping pain on the back of my neck, a pain that just as quickly disappeared.  A moment later, he was standing before me, tossing the whistle up and down with disgusting nonchalance, the broken chain dancing in the air.

"What whistle," he said.  "I don't see a whistle.  Here, you.  Catch."

He tossed it to Michael, who caught it by reflex.  At first he was startled, but once he saw what it was, he seemed awfully pleased to have it.

The other boy turned to Faith.  "Honey, darling, could I have your whistle please?"

"Well..." said Faith, clearly reluctant.  "I don't know..."

It was just as fast as before.  "Ow, hey!" said Faith, falling back to where Arie and I stood.  Now Michael had two whistles, and we had none.

"Hmm," said the boy, grinning.  "This looks like quite a situation.  I mean...  I don't think you can really stop us, can you?..."  He rubbed his hands, turning to address the crowd.  "So, guys.  We've got these three here in front of us...  And they're naked, and they don't seem to have any way of objecting.  What do you think we should do with 'em?"

"...So what are these for, anyway," Michael asked, holding up one of the whistles; and before anyone could stop him, he raised one to his lips and blew a long, shrilling note that stopped all movement on campus.

In the silence, Michael grinned like a kid.  "They used to use those at lockdown whenever they needed the Muscle Crew to come.  God, I've wanted one of these forever!"

The original boy stared at him, thunderstruck.  "...You dumbass!"

Michael blew another note on the whistle, and then a happy little tooting pattern.  He looked very pleased with himself.  Before the other boy could react, I dodged in and grabbed the other one.  I didn't know if it was mine or Faith's; I didn't care.  Any whistle in a storm.

As I blew on it, I could hear a buzz of chatter start up around us.  The members of the ring were beginning to mull around in nervous confusion.  And outside, I could hear a deep voice, clearly a teacher:  What's going on in there?  You folks, clear out!  What's going on in—

Arie raised her voice in a distracting scream.  "Help, help, they're molesting me!  I told him he couldn't but he's touching my—"

Faith, looking around at the chaos with a delighted smile, threw back her head and started singing, or at least yelling in tune: "I love you...  You love meee...  We're a great big—"

Around us, the entire crowd was dissolving so fast that they might have been disappearing into the ground.  Farther out, bystanders were pointing at us; some were running towards us (including an entire flood of our friends out of Stetsen).  Teachers were converging on us from all directions; Dr. Zelvetti's face was a bone-chilling mask of anger.  Michael blew his whistle as if it were a trumpet.

Suddenly Dr. Zelvetti was there, knocking the whistle out of his hands.  "Cut that out!  Faith, be quiet!"  Arie fell silent in mid-shriek, clearly having noticed the principal's arrival.

Dr. Zelvetti grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me around.  "Derek!  What in hell's name is going on over here!"

"Michael?" Meredith said.  "How did you get the whistle?"

"Is everyone okay?" Mr. Trineer was asking.

"I hope they give everyone new whistles," Zach murmured in an undertone.  "I wouldn't want to be the one who gets the whistle back from Michael."

Faith gazed about her, beaming proudly.  "That was fun.  Let's do it again!"

I felt Dr. Zelvetti's eyes on me, trying to drill through layers of dead, sodden flesh to reach what little life remained underneath.  "I think," I said, "it all started because I didn't get quite enough sleep last night."

Dr. Zelvetti's eyes lost some of their rage; but her hands on my shoulders remained firm.

When I had a chance to look for Arie again, she was gone.

Th.2

So that was what happened in the morning.  But the day wasn't done yet.

When we got to the quad, just about everyone had run off.  I had no idea what was going on, because Derek hadn't told us about yesterday's brouhaha surrounding Faith; so when I saw him, her, Arie and Michael standing there, with Dr. Zelvetti bearing down on poor Derek like a runaway train, the only thing I had to offer was confusion.  What was going on?  Why was my brother there?  How did he get a whistle?  Why were the chains broken?  Where was Arie going?

Hello.  My name is Meredith Levine.  I'm confused.

It took Derek the remainder of recess to explain what had happened, and, so I understand, a good part of fourth period; when class resumed, the rest of us went off to the places we were supposed to go to.  I barely got my head around it to begin with.  The idea of people touching Faith wasn't that hard to comprehend; she was very pretty and she'd probably have had her first date by now, if she knew what dating was and could answer appropriately.  But if a girl says no, it means no; and if a girl says nothing, it's the same as No, as far as I'm concerned.  Especially if it's because you're already fondling her and she's too distracted to answer.

Clearly, though, my views seem to be rather outmoded.

"Do you think it's weird," I asked Brandon, the next chance we had to talk to each other.  Which happened to be lunch time.  "I mean.  Am I old-fashioned and totally obsolete for thinking that, if a girl says Maybe, or even just doesn't say anything, it's the same as No?"

Brandon gave me a dark, guttural look—"Meredith, you're asking me this?" he said, and suddenly I remembered some of his sordid history with Sajel.

"All right, silly question," I said.  "But clearly not everybody agrees with you."

"That Faith thing still bugging you," Brandon asked.

"Brandon, what I've essentially found out is that my consent or lack of such means nothing where guys are concerned," I said.  "Yeah, it's still bugging me."

He said nothing.

"I mean, what's the definition of rape, then," I asked.  "There practically is none.  Anybody can just walk up to me and—"

"Sweetie..." he said (which, incidentally, made my heart melt).  "I think your situation is a little different than Faith's.  You're not...  Totally spaced-out like she is.  You're...  What, I dunno.  Conscious?"

"But that's..." I said.  "Brandon, what's the line between me and her?  What celestial coin toss or dice roll or roulette wheel or whatever made me conscious and her not?  What if the situations were reversed?  What if...  I were just as spaced-out as she is, and she was totally conscious?  Would people be—"

His hand slipped around mine.  "But you're not, Meredith.  You're conscious and alive and beautiful and—"

"What if there was an accident," I said, my voice bitter.  "What if something were to happen.  A...  A car crash.  Or maybe I just trip on a shoelace.  Now I'm brain-dead, now I'm a vegetable."  I looked at him.  "Would people treat me like they treat her?"

His face showed a cascade of emotions: confusion, love, doubt, sympathy, empathy.  His hand tightened on mine.  Finally he said:  "Not if I have anything to do with it."

Somehow it wasn't reassuring.  But somehow I knew there was no better answer either.

Because it was Thursday, the school was selling slices of local pizza out of the ticket windows of the gym; on our way there, we passed Stasya, Gavin and Jeff at their usual place on one of the benches near the gym; they waved to us and we waved back.  On the way back, I said, "...Brandon, I...  Would it be...  Okay if I ate with Stasya today?"

"Mind if I join you," he asked immediately, as I knew he would.  He'd follow me anywhere.  He's a bit predictable like that.  Which was why I had asked.  The group that had gathered at Stetsen...  It was all his.  All of us were outsiders in some way or another, with the possible exceptions of Zach and Sajel—those two and Brandon are the core, the nucleus, and everyone else is attached to one of them.  And, for the most part, the person everyone is attached to, is Brandon.  Arie's there because of him (and also Derek, since he's there for her), I'm there because of him, Jane's there because of him...  The only one who's escaped it is Christa.  What I was asking was whether he needed me at Stetsen for some reason or another.  Where he goes, I follow.

"Hi, guys, got room for two more," I asked Stasya.  And she smiled and gestured and said, "Siddown," and we did.

For a short while it was just a lot of introductions.  Stasya and I had been friends for a long time, but Violet had gone off to other friends and other pastures.  That left Jeff, whom I had never known all that well, and Gavin, who I knew even less.  And let's not even talk about Erica.  Brandon was completely lost.  There was a lot of catching up ("You were in The Program last week, weren't you?") and random connections-building ("Oh, Ms. Travers?  I had her last year."), which is the human equivalent of smelling each other's behinds, and by the time we were done, everyone was happily acquainted.

Stasya, Gavin and Erica had been part of the sophomore contingent for last week's Program, and Jeff was in it now; we spent some time trading reminiscences and commentary.  My friends were especially interested in Brandon's point of view: how had The Program changed since he went through it in September?  What did he think of these changes?  Brandon just shook his head, bemused.  "I'm not all that different from you guys.  I just happened to go first."

"You are the oldest one here," Jeff offered diplomatically.  "All of us are sophomores.  Or should be," he amended, referring to my skipped grade.

"And you went first, which was a high-pressure situation," Stasya said.

"Not to mention Arie," I added.

"Well..." said Brandon.  "When you put it that way...  Yeah, I guess I am different.  But I don't think that makes me, like, a hero or something.  They're learning from everybody, not just me."

"Yeah, and how many other people gave a speech about what The Program actually means," I retorted, elbowing him.

He colored nicely.  "You're just not gonna let that go, are you."

"Wait, what?" said Gavin.  "Brandon made a speech?  Like, in public?  How come I never heard about this?"

"I don't remember any assemblies during that week of school..." Erica said.

Brandon's face was now an astonishing shade of red.  "It's not like that, guys."

"What exactly happened, then?" Jeff asked.  Next to him, Stasya grinned.  She knew—of course she knew; she'd heard from me.  But she wanted to see everybody's reactions.

"No," said Brandon.  "I'm not saying another word."

"I'll say it," I said broadly.

"Ugh," Brandon sighed, but I knew he was just playing around.  He's modest to a fault sometimes.  That was something incredible, what he did, and he should be proud of it.

"He got up in English class on Wednesday and asked for relief," I explained, "and nobody volunteered to help him."  Gavin's and Erica's eyes popped open in simultaneous surprise.  "So Brandon turns it on its head: he says that everyone else is being derelict in their Program duties.  He might have been actually naked, but if the definition of The Program is 'to get used to the naked people's sexualities,' then he was the only one doing the job right."

"You make it sound like I was accusing them," Brandon protested.  "I was just pointing out an inconsistency in everyone's thinking."

"It's a good point," said Jeff.  "I mean, so much attention goes to the naked people, but what about everyone around them?  We don't pay attention to them very much at all."

"Evidently," I said, the finishing stroke, "Dr. Zelvetti is considering reforming The Program next year in light of what Brandon said."

Stasya frowned, concentrating.  "I could see that happening."

Gavin grinned.  "What, are they going to call it the Brandon Chambers Naked In School Program?"

"God forbid," Brandon said.  "They'd probably make me go naked the whole year."

"I think somebody might like that," Gavin said, innocently, at the same time I said, "I might like that."

We looked at each other, grinning.

"Right," said Brandon, his face in his hands, "I'm never letting you two talk to each other again."

"Aww," said Stasya.  "Don't worry, Brandon.  I'm sure you'll learn to love it."

"It's got it's advantages," Erica offered.  "Like, everyone couldn't wait to get used to my sexuality."  She shook her head.  "I couldn't ever tell what anybody wanted from me.  Maybe they wanted to talk.  More likely they wanted to feel me up, or yell at me for being a slut.  At least you've got only one person feeling you up."

"Holy shit," I said involuntarily, the words startled out of me by what I'd just seen.

"Why, am I that abhorrent to feel up," Brandon asked, a quirky smile on his face.

"It's Michael," I said, pointing at my brother's retreating back.  "Where's he going?"

Brandon squinted.

"Where?" Stasya said, looking around frantically.

"Well, that direction leads out of campus," Gavin said.  "—Pretty obviously."

"Yeah, but...  We know where he's going, but where is he going?" I said.

"Uh," said Erica.  "Sorry, I'm just a sophomore, that didn't make any sense to me."

Michael had crossed the gate that marked the definitive edge of school property; now he was crossing the street.  I had no idea where he was headed.  I was pretty sure he didn't have any friends who had cars; he himself didn't have one, since our mother dropped us off if Brandon didn't first...  And the simple fact was that it was a closed campus.  We were surrounded by residential areas on all sides, there was nothing nearby, and we weren't allowed off-campus during school hours.  But Michael had long showed an unhealthy disrespect for rules.

I got to my feet.  "I'm following him."

"What!" said Stasya.  "Meredith, you'll get in trouble."

"Why, where's he going," Erica asked, still totally confused.

"Brandon, can you cover for me," I said to him.

"No," he said, standing up.  "Because I'm going with you."

"Oh, God, not two of them," Gavin said.

"Brandon, you'll get in trouble," I said to him.

"So will you," he said.

"So?" I said.  "My family.  My risks."

"What's important to you is important to me," he said, his hand latched onto mine.  "For worse, too, remember, not just the better."

"You're totally—"

"I'm totally serious about this," he said, completing the statement for me.  "You're not going anywhere without me."

"If you're gonna go," Jeff said, "it'd better be now, before he takes a crossing street and you lose him."

Brandon and I looked at each other, and all I could think of, was: How insane is he, to be risking suspension and a permanent mark on his record, to go chase my brother?  And how insane am I, to be thinking of turning him down?

As we crossed the street, heading out of school, I suddenly remembered: "My clothes!  I'm not wearing anything!"

"We don't have time to go all the way back for them," he said.

"I know, but—" I said.

He didn't stop walking.  He just took off his shirt and handed it to me.  At first I thought he was volunteering it for my use, and I started to protest—that would only look even weirder.  But he didn't stop there.  It was harder for him to take his pants off since he was still wearing shoes, and his underwear was the worst of all; but in a moment he took his shirt back from me and stuffed the whole package into his backpack.  Then he stood, looking at me with an expectant air on his face, as if to say, Well, shall we go?

It was all I could do not to start crying.

"No," I whispered, slinking near him as we walked.  "Let's go home.  And I'll...  Thank you...  All night long."

He chuckled.  "And you're worried about getting in trouble for following your brother."

Michael was about a full block ahead of us; we considered closing the distance, but decided not to, since he might notice us.  But we walked fast, and gradually gained a little on him.  After a few minutes, we realized how pointless any precautions were; Michael wasn't checking behind him by any means.  His own thoughts seemed to have his entire attention.  He walked along with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground.

"D'you think he knows where he's going," I whispered to Brandon.

"I hope so," Brandon said.  "I'd hate to follow him around for hours.  People have been looking at us."

Michael himself wasn't particularly attracting attention—a single man, old enough to look like a college student, was not worthy of comment—but we were.  The folks watering their lawns at this hour were mostly older and retired; it was barely one in the afternoon, after all.  Either that, or mothers with young children.  The responses were, to my surprise, mixed; I had expected censure on all fronts, but some of the mothers—and some of the grandparents—smiled broadly at us, a young couple clearly in love, and bade us good day.  Only the children were predictable: "Mommy, that man doesn't have any clothes on," in a wide-eyed whisper.  Or, sometimes, "Mommy, why does that girl have hair on her, you know, her private place?"  The particular mother looked quite dismayed at the prospect of answering.  Brandon, of course, blushed when one of the older women gave him an outrageous wink: "Lookin' good, junior!"  I just grinned.

When we had walked for nearly half an hour, Brandon said, "Where do you think he's going?"

"I don't know," I said.  "If I did, do you think I'd be following him?"

"Where do you think he's going?" Brandon said, letting my rancor slide off him.

For a long time, I said nothing.

"Somewhere bad," Brandon said.  It wasn't really a question.

"Yeah," I said.  "Yeah.  I know we were all saying to—to, you know, trust him more and not just look at first impressions, but—"  I sighed.  "It's not that easy."

"I'm not sure I could trust him if my life depended on it," Brandon offered.

I shook my head.  How did my brother get to be this untrustworthy person?  What exactly went wrong in his upbringing, in his personality, in his...  Whatever?  What was the turning factor that made him all different, that somehow hadn't also infected me?  So many of the things in our lives had been the same: the friends, the parents, the lessons, the teachers...  What made him different from me?

...How could we not be identical?

No.  I shoved the thought away.  Of course he was different from me.  I hadn't ended up like he had.  I have friends who love me, parents who trust me; I have a boyfriend who could also be a husband.  I have good grades.  I have possibilities.  I have a future.

And I'm not going to give it all up like my brother did.

"What are you thinking," my future asked as he walked beside me.

"I was wondering why I even let you come along," I said.  "How could I be stupid enough to take you into danger, where you might be hurt?"

"How could I be stupid enough to let you go into danger alone, where you might be hurt?" he countered.

"But if I have to go, I want you to be safe," I said.

"But if you have to go, I want you to be safe," he said.

I blinked at him.  "We seem to be at an impasse."

"Exactly.  So I like my solution better," he said.  "This way we're both at risk, meaning we have an extra incentive to come through okay.  And if anything happens, two heads are better than one."

I shook my head.  "Maybe we should've just stayed home."

He gave me a smile and an ostentatious eye-roll, and we walked along in silence again.

Presently he said, "...All this 'At risk' stuff.  You aren't...  You aren't really expecting that to happen...  Are you?"

"I don't know what to expect!"  That came out a little more plaintively than I had intended.  "I don't know what to expect.  But, my brother..."

I could see I didn't need to finish the sentence.

"You want to be prepared," Brandon said quietly.

"I'm scared," I said, and this time it was just as desperate-sounding as I had meant it to.

We walked for a full hour; we'd be lucky to make it back in time for choir practice, that was sure.  Michael didn't look behind him once.  He led us out of the residential areas and into the downtown area of Mount Hill, through bustling mid-day traffic.  Timing the crosswalks was difficult, but we managed not to lose him, aided by the fact that he walked mostly in a totally straight line.  Eventually we looked around ourselves and said, "Wait, isn't this Whitehill University?"

The person who met Michael on-campus, we didn't recognize, but the two seemed to know each other; the stranger put his arm around Michael's shoulders and they strolled off together.  He was a unique-looking individual—aside from some radical hairstyling in the form of a mohawk formed into long, radiating spikes painted bright green, he wore total black, except for a combat-camouflage jacket, and had about a thousand patches safety-pinned onto his backpack, mostly for heavy-metal bands.  He was tall and lanky, with a strangely emaciated air to him.

This fellow was security-conscious; he looked around him as he led Michael away.  I'm not sure why he didn't see us; we were standing around doing nothing, pretty conspicuously naked.  But he simply led Michael away.

"Oh-kay..." said Brandon.  "So, uhm.  I guess we know that Michael has friends in college.  So what?  That's possible.  Stasya has friends who are a grade older than her.  Hell, Stasya has a boyfriend out here somewhere."

"Yeah, but why's he meeting them during school time," I said.  "Why couldn't he just arrange an after-school meeting and get Mom to drive him over?  Why's he just brazenly walking out of school like this?"

"This is Michael we're talking about, who knows why he does anything," Brandon said.

"Excuse me," someone said behind us.  "Are you new to the Naked in College program?  I don't believe I saw you at the meeting."

We turned.  It was a woman, presumably some years older than us though it was impossible to tell, just as naked as we were.  (No wonder Michael's mohawked friend hadn't batted us an eye.)  She was...  Well, large—that's the only word for it.  She was a couple inches shorter than I, and probably twice as heavy, with almost no definition in her hips and large, pendulous breasts.  But it didn't seem to bother her.  She had a pleasant, open face and long dark hair.

"Oh," she said, her face falling.  "I don't believe I've seen you at all."  She stepped forward, extending her hand, a smile blooming across her face.  "Hi, I'm Kelly Lybrand."

Before I could say anything, Brandon shook it.  "Brandon Chambers."  Which left me no choice but to step forward—reluctantly—and likewise introduce myself: "Meredith Levine."

"Don't worry, you're not in trouble or anything," Kelly said, that broad smile on her face.  "It's just that because The Program is voluntary here, we like to keep track of who's doing it and who isn't.  We don't have school sponsoring like some of the other clubs do, though we're trying to get the word out.  Did Christina Lopez talk to you?"

I glanced at Brandon, not sure how to explain our status, but Brandon said smoothly, "Yeah, she did.  It sounded interesting, the way she put it."

"Yeah, it would," Kelly said, laughing.  "Unfortunately all of that relief stuff or the teacher aid stuff only happens with professors who have affiliated themselves with The Program, though we've got quite a few of them, and some pretty crazy stuff has happened.  Mostly with Christina involved."  She rolled her eyes.  "I swear, that girl.  And she's got a boyfriend and everything.  But he doesn't mind, and everyone in the classes seem to like what she starts, so..."

"I had a lot of trouble believing that myself, let me tell you," Brandon said, grinning, effortlessly sliding through the encounter.  I personally was expecting to be unmasked and escorted off-campus at any moment—and here he was, totally unconcerned, a college student making a new friend.  Who happened to be naked.  Where did he learn to be such a good actor? "When she told me about the, you know, the time when she and that one guy..."

"Oh, God," Kelly said, laughing, "she told you about that one?  No wonder you got interested!—"

The conversation—especially with Kelly's full, uninhibited laugh—was collecting quite a bit of passerby attention, and over Kelly's shoulder I saw one person I definitely did recognize.  "Excuse me," I said, and left.

Nota bene: running while naked, even with breasts as small as mine, leads to a certain amount of painful bouncing around.

"Caleb!" I said.

"Heeeey," Caleb said, a smile splitting his features.  He had taken to wearing that ridiculous half-formed beard and mustache, but his smile lit his eyes and he extended his hand.  "I'm sorry, I've totally forgotten your name, but I know I've seen you somewhere—"

"Meredith," I said, "Meredith Levine.  I'm one of Stasya's friends."

"Oh, that's right," Caleb said.  "You and...  What's his name?  You guys came with Stasya to one of the dance parties last month."

"Yeah, that's right," I said.  Caleb and Stasya met at the ballroom-dancing studio they both attend.  I've gotten some experience with it—predictable, since I'm the one who Stas most frequently drags along if she needs moral support—and we brought Brandon once.

"What can I do for ya," he asked.  "It must be important for you guys to be out of class like this."  He'd gone to Mount Hill, same as us, and graduated when Brandon and I were freshmen.

"Yeah, kind of," I said.  "Caleb, what can you tell me about..."

In as sparse detail as possible, I described the situation with Michael.  I didn't like admitting how screwed-up he'd managed to get, but it was necessary, and, as Derek says it, you can't argue with necessity.  While I hedged around everything else, I made it clear that Michael had dabbled in foreign substances, that he'd gotten busted for it, and now he was back.  In more detail I described the fellow I'd seen him meet.  It didn't take long.

"Oh, him," Caleb said.  "Yeah, he's...  Well, he's an Art major, like I am; you're lucky about that, or I might not have recognized him.  I think...  Well, it's not exactly a secret that he's involved in...  'Foreign substances,' as you called it...  Which was what you were trying to find out, I suppose."

"Yeah," I said, looking at the ground, feeling my stomach sinking.  "Yeah."

He must have seen it on my face, because he said, "This is not good news."  Actually, he didn't need my face to know that.

"Yeah," I said.  "Yeah."

"Well," Caleb said, "if you ever need help with...  This situation...  Like, if you need assistance on this side of things...  Ask Stasya to put you in touch with me, I'll help you out."

Suddenly I noticed the expression on his face.  "Thank you," I said.  "I will."

Caleb provided us with a bus schedule (he didn't drive, despite his advanced age) so that we could get back to school in time for seventh period, at the very least.  As we walked to the bus stop, I asked Brandon, "So, how was your conversation with that lady?  Kelly, I think her name was."

"It was interesting," Brandon said, smiling.  "They run The Program really differently here, but they've had some good ideas for how to adapt it.  I bet Dr. Zelvetti would be interested in talking to them."

"Mmm," I said.

I know he looked at me; he must have seen that my heart wasn't in it.  "And how are you," he asked.

Me?  That's a good question.  I'm tired.  I'm sad.  I can see it all unraveling again.

"It's...  What I expected," I said.  "The person he talked to is also...  Into recreational..."  I swallowed."  Drug use."

"That's not necessarily a smoking gun, you know," Brandon said.

A smoking gun.  Will a smoking bong do?

"I know," I said. "I know."

He dug his clothes out of his backpack and spread them on the bench of the bus, and we sat on them.  I felt his eyes on me like the glare of sunlight.  The bus lurched, the engine roaring.

"But..." he said, clearly having heard the things I had left unspoken.

"But..." I said.  "I think we'll find one."

He said nothing.

"And...  I'm so...  Tired," I said.

I felt his love for me like rain on the parched earth, and his arms enfolded me, drawing me close.  Around us I could feel the eyes of curious passengers.

And though I felt him and was comforted by him, I knew that this salve was only temporary.  The tiredness remained.  Something would need to be done.

About Michael.

"All I wanted was a family," I said to Brandon.  And, sadly, he didn't have an answer for me; and the bus lurched and roared, leaving my words behind us on the sidewalk.

Th.3

Since I was frantically busy before school, I didn't get a chance to talk to Jenny, so I hunted her down during lunch.  It wasn't too hard; we know where the other hangs out.  She'd spent a lot of the week with me, but normally she's with Trevor, or her best friend Tiffany, or both.  But she wasn't this time.

"Heeeey, Derek!  How's it goin, how're they hangin, huh? huh?"

"Hi Derek, look who's here!"

"Hi Jenny.  Hi Michael."

Hi, my name's Derek Strong, and I think the universe hates me.

"Hey, what happened at recess," Jenny asked me.  "I only heard about it from Shauna Pinkham: something about a commotion involving you and this fellow over here."  She indicated Michael with a toss of her head.  "But he's being real tight-lipped about it."

"There's nothing to say," Michael said, his demeanor suddenly sullen.

"Really," Jenny said pleasantly.

"I'm not sayin anything," Michael said stiffly.

"It was Faith," I announced.  "People were ganging up on her again."

"Like yesterday?" Jenny said, her eyes wide.

"Like yesterday," I said.

"What was Michael doing?" Jenny asked.

"Well, he blew the whistle on them," I said blankly.

"Oh," said Jenny, and then: "Oh!" said Jenny, glancing at the silver whistle hanging from my neck and realizing the analogy.  "Well, that's good to know."

"It is," I said conversationally.  "It's good to know who you can count on."

"I'm just glad he wasn't one of the people doing all that grabbing," Jenny said.  "I mean, that was just awful."

Michael's face had been turning progressively darker as the conversation went on, and now he broke away from us, saying: "I gotta go.  I'll see you guys later."  A moment later, he was lost in the crowd.

Jenny blinked after him.  "What was all that about?"

"Like you're sorry to see him gone," I said.

"Actually, yes, he's quite good company," Jenny said.

"He couldn't be good company if his life depended on it," I retorted.

"Oh, God," Jenny said.  "Not this again.  Can't you give the guy a chance?"

"Look," I said.  "I'm really tired, I got like two hours of sleep last night, and he was one of the guys fondling Faith.  I just don't trust him.  And if it's okay with you, I'm going to keep distrusting him until he proves, to my satisfaction, that he is trustworthy.  Is that okay with you??"

Jenny looked at me soundlessly.

"Fuck," I said, flinging myself down on the pavement.  "I should just keep my mouth shut from now on.  Fuck."

Jenny looked at me soundlessly.

"What were you guys talking about," I said.

"Trevor," Jenny said.

My heart almost jumped out of my chest.

"Don't give me that look," Jenny said, crossing her arms across her chest.  "Just because you can't stand him doesn't mean I can't.  As a matter of fact, I think he's a very good listener and a clever conversational partner.  He had a lot of good ideas on how to deal with Trevor and bring him around."

"Oh, right, what, like, getting him drunk," I retorted.

"No, actually," said Jenny.  "He said that's what I should do.  It'd help give me confidence.  After all, that's what alcohol's really all about.  It makes people less nervous about doing things."  She blinked at me.  "Don't give me that look.  It's a perfectly reasonable idea."  She smiled brightly.  "Besides, he says that drunk girls are a total turn-on, so I can tell Trevor after we've had some really hot sex.  And guys are always mellow after sex."

I stared at her.  Unfortunately, it was kind of a good idea.  If also a really stupid one.  Aside from the logistics of obtaining alcohol—our parents didn't drink, though undoubtedly Jenny had a friend somewhere whose parents did—the whole approach seemed to suggest that the situation was so difficult that only drastic measures could possibly resolve it.  I didn't like Jenny thinking that way.  It seemed simple to me: she just had to go up to Trevor and explain.

"Any other brilliant suggestions," I said.

"He said that blackmail works well," Jenny said.

"Black—  You're—  Wait.  You're going to blackmail him into...  What?  Accepting the fact that you're pregnant?"

"Well, actually, he was kind of vague on that part," Jenny said.  "But he came up with a lot of good ideas of how to get him into situations where I could blackmail him!  Like, he said that I should—ooh, you'll like this one, it involves you: I'll send him up to my room for something and you'll act like you're trying to push one of my vibrators into your pants.  When he tries to stop you, we'll take pictures, and—"

"No, thank you, that's really okay, thanks," I said.

"It'll be fun," Jenny said, grinning.

"So, let me get this straight.  You're going to put him into a compromising situation, and then use it to—  Jenny, what the hell's gotten into you?  He'll never talk to you again!  I thought you were planning to go to college together next year!"

Jenny blinked at me a few times.

She sighed.  "Well.  It was fun to think about, at least."

"And you wonder why I object to you talking to Michael," I said.

"Look," she said.  "You may not like him.  And that's fine.  But this is the first time I've laughed since...  God, since like forever."

"Oh, right," I said, frosty, "and all the times my friends have made you laugh this week don't count for anything."

Jenny looked at me.  "Derek, do you have to be so touchy about everything?"

"How is it touchy to demand a bit of respect," I said.

Jenny's eyes squeezed closed, and she shook her head.  "Look, I'll talk to you after school.  See you later."  And with that, she walked off.

For a few moments I just sat there, seriously contemplating checking into the nurse's office and asking to use her cot to nap for the rest of the day.  I could tell her I was sick.  I could fake a cough or a sniffle or something.  I could tell her the truth: that functioning on four hours of sleep is a damn stupid idea.  Or maybe I could just sneak in while she wasn't looking, and by the time she saw me sprawled out on the cot, I'd already be snoring.

Arie asked me once if I ever felt a need to just get away from it all, and I said, "Sure.  I mean, you know, sometimes it's nice to just hide in your room and—"  "No," Arie said, "that's not what I meant.  I mean when you want to get away from everything.  From your room, from the world, from...  Everything."

And I said, "No," and worried about what her life was like if she ever felt like that.  I hadn't been able to imagine being so tired and frustrated and angry that I would simply and totally want to get away.

I hadn't been able to.

Instead of going to my room, or going away, or disappearing, I went to class.  Because I'm not in that much trouble yet.

Ask me tomorrow.

Th.4

There are always people who know things we don't.  And, when we need help, we ask those people, because sometimes we don't have the tools we need to deal with problems.  Like, if my computer breaks, I call Brandon—since a certain someone is evidently off-limits to me.  Brandon can't strip down and rebuilt a computer like that certain someone, but at least he can tell me what some of the error messages mean.

But this time it wasn't hardware.

Brandon and Meredith were nowhere in sight during lunch, and of course Derek wasn't around either.  It was just Zach and Christa and Sajel, and I didn't feel like talking to them; I don't think any of them take me seriously.  I don't think any of them know how to take me seriously.  I mean, how do you talk to somebody about being Arie Chang, the girl with the cuts on her arm, when they've never even needed therapy before?

So I did what I used to do, back before I met Brandon: I went to the computer lab and hung around on the Internet.

And boy, was that a mistake.  And it was a mistake for one very simple reason, a reason I like to call, The Devil Incarnate.  By which I mean, Trina.

I had barely settled into my chair when somebody hissed behind me—"What are you doing here?"—and when I turned, you can guess who I saw.

"This isn't your private domain," I said.  "I can come here if I want."

"Go to another lab," Trina hissed.

"Why," I said, confused, "I like this one."

"Go," Trina gritted.

I blinked at her.  What on earth had brought this about?  For once I wasn't feeling defensive.  I didn't get angry, I didn't snap back, I just refused.  "No, I'm not going to.  I'm sorry if you don't like my being here, Trina, but...  Well, if you're able to stand me sitting twenty feet away when we're at home, why can't you do that here?"

Trina made a subvocal snarl and stalked away.  I stared after her in confusion.

"Well," I said to myself.  "Far be it for me to understand the wiles of the feminine mind."

But, of course, Trina was determined to make my life a living hell for the criminal audacity of intruding on her private sanctuary.  Not five minutes later a new post came up on the bitch&moan sub-board: Flicker, predictably, cursing about her pathetic loser of an older sister, predictably.  Besides the typical O she's stupid thing and the more recent I can't believe she dumped her boyfriend, life is so unfair thing, now there was more stuff about how I was supposedly following her around and trying to make her life miserable.

I ignored it.  I mean, there wasn't anything to say.  It's a free country, I have rights, the computer labs are open to everyone, and it's not like Trina has a restraining order out on me.  I can go where I please.  And the radicals are starting to slow down with the more moderate mindset pervading the country.  In history class, they tell me that, back before gay marriage was legal, there used to be groups advocating that, because they found it immoral, no one should be allowed to do it.  Which was basically what Trina was saying to me.  I find you annoying, so I should have the power to make you stay away from me.  Amusingly enough, I found my own thoughts paralleling those of the more moderate right, and the prevailing attitudes today: If you find me offensive to look on, look somewhere else.

My God, I thought with a dim trace of amusement, I'm turning political.

When posts by Flicker started appearing in threads I'd posted in, though, defaming me for all to see, it started to be hard to look somewhere else.  Mostly they consisted of irrelevant personal attacks: "Why would you listn to hre she had th eperfect boyfreind and she DUPMDE him" and stuff like that.  Now I was starting to get angry.  There are rules at Candlelight about being polite to people, and I follow them at Candlelight because I want to be a part of the group.  The people I am supposed to be polite to, unfortunately, includes Trina.  But her actions amounted to deliberately following me around trying to annoy me.  Which I had never—  Oh, scratch that, no, Trina's original post asserted that I " must have shwoed up jst to annoy" her.  Because, God only knows I totally have nothing better to do than just follow her around.

The reaction from the other board denizens was overwhelmingly disapproving.  Mostly because of Trina's blood-relationship with me, but also because of a number of other in-real-life friends were now interacting on the Candlelight boards, a set of regulations had sprung up to supplement the general 'be polite' rule, regarding those board members who knew each other by face.  The policy was, very simply, 'Take it to e-mail'—discuss it privately, in other words, with either the person you had a grievance with, or with friends you trust to keep a secret.  Mostly, Sara feared what was basically happening now: two people trying to polarize the board against each other.  This could rapidly degenerate into a flame war.  The rules were strict: Sara and the other moderators would delete any such posts on sight, and if necessary use admin privileges to revoke the person's posting rights until the matter was settled.  This policy was overwhelmingly approved by most of the board members, and Trina's explosive violation was garnering a lot of admonishment from the board's older, calmer heads—and quite a few of the younger ones as well.

What was even nicer was how many people spoke up, not just against Trina, but in support of me.  It may be a fine distinction, but when someone who thinks you're a whiny, self-absorbed, stuck-up loser (she resents me for being lucky enough to be upper-middle-class, okay?) is willing to admit that at least you're being more virtuous than your opponent, it means something—heck, arguably, it was the highest praise I received.  It was good to know that people had noticed my dignity and deportment in this situation.  And I wouldn't be human if there wasn't a rather malicious delight involved: See?  See how I can fight my battles without rolling in the mud like a pig?

But the problem was, none of the mods were around right now—the only person who could delete Trina's posts, at present, was Trina herself, since she had made them.  The standard response was ruled out.  Other than that, the most anybody could do was, essentially, wag their finger at Flicker and say "Naughty naughty naughty."  And clearly, Trina didn't give a damn at this point.  We could all talk a lot, but nothing could be done—and while Trina's posts still stood, her actions still held power.

She came to stand behind me; I felt nauseating, sickly body heat.  Her breath grated against my neck.  "There.  You like that, bitch?"

What I'd really like, sister dear, is to fix my arms around your neck and give you a nice big hug.  A really tight hug.  One that gets tighter and tighter and...

"Answer me, bitch," Trina hissed.  "You like that?"

I focused on nonchalance and kept one hand on the keyboard, another on the mouse—fearful of what would happen if either one left contact with the computer.

Then there was a percussive impact on the back of my head, and I went face-first into the keyboard.  The tray of keys rattled.  The computer honked at the random discharge of keystrokes.  My face stung.  "Ow!"

I could hear the instant cessation of keyboard clatter, feel a dozen eyes on me.  The room monitor said, "Arie?  Are you alright?"

Without having to look, I knew that Trina was back in her seat halfway across the room.  I don't know how that girl can move so fast.

In the bathroom, I inspected my face.  I half expected a staggered checkerboard pattern from the keys, but there was no permanent damage that I could see, or even cosmetic.  What had gotten me was the surprise of it all: Trina's rather literally back-stabbing attack that had sent my head flying.  She uses physical force—sometimes—never when anybody else can see.  At least, not until now.  And she's very good at that whole wide-eyed-innocent routine, which is why I didn't even bother explaining what had happened to the room monitor.  They wouldn't have believed me.  Trina bounds and smiles, she's a small girl; no one expects sudden, explosive violence out of her.  No one would credit it unless they saw it.  And Trina's way too smart to let anyone see it.

What do you do when your enemy won't play by the rules, and you are—  Well, fuck.  And you're too stupid to be able to fight back without getting in trouble?

You ask your friends.  You call Meredith.

"She did, did she," Meredith said when I explained the problem.  School had just let out, and Brandon and I had come straight from Chemistry to find her.  We didn't have much time to talk before choir practice started.  "That's...  Quite a novel response from her."

"And she does this often?" Brandon asked, blinking at me.

"Not often," I said.  "Not often enough that people catch on."

"Of course not," Meredith said.  "She's very careful.  When she breaks the rules, she breaks them in a way that is completely outrageous—so over-the-top that nobody would ever believe it."

"That's not what all the posting on the web-board sounds like," Brandon said.

"She doesn't care about what people believe of her there," I said, "because it doesn't matter.  Nobody can stop her."

"Yeah, but she stands to lose respect," Brandon said.

"She doesn't want respect," I said.  "There are groups on Candlelight that don't care about authority.  Those are the groups she wants to be part of.  And by deliberately breaking the rules, she becomes a hero.  On the other hand, most of the boards do follow the rules—"

"But she doesn't like them anyway," Brandon said, catching on, "so what does she care if she offends them."

"And your question is...?" Meredith said to me.

"How do I deal with her," I said.  "She doesn't care about breaking the rules, so I can't use them to fight her."

"Then forget authority," Brandon suggested.  "Fight fire with fire."

"I don't know how," I said.  "She uses her own rules, and I don't know what they are."

"Well, pretty obviously, they include a disregard for other people's rules..." said Meredith.

"If I tried to break other people's rules, I'd get caught," I said.

"The use of physical violence is not ruled out at all..." Meredith said, ticking off on her fingers.

"The problem is, she doesn't care about anything," I said.

Meredith and Brandon looked at me.

"She treats anyone and everyone like they're shit," I said.  "If there's something she's supposed to do, to—you know, because it's polite or because it's what you do to avoid conflict...  She doesn't do it.  But it's not like she's bucking convention just to be a rebel, she isn't...  She doesn't break rules to be breaking them, she breaks them because they get in her way."

"The only thing that matters to her is winning," said Brandon.

"She doesn't care what she loses," Meredith said.

"That's a really bad position to be against," Brandon said.  "If you're fighting someone with nothing to lose, there's no way they can't win."

"...What?" I said, totally mystified.

"What if you had nothing to lose," Brandon said.  "How could you lose it?  All conflict has a single goal—to take something from the other person.  Trina doesn't care if you take things away from her, because she doesn't value them.  There's nothing for you to win from her.  So, there's no way you can win."

"Except that she does have things to lose," Meredith said, just when I was starting to think this was hopeless.  "She just doesn't realize it.  Her computer privileges, for instance."

"She could live without them," I said bleakly.

"Yes, she could, but she wouldn't want to," Meredith said.

"She wouldn't care," I said.  "She'd still have her friends here at school to whine to."

"There's another thing she can lose," Meredith said.

"So...  You're saying I should turn her friends against her," I asked.

"Nonsense," Meredith said.  "I'm just pointing out that the situation isn't the utter disaster Brandon makes it look like."

"Of course it's a disaster," Brandon said pleasantly.  "It's going to end in ruin.  Like a Shakespearian tragedy."

"Involving barbarians," I said humorlessly, remembering the conversation on Wednenday morning.

"You are all going to die," Brandon leered, his voice an alarmingly sinister basso.  "Slowly...  And.  Painfully."

Meredith and I stared at him, our mouths gaping open.

"Right, well," I said.  "That's just very reassuring."

"He's very good at that," Meredith said faintly, her eyes as large as saucers.

Brandon beamed, inordinately pleased with himself.

"Okay, so, Trina," I said.  "Conversation back on track.  Trina."

"Yeah," said Meredith, tearing her gaze away from Brandon with an effort.  "Trina.  Okay."  She heaved a breath.

"The whole point of fighting," she said, "is to—"

"Hey guys," Zach said suddenly, bobbing into our midst.  Christa hovered behind him.  "Sorry to bother you, but Christa's got a question and then she's got to run to orchestra—  Well, I guess you'd know about that.  Uh.  Well.  Am I interrupting anything, or—"

"No, go for it," Meredith said.  "If it's quick.  We've got to get to choir too."

"Yeah, it's quick," Zach said.  "Uh, Brandon, uh.  Is it okay if we—by 'we' I mean Christa and I—is it okay if we come to your house after school?  We, um.  We've been looking for, uh.  Some privacy, to.  Uh.  You know.  To, uh—"

Meredith was smiling at his clear discomfiture—Zach hadn't yet turned red, but he seemed about five inches from it.  But Brandon said, "I'm sorry, Zach, but, I can't.  My parents—"

"Oh, oh yeah!" said Zach.  "Shit, I totally forgot about them.  It's totally cool, man—"

"They're not even okay with me and Meredith doing stuff, they'd go crazy if you were to show up—"

"Naw, I get it," Zach said.  "It's cool.  Sorry, man, didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," Brandon said, "normally I'd say yes in an instant, but, they kinda..."

"Yeah, man..." said Zach.

There was a moment of silence as their momentum wound down.

"Well," said Zach.  "I better let you guys get back to talking about...  Whatever you're talking about.  Thanks anyway, man."

"No problem," Brandon said, and Zach and Christa left.

"Have they been like that since yesterday?" he asked Meredith.

"Looks like it," said Meredith.

I had no idea what they had been like, and I wanted my answers.  "So," I said again, "conversation back on track.  Trina."

"Yes, Trina," said Meredith, rousing herself into action.

"Well, first off.  Brandon's kinda right but not exactly right.  When Trina attacks you, it's not really to take something away from you.  The point is, rather, to make it so difficult for you to oppose her that it isn't worth it anymore, and you stop."

"Like, if someone attacks you on the street," Brandon said.  "Some lunatic comes at you with a knife—"

"Trina," I said humorlessly.

"—And tries to kill you," Brandon said.  "Do you kill him?  No, not necessarily.  I mean, you could, but you don't have to.  You just have to make it clear to him—her—that it's not going to be worth the trouble of hurting you."

"And how do I do that," I asked.

"Generally by hurting them more," Brandon said bluntly.  "To the point where they stop and think and say, Why am I even bothering?  This isn't worth the effort.  And then they go away."

"And you're supposed to do that against a man with a knife??" Meredith asked.

"Yes, unless you want him to stab you," Brandon said.

Connections sparked in my mind, and I held up my hand.  "Hold on."  Puzzle pieces clicked into place, spelling out a new answer.  "But that's missing an important point.  What you described—that's how Trina's reacting to me.  She's trying to hurt me so much that I stop attacking her.  But the thing is—when did I start attacking her?  I've been leaving her alone.  I've been just staying out of her way."

"In other words, why is she attacking pre-emptively in the first place," Meredith said.

"Does it matter?" Brandon asked flatly.  "If the man comes at you with a knife, are you gonna stand there and say, 'No, wait, why are you doing this' while he kills you?"

"It does matter," Meredith said.  "Because if we know why she hit first, we know what she's trying to protect."

"Something important to her."  Another flash of insight, a vital connection falling into place, and I added: "Something she can lose."

Meredith nodded.

"But what?" Brandon said.

"You haven't done anything to offend her," Meredith said.  "You haven't said anything publicly that could be taken the wrong way?"

"No," I said, remembering all the people on Candlelight who had stood forward, volunteering evidence of my good conduct: "I took it to e-mail."

"Might Trina have received the contents of those e-mails, either by first- or second-hand?" Brandon asked.

"God, I hope not," I said.  Violetta was my main online confidante, and though she sometimes suggested drawing others into my confidences when they had skills and knowledge that could prove useful, she had never told those people why they were being consulted, merely told them that I, through her, was asking them to contact me.  The thought that she might be betraying me sent a cold shiver down my back.  I liked Violetta.  So, for that matter, did Brandon and Meredith (who had both met her online) (as had...  That other person), and we sometimes joked that she should come cross-country and visit us of a day—we were all sure we'd get along famously.  Well, if push came to shove, I had my own store of her secrets...  Which I knew I'd never use.  I'm just not that kind of person.  But it was reassuring to have them, just in case.

"So if you haven't offended Trina on purpose, you might have offended her on accident," Meredith said.

"—Well—  Yeah," I said.  I mean, duh.  I might also have breathed today.  "But how does that help us?  Now that we've covered all the actions I took that have to do with her, now we have to cover every action I've taken ever??  This is gonna take a little while."

"No, I didn't say we'd figure it out," Meredith said.  "If it's that, then...  You'll just have to ask Trina yourself."

Uh-huh.

"Gee," I said, "can we say, Marching into the lion's den?"

"Marchingintothelion'sden," Brandon said brightly.

We both looked at him.

"So, anyway," I said to Meredith.  "Marching into the lion's den.  Without weapons.  And wearing lots of pieces of steak."

"So, what, are you saying she won't tell you?" Meredith said.

"No," I said, "she probably will.  But it'll be hard."

"So what?" said Brandon again.  "Arie, the man's coming with the knife.  He intends to kill you.  Yeah, it's gonna be hard to stop him.  But does that mean you're gonna lie down and let him do it?"

They looked at me, calm twin stares, and I knew what the answer was.

The car ride home was like water torture: wanting to move, wanting to flinch, wanting something to happen.  While Mom and Trina sat serenely in the front seats, barely talking, evidently content to let the world scroll past them.  I wanted to jump up and shake them.  Words wanted to spill from my throat: "Somebody do something!  Somebody say something!"  Words, or maybe just my lunch.

I fled up to my room the instant I could.  I didn't think I could do this.  Trina had become such a monster in my head that I wasn't sure I could stand up to her.  And can you blame me?  This girl was able to march into my life at whim and send everything toppling, and there was never anything I was able to do about it.  Or, at least, I was never smart or quick enough to do anything useful about it, which is about the same thing.  For her, it was like killing a fly with a nuclear bomb, and I had about the same chance as the fly of escaping.

I slumped at my desk with my head in my hands.  It was hopeless.  Trina was going to destroy me and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

The man with the knife was coming.

Suddenly I could hear Brandon's voice as if he were standing beside me.  So it's gonna be hard.  So what?  Are you gonna lie down and let him kill you?

I stared at my reflection in the unlit computer monitor, in its single shadow-colored eye.

When Trina finally came up to her room, nearly half an hour had passed.  I'd heard her voice and my mother's the whole time; I wondered what half-truths or booby traps she had been planting in my absence.  It didn't matter.  I had to do this no matter what.

When I knocked on Trina's mostly-closed door, she snarled, "Get lost, douchebag."  She knew it was me because my mother doesn't knock on doors.

"Trina," I said, "why are you so angry at me?"

"I said get lost, douchebag," said Trina.

"No," I said, "I'm not going to."  With a sudden flash of inspiration: "I'm going to follow you around and make your life miserable.  Like I always do."

A short snarl was her only response to the sound of my dull irony.

"But!" I added brightly.  "This time I want something from you, Trina."

No response.

"If you give it to me, maybe I'll go away."

A short silence.  And then the door creaked open a little, just enough to allow out my sister's furious face.

"What do you want."

I shrugged.  "Answer the question.  Why are you so angry at me?"

She stared at me, her face frozen.

"I mean...  I've done my best to steer clear of you, because I know you don't like having me around.  And...  If I've offended you on accident, well...  I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to.  I apologize.  But I don't want you to go to war on me like this.  It's already getting ridiculous.  If it's something I've done, well, tell me what it is, and I'll stop doing it.  I don't wanna be your enemy."

Trina stared at me for a long, silent moment.  Then her face took on a smile I didn't like.

"You really think it's that simple," she said.  "You think it's really that simple."

"Should I...  Think otherwise," I asked, scrabbling for purchase.

" 'Should I think otherwise,' " Trina sneered.  She flung the door open, sauntering into her dim room.  "Are you really so mentally incapable as that?  Is it really so hard for you to figure it out?"

"Look, Trina," I said.  "I didn't come here to fight you, so you don't need to be hostile.  Cut it out already.  Just tell me what I need to know."

Trina looked at me, with a glint in her eye that made me nervous.  Her voice was seductive.  "Tell you...  'What you need to know,' eh?"  Her smile could have chilled lava.  "Do you mean that?"

I swallowed a nervous lump in my throat.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I mean that.  Tell me what I need to know."

"All right."  Trina spun dramatically, pacing back and forth.  "Where shall I start, then.  Ohhh, there's so much to say!"

I blinked.

"All right.  First off."  She turned to me.  "That whole suffering saint bit?  Pathetic.  Really is pathetic.  No one buys it, Arie.  We all know where the blame lies."

I said, "...What?"

"And the Innocent schtick isn't cutting it either," Trina said.  "Nobody's fooled by you, don't you get it?"

"Who's fooling," I retorted.  "When have I ever pretended to be anything that I'm not?"

"Roll up your sleeves," said Trina.

"What?" I said.

"Roll up your fucking sleeves!"

I gave her a sidelong glance and pulled at my sleeves.  My scars began to itch when they felt the open air.

"So, tell me, O Innocent Sister Who Wears Everything On Her Sleeve," said Trina, her voice laconic.  "What's with the long sleeves?  It's getting on towards summer: can't you wear T-shirts or tank tops like the rest of us?"  Now there was a sneer in her voice, and singsong mockery.  "Whatcha hiding?  You haven't got anything to be ashamed of, have you?"

I fought the urge to scratch my arms.  "What I do with my arms is my business and mine alone."

"You're missing the point," said Trina in a voice like acid.  "Of course it's your business, but what do you do?"

"So I don't want to deal with the questions," I said, feeling uncomfortable.  "Is that a crime?"

"Oh-h! so there's que-eestions," said Trina.  "Why?  There wouldn't happen to be something you'd like to keep hidden, would there?  Something you'd like to...  Pretend...  Isn't there?"

I heard my own words suddenly, rebounding out of the past: When have I ever pretended to be anything that I'm not?

"You're not normal," Trina hissed, an unknowing echo of my thoughts.  "You're fucked up.  You have scars.  You do weird things that other people don't."

I found refuge in defensiveness.  "So do you."

Trina paused mid-step.  "—Why.  Yes.  Yes, actually.  So do I.  But at least I don't lie about it."

"And that somehow makes it better?" I charged.  "It's somehow okay that everybody looks at you funny because you deserve it?  'Oh, it's no problem that I'm actually in therapy, because I'm so fucked up, I ought to be!' "

Trina froze in place, her face speculative, as if I had suddenly said something interesting.  "Ah, yes.  Therapy.  The vaunted family therapy.  Tell me, Arie.  Is it truly worth the effort?"

"What?" I said.  The floor was dropping out from under me.  "What do you mean?"

"We go in every week...  Over dinner we hear Mother complaining about how much money it costs, and then how much more it costs to eat out that night...  We sit there for an hour and listen to Dr. Moreau's—excuse me, Loren's—soggy proselytizing, and for what?  Nothing changes.  Nothing ever gets better.  Wouldn't it have been easier, dear sister, if we had never gone at all?"

"No," I said stubbornly, clinging to the few signposts I trusted.  "No, we should have gone and we should still go.  It's our only chance at getting better."

Trina's lips curved in a dull smile.  " 'Our only chance at getting better,' " she repeated.

"I wish we didn't have to go."  She seemed to be talking to herself more than anything else.  "I wish things were like they were before.  When I had control over my own life.  When I could decide what was going to happen.  When there weren't a thousand ridiculous rules hedging me in."

She looked at me.  "Do you know when that changed?"

I swallowed past a dry throat.  "No."

"It has to do with somebody going behind my back while I was at a flute lesson," Trina snapped.

My heart hammered.  "Really?"

Trina stalked towards me, a predator with gleaming fangs.  "I came home that night to find my life completely rearranged.  Somebody had revealed my deepest secret.  Those few things in my life that I had managed to get some control over—my cutting, my depression, my purging—were suddenly laid bare for all to see.  Do you know how I felt?"

"Probably...  Probably not so good," I said faintly.  Probably a little like I felt now.

"That night I swallowed a dozen pills," Trina said matter-of-factly.  "I guess it wasn't enough, because I woke up the next day, but I wonder what my liver looks like."

And after school that day she had laughed with me.  Was I truly that blind?  Was it as simple as that?  All my secrets, dumped blindside—because I had dumped hers?

"And do you know why you told them?" Trina said.

"To—"  I grappled blindly for defense.  "Because you needed help.  Because I wanted to—"

"Bullshit," Trina spat.  Her face was inches from mine.  She could kill me at any moment.  She was clearly planning to.  "You told them...  Because you wanted to look good."

The sense of vertigo was so strong that I thought gravity had disappeared.  What was all this?  Where the hell had she come up with all this?  ...Was any of it actually true?

"The failing daughter," Trina said.  "The one with all the hopes riding on her.  You know how they talk.  'Oh, Arie, she's such a nice girl, I can't believe she's wasting herself away like that...'  And then you saw a golden opportunity.  To make yourself look like a saint.  And you took it.  You told them my secrets, our secrets—all our secrets—and they thought you were the Messiah.  And you ruined my life.

"And now...  I'm going to do the same to yours."

"W...  Why?"

"Because I hate you."  She gave me a disturbing smile.  "You're my sister.  What do you expect?"

In my room, I hunched on the bed, staring at the wall with the door closed.  Thousands of things whispered and galloped in my head, a rampant whirlwind.  Trina had said so many things...  But it all amounted to one thing: That I was just the same as her.

My mind rebelled.  No.  No I'm NOT the same as her.  I'm not a huge fucking bitch like her.  I don't do stupid things like her, I don't make stupid mistakes like her.  I don't...  Look for attention, by acting like a little child.  I don't do stupid things like...  Push away the perfect boyfriend because he isn't perfect enough.  I don't...  Do things deliberately to earn my parents' approval, like telling them huge secrets I should have at least talked to my sister about first.  I'm...  not...

Somebody had opened and closed the drawer of my nightstand.  Somebody had taken out the razor blade I keep there.  Somebody had put it in my hand.

I stared at its dull glint.

Who am I?

Red pain, marching in lines across my forearms.

Really...  Who am I?

I stared at what my hands had done while my mind was busy.  Three new scars on each arm—or old ones reopened, burning in the touch of the air.  Six against the tally.  Forty-eight stars, down the drain.

...I'm Arie Chang.

And I need help.

Th.5

It was dark out by the time Meredith arrived—and that's saying something, considering how close we are to summer.  But then, Arie didn't make the call until nearly six PM.  It was another half an hour for me to come and get her, and another half hour while the rest of the gang was summoned and traveled—by phone, by Instant Message, person by person.

"Hey guys, it's Brandon.  Meeting at my house.  ASAP.  ...Arie lost her stars."

I came as soon as I could," Meredith said.  "I'm sorry I'm late."  The porch lights did unflattering things to her hair.  I had been lurking the front door for the last ten minutes as people arrived—I didn't want doorbells alerting my parents to what was going on.  They'd have a fit, it was certain—which, frankly, didn't matter; what Arie needed was more important than what they thought.  What any of my friends needed.  But if I could delay that outburst for even one more second...

"I had to explain to my parents where I was going," Meredith was saying, "and we had to figure out how to explain to Michael why I was—  Whoa?"  Which was when I pulled her into my arms and held on for dear life.

I felt her breath against my neck.  Her hands stroked my back.  The solidness of her warmth was reassuring in a way I couldn't describe.  "It's going to be okay," she murmured, "It's going to be okay."

And then, "It's really hard for you, isn't it?"

"I...  It's like everything's falling apart.  Trina, and Arie and Derek breaking up, and my parents, and your brother, and..."  Sometimes it gripped me at night, and I would stare up at the ceiling, wondering how any of us would ever get through it all.  "It's like the only thing we can count on, is...  Zach and Christa."

"Counting on Zach," said Meredith dryly.  "What's the world coming to."

When I let her go, she smiled up at me, and somehow I wasn't wondering anymore.  We'd make it.  We would.

"Well," she said, looking around the foyer.  "Looks like things haven't disintegrated too much without me to keep everything running."

"Well, you missed the part where the nuclear refrigerator almost exploded," I said, leading her into the depths of the house.

On the couch, Arie was huddled in a blanket, staring aimlessly ahead of her.  Sajel was paging through a magazine, looking disinterested, and Zach and Christa sat together looking at Arie.  From the way they all sat, a glowing barrier of reproach, I could tell that there had already been some kind of altercation, some anger passed, some barbs traded.  The problem is, nobody knows how to deal with Arie.  They all look to me to do it, because I've spent time on the Internet talking with people like her and I have at least a little sense of what you're supposed to say and not supposed to say to her...  But not a whole lot.  Meredith doesn't feel comfortable relying on her empathy, claiming (probably rightly) it's thrown off when she tries to apply it to somebody who's actively doing bad things to herself, and the others...  Well, I love them, but I really wish they'd at least try, you know?

What we really needed, the person we really needed, was Derek.  And he wasn't here.  I hadn't invited him; I didn't think Arie would have wanted to talk to him.  And she didn't really want to talk to anybody else either.  Meaning...

"Well," I said.  "Meredith's here, at least.  What'd I miss?"

They all glanced at each other.  "Nothing much," said Arie, "Not a whole lot," said Zach, and I knew from those glances that they were lying—with all the anger in the air, why were they even bothering to look at each other?

"That's good," I said lightly.  "I'd hate to think a war broke out or something in the ten minutes I was away."

"Well," Sajel said, "no blood spilled, at least."  Then she suddenly glanced at Arie and her eyes widened, and she said nothing more.

The air around Arie seemed to grow more frigid.

Meredith looked around at the situation.  "Brandon, are your parents here?"

"Yeah, they are," I said.  "They're in the house...  Somewhere..."

"It's a big house, dude," said Zach.  "It's not that surprising you can't find them."

"Do they know we're here," Meredith asked.

"Why do you think Zach hasn't jumped for the video games yet?" Sajel asked.

"Well, I said he could, but he hasn't," I said.

"He's thinking with his brain for once," Sajel remarked.

It was a testament to the tension that Zach didn't come back with a traditional snappy retort.  We were all feeling on-edge, shifty, nervous.  It was like we were hiding in enemy territory, under the noses of...  Whatever malicious forces are out there today.  Terrorists with krypton bombs or something.

Welcome to my house, folks.  Enemy territory.

Meredith went to the center of the couch and knelt in front of Arie.  "How are you doing, Arie?"

"I'm okay," Arie said.  "It sucks we can't have fun."

That was an understatement.  The whole point of these Save Arie parties was just that: a party.  It was like alcohol—if we could distract ourselves enough to forget our troubles, we'd feel better.  It normally worked.  But with my parents' unseen shadows keeping us still and quiet, without Derek here to help smooth out the sparks that always flared between Zach and Sajel... Were we really in such dire straits without him?

"But at least we're here," Meredith said.  "Even if it's uncomfortable, I can think of a lot worse places to be than with friends."

"Like at home," said Zach.

"Yeah," said Meredith.

"Yeah," said Christa, and I suddenly remembered Zach's quest for privacy at the end of the school day.  Christa has a younger brother, her parents must have forbidden her from getting too involved with Zach while they were at her house.  And the walls in Zach's house are made of tissue paper.  Unless Mrs. Crane is out, or the entire Sternbacher family, it must be really hard for them to find privacy.  No wonder they were clinging to each other.

"So," Arie said, "how is the brother, anyway?"

The animation of Meredith's face slowed, stopped.  She said, "Please don't ask me that."

"I'm sorry," said Arie.

Meredith gave a humorless little smile.  "It's not your fault."

We were silent for a minute.  I looked around at everybody, trying to find something to say.  No one moved.  Meredith stared at the floor, a resigned expression on her face.  Arie stared at her hands.  A ripple of glances passed between Christa and Sajel, some communication I didn't comprehend.  And Zach looked up over his shoulder at me, and I saw how much the silence pained him—not just because he hates silence, but because of how many things we weren't saying, we couldn't say, we weren't allowed to say, and the pain of that was reflected in his eyes.  In Zach's eyes!

Would wonders never cease.

"Uh, Arie—" said Christa suddenly, her voice urgent.  "Maybe you shouldn't do that."

Arie's hand shook.  Tears leaked from her eyes.  Her lips worked soundlessly, mumbling something I couldn't hear or understand.  Metal in her hands gleamed in the warm, stifling light.

"Arie," Meredith said, and her voice was iron, "give me that now."

"No," said Arie.

"Arie," said Meredith again.

"Oh, Christ," said Christa, and stood up and walked over to Arie.  "Arie, if you don't give me that—"

"I won't!" Arie shouted, and tears streamed down her face.

"Fucking hell," Christa said, and reached for Arie's hands, quick as lightning.  They grappled for a moment, Christa making little grunting noises of frustration.  You know all that stuff they say about how it's sexy to see women fight?  It's bullshit.

"Give...  Me...  That!" said Christa, and, yanking away, separated Arie from her sharp-thing.  Arie squeezed her eyes closed and said nothing.

"Fuck," said Christa, looking at her hands, and I suddenly realized—that little blade wasn't very large.  Christa must have hurt herself on it.  "Fuck."

She turned to me.  "Here, you take it."  She tossed something small and glittering in my direction.

Startled, I stepped back and let it flutter to the floor. "Don't throw it at me!"

Christa glared daggers at me and swept out of the room, muttering imprecations under her breath.  Zach gave us all a wide-eyed glance and scrambled after her.

I picked the little metal thing up from the carpet.  It was triangular, only about an inch long, and lined with blood.  There was blood on the carpet—not a lot of it, but you could see it if you looked.

I had to hide it somehow.  I had to keep it from Arie.  But I couldn't just keep holding it.  The scars on my wrist itched and throbbed.  What the fuck do I do with this thing?

"Here," said Meredith.  She held out a piece of Kleenex.  I put the little metal blade in the middle of it, and she crumpled it up.  Then she handed me the tissue.  I felt oddly like I was receiving a gift.

Our hands touched, brushed against each other, as the ball of Kleenex moved from one person to the other.  Her eyes were wide and solemn when I looked at them.

Behind her came a murmur of voices: Arie and Sajel.  Sajel was saying: "No, it's not...  No one made us come, we decided to show up."  And then a dull laugh.  "Shows how stupid we are."

"What's going on," Meredith asked them without taking her eyes from me.

"We were just talking about how everything is Arie's fault," Sajel said, her voice artificially pleasant, "and how she's ruined everybody's night by making us all come here to wait on her when clearly we don't want to be here."

"They must hate me," Arie said.  "They ran away.  I hurt her."

"We're all hurting right now," said Sajel, shooting me a conspicuous glance: Back me up, fucktard.

I did.  "Arie, maybe bad things are happening to you, but that doesn't mean we're gonna abandon you."  Leaving the ball of tissue on the corner of the coffee table (the far corner), I sat down near her.  "We wouldn't be very good friends if we did."

"I never meant to hurt anybody," Arie whispered.

The couch cushions shifted: Meredith, coming to rest next to me.  "Arie, nobody ever means to hurt people.  And I'm sure Christa understands that.  But sometimes they just...  Do."

"Trina means to hurt people," Arie said darkly.

Sajel's expression turned dark.  I wondered why.

"Yes, speaking of that," said Meredith.  "Why are we here?  What happened after we all went home from school?"

Arie related the incident and conversation.  It was a bleak, bitter picture.  We could see Trina's hateful behavior, kicking Arie when she was already down...  But we could also hear Arie's dark self-recrimination, the cold hunger of doubt.

"What if she's right," she said.  "What if she wasn't just...  Just saying those things, what if...  What if..."  Her face slackened.  "No, it isn't a 'what if.'  I am like that.  I do do things just to get attention.  I do do stupid things.  I do hurt people to...  For my own benefit.  I'm just what she said I am."

"So what?" I said.

Everybody looked at me funny.

"Brandon, the soul of sensitivity," Sajel said dryly.  "I worry about you, consumed with compassion as you are."

"Hold on," said Meredith.  "He's said that a lot today, and every time he does, he ends up having a good point."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Sajel said.

"Arie," I said, "so what?  So you do mean things, so you do bad things, so you do stupid things.  I'm glad you've wised up that—the rest of us have known it for a while now.  But what does it change?  Nothing.

"We all know you have problems.  We all know you've done questionable things.  And that hasn't stopped us from being your friend or caring about you.  Everybody has problems and does questionable things.  And you have virtues and talents as well.  You're a good singer and you play violin—not everybody can do that.  You spend hours of your life helping people through the Internet, trying to talk them through feelings and situations most people wouldn't have a clue how to respond to.  You make us smile, you make us laugh, you keep Derek very happy.  Your faults don't cancel out your virtues, and the fact that you have faults doesn't make you some sort of evil sink of depravity.  You're no different from any of us: no better...  And no worse."

Sajel looked at Meredith.  "I believe it," she said.

"Yeah, but—" said Arie.

"No buts, Arie," I said.  "You are who you are."

"But I don't want to do mean things like that," Arie said.

"That's another point in your favor," said Meredith.  "Trina does.  Where you made mistakes, she does it on purpose.  You told your parents one of her huge secrets because—well, sure, you had your own selfish motives, but you were also trying to help her.  You cared about her.  She can't say that.  All she has is her selfish motives."

Tears seeped from Arie's eyes.  "I don't want to be the kind of person Trina would do those things to."

"I don't think that's possible," I said, trying to inject some levity into the situation: "She seems to do it to anybody who's alive."

Meredith hugged Arie.  "Then we'll work on it.  I think Brandon's right—I doubt we can ever make Trina stop—but we can make it harder for her to hurt you.  And we'll do it."

"Better, bigger, stronger, faster," Sajel said.

"Anything's possible with good friends," I said.  Meredith flashed me a smile and held Arie as her tears slowly dried.

We were interrupted suddenly by the sound of my mother's voice.  "Brandon, what—"  I turned to see her mouth dropping open in surprise.  "...Where did all these people come from?"

"Hi, Mrs. Chambers," said Sajel pleasantly.

Behind my mother were Christa and Zach, she looking chagrined and he guilty and yet pleased, and behind them my father, his face a mass of thunderclouds.

"Brandon," he said.  "Do you know where I found these two?"

"What is Zach doing in this house?" my mother demanded, cutting him off.

"I invited him," I said.  "I invited all of them."

"It's a school night, you shouldn't have friends over," said my mother.

"Yes, well, circumstances were extreme," I said.

"Do you know where I found these two," my father repeated.

"Uh...  No, actually, I don't."

"I found them in one of the guest bedrooms," said my father.  "Do you know what they were doing there?"

Zach's cat-who-ate-the-canary smugness leapt into sharp focus.  "Zach," I said, "I thought you had more sense than that."

"Zach?" said Sajel.  "Sense?  Yeah right.  Zach's the opposite of sense."

"We knew it was a bad idea," Christa said, looking guilty, "but...  It's been a while."

"He was touching this young lady's breast," my father pronounced.

Meredith and Sajel I traded glances.  What, was that all they were doing?

"Do you know what that means, young man," my father said.

Again I remembered Zach's request to borrow a room here for some privacy with Christa.  "Well, probably that you walked in on them before they could really get down to business."

"Brandon," said my father.  "I do not approve of the frivolity with which you approach this subject.  Zach has been caught—red-handed!—engaging in...  Engaging in..."  He struggled for a word.

"Foreplay," Sajel offered.

"First base," I said.

"Groping?" Zach suggested.

"Copping a feel," Arie said, completely expressionless.

"I like how it feels," Christa said.

My parents stared at us, appalled.

"I guess this would be a good time to point out that there is no one in this room who isn't sexually experienced," I said to them.  "And I don't just mean 'touching this young lady's breast,' either, I mean the whole way."

"Wait, I hope you aren't trying to insinuate that everyone's touched my breast," Christa said with a shining smile.

"No one?" said my father in dark tones.

"Sajel, surely not you too," said my mother.

Sajel shrugged.  "Sorry, Mrs. Chambers.  I thought it'd be fun."

" 'Fun,' " my father muttered.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Sajel," said my mother.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Chambers," Sajel returned with equanimity.  "I, however, am not disappointed in me.  Nor are any of my friends; nor are any of my family members.  And unfortunately for you, their opinions matter a great deal more to me than do yours."

Zach chortled under his breath.

"And who is this young lady," my father asked, his gaze on Arie.  "She looks distinctly...  Upset."

"That's Arie," I said.  "I've spoken of her in my e-mails."

"I think the young lady is capable of answering for herself, Brandon," said my father.

Arie looked at him in that blank way she has and said nothing.

My mother and father frowned at each other.  "She isn't answering."  "Maybe she's one of those crazy people."  "That's ridiculous.  Why would our son ever be exposed to the crazy people?"

They missed the volley of dim amusement that traded between us all.

"Young...  Lady..." said my father, speaking loudly and now inordinately slow.  "What...  Is...  Your...  Name?"

Arie looked at him in that blank way she has, and said, "Scuse, no hablo inglés."

"—Uh—  What?" said my mother.

"I heard 'in-glaze,'" said my father, "I think that means she's English."

"Soy de Brasil," said Arie, just to throw fuel on the fire.

"Brasil," said my father excitedly, "they speak Portuguese in Brasil."  We stared at Arie in unfeigned disbelief.  "Brandon," my father said, "when did you go to Brasil?"  Now we stared at him.

Zach was the first to find his voice.  "Brasil isn't the only place to meet Brasilians."

"That's irrelevant," said my father.  "Our son does not associate with those of the lower classes!"

I gaped.  "What!"

"Oh, thanks then, Mr. Chambers," said Zach, "I suppose I'll just show myself out now."  He crossed his arms and glared at them.

"We're getting far afield," said my mother.  "Brandon, why are all these people here?"

"Because I asked them to come here," I said.

"Why," my father said immediately.

"Because Arie is in pain and needs help," I said.

"If the young lady needs help, why isn't she at the hospital?" my father said.

"Because there are some things hospitals can't cure," I said.

"Nonsense, hospitals have all sorts of drugs nowadays," said my father.  "They've cured AIDS, they're making huge strides against cancer.  They even have some magic pills that people take when they feel blue—what is it, that Prozac stuff.  Works like a charm.  Can you imagine that, Brandon, people with mental disorders can just take a drug and it cures them!"

This was not going to look good—and, like Arie before me, I took a certain cruel relish in saying it.  "Arie's already tried Prozac.  It didn't do her any good."

I could see the cogs working in their heads.  My parents believe in a binary universe, where something is either one way or another—black or white, no shades of grey.  They don't believe in medications that only work for some people, because that's a shade of grey (and, truthfully, neither do the rest of us—which is why we call Prozac a 'med' while penicillin is a 'drug').  But they also knew that some drugs aren't strong enough to handle some problems.  You don't take Tylenol if you're about to undergo surgery, it's not a potent enough painkiller; you take codeine, or maybe just some shots of vodka.  What this meant was that Arie was so insane that even Prozac—the miracle drug of their generation, not counting Viagra—could not do anything for her.

Meredith had a small smile on her face.  "So much for staying away from the crazies."

"All of you, out," said my father, pointing.  "Go home.  Leave.  Brandon, we need to talk."

"No," I said, "we'll go out.  They can stay here."

"If you think—" my father began.

"I go where my friends do," I said firmly.  "If they leave, I leave."

"And where would you go," my mother said.  "You couldn't take the car.  Where would you sleep?"

"He could stay at my place," Zach said.  "Wouldn't be the first time."

"Or mine," Sajel said.

"Or mine," Meredith said.

"He wouldn't want to stay in mine," Arie said.

"Yes I would," I said, smiling at her.

"No, I'm telling you," Arie said.  "You don't want to stay in my house.  Unless you like being terrorized by younger sisters."

"Oh," I said, "good point."

"Christa, I don't hear you chiming in," Zach said, grinning.

"Well," said Christa.  "I would, but it wouldn't really be true.  My parents don't know really anyone here except you."

"Who left that tissue there," my mother said suddenly, walking into the room.  "That's a five-hundred-dollar coffee table, Brandon, you should know better than to—"

"Mom, you really shouldn't pick that up," I said—to no avail.  The crumpled wad unraveled in her hand and the little metal blade went to the floor again.

"What is—" said my mother.  "...Brandon!  What is this!"

"What is it?" my father asked.

"It's a...  It's a small knife," my mother said, "I think it goes in an Xacto knife."

"Be careful, there's blood on it," I said.

"Yes, that," said my mother.  "Brandon, what is this and why is it here."

Every eye in the room turned to me.

"Well..." I said.  "That's a large part of why everybody else is here."

"So tell us," said my father.

"Fine," I said, "come out in the hall.  And let my friends stay.  The hospital doesn't have pills for this kind of thing."

My friends stayed.  We left.

"Explain," said my father.

"Explain what?" I said.

"Everything," said my father.

"That's awfully broad," I said.  "If you expect me to explain the meaning of life—you know, 'Why are we here' and all that—I'm obviously going to fail.  Frankly, that's a rather unfair expectation for you to hold of me."

"Explain your friends," my mother said, stepping in before my father could explode, though her tone was scarcely less frigid.  "How did you come to know that...  That girl?"

"Her name is Arie," I said.  "Arie Chang."

"I know that name," said my father.

"You should," I said, "she was my Program partner."

They both looked at me for a long, silent moment.

"Arie is, to use the clinical term, depressed," I said.  "What that means in practical terms is that she has a very low daily energy level—it's like trying to stay awake when you're really tired, and feeling really tired every second of every day.  She tends to be very negative and feels at all times as though her life is hopeless.  They've tried her on a variety of antidepressant medications, but none have worked so far."

"That's preposterous," my father said.  "Nobody feels that way.  She must be—"

"You don't have to believe, you just have to listen," I snapped.  I wasn't about to be derailed.  "Now.  Arie suffers from these mental conditions for no reason she can really understand.  It's true she has a sister who is extremely violent; it's true that her parents expect a great deal of her, and don't seem to love her unless she fulfills their expectations and demands.  But other people live or have lived under similar circumstances—Jane and Meredith are two very good examples—and neither of them seems to be having the same problems Arie does."  Which sparked an interesting thought, because Meredith did have the same problems Arie does, for a while, before Michael's drug binge, compounded by her own suicide attempt, had wiped her parents' attitudes; and while Jane doesn't appear to be having problems, that's really the whole point: we're all very good at hiding these things.  Jane has told me that she never would have guessed Arie had problems if that fact hadn't been revealed publicly; and even I never quite know what Jane is thinking.  What if Arie is, in fact, not alone at all?

But that was sheer digression.  "Needless to say," I said, hitching a ride on my abandoned train of thought, "this doesn't make Arie feel very good, because if it's not a matter of outside forces, it must be something on the inside.  There must be, in other words, something wrong with Arie herself."

My parents nodded, and I could see they were at least following my train of thought.  I just hoped that they wouldn't take the wrong conclusion from our discussion: mainly, the idea that something was wrong with Arie.

"In response to this discomforting quandary," I said, "Arie has developed a behavior known as 'self-injury' or 'self-harm.'  This involves deliberately causing herself cosmetic injuries: some people burn themselves with matches or lighters or candles; some people pinch themselves; Arie herself uses a knife to cut herself, in fact the very knife you discovered just now.  This is not a bizarre sado-masochistic tendency," I said, seeing the assumption dawn in their eyes, "but instead a stress response against an affliction she cannot deal with.  It is, in some ways, an attempt to bring order and harmony to the universe.  That which is true within us, after all, is often true outside us.  From the outside Arie seems to be normal, and everyone treats her as such; but as far as she can tell, she isn't: she's depressed where she ought not be, and has problems that seem baseless but yet can't be dispelled.  Something inside her is wrong.  And now, something outside is wrong as well."

"How did you meet her," my mother asked, and I realized that despite her incredulity, her mother-instinct sympathy had kicked in, at least a little bit.

"Through The Program," I said.  "They paired me with her because she needed a Program partner who understood her affliction."

"Why did they pick you then," my father retorted.  "How did you come to understand all this...  Self-mutilation business."

"That's not a very good label," I said.  "It's about as inappropriate as is, say, calling an Afro-American 'black.' "

"I'll call it what I damn well please," my father snorted.  "How did you learn?"

"I learned because of who I am," I said.

"What the hell does that mean," my father spat.

"It means," I said, "that I learned because of who I am.  Who you made me.  Listen to what I said about Arie's parents: they expect a lot of her and they don't seem to love her unless she fulfills their expectations.  Does that sound like anyone you know?"

"No," said my father, clearly perplexed.

My mother got it.  "Brandon, what we expect of you is purely reasonable.  We expect good grades because your future depends on them—"

"Yes," I said, "that's what you expect.  You also expect me to follow your whims no matter what they are.  You expect me to obey you without question.  You expect me to be a model child to you even though you're not around eleven twelfths of the year.  You expect to be able to abandon me for whatever dumb-ass reason you guys left for when I was ten, and then just come back and everything will be normal!  How stupid is that?  It's like leaving a puppy alone in a house for five months and then expecting to have learned to be housebroken!"

I took a deep breath.  Anger is the one family of emotions that is not acceptable in any society, because it demands destruction and society is all about building things.  Remember who you are.  Remember what you're trying to build.  Remember what your parents' stupid actions did to your life.  Do you really wanna be the same as them?

Meredith hovered at my elbow.  "Brandon, are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

She flinched at the gruffness of my voice, but didn't back down.  "You know what they say about that acronym."  Her hand hovered on the verge of touching me.  FINE, Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional.  Does anybody ever say that word anymore, or do they all use the acronym?  "We heard you yelling.  ...We were all worried."

"It...  It's fine.  —I mean.  It'll be all right.  We're almost done here anyway.  Tell them I'll be okay."

"Why don't you come tell them yourself."  I heard what she was saying: I don't think it's a smart idea for you to remain here.

"I will," I said.  "Once my parents are done with me.  Or maybe when I'm done with them."

Meredith smiled at me, that warm beautiful smile I've grown to know so well, and slipped her hand into mine and gestured with the other, as if to say, Continue.

"So here I am," I said.  "I'm fourteen years old, and everything's confusing.  I'm starting my freshman year of high school and there are a lot of very big people nearby, people who are threatening because I don't know them very well and they might hurt me.  Mr. Krenshaw would drop by every now and then and ask me how I was doing, but most of it he already knew—'I heard it through Rob'—and every time he said that was like a knife in my side.  Mrs. Shaw would go home at five PM every day and I'd be alone in this gigantic house with lots of dark corners, from which just about anything could have probably sprung.  It'd be a holiday and I'd ask my friends, 'Hey, you wanna hang out,' and Zach would say, 'Man—  Sorry, but, it's Christmas Day, I've gotta do stuff with my family.'  And I'd say, 'Oh,' and somehow refrain from mentioning, 'Gee, I don't have a family, except for you and Sajel, but you go have fun with yours,' because that would have been really selfish and I didn't want to be needy like that.  But I was needy.  I felt like I'd been judged unworthy—like I didn't deserve everything other people had.  I had only two friends, no parents, and way too much empty space and time to play with."

"You're not expecting to blame that on us," my father said.

"No, I'm not," I said, "because I don't care whose fault it is.  Everyone could have done things differently.  You could have made different choices about interior decorating—"

"What??" said my mother.  And, of course, that's the thing: they've never actually lived here.  They don't know what this house is like.

"—and I could have tried harder to make more friends.  But that's not the point.  What I'm trying to show you is what my life was like, and why I made the decision I did.  It was...  October 12 of my freshman year of high school when I decided to attempt suicide."

My mother gasped.  My father's eyes widened.

I held up my right hand.  The weather had been warm enough for t-shirts for some time now, but suddenly my scars itched again, as though being exposed to light for the first time in ages.  I knew they could see the weal across my wrist.

"It didn't work," I said.  "Clearly.  I'm still standing here.  But the word got around.  I'd also taken a lot of Valium—Mom, remember your sleeping pills?  You've got to learn to hide those better—and when I didn't show up in school the next morning, they phoned here.  Obviously, no one picked up.  Next they tried Mr. Krenshaw, but he was out of the office; his secretary, after being convinced that it might be an emergency, allowed them to phone Mrs. Krenshaw at home.  She was quite annoyed to see me—and even more annoyed to be obliged to call the ambulances.  Dr. Zelvetti held an emergency assembly just prior to lunch and broke the news.  And when I came back to school two days later, any chances of me making more friends were basically gone."

My parents stared at me in mute horror.

"You were asking why Jane and I broke up," I said.  "This was one of the reasons.  She could never really understand this; it was just too far out of her realm of experience.  And she was always just a bit careful around me, like I was a lit bomb that might go off at any time.  Meredith doesn't do that.  Meredith understands."

"Because she's been through it too," Meredith said, lifting her left hand.

I looked at her, startled.  "Meredith, you don't have to do that."

"What does it matter," Meredith asked, her face set.  "They'll never like it.  But the sooner they find out, the sooner they'll get used to it."  She turned to me and smiled.  "Because it's not like I'm going anywhere any time soon."

I kissed her.  "No, I guess you aren't."

My father said, "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Would you have known how to respond?" I said, and for once he had no bluster to offer.  He said nothing.

"That's why I didn't tell you," I said.  "Dad, the fact is, we operate by different rules.  Your priorities aren't the same as mine, and mine aren't the same as yours.  I know you don't intend to change, and in any case I wouldn't ask you to, because that's not what family does.  But I don't intend to change either.  I like who I am.  It took some bumps and difficulties to get to where I am now, but I couldn't be happier with my friends and my life.  So now you have a choice:  You can keep bumping heads with me trying to control my life...  Or you can let me control it myself."

"What about me," my mother asked, "do I get a different option?"

"Oh, no, not especially," I said. "You two follow each other.  I know you think the same way he does."

"Not all the same," she said.

"Hmm, well," I said—seeing, for the first time in almost seven years, my parents as two separate people instead of a single, united entity.  Was there a difference between them?  Had my words actually reached one of them?  "We'll see in future, then."

"I need some time to think," my father said thickly—and by sudden flashing insight I knew he meant that he was going to retreat to some private room and drink himself into oblivion.  "I will talk to you in the morning, Brandon."

"Do your homework," said my mother.  Then she was gone too.  Meredith and I stood in an empty hallway, looking at each other with a bit of bemusement.

Zach's head peeked out from around the doorjamb.  "Is it over?"

I looked at Meredith.  Meredith raised an eyebrow: Why are you asking me?

"I don't know," I said to Zach.  "But for tonight it is, at least."

"Oh," said Zach.  He brightened: "Can Christa and I sneak back to that room now?"

I rolled my eyes and Meredith helped me push him back into the TV room.

Th.6

Brandon was clearly pleased with his victory over his parents, who did not bother us for the rest of the night.  Their silence made me nervous; I didn't think they'd just leave us alone like that.  But everyone seemed to agree with Zach—"Oh, come on, Meredith, just enjoy it while it lasts"—and after a little while, when Mr. and Mrs. Chambers were showing no sign of reappearing, I did.  Zach and Brandon got on the video game deck, but I had brought my homework with me and was concerned with getting it done.  (I wondered what our teachers would think of us tomorrow.)

At around 10 PM, Arie was diagnosed as having passed her crisis point, and we all went home.  Zach and Christa did sneak off at about 9:15, and we all traded glances and rolled our eyes; when they emerged to leave, they looked very satisfied.

"I guess you got your chance," Brandon said, bemused.

Christa beamed.  "Yup."

"I hope you enjoyed it," I said.

"Oh yeah," said Zach.  "That was, like, the best it's been since that one time that—  Oh, uh."  He glanced at Christa, who was turning distinctly red—and smiling a lot.  "Well.  Anyway.  Yeah, it was good."

"That's all you can say?" Christa said, incredulous.  " 'Good'?"

"What, you want me to say more," Zach retorted.  "I mean, I could tell 'em all about that thing you did where you—"

"Brandon, thanks for having us, I'll see you later," said Christa, now totally crimson, dragging a grinning Zach out the door.

Sajel stopped at the front door and regarded Brandon carefully.  "So, how does it feel to have disemboweled yourself?"

I said, "...Huh?"

Brandon smiled.  "Actually, I don't think I have."

"Really?" said Sajel.  "After everything you said tonight?"

"Hold on," I said.  "I don't see guts anywhere.  Brandon, you look intact to me."

"We were talking spiritually," Sajel said.

"And so am I," I said.  "There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with him.  He isn't moping.  He isn't crying.  He's been laughing and smiling all night.  What happened?"

"He stood up to his parents," said Sajel.

"And they didn't have that coming?" I asked.  "I mean, it's not like they've been great parents."

"Yeah, but, Meredith, who are we talking about," Sajel asked.  "We're talking about Brandon.  And what does he want more than anything else?"

I blinked at her.

"He wants a family," Sajel said.  "That's what he's been going through life without for all this time."

The whole thing suddenly fell into place around me: his unflinching loyalty to this friends; the dogged confusion that must have followed him everywhere, the sense of abandonment, of not being worthy; the way the emptiness of the house must have chased him, harried him, clung to him as a reminder of all that he had never had—he had spelled it all out for us, he had told us everything and yet I hadn't understood it until now—It was all right there, right there, how could I have missed it—

"And Brandon, I know your parents.  They aren't going to forgive you for this."  Sajel met his gaze steadily.  "You may have just broken any chance you have of making peace with them."

"His mom didn't seem that hostile," I said.

"She will be," said Sajel.  "His dad will keep talking, and Brandon won't, and before you know it she's back under the propaganda."

"And..."  I turned to Brandon.  "You did this?"

He shrugged.  "Yup."

"Why aren't your guts all over the floor??" I asked.

"Because," he said easily.  "Listen to what Sajel's been saying.  I want to have a family, right?  And the one I was born into sure isn't doing a very good job.  So what have I done instead?"

Sajel peered at him.  "What?"

I saw it.  "You've made your own."

Brandon nodded.

"We are your family," I said.

"Exactly," he said.

"We're the ones you turn to," I said.

He smiled.  "And you most of all."  And I smiled and kissed him, and all the world went away for a little while.

"Okay, so," said Sajel, peering at us, "before I get hit by Contagious Love Diabetes or something.  You guys aren't like planning to get married soon, right?"

Brandon smiled at me.  I smiled at Brandon.  "No," we said.  And that was the truth.  After all, it's not like we exactly needed to.

Sajel shook her head.  "You know...  Why do I not believe you?"

When she had gone, it left only Brandon and I.  Arie was hanging out somewhere waiting for Brandon to drive her home.

"Hey," said Brandon softly.  "How are you?"

"I'm doing well," I said.  Then, knowing what he was really asking: "I'm trying to avoid my brother."

"That sounds like a good idea," he said.  "Has it worked?"

"Well, I was only home for about an hour before your call came."  I looked away, not wanting to meet his gaze—feeling strangely ashamed for my cowardice in the face of his loyalty.  "I just hid up in my room.  I haven't seen him since lunchtime."

"Do your parents know about...  What we—  No, of course not.  What are you—  What are you going to tell them...  About—"

"Please don't ask me that," I said again.

His embrace was warm, and I clung to him.

On the drive back, it was all I could think of—keeping pace with Brandon's taillights as he ferried Arie home, parting halfway down the freeway.  What was I going to tell them?  How could I possibly tell them?  I would have to check with Arie.  How had she managed it?  How had she somehow managed to march up to her parents and just blurt it out: "Guys, I have something to tell you..."

My mother was waiting up for me; deeper in the house I could hear the humming of pipes, the distant clatter of water, that meant my father was getting ready for bed.  Mom was sitting at the table with her checkbook and stack of paperwork in front of her, making notes in red pen, wearing the thick blue-green robe she always wore, her glasses perched upon her nose.  The steel-grey in her hair suddenly struck me, the lines of her face: she was starting to get on in years, wasn't she?  Mom had been 31, my dad 33, when Michael was born.  In a couple of years my mother would be fifty.  It was a strange, eerie thought for a fifteen-year-old girl.

Mom looked up and smiled.  "Welcome home."

"Hi, Mom."

"How was it?" my mom asked.  The first time this had happened she had waited for me at the front door, practically jumping up and down with anxiety; now she sat calmly, juggling finances.  It actually felt the same with me, too.  Dealing with Arie was always an adventure, but I didn't feel like I was marching into certain death anymore, either.

"It was...  Routine," I said, shrugging out of my backpack and sitting down at the table.  "Derek wasn't there, because he and Arie are having problems, but we managed without him."  I didn't want to go through all the trouble of explaining the altercation between Brandon and his parents, so I said nothing about that.

"That's good to hear," my mother said.  She looked up and faced me frankly.  "I don't think I've ever told you, Meredith, but I'm very proud of your willingness to help people whose condition you once shared.  I can't imagine it's easy to go back to that place."

"Thank you," I said, a bit startled by the turn of conversation.  She was right, of course.  I wondered if she knew more about this than she was telling.  "I...  It can be hard, sometimes.  But, it's not all bad.  I get to talk to my friends, and get them all in one place at the same time"

"And how do you like having your brother around again," Mom asked.

Oh.  Well.  That was quite a different question.  "It's very...  Different," was all I could say truthfully.  "He keeps showing up in places I wouldn't expect.  I look up and...  There he is.  It's a little weird."

"It's odd for me too," said Mom.  "Having two kids to think about instead of one.  Having to go pick him up.  Remembering to wake him up for school."  She shook her head ruefully.  "I must be some kind of horrible parent if I can't even remember my own firstborn son."

"I'm sure there's worse," I offered diplomatically, trying not to think about Brandon's parents.

"There was another thing I needed to ask you," my mother said.  "Did you ask your friends about your birthday?"

"Oh, that's right," I said.  The fuss of the week had taken it entirely from my mind.  "I asked everyone on Monday, and they said they could make it.  So, I guess it's happening.  On Saturday."

"On Saturday," my mom agreed.  Then she looked at me again.  "You invited Derek, right?  And Arie?"

I sighed.  "Yeah, I did.  The problems between them hadn't happened yet.  I can't—  Well, I can uninvite them, if I—  Ugh."

"Which one would be least offended," my mother asked.

"Arie, probably, but the thing is, I want them both to come.  Arie's one of my best friends, but so is Derek.  Derek's closer to me, but Arie's closer to Brandon, and...  I don't want to choose between them."

"You may have to," my mother said.

"I know, I know..."  My eyes fell closed.  "When did life get this complicated?"

"Well, it could be worse," my mother said innocently.  "You could not have a birthday."

I blinked at her.  "Mom, if I had...  Never had a birthday, I don't think I would be in any position to care."

"Yes, but...  What if it had taken several days to give birth to you?" Mom asked.  "Like, your legs and your left arm came out on the 25th, and then your head on the 31st, and then your fingers didn't arrive until the 12th...  Of course, they had the Some Assembly Required tag on them, but we had already figured that out.  And then once everything was here, it took your father and I a month just to put you together right.  What would we call your birthday if that had happened?"

She looked so wide-eyed and serious, and it was such a ludicrous idea, that I couldn't help but burst out laughing.

"There we go," said my mother, smiling, "I'd hate for my daughter to look so morose two days before her sixteenth birthday," and it occurred to me just how lucky I was to have a parent who loved me for who I was, not who they wanted me to be.

"Well, now that you're home, I can fold up and go to bed," Mom said, gathering her things, "and you probably ought to as well.  Assuming you got your homework done, of course."

"Got it done at Brandon's house," I said, grinning.

"That's my girl," said Mom.  "Sleep well.  I love you."

"I love you too, Mom."

My bright mood only lasted as far as the upstairs landing, though; for Michael's door was open with light shining out of it, and when he heard me coming, he poked his head out to greet me, adorned with that ever-present grin.  "Hey, Meri.  Where ya been?"

I felt instantly defensive... which made me feel instantly guilty.  Which made me answer him.  "I've been at a friend's house."

"Wow, on a school night?" Michael said.  He can do the ingenious charm thing so well.  "Was Brandon there?"  In the sudden thick overtones of his voice I heard the man in the skit from Monty Python: Your wife...  Is she a goer? eh?  Is she a goer?  Wink wink! nudge nudge! say n'more say n'more!  And in hearing that, realized that, as far as he thought, Brandon was my sex slave and nothing more.  The assumption was not so much that Brandon had no value to me apart from his tool; the assumption was that he could have no value.  Because Michael himself did not value people, and he couldn't conceive of doing anything but manipulating them, or of them doing anything but trying to manipulate him.

It made me sick.

Instead of vomiting, though, I forced myself to answer.  "Yeah, actually, he was."

"He was!" Michael crowed.  "On a school night!  Meredith, you little hussy!"

"And so was Sajel, and Arie, and Zach," I said.  "We were...  Working on a project."  Which was true, of course, just not all of the truth.

"Ah," said Michael.  His self-effacing grin intensified.  "Hey, don't mind me, my mind's like a sewer and I know it."

"You know," I said, forcing lightness into my voice—Take the weight out of it, is what Mr. Gunderson says when he tells us to sing in a bright tone, and that was exactly what I was doing—be casual.  Nothing's wrong, you're just asking a question.  "You know, where were you at lunch?  I came looking for you but I couldn't find you anywhere."

"Oh, really?" said Michael, his tone equaling mine in mirror-smooth perfection.  "That's weird.  I was just hanging with some friends."

"Oh," I said.  "That's odd."

"Yeah, I was out at the place beyond the football field," Michael said.  "Probably why you didn't find me.  I didn't wanna go there, but my friends were all like—"  He shook his head and shrugged.  "But some of the people there, man...  Kinda scary.  I wouldn't blame you if you didn't look there."

"Yeah, no kidding," I said, "Brandon got into some trouble with them once."  Beyond the football field, huh?  The badlands.  Michael's probably discovered that people believe your lies a little better if there's actually a grain of truth in them—and even if not, it'll throw them off while they try to investigate.  That means he actually was in the badlands today—probably before he went off campus.  And judging by what he did off-campus, he was there for only one thing.

"Trouble?" said Michael.  "What sort of trouble?"

After all, only one kind of person hangs out in the badlands.  "It was during his Program week," I said.  "Some kids got adventurous.  One of them had a home-made inhaler with a pleasure drug in it—they managed to jam it into his mouth and give him a puff.  He was laughing for half an hour after that."

"Wow," said Michael.  "That would—  Well, I guess it could be worse, I mean, a drug is kinda minor.  There's people out there who look like they'd as soon knife you as say hello."  This time his voice was genuine—and he was, of course, right.  There's a reason you stay clear of the badlands if you can manage it.

"Well, hey—glad he came out okay," said Michael.  "And, I'm glad you're home."

"Thank you," I said, forcing a smile to my face.

His door shut.

He had lied so easily.

He had lied so scarily easily.

"Brandon," I said into my cell phone, "why won't your gate open?"

"Uh...  What?" said Brandon over his cell phone.  "The gate has a sensor that can be told either to open whenever anything gets near it, or only if it receives the appropriate radio signal.  I turn it to auto-open when my parents are gone, but they're kinda here right now."

"Are they in the room with you?"

"No, just here in general.  Meredith...  Why do you need to know about my gate?"

"Because my car's blocking the road and I can't see behind me and anyone could crash into me at any moment and I can't do this, Brandon, I can't—"  No, let's not start crying on the phone, okay?  Especially not behind the wheel.  "Brandon, can—  Can you—  Can I come in?"

"...Give me a minute," said Brandon.

He met me at the driveway and took me into his arms without even saying a word.  I clung to him, feeling bad, knowing I was absolutely going to get in trouble for this—I hadn't even left a note with my parents, and his were going to flip out like no tomorrow once they saw me here...  Because I wasn't ever going to leave.  Now that Brandon had me, now that I had him...  I wasn't ever going to leave.

We were so rarely in his bedroom, it was almost a foreign place to me.  It was small, compared to the rest of the house, but still larger than any one person could ever need.  The bed was up against one wall under the long windows, with a series of freestanding shelves and bureau drawers leading away in perpendicular, lining the right-side wall.  Across from them was the closet with mirror doors; to one side was the door to the tiny bathroom (just large enough for two people if they weren't fussy about running into each other) and on the other, a small alcove with his desk and his computer, and his homework spread out across it.  The carpet was pale beige, the walls blank white, but he had brought in a number of lamps with colored shades and was starting to tinker with the colors of his bedspread (this was probably all my influence), and the room was beginning to take on a warmer, darker, more rustic look, in the ochres and earthtones I knew he loved.

"It...  It was...  My brother," I said, not even willing to say his name.  "I saw him just...  Just standing there, being so sure of himself, so...  He lied, he lied to me so easily, I just couldn't..."

"Shhh," said Brandon.  "It's okay.  You're here now, and he's there.  It's safe.  You're safe.  Nothing can harm you here."

Everything has already harmed me.  "He scares me, Brandon, I don't know how to face him.  He's so...  He can take anything and twist it, destroy it, make it cancerous and awful and perverted, and..."

You can see how ridiculous I was getting.  Even in my exhaustion, in proximity to a sheer emotional breakdown, I could hear how stupid I sounded.  But Brandon, bless his heart, didn't even bat an eyelid.  "Shhh.  It's okay.  You just need sleep, honey, that's all.  I'll call your parents and make sure everything's all right...  It's okay...  It's all going to be okay..."

Then there was a short adventure as he plunged into the depths of the house to find me a spare toothbrush—despite how much time we'd spent together in this house, I'd only stayed over once or twice, and never on an impromptu basis like this.  I stood there, looking around a bit, feeling mawkish and peering fuzzily at his homework: oh, pre-calc, I already did that earlier, didn't I—What, an hour and a half ago, just downstairs?  That's not the answer I got.  At least, I don't think it is.  What answer did I get?  I wonder where my brain is.

I didn't sleep very soundly; it wasn't totally dark, and the T-shirt he found me didn't cover much of my legs and so I felt strangely naked.  I drifted in and out of sleep as though in a fever, disoriented with the surroundings, at myself, at the passing time—minutes took hours to pass; and then I might blink my eyes and lose half an hour.  But every time I woke up, I'd peer around me in confusion and eventually see him sitting at his desk in a dim pool of light, plugging away at his math or his English essay or whatever, and be reassured to see him; and then came the time when I didn't see him, and all the lights were out, and I felt his arm around me and his body curled up behind mine and his breath ruffling my ear.  And then I smiled; and when I slept again, it was peaceful.

Because when we're together, nothing can stop us.