Friday (part 1)

Walking into school on Friday was somehow a different experience than ever I had had before. Most of the time I just sort of walk in and nobody really notices me or talks to me. You know, goth girl, dressed in all black, stays by herself in the computer lab all the time... Well, she must know what she's doing, people figure, and they just sort of ignore me.

Only recently have I realized how stupid that is. That ignoring, I mean. When you look at the average person on the street, you figure that nothing's wrong with them. Because nothing looks wrong with them. They just look fine... Only, we know what fine means now. Maybe we should stop making such stupid assumptions. I mean, look at what I did. I looked at my sister every day of my life, who faced every day of her life the exact same challenges and the exact same stupid parents I did... And assuming nothing was wrong with her just because she had that face on her, the one that says nothing's wrong. Why should she be okay? I wasn't, and I was wearing that face too. Why hadn't I realized before now that the face might be just that—false, a mask, a mask ready to be ripped off and crumbled? That underneath it might eyes pleading for help?

Anyway. I wasn't able to just walk through today. Because, of course, I'm Arie Chang, I'm Naked In School, and as today was Friday, my last day of The Program, I had to stop and strip.

And that was part of the difference too. The number of people who showed up to watch, I mean. It's been a different amount of people every day. Nobody on Monday, obviously, because we didn't strip that day. On Tuesday, everyone stared at my scars; two people touched my breasts, a thousand people touched my arms. On Wednesday nothing happened, because my mom plowed through the crowd with me and I was wearing clothes. And you don't make lewd suggestions to my mother. Even the jerks in the crowd were smart enough to realize that.

Thursday was when things started to change. Though I wasn't paying the slightest attention at the time. People started coming to watch. Particularly they wanted to see Brandon. I guess news had gotten around about his speech in English class. And probably also about the confrontation in the wastelands on Tuesday. And, of course, since he was stripping down, everyone yelled interesting suggestions and Brandon had some fun with it. He asked me to help him out, but I was thinking about other things at the time. Like Meredith, and whether she'd still want to talk to him after this, and whether I'd accidentally ruined something for one of my best friends.

But now it was Friday, and everyone wanted to see Brandon. I guess people have developed an affection for that slouch-chested old man. But Brandon wasn't here. So they settled for me.

Derek, of course, made it worse. I'm pretty sure he planned this, because he was standing around talking to people when I showed up. I'd never seen him hanging around the front of the school before. —Okay, I'd never seen him hanging around before, period, but still, I don't think he's the kind of person who loiters at the entrance. That's just not his MO. Yet here he was. And when I appeared on the scene, a wave of cheering started up that I'm sure originated near where he was standing.

And the voice was definitely his, a soaring rendition of a gameshow announcer: "Aaaaaand here she is, on her last day in The Program, she's the goth with the gunbarrel gaze, let's hear it for... Arie Chang!"

I swear. I am going to kill that man.

And of course people started tossing out suggestions, and I'm bound by Rule Three, right? I'd start with, let's say, my left shoe, and people would start giving me advice on how to make it look really seductive. As if you could seductively untie a sneaker. Though evidently some of it worked, because people laughed and whooped and cheered. Though there was some booing too, but not a whole lot of it. I just didn't get it at all. I mean, really. Sneakers?

But, regardless: that's how I ended up bent over at the waist, naked except for pants and panties, letting my breasts hang down, and looking back over my shoulder (as directed, and also because everyone wanted me to take off my pants from this position and how exactly was I going to do that without looking?), my hair sliding down around my neck. With Brandon laughing and shouting, "Whoo, go Arie! Rock on, sistah!"

Then he doffed his clothes in record time and escaped. Bastard.

In any case, I finally got the rest of my clothes off and my socks and shoes on, despite rather unhelpful commentary from the crowd—I mean, lick my leg? Sheesh. Talk about fetish play. Then I shouldered my backpack, slung my clothes into the box, and got going. Derek, of course, appeared at my side almost instantly, and I was about to wrap my hands around his staff—the one below his big head, you understand, the one he doesn't think with—and give him the handjob to end all handjobs, when he stooped down, kissed me on the cheek, and said, "You're totally awesome, you know that? That was incredible." At which point I simply blushed and giggled instead, and took his hand and held it in my own. Damn that man.

When we caught up with Brandon, I started to do The World's Biggest Handjob on him too—Goddammit, I'm a friend, not camouflage!—but somehow he managed to deflect me by asking about whether I'd told my parents or not. Seeing the look on my face, he said, "If you don't wanna talk about it, that's okay. I just... I mean, you know? I'm concerned. I'm worried about you." That was nice to hear. Sajel and Brandon and Meredith and Derek crowded close and I explained.

I ran through basically what I'd said to them—not verbatim; I couldn't have recalled the exact words if my life had depended on it—and my father's responses. Meredith seemed concerned over my refusal to let my mother speak, but she could be concerned all she wanted. "Look, my mom's not the type to listen. She just goes on what she thinks is right, and that could be the most ridiculous thing in the world but she'll still do it, even if we tell her it's ridiculous and explain why. And she'll still do it. Because she thinks it's right. So I needed her to listen, and I guess the best way to get that started, was to keep her from talking." Meredith conceded that point.

"What did they think?" Derek asked. The look in his eyes made me want to kiss him.

"I dunno," I said, "I left before they started talking. I know, that looks bad," I added, as the four of them reacted visibly, "but I felt like I was about to just collapse on the floor. It was a lot harder to tell them than I thought it would be. I had to get out of there before, you know, before my knees gave out. I don't think I could've argued with them in that state."

"Still," Sajel said judiciously. "You could've come back later."

"Still," said Derek coming to my defense, "she could've just said nothing too." And Sajel let it go.

"And how do you feel?" Meredith asked me.

"You must hate your parents by now," Derek said.

At first, I was going to say that he'd gotten that right, baby. I mean, God, all I had to do was think about my scars and feel them prickle to get a hint of just how badly they'd fucked me up. But...

"No, not really," I said. "I didn't... Well. My mother's this creature from hell. Only a few things make sense to her. Sure, she wants me and my sister to have a good life, you know, to be successful and wealthy and all that, but that's why we've gotten so bad, because she wants those things for us so badly that she's, you know, she's hurting us to get them for us. But... That's where it started. She wants Trina and I to be happy with our lives. And I understand that."

"But you have a problem with it because..." said Derek.

"Because I don't like what she did to us," I said. "Oh God no. But, I can understand it. And I mean—well, I don't ever plan on having kids, but if I did, I'd want for them what my mom wants for me. She showed it totally in the wrong way, but... She loved us. She still loves us. And everything she's done has been because she loves us. Once I realized that, I couldn't... I dunno, I couldn't hate her anymore."

Sajel and Brandon nodded slowly.

"But hopefully you aren't going to do the same thing to your kids," Derek said.

"That's why I'm not having any," I retorted, punching him in the arm. "Because I bet I would. I'd fuck my kids up soo bad."

"That's not true," Meredith protested, "you're not that fucked up."

I held up my forearm. "Really."

"That's nothing, that's cosmetic," Meredith said. "That's like getting a tattoo. Maybe you had your bad days, but you figured out why. And you took action to stop it from happening again. You changed, Arie. Maybe there's not a lot of parents with scars on their arms, but there probably aren't a lot of parents who learned so much about themselves, that they know what not to do to their kids. It's like what Jesus said. No one has sinned so much that they can't find salvation."

"No religion, please," I said. "That shit gives me the creeps."

"Save us, O Lord, from your followers," Brandon said.

Then the bell rang, and it was time for Pre-Calculus with Mr. Bhajra. Derek was in that class with me, and he walked with me to the Norter wing, shielding me with himself on one side and the wall on the other. (Doesn't Brandon share Pre-Calc with Meredith? Weird beans, for us to both find significant others in a math class.)

"Whose idea was it to let people take Pre-Calc first thing in the morning," I grumped. "My eyes are open, but I don't think my brain is."

"Yeah, not such a great time," Derek said. "But imagine the people in sixth period. Right after lunch. How do they stay awake?"

"I don't care," I grumped, "I have problems just being awake in the first place."

"I think I can wake you up," Derek said, and the tone of his voice really should've warned me. Actually, it did warn me. Whenever somebody talks like that, it means they're planning something—and if you hear yourself referred to, you'd better get out of there, because you aren't gonna like it. But he moved so fast. One minute we were just walking along, calm as you please—and the next I was pressed up against the wall, my backpack lumpy and hard and making balance a tricky proposition, and his hands were on my breasts and something about them felt really goood.

"This—" I gasped. "This is going to wake me up?" His hands were a little bit cold, but that only made it worse; my nipples perked up to take notice, and every slightest movement of his hands over them sent fire zinging through me.

"Yup," said Derek, his expression one of furious concentration.

His hands left my breasts, and I started to protest—only to have them return, fingers only. He found my nipples, stroking, caressing, pulling, drawing me out inexorably, the heat urging and mounting within me. My heart thundered in my ears. He had just barely gotten started, but my engine was already running, I was already wet. The touch of his hands was so primal, so insistent, so good... Like water, like air. Something I needed. Something I must have. I pushed away from the wall, moving into his hands.

"Whups," said Derek. "We can't be late for class, can we." And then he started walking away.

"Ahh?!" I said. "Hey, you can't do that! Come back and finish what you started!"

He grinned at me, receding, walking backwards. "Hey, you read the pamphlet. You're not supposed to interfere with class time. Better hurry before you get a detention."

I don't get detentions, thank god for my deal with Dr. Zelvetti. And I had half a mind to just stand there in the hall and take care of myself right then and there. But Derek was still grinning at me—that irreverent, ridiculous grin we all know and hate—and I growled and chased after him. Derek laughed and took to his heels keeping pace with me, taunting me by stopping to examine things in comical surprise before bolting again. In this manner we clattered all the way to Pre-Calc.

"I hope you realize," I growled when I finally caught him, "that you are rapidly inching towards deserving The Handjob To End All Handjobs."

Derek, insouciant bastard, just grinned: "Ooh!" Except that he wasn't the only one who had commented: we were actually standing in the classroom, and everyone was staring at us. And now, laughing at us. Or rather, at me. While I straightened up and attempted to make my face revert to its normal color in some dignified manner. And Derek, smug little punk, just grinned.

"Mr. Strong, Ms. Chang," Mr. Bhajra said. "Please sit down. Class is about to begin." We were halfway to our seats when he added: "Unless, of course, Ms. Chang should require relief."

It was like a lightbulb had switched on in my head. Now there was an idea.

"Uh-oh," the person sitting next to Derek said. "When someone looks at you like that, buddy, it's time to be scarce."

"I noticed," Derek said, chuckling. The light shining in from the open door silhouetted him in shining white. There were only a few desks separating him and freedom. "Okay, Gavin. You distract her, and I'll leap over—uh—" He looked around wildly. "—that person's desk in a single bound, and then—"

"Oh De-eeerek," I said in my best sugar-sweet voice. "I need some heeeelp here." And just to be cruel, batted my eyelashes and gave him as innocent a smile as I could make.

The entire classroom clapped and cheered and whooped.

Derek knew when he was caught. He unfolded himself from his desk chair, the faint red on his cheeks the only sign that he'd been outmaneuvered. "Well, when a lady calls, I suppose I have to answer." He raised his voice in an echoing theatrical call. "I'm coming, my fairest!" Which only made me turn red again. Dammit, am I ever gonna end one up on him?

Mr. Bhajra pulled a freestanding chair from somewhere. It was grimy and its rough cloth cushion was blotched with stains and some strange white filmy covering, like donut frosting. Maybe dried bubble gum. Maybe worse. Where the hell had this thing come from, Orgies 101?

Sitting down on the chair, I spread my legs wide, letting him (and the class) (and Mr. Bhajra, who looked wildly intrigued) see exactly where I wanted him. My slit was still wet, and I knew he could tell. "Now," I said, "get down there, and worship my pussy!"

My classmates laughed and cheered and whooped.

But Derek got down on his knees with an expression I can't describe—startled, but more than that, maybe pleased—and said in a voice only I could hear, "Believe me, lady, I plan to."

And then all I could do was stare at him for a half-second until his hand first touched the outside of my slit.

After that, I can't really explain what happened. Look, girls, you can agree with me on this—when someone goes down on you, you can't see what's going on. At first I could feel his thumb slipping up and down my slit, already split with moisture and ready for his touch; then his mouth descended to meet me, and I gasped and the crowd cheered. And then I couldn't hear them anymore; it was only his lips, and his tongue, and his fingers inside me, driving me closer and closer towards that inevitable release, that insurmountable peak, that glorying jump off the top of the cliff—

I'm sorry, what was I saying?

When I could hear again, there was a constant thunderous applause going, and Derek was grinning in a decidedly smug manner and making theatrical bows. Whereas I was sort of sagging in my chair, twitching rather feebly in an attempt to rise. If Derek was the musician, then my instrument was all played out.

Then he went back to his desk and left me to sort of totter back to mine. Damn that man.

F .2

The rest of the day was actually pretty uneventful. A couple of people stopped me in the halls, mostly the slightly weird creeps who had heard about Derek's performance and wanted to see if they could recreate it. They didn't do a very good job.

The other amusing thing was Brandon. I think Meredith's got a wicked streak the size of Manhattan—I saw her give him a very brief, very thorough fondling as they parted ways between 1st and 2nd periods. She left him standing there poleaxed while she waved and continued on her way. She has such a cute little face, very innocent—you'd never suspect she had such a naughty side. At least, until you saw her reach between Brandon's legs, and then saw the way Brandon stood up very straight on his tippytoes, his eyes bulging.

So, Brandon needed relief. Again. In English class. And this time someone actually gave it to him. (It wasn't Christa, though true to her word she did volunteer.) Which, I think, made us all feel better. I mean, how sucky was that on Wednesday? I know how I'd feel if that had happened to me. I probably would've just slit my wrists right then and there. And Brandon stands up to it with dignity. He's incredible.

The really interesting time was Psychology, however. Dr. Zelvetti was there, as was Mr. Trineer, which puzzled us all—his main gig was photography, not the inner workings of the human mind. (Why had he been such a big Program advocate anyway?) And what was Dr. Zelvetti here for? But no, Dr. Schlemmer was basically going to hold an open forum on The Program today, and of course Mr. Trineer and Dr. Zelvetti wanted to hear. They were all about the growth thing, the sort of thing Brandon had brought up on Wednesday, and if anyone would be able to predict how teenagers would react to being stripped naked and thrown into school, it would be Dr. Schlemmer.

Or—I realized—Brandon and I. Who had just lived through it.

Neither of the interlopers tried to take control of the class; evidently they were content to remain flies on the wall. So Dr. Schlemmer stood up—looking just a bit nervous—and got things started. "Since we've been altering the lesson plan all week, I suppose one more day won't make a difference. As you know, Arie and Brandon are naked in school this week, and today is the last day of their Program weeks. What you may not know is this year is the first year, and this week the first week, our school has offered The Program. These two have been very brave. Let's show them what we think of them." He started clapping immediately, and so did Dr. Zelvetti and Mr. Trineer, and with that sort of enforcement, nobody was going to contradict. What was surprising was that no one seemed inclined to contradict. People clapped and cheered. Brandon and I exchanged glances, startled, and, yes, pleased.

"This has been a learning period for us all," Dr. Schlemmer said, "experimenting by trial and error. And unfortunately there have been some errors. Brandon has been assaulted not once but twice this week. Thankfully he came to no harm in either incident, but it is still a disturbing precedent."

I raised my hand. "What I'm surprised at is that I haven't been assaulted this week. I mean, I'm the girl here, I'm the weak one."

"That's not necessarily true," Brandon said. "Me, I'm a known quantity. I'm the wimp. I talk to myself, sure, but that's understandable; all nerds do that. But you... Well, look at your arms. That's something that people don't understand. They don't know how you'll react. If someone comes at you, for all they know you'll pull a broadsword out of your ass and go after them."

That was such an absurd mental image that I burst out laughing. How could you hide a broadsword in your ass? What is a broadsword? A sword that's... Broad?

"I think..." Dr. Schlemmer, smiling, was raising his voice to regain our attention. "I think this issue of being assaulted is probably the most pressing one. After all, if The Program is to continue, we can't exactly allow its participants to wander about with no regard for their safety."

"You could give them all Mace," someone said. "Or stun guns."

"But that just opens the door to the same kind of abuse," Meredith said. "Except in the other direction. You can't give somebody a weapon. People already sign up just because they want to have sex. Open the door to violence as well... That wouldn't work. You'd run the risk of letting really deranged people in."

"Security guards?" Rebekah asked. When people laughed, she said, "No, I'm serious. Who's gonna come at you when you've got that much muscle next to you?"

"Who's gonna touch you with that much muscle next to you," the broad-faced boy from Tuesday asked. "The Program's all about hands-on policy. Hiring guards just enforces hands-off. It would defeat the purpose."

"What if you just cleared out the badlands," I asked.

"What if you just stayed away from the badlands," the broad-faced boy amplified.

"Scott, I think you have a very good point there," Dr. Zelvetti said (evidently that was the boy's name). "If The Program continues, we'll warn participants away from the badlands. But Arie..." She turned to face me, her eyes serious in her worn, wide face. "Well, a number of parents have come to me with similar suggestions, but there's a really simple reason we let people sit around in the badlands: If they stay there, they aren't here.

"The kids who go out beyond the football field... Well, they want to be away from the rest of society. And there's nothing we can do to change that. Sure, we could try, but we've been trying, every one of those kids is in special programs to deal with their home situations, their upbringing, their current circumstances... And some of them take advantage of that. Some of them—well, I hesitate to say 'get better, ' because it's not a sickness. But... They learn to move beyond their surroundings. But others stay. And they stay in the badlands. Because they don't want to be here.

"These kids don't want to be a part of the rest of society. They don't want to conform to the norms of behavior. And we can't stop them. Sure, we could institute drug tests and backpack searches and all sorts of security measures... But this isn't a jail. It's a school. So we don't regulate the badlands. We turn a blind eye. We let those kids..." She sighed. "Do what they want to. Because sometimes there isn't anything else we can do."

"So those losers are staying," someone said flatly.

"Those people," Dr. Zelvetti said, "are staying. Because if we kicked them out of there, they'd have to come here. And they'd do their best to make our lives as much of a living hell as we, by destroying their one place of refuge, had made theirs."

Brandon and Meredith and I exchanged glances. When you put it that way, it was easy to see why no one regulated the badlands.

"Besides the assaults," Dr. Schlemmer said. "Arie, Brandon, how have you two been treated this week?"

My scars prickled on my arms. When I looked at Brandon, his eyes were on my arms, and when his eyes met mine, I knew he understood. "That's not exactly an easy question," he said, turning to Dr. Schlemmer, a smile hovering about his lips.

"What do you mean?" Dr. Schlemmer asked.

How to explain this? Perhaps a demonstration was in order. I stood up. "Okay, class, let's have all of you guess. On Tuesday, how many people do you think asked to touch my boobs? A number, guess the number."

Hands went up all over the room, mostly accompanied by grins. Scott, smiling broadly, guessed forty billion. Brandon, much more conservative, guessed thirty thousand and forty. Rebekah, for her part, got the most laughter—she walked over to me and made a big show of inspecting me and my boobage (or lack of such, more accurately), and then made an exasperated noise and said, "Those tiny things? Girl, you'd be lucky to get two people. One for each."

I didn't see how she was one to talk—she was barely any larger than I was—but she'd hit the nail on the head. "Actually," I said, "that's exactly right."

"What?" Rebekah asked, all the joke yanked out of her. "You're kidding, right?"

"Nope," I said. "I counted. Two people. All day. And now, class, take a guess on this number. On Tuesday, how many people do you think wanted to see my scars?"

Not a hand went up. The class showed only wide eyes.

"I think I've made my point," I said, and sat down.

"Damn," Rebekah pronounced, now the only one standing. "That sucks." And with that she walked back to her desk.

"Our reputations preceded us," Brandon said.

"It's like we're museum exhibits," I said. "People poke and prod, but they don't really treat you like an actual human. They wanna see the weird."

"You should probably ask Steve or Shannon or some of the others this question instead," Brandon said.

"We are," Dr. Zelvetti said, "we're catching them after lunch."

"The point is," Brandon said. "We're not exactly your 'average' Program participants. We weren't really in it to broaden our horizons or because we wanted to get laid. We were in it because..." He glanced at me, as if suddenly realizing that my bargain with Dr. Zelvetti might not be common knowledge. "—because we had certain experiences in common. And certain cosmetic decorations in common on our arms. People didn't know how to deal with that."

"You must have seen this coming," I said to Dr. Zelvetti.

"I warned them," Brandon told me.

"And for the first two days," Dr. Zelvetti said, "no, you weren't received so well. But what about Thursday? And today?"

"What's that got to do with it," I asked.

"Opinions of you changed," Dr. Zelvetti said. "Sure, maybe you came in with all sorts of weird things hanging off you, but people got used to that. I saw you at the front of the school this morning, Ms. Chang, you can't tell me they weren't accepting you." That unexpected, playful smile came back again, and at once she looked ten years younger.

"Well," I grumped.

"And that's part of the point of The Program," Dr. Zelvetti said. "To bring people into the spotlight who might otherwise have stayed out of it."

"That's risky, though," Meredith said. "What if the person isn't ready?"

"I know the guy from Central who had a nervous breakdown last year," someone else volunteered. "It wasn't pretty."

Brandon turned in his chair. "You know Dim Kaspar?"

"Yeah, we went to Meldus Junior High together," the other boy said.

"That makes three of us," Brandon said, smiling, "Go Chargers," and the other boy laughed.

"Excuse me," I said, completely confused. "What?" We'd heard about the nervous breakdowns, of course, but now I wanted details.

"Dmitri Kaspar," Brandon said. "He's a junior too. He went through The Program at Central High and couldn't handle it. Had to be hospitalized over a case of nerves. You get people who are too wallflowery..." He shook his head, looking chagrined. "You have to find people who are just ready to start stepping out and making a name for themselves, but who haven't yet."

"Like you, Mr. Chambers," Mr. Trineer said.

Brandon shook his head. "No way. I'll tell you the truth, when they tapped me this week, I thought I'd end up just like Dim. Especially going first. I'm not on the cusp of some breakthrough or whatever."

"No, you're not," Dr. Zelvetti said, her voice distant and strangely, infinitely, wise. "You've already passed the cusp. You broke through."

Brandon looked vaguely uncomfortable at this. I wonder why.

"And what of Arie," Dr. Schlemmer asked.

"The same thing," Dr. Zelvetti answered. "Arie, you've been crying for help since day one. Maybe this isn't the help you envisioned... But you got it, all the same."

"How is 'help' a personal breakthrough," Rebekah said.

"Because that's what depression is," Dr. Zelvetti said. "You may not be in a prison cell, but even if the door is open, you're scared to come out. You're not sure what's outside the cell, which is safe even if it's smelly and dirty. Arie wanted help in leaving."

"So, if she recovers, it's not her doing?" Rebekah asked angrily.

"No." Surprisingly it was Meredith who answered. "Maybe Dr. Zelvetti shut the cell door behind her, but it was Arie who walked out of it."

Now I was blushing. They seemed to be making such a big deal out of it. What had I done, anyway? I'd walked around for a week with no clothes on, with all my scars showing. That was all I'd done. Everything else was because I was naked. Without my clothes to hide my scars, I could've...

... Gone on ignoring where they came from. Stayed in my cell. Not elaborated when people asked. Not reached out for help by telling people what I did on Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday. Not marched into Dr. Zelvetti's office on Thursday and asked her what to do about Trina, asked her to help me close that door behind me. The real armor was in my refusal to face the evidence of my screwed-up life etched into my arms; the clothes were only a formality.