Tuesday (part 1)

If you really stop to feel it... Being naked is actually a really fun experience. The way the fashion industry is now, you sometimes forget that you can go around without clothes on (and what girl isn't aware of that stuff?), and until you take 'em off, you never realize how... Confining they are. It's really nice to feel the sunlight on your skin, the wind. You feel... Liberated.

Hi, I'm Arie Chang, and I'm naked in school.

I don't really know how this program came about. The Program, I mean. Well, didn't know, at least—on Monday, Mr. Wu used me as a launching pad to talk about the changes in sexual attitudes over the past twenty years. That's my Current Events class, third period. The gist of it is, about five years ago, a certain scientist named Janine Graves—yeah, that Dr. Graves. This is all her fault. Anyhow, she invented a cure for AIDS, right in time to stop what would've been a worldwide epidemic. Nobel Prizes up the wazoo. They're already planning this ceremony where, once AIDS is completely eradicated the world over, Dr. Graves will be the one to lock two bottles of it away, next to the smallpox. Anyway, since then they've also made enormous strides against most of the other STDs, as well as in non-invasive birth control—by which I mean, methods where you don't have to fit something in or strap something on or whatever. The Shot, for instance, which is so widespread nowadays that no one remembers what it's actually called. Estoserodopramazinide? Then add the giant bathroom wall we call The Internet, on which anyone can find anything. Finally, toss in a bunch of ultra-liberal politicians into office (a tidal rush in the other direction after the neo-conservative disaster George Bush the Second made of his presidency), stir, bake for forty-five minutes at 350 degrees, and voila—more and more, people are getting away with doing things that used to be considered risqué or dangerous or outrageous. And, as they tend to, those once-outrageous things are becoming more and more normal. Witness the legislation President Rodham pushed through (maybe part of some convoluted plan for revenge on her ex-husband?), changing the indecency laws. For the past ten years or so, guys have been able to run around naked and not get arrested. Most don't, except on dares or something, but what with The Program, that's starting to change. Slowly—not everyone listens to the ultraliberals—but it's changing.

This is The Program's eleventh year. There's a growing list of students who have gone through it more than once. The infamous Karen Wagner graduated long ago, but it's still going strong. And now it's come to Mount Hill, and they snagged me. But that's okay. It's kind of fun. More guys have looked at me in twenty four hours than in the rest of this year. You can't argue with that.

My mom doesn't know, of course. God, I'd never hear the end of that. She's really—well, not so much conservative, but... It's hard to describe. She just doesn't take it well when people do things differently than she did. She never went naked in school, oh noo (never mind how that was thirty years ago and they didn't have The Program—hell, they practically didn't have AIDS!), and if it was good enough for her, it's good enough for her daughter. What she doesn't seem to understand, is that, well... She's not her daughter.

But let's talk about something else. I'm in a good mood today. The sun is shining in speckled patterns through the trees, the grass is green, people are giving me less weird looks than before—or maybe I just don't care as much. It's cold out, and I can feel the breeze on my nipples and across my pussy and around the crack of my ass. Do you have any idea how tingly that is?

Where is Brandon, anyway?

See: last night, when I was up in my room and talking to people online, I realized that he had really been a nice guy yesterday, and now I want to thank him. Well, maybe not realized myself—people keyed me onto it. This one friend of mine, she calls herself Violetta, she was like, OMG Taina (that's what I call myself online) he was such a nice guy standing up for you yesterday!

I was like, what?

RedVioletta: Think about it. He's standing up for you, he's telling people your story when YOU were too scared to tell it, he let you meet his friends.
RedVioletta: Didn't you say he was like the class freak or something?
TainaGrrl0085: LOL no thats me
RedVioletta: Well, him too, right? Tai, if yOU were over your issues, would YOU want to get dragged back in?
TainaGrrl0085: o hhell no!
RedVioletta: And what did HE do?

Uhm, yeah. I think I really owe him a lot.

So that's what I was doing this morning, here half an hour before school started: roaming the halls, looking for Brandon. He wasn't at the same place he and his friends were yesterday at break (the Stetsen building, south end, under the balcony that services the second-floor classrooms); in fact, no one was there, this early in the morning, except that one girl—Kelly, was that her name? It wasn't the Indian girl and it wasn't that Jane person; it was the tall one with the boobs and the red hair. She's like seriously taller than Brandon is. And it's not really that her boobs are big, they look just fine on her, it's that all of her is big. Not fat, not overweight, just... Large. Statuesque? Oh well, whatever. Best keep looking.

I made one more orbit of the school. It was pretty cold, since it was seven in the morning, and I was getting chilly when I gave up. Goosebumps, perky nipples, the whole deal. People gave me surprised looks, and a few of the friendlier people smiled at me, but no one said anything or made any requests. Maybe it was because school hadn't started yet.

My original plan was to head to the library, which was at least indoors and warmer. But when I passed the Stetsen building again, Kelly, or whatever her name is, noticed and waved to me, and I was feeling good enough that I just went over there, just bounced over and flomped down cross-legged on the ground near her.

Kelly gave me an amused look. "Wow, you seem cheerful."

I giggled. "I'm hyper."

Kelly considered that for a minute, and then shrugged with her eyebrows. "Well, beats being dour. What can I do for ya?"

Dour? What does that mean? I plunged ahead anyway. "Nothing really, I was just looking for Brandon, do you know where he is?"

Kelly shrugged. "Don't look at me, I don't have him. He hasn't got a zero-period class, so he isn't here yet. Doesn't normally show up until about ten minutes before school starts."

"I'm really stupid, but I forgot your name," I said, "I keep thinking you're Kelly."

"Close, it's Kelsey," she said, looking at me a bit skeptically.

"Thanks," I chirped. Oh, who cares what she thinks. I'm me, I'm Arie, I'm forgetful sometimes. Especially when I've known this girl for less than twenty-four hours.

"Why do you need Brandon," Kelsey asked. "You seem to be, uh, doing just fine on your own."

"I wanted to talk to him," I said. Which was the truth. I also thought I might jump him or kiss him. It seemed appropriate. It sounded fun. Wheeee!

"Oh, well. He'll be here soon."

After that, conversation sort of fizzled a little bit, but I was feeling way too excited to let it die. I shifted a little bit—concrete's cold at seven in the morning. Plus I had to sit carefully unless really I wanted to get dirt and little pebbles and shit on my pussy lips. I glanced over at Kelsey, who was transferring some sort of information between a textbook and a notebook. "What are you do-ooing?"

"Math homework," Kelsey said.

"Shouldn't you have done that last ni-iiight?"

Kelsey gave me a brittle look. "Do you do your homework when you're supposed to?"

I shrugged, innocent-eyed. "I have to. If I don't, Mommy won't let me watch TV."

Kelsey gave me an unreadable look for a second, and then grinned. "You're a trip. You can stop with the kiddie voice now, I get that you're in a good mood."

I giggled and grinned like a puppy expecting a reward. The sad thing being that I wasn't really playing around.

"So, uhm," Kelsey said, putting her book aside. "I... Well, I don't mean to pry, but it's been on my mind ever since yesterday. What is with your scars?"

"They're mine," I said, still in child-mode. (Astute readers will recall that Sajel was supposed to brief Kelsey on them. I guess she hadn't. Bad Sajel. No biscuit.) "I made them."

Kelsey blinked. "You... Made them."

"Yeah."

"Did you make them yourself?"

"Yeeaaah."

Kelsey stared at me. "On purpose."

I held up my arm proudly, playing it to the hilt. "A-aall mine."

Kelsey let out a heavy breath. "I... See."

"See, it's when you're really unhappy," I said. "Because it feels better to have your arm hurt then to have your heart hurt."

Kelsey looked at me like I had turned into a gazebo.

"Sooo," I said, "you find something sharp. Like a razor. Aaaand..."

"You're not... Trying to... Kill yourself," Kelsey said.

"Ohhhh no," I said. "I have other ways to do that. This is just because it feels good."

Kelsey's eyebrows climbed into her hair.

Of course, that's not the entire truth. It's not like I'm a masochist or anything. I don't enjoy cutting. It hurts, just like you'd expect; it doesn't cause pleasure. But it's preferable to the alternative. I mean... Well, depression sucks. Things assail you from all directions. You're never quite sure where something's coming from, what's causing you to feel bad. At least if your arm is bleeding, you can point to that and say, "See, see, that's what's wrong with this. That's what." Whereas, if you were to ask me a year ago, even six months ago, why I was depressed... I wouldn't've known what to say.

See, depression is... Times like this, it creeps up on you. It's gradual. One day you're going along fine, and then the next day— Wham. You suddenly realize that life sucks and you haven't got the faintest idea why. Because you've been just chalking up all these little factors and things to, well, whatever—you let them slide. You ignore them. And all these bits of straw eventually break the camel's back. Sorting through the straw is bad enough; even worse, most of the time you've just been living your life, ignoring the straw, figuring things will get better. But they don't. And while you're flailing around with a broken back—while you're still shocked by the fact that it's broken—it can be really easy to lose track of the straw. What caused this? What am I doing here? Where the hell did all this straw come from? Shit like that.

When you're carrying around all these burdens that just seem to have materialized on top of you... Well, a burden you can trace back to its source, even if self-inflicted, is almost a relief.

And then there's the rest of it—coping mechanism, stress relief, endorphins, etc. Those help too. It's like a desperate man's massage or something. But really—and I can tell you this now, now that I'm on my way out of the Hole, as Brandon calls it—it's hard to say why depressed people do anything. Just call us crazy. Sometimes that's really the best way to look at it.

Of course, I didn't know a lot of this yet. And Kelsey was still giving me weird looks.

"So, uhm," she said. "You. You like the pain?"

I nodded solemnly. That was a bald-faced lie. I was playing with her mind, that was the simple fact.

"Uhm." Kelsey swallowed. "Why?"

I considered that for a moment, tilting my head, looking skyward, my mouth slightly open. It was an appropriate gesture. Partially it showed that I was annoyed—so many people had asked me that yesterday; was it going to continue? You think I want to think about this? So I fell back on my old answer. "I already told you. Because a pain in your arm hurts less than a pain in your heart."

Kelsey nodded, more to herself than anyone else. "There's some truth to that."

After that she went back to her homework, and I amused myself by running around on the grass, chasing imaginary things. I was so hyper that day. Well, maybe hyper isn't the right word... High, maybe? It's like, when you're with your friends, and everyone's really having fun, and then you start doing stupid things like unscrewing the cap on the salt shaker or putting sugar on the tip for the waiter or tossing pickles into the water glasses, and everyone gets into it and you're all on this group buzz and everyone's a little drunk? That was me. Except without the restaurant.

But Brandon never showed up. The Korean boy, Tim Kwan, did (he's really quiet, but I bet he's a firecracker in bed), and Jane Myers walked by at one point (giving me a startled look), but no Brandon. And before I knew it, the bell had rung, and that was that. Go figure—the one time I'm looking for him, he doesn't show up. I think the universe hates me.

I finally caught him in second period English. "Where were you?"

"I got caught in traffic," Brandon said. He made as if to tuck his hands in his pockets, but he didn't have any—just skin. He has blueish eyes and bronze hair and right now he looked just a little bit sarcastic. "I live in Red Plains, and I have to take the 220 south to get here."

"Huh?" I said. I don't drive.

He rolled his eyes. "The 220 is a freeway. I presume you know what a freeway—" I hit him on the arm to shut down his condescension, and he continued. "Red Plains is a suburb on the far side of Skyton Heights. Skyton Heights is where a lot of people live. Whereas here, in Mount Hill, is where a lot of the businesses are. But the people who run those businesses live in Skyton. (Or Red Plains, if they're rich.) So every morning there's traffic jam on 220, heading south from—"

"Mr. Chambers," Mr. Cavanaugh said loudly, and I realized that class had started around us without our noticing. "Unless Shakespeare's Verona has suddenly sprouted a freeway, I'd appreciate if we'd stick to the subject matter." And Brandon apologized and fell silent. I had the picture, in any case.

Before class ended, though, I realized I hadn't even managed to explain to Brandon why I had been searching for him. After class, there wasn't time either; he headed north to the Minelli Building whereas I went off to D wing of the Norter Complex for Current Events. I barely had time to ask, "Are you going to be at the same place at break?"

"What?"

"Where you were yesterday."

"Yeah, we're always there."

"Good. See you then."

Current Events wasn't the greatest. Mr. Wu expects us to keep track of, well, current events—read the newspaper, watch the news, stuff like that, and he launches into each day's discussion on the assumption that we have. Which, uh, is not an accurate assumption as far as I'm concerned. So, there was this context I was missing. Mr. Wu explains things, of course, if necessary, but he keeps track of who needs that information, and we lose participation points. (I bet I have negative participation points.) Anyway, Mr. Wu pulled out a newspaper and pointed out something amusing—a number of hard-right conservatives were going to try to put a strong voting bloc together to knock out the current spate of extreme liberals in the upcoming elections. This was only sort of news; they've tried to do that for the past two elections, with basically no success. At first I didn't get what this had to do with me—what did I care who the next President would be?—but when Mr. Wu gave a rather direct look at my titties (not leering, just to make a point), I realized what he meant. The general prevalency of highly-liberal legislators nationwide was one of the only reasons he could see my titties right now. The Program is still controversial, and even moderately-liberal politicians might vote to take it down. But the youngest of The Program's first participants is twenty-five now, and responses to The Program have been strongly positive, if cautious at first. Don't ask me about the nation, but when it comes to our little corner of the universe, Westport and Skyton and Mount Hill and all that, I give it even odds as to whether someone greets the next president naked in school.

Mr. Wu's theory is: Everything is connected. It's hard to see that sometimes. We're so used to dissecting things to see how they're put together, that we can forget how to look at the organic, gestalt whole. But when it comes to you and the understanding blossoms in your mind and across your face... It's a pretty cool feeling.

Then it was recess, and time to face down the bullet.

"Brandon, can we talk for a second?" "Sure, what's up?"

But once I had managed to drag him away from the others... I couldn't. It was a little easier not to say anything. A little easier to not open my mouth, to not reach out and grab his dick, to not say, "Hey, you stood up for me yesterday and I wanted to thank you in the most mercenary and blatant of ways, mostly because I couldn't think of a better way, but I really do mean it, now stand still and let me jack you off," a little easier not to actually do that in full view of the world and all who wanted to see. Like, for instance, Jane Myers, Brandon's girlfriend, who was right now headed in this direction, where she might see me standing far too close to him, with a look in my eye she might recognize. Go figure—the one time it'd be nice for her to not be around, she shows up. I think the universe hates me.

So instead I said, "Uhm. Would you like to hang out later today? Come to my house, maybe."

"Why?"

Oh fuck it, what a question. Offer the man sex, and he asks why. Well, not that I'd actually offered him, but I was going to— Damn him!

"Well, I'd like to talk to you," I said. 'Kay: Arie, hon, must be just a bit more forward. "And thank you," I said.

"For what," he asked. He has a sort of mid-range voice, not too high and not too low, and blue eyes, and at the moment everything on his face read of skepticism. He's only a little taller than me, but sometimes I feel like he towers over me.

"For... For being a friend," I said. "And protecting me."

"Well, you're welcome," he said, sounding almost grudging. I couldn't say I blamed him, since here I was, making such a big deal out of something that seemed so minor. So I'd thanked him, so what? I'd have to make my point clear. Crap, where was Jane? Oh good, she was standing over there, having caught on that we wanted to talk privately. Time to put the nail in the coffin.

"I'd like to thank you," I said, stepping closer, "in more ways than one." And I slipped my hand across his penis, pulling it up with me so that my hand stroked across the underside.

He hissed breath at the unexpected stimulus, but he didn't lose it—I'll give him that. His eyes narrowed speculatively. "You don't have to."

People of course were watching by now, some of them even commenting, but I ignored them. "I want to," I told him, and that was the unbridled truth. I used to date Patrick Slade, and he was in it for only one thing. I let him have his way with me, more or less (and it could've been worse, he was pretty good to me the rest of the time), but in doing so I discovered something interesting: that I like sex too. Okay, maybe adore is a better word. I like all of it—the panting, the groaning, the way my lover fills me, the skin-on-skin—but I really like the oral. I hadn't had a boyfriend since Pat, and sometimes seeing Brandon's cock makes me drool.

"Well," he said. "Come to my house instead. We'll have privacy. My parents are still out of town." He sounded a bit reluctant, but that was okay. I might get some action today!

"Okay!" I said, reverting back into delighted-child mode. Yay, sex! Weeee! "But I have orchestra practice after school."

He gave me a speculative glance. "You haven't noticed me around the music building?"

"Why, are you around the music building?" What, am I supposed to know everything? Cut a girl some slack here.

"I'm in the choir. We've got a dress rehearsal today for the Open House tomorrow."

Oh, yeah, did I mention. Since they use Open House to show off and get parents interested in the school for the year, our music program will be making a strong showing. That means the choir, that means the orchestra; that means me over at stage right, right at the front of the semicircle with my violin. I'm first violinist—basically the acknowledged leader of and best musician in the violin section—and, since it's a school function, I'd be naked. Go figure I have to do it on Open House week. I swear, the universe hates me. Though of course Brandon would have to face the same problem. And so would Steve Proust, the footballer. I wondered if all eight of us Program participants would be there—they're selling The Program too, no doubt about it. Maybe the freshmen wouldn't, since they weren't in any of the organizations, but since Shannon Salvolestra is a cheerleader, Brandon and I are both musicians... What do those two sophomores do? A corner of my brain made a note: Why were we chosen to be in The Program this week? Bring this up tomorrow in Current Events.

Anyway. That solved that problem. We're playing for a couple of the choir efforts on Wednesday, and then we split off to do our own thing, then the choir comes back and does their own thing. Since we'd both be in the dress rehearsal this afternoon (Shouldn't it be naked rehearsal for me and Brandon?), we'd be able to find each other after.

"Oh," I said. "I hadn't noticed. But okay. That's fine."

"All right, I'll catch you after school then," Brandon said. And that was that.

... Except, that that was not that. But we only found that out later. But really, that's Brandon's part of the story.

T .2

And it wasn't a whole lot later. Because the moment Arie and I came back, and Arie got herself involved in some other conversation, Jane pounced. Though maybe 'pounced' isn't the right word. More like, fidgeted. And scuffled her shoes on the concrete. And sort of lingered near me in a way that told me something was up.

I turned to her and said, "Hey, you okay?" And, for the moment, everything else fell away, all the other constrictions and definitions. It didn't matter that I was Brandon Chambers, suddenly friend of Arie; Brandon Chambers, class freak show; Brandon Chambers, naked in school. Instead, it was just me—Brandon—and Jane. Whom I loved (or at least cared about a hell of a lot), and who was clearly unhappy. Whom I wanted to be happy.

So, "Hey, you okay?"

She looked at me for a moment, and I thought that she might not say anything, which would just clutter things up. See, the thing about Jane is, she wears her emotions on her sleeve. I don't think she realizes it (she'd probably stop if she did), but she does. It's pretty easy to tell when something's bugging her (though it can be a lot harder to figure out what, or why). If she chose to deny that something was up, I'd have to respect her privacy—that's what I do—but it'd be a waste of time, because I knew, and since I too wear my emotions on my sleeve at times, she knew I knew. Who did she think she was fooling?

But she decided that it was worth the go, and said, "Can we talk? Alone?"

"Now?" "Y-yeah." "Umm, okay."

We went halfway down the stairs to the basement (same place as my English class, for those who are wondering), where we'd have a little privacy. No one uses those stairs by choice, because homeless people pee there sometimes. I was glad to be wearing shoes.

What did Jane want to talk about? I doubted it'd be the same thing Arie had just said to me. In fact, I'd lay good odds on it being the opposite.

"What was that between you and Arie?" Jane asked.

I shrugged. The truth is best. "She wants to hang out after school today."

"Did she say why," Jane asked.

This wasn't like her. I've never known Jane to be at all possessive. She's very blasé about our whole relationship—take it or leave it, it's fine with her. (As you can imagine, that doesn't make me feel particularly special.) So part of me simply marveled. Hallelujah: for once she's paying attention to me.

"She said she wanted to thank me for being a friend." Which was the truth, though not strictly all of it.

"Does this have anything to do with the way she touched your... Uh. Your. You know. Down there." Jane blushed solid red.

I looked at her, motionless, for a few seconds. "What, my hmmhmm? My pecker? My dork? My cock? My penis? That thing?"

"Yes, that thing," Jane said in a strained tone of voice.

"It's not like you can't talk about it, they do have words for it, you know."

"All right, your, your penis," Jane said, her face mottled, "okay?"

I didn't say anything, and there was silence for a long moment.

"So what are you concerned about," I asked.

Jane gave me this look, a look I can't describe. Well, that I can try to describe. It was annoyance, partially, and chagrin, and maybe even some... Attraction? There might have been some of that. That too would be a first. So, yeah, I can dissect it for you, cut it up into little pieces, but you ask me to put it back together? Give you the whole, This is what her face looked like: no, I can't do it.

"Why was she touching your... Penis," she asked. The word dripped from her mouth like a distasteful morsel.

I decided not to answer that directly. "Well, it's not like I can stop her. Rule Three and all that. Why, does it bother you?"

"Doesn't it bother you," she asked.

It took me a moment to put my answer together. It was a complicated answer. "Well, yes, but... Yes, because I'm not quite sure why she was touching me, and what she meant by it." Did she have a crush on me? Did she really just mean to thank me in such a blatant, mercenary way? Did she habitually take friends to bed with her? "Maybe in the province of China she comes from, if a guy lets a girl touch his dick, it means he's agreed to marry her." That got a giggle out of her. "But if you're asking if it bothers me that she touched my penis at all... No, it doesn't. It's there, it's what God gave me, it's meant to be touched, you know?"

"Well," Jane said slowly. "I don't like it."

"Don't like what?"

"Her touching you."

"Why?"

Pause. "Because she shouldn't."

"Who should, then?"

"Well," Jane said, uncomfortable. "I don't know. Can't she find someone else to touch?"

"Why," I said wryly, gesturing down at my privates, "is this supposed to be yours and yours alone?"

She colored again.

"Because if it is, you haven't hardly been taking advantage of it."

She said nothing.

"And regardless, I'm kind of in The Program right now. I have had people touch my penis—Ruby Berringer yesterday, though I'm never gonna let that happen again. And Zach too, though I think I'm going to have to kick him in the balls to get back at him. And if someone does stop me with a reasonable request, well... Rule Three." I snorted. "Let's not even talk about Psychology class yesterday. Felt like a fucking lab rat, dashing around through a maze or something."

"No, that's not... That's not what bothers me," Jane said.

"Then what," I asked, keeping my voice patient.

It took a while for this to come out. "Well, it... It bothers me that... You'd let her. That you said yes. Because it sounds like... Just from what you've said, it sounds like she wants to... You know. Do something... Sexual. With you." God, the way she had to hesitate over that word every time. "And she wants to because you're friends, and she wants to... It means something, see. If someone just stops you in the hallway with a request, they're just playing around. But this is... Different."

"You don't like that I may do something sexual with someone I have an emotional connection with," I said softly.

"Yeah! Yeah. That's it."

"You want it to be you."

She didn't answer, just nodded, but she didn't blush either. In fact, all in all she just looked miserable, which made me feel bad. I wanted to reach out to her and comfort her, but I wasn't sure how she'd react—I didn't want to rile her up by doing anything which could be construed as sexual, and I was naked. Honestly, I thought it was a major breakthrough for her to admit that she had any interest in sex with me at all.

I could've comforted her, verbally at least. Things would've probably turned out different if I had. This was one of the great pivots on which my life turned. But I chose the other recourse: instead, I made my point. "Well..." Not meanly, mind you. I don't do that. "Jane, if you... I dunno. We've talked about this before."