Sunday

Su .1

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

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

I was seeing him now.

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

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

What would our children look like?

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

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

"Did you sleep well," he asked.

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

His smile widened. "Why's that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"T-torture?" I asked.

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

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

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

"Poking device?"

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

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

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

I like it.

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

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

"Trinette, why?" said Mom.

I felt myself turning bright red.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I turned red again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I could stay with you," I offered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" his father said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My son," said Mr. Chambers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Meredith. Meredith Levine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Su .2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Argh. "TRINA, PLEASE."

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

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

Slam.

WAKE UP

GRAB A BRUSH AND PUT

Oh dear Lord.

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

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

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

"Like I care," Trina snarled.

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

Trina turned distinctly red. "What about him?"

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

"You know about him," Trina mumbled.

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

A grimace of displeasure crossed Trina's face.

"So," she said. "What do you want?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

... What?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heh. Imagine that. My little sister.

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

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

She gave me a scornful look.

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

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

"No," I said. "Of course not."

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

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

Su .3

When we arrived home, there was a police car in front of my house, and for a wild moment I wondered if Brandon's parents had reported us in. We obviously hadn't done nothing wrong, but if I'd learned anything at his house this morning, it was that you could twist anything if you used the right words. Brandon's and my escape (elopement?) at the so-called 'yard sale' could become a theft and kidnapping, for instance. What would we have to deal with now?

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