Tuesday (part 1)

T .1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I didn't say anything.

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

"Why—he drives himself, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Meredith," I corrected again.

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

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

"How so," my father asked.

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

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

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

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

I wonder the change had been.

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

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

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

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wasn't it nineteen—"

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

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

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

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

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

Once again, there was no response.

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

"How do you know," my father asked.

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

God, how they jumped when I said that word.

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

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

"Brandon," my father thundered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I try," I said. "I try."

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

It's certainly got nothing to do with parents.

T .2

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

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

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

It's going to be a long day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Meredith," Brandon said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logic and emotion are very different things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh really," Brandon said dryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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