Friday (part 1)

F .1

When I woke up on Friday morning, the first thing that occured to me was that I really didn't want to get up: it was warm in bed, and comfortable—for some reason more so than normal—and I didn't want to leave. I didn't hear any alarms going off, suggesting that I had time to go back to sleep... But first I wanted to see what time it actually was.

When I opened my eyes, I didn't recognize the wall, and the clock wasn't where it should be. But when I tried to roll over, I felt an arm around me, and suddenly remembered why nothing made sense.

Hello. I'm Meredith Levine. I'm in bed with the love of my life.

He was smiling at me when I turned to look at him, and I moved up to kiss him—forget morning breath. "Good morning," I said.

"Good morning, beautiful," he said.

"Did we seriously just do that?" I asked.

"Do what?" he said.

"Sleep together," I said. "In the same bed. Without our parents knowing."

"Well, I snuck downstairs and used the fax machine to send your parents a message," Brandon said, "so they know. And I bet my dad will notice the extra car in front of the house eventually."

"Why the fax machine?" I asked.

"So that they'd notice a message had arrived, but it wouldn't wake them up," he said.

"That's clever," I said, smiling, tracing his face with my hand, feeling the sudden urge, the need to touch him. "It's always nice to have a clever, considerate, caring boyfriend."

"I also avoided alerting your brother," he added helpfully.

"Courteous as well," I said.

"And I seem to be inspiring excessive alliteration in my girlfriend," he said.

"Oh, you have inspired a whole lot more," I murmured, and pulled his head to me.

Honestly, I don't know what came over me. And neither did Brandon: "Hey, whoa, hon, what's come over—" And then he stopped and appeared to have gotten the message: that I wanted him, and I was going to get what I wanted.

I think it was... Safety. It had been a long, long week, and I had felt threatened and exposed for a lot of it. All the normal sanctuaries were gone—home, my friends, Brandon's house—invaded by foreign forces like confusion, jealousy, dishonesty. It's hard for me to be on my guard for a long time; I get tired. I like to be able to trust and be trusted. But now, despite all the chaos of the past week, Brandon and I—no, just Brandon—Brandon had been able to eke out some measure of safety for us, a place where we could retreat and be... Safe. Unguarded. And where I could put everything aside and show him just how much I loved him.

I reached between us and drew him out of his pants, feeling his soft skin and the incipient firmness; his breath rushed warm in my ears, over my face. We kissed with growing abandon, our tongues caressing each other, our bodies pressed against each other with his hardening member between. His T-shirt around my upper body clung to my skin, and I felt as though I was his in every way, marked and covered by him. I pushed him over onto his back, rolling on top of him, leaning down over him, kissing his nose, his face, his throat, as his hands found my panties and began to work them down my hips. It was a bit of a struggle, with our bodies and the bedsheets all in the way, but ingenuity—or perhaps just hormones—eventually prevailed. And not a moment too soon.

We moaned as one as I settled down over him. I felt his hardness within me, opening me up, pushing at my walls, filling me up, the most immense thing I had ever felt... and yet not large enough, not possibly enough to sate the hunger inside me. This was heaven; there was nothing better than to be here, in his arms, in his bed, watching his face as breath escaped him in a rush, and he opened half-focused eyes to look up at me.

"Oh God. Meredith."

I kissed him.

It was a new experience to be on top of him, not one we'd often experimented with before. I guess we're simple people; we find something that works and stick to it. Simple, or boring. But I liked to be under him, covered by his body and with movement limited, but yet knowing that he possessed me in every way; and now I liked being over him, feeling his hands worming under my shirt (his shirt) to cup my breasts, looking down at his straining face and feeling him struggle to meet me, to press further into me, to take me all at once, and knowing that I was making him feel this way, that I held him just as much as he had ever held me. They were both good, in their own ways; and everything was good, because everything was Brandon.

And as always, there was his hardness inside me—his manhood, his penis, his member, his cock, whatever you wanted to call it—that. Inside me, stroking in and out, spreading me open as I clung to him, grasping vainly after him as he withdrew; and I felt the base of his cock brushing against my clit every time I settled down on him, and his girth inside me, inciting strings of running fire; feeling the heat coursing through me, rippling and rebounding, building in intensity as the fire reached up from under me.

I could tell he was close, by the look in his eye, by his moans and whispers, by the way he writhed inside me; but I was too, I realized. I was very close. It wouldn't take long for either of us. Because we were together. Because we were one being. Because we loved each other, and here we were, and that special thing we had was extending its power over us—I could feel it in the beat of his heart, in his breath, in the look in his eyes, in the way I pressed to him, beckoning him closer; in the strange, delirious air around us, urging us forward, whispering in our ears. There was nothing better than this. This was what we wanted—the two of us, together. As we always would be.

His hands left my breasts and clasped my hips, pulling me down, burying himself in me—and then he moaned, and I felt his cum inside me, the burst and the dizzying rush; and then orgasm swept over me, and I arched against him, feeling his spasms reverberate against mine, feeling the unexpected pleasure burst and overflow and drain out of us, as we moaned and clenched and panted and finally collapsed, one atop the other, and all that I felt was his heartbeat.

Gradually I became aware of his breath, rushing in my ear; of his arms around my waist, gently stroking the skin of my hips and rear; of his body, solid and reassuring under me. Of his lips, kissing the top of my head.

Of the alarm clock buzzing, drawing us back into the real world.

There wasn't time to fool around in the shower, but it was another new thing for us—having to be conscious of the other person, of reaching for the soap and not finding it, of having to pass the showerhead back and forth. "It's inconvenient," said Brandon. "But I don't mind it."

"Why not?"

"Well," he said, turning to give me the shampoo, "imagine the alternative. What if I didn't have to think about you?"

Then he lathered my hair.

That man can say the sweetest things sometimes.

When we arrived downstairs, the housekeeper—Mrs. Shaw, I think her name is? I rarely see her—was preparing breakfast, with Brandon's father and mother waiting impatiently, trying to look calm by reading the newspaper. "Hello, Brandon," said Mrs. Chambers, turning to meet us, "did you sleep well last..." That was when she stopped.

Brandon's father looked up to see what had interrupted his wife. "Her again?? Is that whose car is out front? Does she live here or something?"

Brandon seized upon this idea. "You know... I'm not entirely certain. Meredith. Do you live here?"

"Well, not exactly," I said. "All my clothes are still in my closet at home, and so's my bed. But I go where my man goes."

They looked at us for a moment. I think it was the first time they had seen us as a couple, instead of two people who happened to be having sex together.

"Well," said Mr. Chambers, extending his hand, the epitome of courtesy. "Since you're here, you might as well have some breakfast. Shaw, make sure you make extra."

Brandon and I sat down.

"When did you get here, Meredith," said Brandon's mother. "It wasn't in the last hour or so, or we'd have heard you."

"Last night," I said. "Probably around eleven or eleven-thirty."

"Why?" said my mother.

"It beat staying at home," I said, and some of my bitterness must have reached them, because they looked across to Brandon, beckoning for explanation.

"Meredith isn't fond of her brother," he said. "They have... Differences of opinion."

There was a round of flickered consultation between them; then his mother said, "Probably normal among siblings," and his father said, "Yes, probably," and I caught the odd emphasis in their statements and wondered if they had both been only children.

"She decided she didn't want to be around him for a while," Brandon continued, "and came here."

"With permission from her parents, I hope," his father said.

"Her parents do know she's here," his mother asked.

I felt guilty—I'd scampered off without so much as a by-your-leave—but Brandon, bless his heart, had covered for me. "Yes, they do. I left them a message by fax machine last night. I'm sure they've seen it by now, or they'd probably have called here, asking if I'd seen Meredith recently."

"Well, we've not received any frantic phone calls asking where their missing daughter is, so I assume you're correct," said Brandon's father, and I heard the grudging respect in his voice, and suddenly wondered what sort of legal disaster he had begun to contemplate before being reassured.

"What do your parents do, Meredith," Mrs. Chambers asked.

"Well, my father works as a financial advisor," I said. "People or companies hire him as needed."

"Good with investments, eh," Mr. Chambers said, and I sensed that I had finally said something he respected.

"And my mother used to teach grade school, but she's thinking about retiring soon," I said. "My dad's starting to make enough money that we can afford it."

Brandon's mother said, "Clearly a man who knows how to treat his wife." Something about the brittle quality of her voice caught me, and I suddenly wondered if these two were good at false faces, and whether it was safe for me to believe anything they said.

"And you have a brother," Mrs. Chambers said. "Younger or older?"

"Older," I said. "He's a senior." Technically.

"Your parents were busy for a couple of years," Mr. Chambers observed. "A newborn and a one-year-old?"

"Actually, no, I, uh, skipped eighth grade," I said. "My best friend's still a sophomore."

Mr. and Mrs. Chambers nodded complacently, as if this happened every day. Brandon threw them a disgusted look and said: "Wow, Meredith, that must have been really difficult."

"Well, I guess it could've been worse," I said. "I was borderline, a little bit—see, normally when somebody's smart, they have them skip an early grade, because it's easier to make the transition when you're younger. So, the fact that I skipped later in life either means that I'm really smart, or I'm barely smart enough to have qualified."

"Well, you seem well-adjusted to me," Brandon said brightly.

"You're supposed to say that," I retorted, grinning.

His parents were not impressed, and if their expressions were anything to go by, Brandon's little set-up for me to deliver that spiel had not gone undetected.

"What do you think," Mr. Chambers said to his wife.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Chambers. "She's very polite, to be sure, but there's also the matter of what we caught them doing on Monday night. That could be a sign of extreme adjustment. It could also be a sign of intense immaturity."

"That was my feeling too," said Mr. Chambers. "You know how kids like to play at being adult."

The only protest I could muster was a mute, gape-jawed stare.

Brandon was not so reticent. "Oh, God, guys, can we get over that for just one second?"

"Brandon, what you two were doing was highly inappropriate to your age and station," said Mr. Chambers. "Whatever claims you might make to maturity are thrown out the window by that one thing."

"Maybe when you grew up," Brandon retorted. "It's a new generation, Dad. Sex isn't inextricably linked to reproduction anymore. Now it can just be for fun. And now it is just for fun, for a lot of people."

"And what if there's an accident?" Mr. Chambers said. "Birth control isn't infallible; it fails... What, one in a hundred times? More? What happens if tomorrow Meredith comes to you and says that someone new will be entering your lives in nine months?"

"I'd ask her what she wanted to do," Brandon said sharply.

"Oh," said Mrs. Chambers. She had heard Brandon's hasty hesitation. "Is that all? No concerns about, about raising the child? About putting her education on hold? About how much it costs to raise a child nowadays?"

"Of course I'd worry about those," Brandon said. "When I said I'd ask her what she wanted to do, I meant in the short term. Like, Do you want to go through with this at all. Do you still trust me. Do you want me to be present in this baby's life. Do you want to have this baby at all."

"And you'd just... Meekly go along with—"

"There's no 'meek' about it," Brandon said. He took my hand, which was resting on the table—visible, unmistakable. What they didn't see, what only I felt, was the rigid tension in his grip, the clenching of his jaw. "I love Meredith. What I want is for her to be happy. What she wants, I want. And I'll support her in whatever that is, even if I don't agree with it."

There was a flickered exchange of glances between his parents; no matter how sentimental an answer it might have been, this was clearly the 'correct' one, and they hadn't expected to hear it. "Well," Mr. Chambers grumbled. "At least he wasn't talking about proposing to her because of a failed condom."

Brandon started to open his mouth. I gave him a warning look, and mercifully he fell quiet.

The housekeeper delivered the food at that exact moment, breaking the somewhat misaligned impasse; in the enforced politeness of passing plates and utensils we managed to cobble together some form of decency. I could see Brandon was no longer ready to explode; and his parents, though offensive, had thus far been polite. I had no desire to ignite a civil war in this family. They had enough problems as it was. And then, with a touch of dark humor: Let's leave the civil wars for my family.

"Brandon," said his father suddenly, "isn't it considered appropriate for a man to tend to his woman at table?" To prove his point, he ladled some eggs onto his wife's plate, the serving spoon making loud noises against the glassware.

Brandon said, "I suppose so."

I said, "Absolutely not."

His parents blinked at us in owlish confusion.

"I mean, there's such thing as courtesy," I said, jumping into the gap, "but there's also such thing as being patronizing. I'm not so helpless that Brandon has to fork food into my mouth or something."

"Yes, but..." said Brandon. "But isn't there an element of... Well, I mean, when someone's so important in your life, you... You want to take care of them, don't you? You want to look after them. You want to show them how much they mean to you."

"Yeah, but to the extent of destroying my autonomy?" I said. "You know as well as I do that they used to use 'proper respect for women' and all that to keep them in a cage."

"Maybe they did, but I wouldn't," Brandon said. "It would be counter-productive. You may be beautiful as a decoration on the living room couch, but you're more beautiful moving 'round and talking to people."

"Uh-huh," I said, feeling cautious. I love Brandon, but I won't let myself be caged by anyone. Not even him.

"Look," he said. "It'd be pointless for me to try to tie you down in any case. If you love me, you'll stay with me and be a much better asset at my side than in a china cabinet somewhere. And, if you don't love me, I wouldn't be able to change that by clinging to you. I could delay the inevitable, but not change it. So, I'd let you go, because I'd hate myself if I chained you down like that."

"And what would you do if I left you," I said.

"Lie down and die, most likely," he said. The total seriousness of his tone unnerved me. Brandon says what he means and means what he says. And sometimes that's not such a good thing.

"Well," I said, forcing a laugh into my voice. "Good thing I never plan to leave you then."

"Yes," he said, taking my hand. His eyes never left my face. "A good thing."

There was a short silence while Brandon's parents tried not to look at us. Eventually he and I found some shards of public decency and turned back to them. Breakfast proceeded quite shakily for a few minutes.

Finally Mr. Chambers looked up from his breakfast and speared me with a gaze. "So, Meredith. What are things like in your family?"

"I... I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"What's your home life like," said Mr. Chambers, which was a much better way of putting it.

"Oh, well, it's... Pretty calm," I said. "I... You know, I do homework, I watch television, I... Sometimes I have arguments with my brother, but, you know, not all the time... I sing, I practice oboe, I do... Pretty much what any teenage girl does. Except for that whole fashion thing. I'm really not interested in that."

"You don't believe a girl should look her best," Mrs. Chambers said.

"No, it's not about that," I said. "I think that a girl can look any way she pleases. If she wants to show herself off, she can; and if she doesn't, she doesn't have to."

A strange expression crossed Mrs. Chambers' face, that I couldn't identify.

"What I don't like about fashion is the way it practically requires you to sign away your life," I said. "It's not just about interesting clothes anymore, it's practically a religion. I think it's stupid that some people try to define themselves by what they wear and how new and expensive it is. I don't want to get into that."

"Mmm-hmm," said Mrs. Chambers, nodding her head with that same unreadable expression on her face; and I wondered if I had just scored points or dragged myself down.

"How about your brother," Mr. Chambers asked. "What's he do?"

"Oh, well..." I said. Wow. A question more apt to get me in trouble, he could not have asked. It would be a fine line to walk, skirting the nasty parts without actually lying. "He was at a... Boarding school, actually, for the past year and a half or so... So, we've actually been out of touch, for the most part. He just graduated from there, though, as a senior, so my guess is that he's going to enroll at a community college somewhere and transfer to a university after..."

I could see from Brandon's face that he thought I should have skirted the truth somewhat farther. Well, he was my brother and not Brandon's.

"Why was your brother at a boarding school," Mrs. Chambers asked.

"Well, he was... A bit of a wild child," I explained. Again, that was, strictly, the truth. Just not all of it. "It got bad enough that my parents felt there was nothing they themselves could do, and that they had to send him away. So... They did."

"And they've been... Distant... Ever since, I imagine," Mr. Chambers said.

There was a moment of silence, as befitting such a bizarre shift of topic. I finally found my voice: "What? What makes you say that?"

"Well," said Mr. Chambers. "It's understandable. A son so far away, in such a difficult position... Of course their thoughts would be with him for a great deal of the time. I do hope your brother appreciates the heartache they must have gone through—"

"Now hold on a second," I protested.

"Is that why you think you've done a good job at parenting," Brandon exclaimed.

"After my parents had to send Michael away, they didn't just zone off," I said angrily. "They paid attention. They realized that they'd been making mistakes in how they raised us, and they decided they weren't going to do that anymore. They talked to me. They listened to me. They didn't turn themselves into, like, magic parents that would let me do anything I wanted... But they stopped being evil parents that expected me to do anything they wanted." My voice dropped away, snatched by sudden emotion. "They started treating me like I existed. It was all I needed. Now I believe them when they tell me they love me. And I hope they feel the same when I tell them."

Mr. and Mrs. Chambers looked at me soundlessly. Brandon passed me a napkin and I tried to pretend like I wasn't crying. Awful time to be overcome by emotion. Awful.

"Then," said Mr. Chambers finally. "If you have them... Then why do you need Brandon?"

The napkin dropped from my hand. "Is that what this is about?"

"Jeez, you guys," Brandon said tiredly.

"I don't spend so much time with Brandon because I need some, some surrogate parent or something," I said. "I spend time with him because I love him. Yes, I love him—I enjoy his company, I like the way he makes me feel. But it's not like I couldn't live without him. I'm not dependent on him. I don't— Well, if he suddenly stood up right now and told me to never speak to him again, I'd be very sad. But I'd survive. And I'd keep going with my life, and find someone else. And that would be that."

"Guys," Brandon said. "Having been suicidal once doesn't mean that the person's screwed up for life. Everyone has bad days. Some people just have worse ones than others. But having worse ones doesn't mean something's wrong with you."

"You can believe that if you want to, Brandon," his father said, his tone icy.

"I will," Brandon said. "Because it's the truth."

Mr. Chambers' eyes were icy.

"And I suggest you admit it," Brandon said. "Before you have to live with the shame of having a son that something's wrong with."

Mr. Chambers flinched.

"That's clear enough," Mrs. Chambers said, surging into the gap. "Because no son of ours would ever show such disrespect to his parents."

Brandon favored her with a grim, sardonic smile and said no more.

His father checked his watch. "I do need to be getting off to business. Brandon, I'll see you in a bit. Have a nice day, Ms. Levine."

Mrs. Chambers watched him go, and then said, "And I as well. Shaw, thank you, we'll not need you for the rest of the day, you're excused. Brandon, clean up, won't you?" And with that she swept out as well.

Mrs. Shaw looked at Brandon. Brandon shrugged. "I guess you've got the day off. Don't worry, I'll make sure you get the full day's wages."

Mrs. Shaw sagged in relief. I wondered what her financial situation was, that the money was so important to her. What kind of person signs up as a housekeeper-cum-cleaning-lady, anyway? The kind who doesn't know what else to do, I guess. Which is probably why Brandon promised to make sure she'd be paid as if she'd worked the full day, even if she hadn't; he can be selfless like that.

"Well, let me help you with these, at least," said Mrs. Shaw, moving towards the table.

"Nope, nope," said Brandon, grinning, "Mom told me to do it, and I'm gonna do it. You head on home, spend some time with your family."

"I'll do it," I said, standing up. "You can go... Well, I dunno, check your e-mail or something. I ought to pitch in. You've been looking after me for the past twenty-four hours or so."

"Nonsense," Brandon said, "you're my guest here, I can't put you to work."

"I've put you to work," I countered. "You deserve a rest. I'll take care of it."

"No, I'll take care of it," Brandon said.

"No, I'll—"

Mrs. Shaw pushed between us, picked up the abandoned dishes, gave us both a look of glowering amusement, and marched to the sink.

"That was the weirdest argument ever," I said. "Don't most people argue over who's not going to do the dishes?"

"Clearly a sign of arrested development," Brandon intoned in an officious voice. "Highly emotionally immature. Surely too young, totally fooling themselves about being in love."

Then we giggled like idiots. Brandon's mother, passing by on her way out of the house, gave us a confused look and then left, shaking her head.

F .2

The first thing I noticed when I woke up on Friday was that my arms hurt. And the first thing I saw when I woke up was that some of my cuts had broken open during the night, and there was blood—actual blood—on the bedsheets. Drying, but very much there, very red, very obvious, for anyone to see.

After that, I found out just how quickly you wake up when your adrenaline system kicks in. Who needs coffee? Just get somebody to scare the living daylights out of you first thing in the morning, and you'll be good to go.

Hey, I'm Arie Chang, and I'm making valuable research discoveries on the behalf of science.

Mom gave me weird looks as I piled down the stairs with my bedding bundled into a ball in my hands. "Arie? What's wrong?"

"I, uh," I said, improvising fast. A-ha! "My period kicked in overnight and I didn't have a pad on." It was about that time of month anyway.

"Oh, I see," said my mother. "Better wash that, then."

"Yeah," I said, hurrying past her.

My worst nightmare would be if Mom was already running a load in the washing machine at this very second; but clearly luck was with me: it was empty. I shoveled the stuff in and was adding detergent when Mom popped back in, a quizzical expression on her face. "Arie... Why were you... Not wearing underwear in bed last night?"

I froze for a second, my mind making the proper connections. Oh yeah. Even if I had had my period, only a pretty heavy flow—about a gallon, more or less—should have managed to soak through my panties. Mom knows I don't have anything like that; no one in our family does. Thus, the only logical conclusion...

I scowled, annoyed at being seen through. "Mom, why the hell are you thinking about whether I'm wearing panties?"

My mother flinched and looked away. "Never mind."

Hunh, I thought as she walked away. How about that.

Mom was microwaving frozen waffles when I actually got to the kitchen, her back to me; I looked around a little bit as she bustled around. Surprisingly enough, my dad came in and sat down at the table. Normally he's left for work by now, but today, here he was, poking unconcernedly through the morning paper. "Good morning, Arie," he said in his unaccented English.

"Hi, Dad."

"What time did you get home last night," he asked, his eyes never lifting from the paper.

"Uhm... About ten-thirty, I guess," I said, thinking back. After Brandon had dropped me off and I'd gotten into the house, the night had become lost in this blur of endless homework. Strangely, oddly, I was able to focus and get it actually done—something that's really not normal for me; generally I'm at my desk from the instant I come home to the instant I go to bed, either doing my homework (trying to do my homework) or puttering around on the Internet. Then I go to bed at one in the morning and wake up at like six-thirty. It's not great. Maybe I should do something about that.

Now he looked up. "You were at... Brandon's house?"

"Yeah," I said. "We were..." Mindful of my mother. "Working on a project." I don't think my mother quite understands what goes down at these Save-Arie Fests. I'm certain my father does.

"I hope the project was successful," said my father.

"You could say that," I said.

Trina came grumbling into the room. "Who the hell's using the washing machine at this time of day."

"Sometimes there are accidents, Trina," said my mother. Jeez, Mom, you don't have to be so snobbish about it. Just because you never had to lie to your parents...

"Humph," said Trina, and shoved herself into a chair.

"Good morning, Trina," said my father, not looking up.

"Hi," said Trina flatly. Then: "Wait a minute, what are you doing here?"

He gave her a long, level look over the top of the newspaper. "I was supposed to be at a meeting this morning, but they realized they didn't need me. So, I decided to take a few hours off and spend a little time with my family."

Trina recoiled slightly. "Oh, well. Okay, uh."

The microwave beeped, and a few moments later, Mom was there, delivering a plate stacked with waffles. Grabbing plates, utensils and condiments, we dug in.

"Mmm," said Trina after a few bites. "Are these... Blueberries?" Those are her favorite.

"Yes, actually," said my mother. "I found some new waffles that have the fruit in them. Do you like them?"

"I didn't say I didn't like them," Trina said quickly. "Actually I—" She took another bite. "Mmm. It's interesting. I never would've thought of that. Putting blueberries directly into the waffle." She grinned as well as she could with her mouth full.