Meredith and Derek Naked in SchoolThursday part 1
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F .5
When it rains, it pours, huh. Get done with one problem—Jenny's situation—and another crops up. I feel like we haven't taken a deep breath in ages.
And honestly, I'm a bit scared to. Because then I would smell Brandon on my skin—it's been six hours but I can still smell him, feel the aftershadows of his caress—and I would want to grab him and jump his bones right then and there. Never mind how it's lunchtime and we're out in the middle of nowhere.
Hello. I'm Meredith Levine. I'm a problem-solver, and, when I'm not, I seem to be horny.
(... I wonder if anyone else has ever said that sentence in the whole of human history.)
All right.
"Are your parents always this... Vindictive?" Christa asked around a mouthful of her lunchtime sandwich.
"Sometimes, yeah," said Brandon. "They... Well, they see life as just a lot of obstacles they have to mow over, I think. It's their way or the highway." He gestured with his pizza. "And their way is, you know, so far from the highway that it's, like, this back-country dirt road that isn't even paved, and, like, you need really good shocks just to deal with it. And you probably pass horse-drawn carts every now and then."
Everybody looked at him.
"Uh, Brandon, sweetie," I said. "There's metaphors... And then there's just no."
"I may make bad jokes, but at least I don't make literary pontifications," Zach said.
"Zach!" Sajel exclaimed. "Where did you learn that word?"
"It seems you've been a very civilizing influence on him," I said to Christa.
"I've done some good work," Christa said, beaming. She slid her arm through Zach's and leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Ook ook," said Zach. "Me talk pretty one day."
"We're getting rather far afield," said Sajel.
"We seem to do that a lot," said Christa.
"Hey, guys, has anyone seen Arie," Derek asked, skidding to a stop in the middle of our camp. We all looked up.
"No, actually," said Brandon, "I haven't seen her all day, except in class. I wonder where she is."
"Normally I think she's in the computer labs," I said.
"Nngh," said Derek, rubbing his face with his hand. "Thanks, guys." And off he went again.
"Is he trying to get back together with her," Christa asked when he had gone.
"I think so," I said.
"Best thing for them, really," Brandon said. "They've both been at loose ends ever since Tuesday."
"Kinda worrisome, though," Zach said. "I mean, they've been really out of kilter. Is it safe for two people to be so... Important to each other?"
Sajel stared at him. "If I hadn't seen it, I'd would never have believed it. Zach, thinking about consequences for once in his life?"
To hide my discomfort, I said, "Christa, you have been a civilizing influence on him!"
"No, seriously," Zach said. "I mean, Christa means the world to me, but... There are ways in which I hold back a little. I mean, you know the odds of relationships working out, and of... Well, I mean. The sad fact is, honestly, that we're probably gonna break up. So I hold back some."
Christa gave us a disgruntled look. "And this is the man I'm sleeping with?"
"No, I—" Zach shook his head. "I'm coming across wrong. Christa, if we were to break up, I'd be miserable. I'm sure I'd get over you—sure, after several years, and a long scavenger hunt to find the pieces of my heart, which you ripped up and scattered across the known universe. But I would get over you. And we'd run into each other at, like, our graduating class's five-year reunion, and we'd reminisce over old times and laugh and admire Brandon's and Meredith's kids and introduce our current dates to each other and hopefully we'd all get along fine. I mean, whoever I end up dating in the future—or marrying, if it comes to that—if the person isn't you, I'd be really pleased if you and she could be friends. But... Arie and Derek aren't gonna be like that. They're just too important to each other. They gave each other too much. And now they're walking around hollow like all the life has been sucked out of them, and I'm worried that we won't see them at the five-year reunion 'cause they'll be, like..." His face worked. "Dead."
We were all silent. Brandon's hand nudged mine, and I looked into his eyes. Hadn't we just been having this conversation on Wednesday? And the irony of course was that Zach seemed to think we were set in stone.
"Zach the sensitive one," Brandon mused. "And wise, too."
"He's right," Christa said. "They look like they're... I dunno, like the life has been sucked out of them. Like they're dying on the inside."
I said, "Given Arie's disposition and habits, I don't think it's really proper to be joking about her death."
"Given the situation, I don't think we're joking," Sajel said.
"I don't mean dead like literally dead, six feet under or whatever," Zach said. "I mean... Spiritually dead. Like, you know those stories about the woman or man who was emotionally scarred and has to learn to love again. I can really see that happening to them. And that's kind of worrisome, you know?"
I turned away, leaning nearer to Brandon—solely for the purpose of speaking to him privately, of course. "Is that what's going to happen to us?" Maybe I should've kept my mouth shut. "Is that our fate?"
"So what if it is?" Brandon asked.
I gave him a cross look. "Brandon, I don't want to be emotionally retarded by a crashed relationship."
"Neither do I," Brandon said. "But in some cases, it's worth it."
I blinked at him. "What do you mean?"
He sighed. "You know how, every now and then, maybe once or twice a lifetime— Listen to me, talking as if I'd been alive for fifty or sixty years. Anyhow. Once or twice in a lifetime, you run into someone where you just know, you just instantly know: 'If I don't manage to get close to this person, it'll be the one that got away.' You know that feeling?"
"I... I think so." I didn't think it would be appropriate—or really conducive—to mention that the one person I'd ever met, who fit that description, was Brandon himself.
"Well..." He sighed. "Even if I'm emotionally scarred by our break-up and can't date again for another ten years..." His arm circled my waist. "At least she didn't get away." His eyes were clear and steady on mine. "And that's worth all the world to me."
That man can say the sweetest things sometimes.
We probably would have gotten very involved with each other, but a shadow fell across us, blotting out the light. I turned to look and was presented with a quite direct view of someone's penis.
"You," said a voice. Bernard's. "Partner."
"I'm sorry," Brandon said loudly, "I don't know anyone by that name. Do you know anyone by that name, Meredith?"
"I'm sorry, no, I don't," I said. "I wonder who he's referring to." I was torn: I'd rather have Brandon put up a sterling example of proper, polite behavior. But at the same time, who wouldn't swoon when someone charges in to protect them?
"You are my partner, Meredith Levine, are you not?" Bernard said.
"Yes, that would be I," I said. "What can I do for you?"
"You can partner me," Bernard said. "I haven't seen you since Wednesday, besides class." Sadly enough, this was relatively polite for him.
"I guess you want more advice," I said.
"Yes," said Bernard. "Not from you," he said to Brandon.
"That's too bad," Brandon growled, "because I've got a few tips I could offer you."
"Shut it, fuckwad," Bernard said.
"I'll shut it when I hear some of the respect I deserve," Brandon said, his eyes narrowing. "If not, you'll just have to put up with me all day long."
"You want a piece of me, bitch?" Bernard shrieked. Heads turned from all directions. Bernard's fists were clenched and he was shaking.
"Brandon," I said. "Thank you. I can handle this."
"I can handle him too," Brandon said, "and it'll be much more the way he deserves than what you'd offer him."
Boys. Knight in shining armor is one thing, but fisticuffs is quite another. "No, you can't handle him," I said.
"He's kinda scrawny," Brandon said.
"That may be so," I said, "but you still can't win."
"Why not?"
"Because he has nothing to lose," I said.
Brandon eyed Bernard, and the palpable rage on his face.
"And so you expect me to sit here and watch you march into the lion's den," he said.
"I expect you to sit here and let me do what I do best," I said.
"Which is?"
"De-clawing lions," I said.
Brandon looked at me wordlessly.
"All right," I said to Bernard as we walked away. "First off, we're gonna set some ground rules down. I don't know what it is that makes you hostile to everything, but for the next ten minutes, you keep it in check or I walk away. It's Friday lunch; I'll be done with you in a few hours, and you're wrong if you think I won't break rules to be done with you sooner. You are rude, belligerent and extremely unpleasant, and if you think that all of that isn't causing you social problems, you're too stupid to be wearing those glasses."
He looked at me. "Are you threatening me?"
"I'm stating some facts," I said. "You wanted advice? You got it. It won't be stuff you like hearing."
"Well, then, can it," he said. "If I don't like hearing it, I don't want to hear it."
"Then go home and jerk off," I said. "You wanted advice? You got it. Now, are you man enough to stay and listen to it? Or are you going to run away sulking?"
It was language I'd never used before in my life: I wasn't generally this vulgar, and I certainly don't believe in all that gender-role crap they lob at us. But it seemed to work with Bernard, because he took a deep breath and said, "I'm staying."
"Good," I said. "Then let's start at the beginning. Did you know that you're almost always angry?"
"No," he said quickly.
"Then you heard it here first," I said. "You're always angry. I've never seen you but that you're breathing fire and pissed off about something. Now, let me ask you this. If you saw somebody who seemed as likely to say hello to you as he was likely to punch you, would you be interested in saying hello to him?"
He squinted and frowned into the distance. "I don't know."
"Then take another deep breath and think," I said. "You do know the answer, you're just having trouble getting to it."
He took another deep breath. Squinted into the distance.
"No," he said at last. "I'd stay away from him."
"Smart boy," I said. "Now. There's someone I know who seems as likely to say hello to me as he is likely to punch me. Do I need to tell you his name?"
"No," said Bernard. Strangely, he sounded miserable.
"So, that's the first thing you might want to look into," I said. "Anger management classes."
"I've tried those already," Bernard snarled.
"Try them again," I said. "Or different ones. Whatever you do, you have to stop acting so hostile to people, because it makes them avoid you. That's just the simple facts."
Bernard gave me a strange glare, and sudden fear bloomed through my mind: Oh God. What if he's like Brandon's parents? What if he's one of those people who doesn't respect facts? But then he nodded, once, short, and said, "Fine."
Lord in Heaven. Progress!
"I've... Thought a little about what you said on Tuesday," he said, almost grudgingly. "You... May have had a point about... Looking at people who are more like me."
"I may have," I allowed graciously. "But you have to remember, Bernard, that in part it's all about packaging. There are probably certain types of people who are attracted to you now, and certain types that you're attracted to. But if you know how to approach them, you can make just about anyone your friend."
"Hasn't worked so far," he retorted.
"And we've already discussed why your current approach is severely lacking, now haven't we," I said.
"Easy for you to say," he snarled. "It's not fucking easy to just suddenly change."
Let's try a different tact—after all, he was right. "What makes you so angry, anyway," I asked. "Bernard, being furious 24/7 isn't exactly normal."
"What, are you saying I'm some sort of freak," he flared.
"No, no, of course not," I said, suddenly aware of the treacherous ground underfoot. Such an extreme aversion to the office of freakdom— A sudden understanding of his situation jammed into my head: how often he'd been reviled for his nature; the teasing and casual, callous hatred he had suffered for his entire life. "It's just that— Well, being angry takes a lot of physical energy, for one, and I'm surprised your body can handle it. But that doesn't mean you're screwed up, it just means you're different, which is in fact quite normal. Everyone has their own tics and traits and idiosyncrasies."
"Don't seem normal to me," Bernard snarled. "All my life it's been, 'God, you freak.' Every single person. Every single day. What, is there some fucking rule that I'm not allowed to be different?"
My instincts were confirmed, and some of his anger fell into focus. He was probably exaggerating a bit, but at the same time, I knew high-schoolers could be cruel. Actually, no, cruel's not the right word: they could be despicable. Facing that sort of constant hatred—hearing, day after day, that he was somehow defective and unworthy—it was honestly understandable that he'd grown so bitter.
"Tell me about the girl you're interested in," I said. "She's... The cheerleading type, isn't she?"
He gave me a glare, but a gruff nod.
"What's her name," I asked.
This time his glare was long and speculative. "Lenora Walters."
I knew her. As a cheerleader, she was just a bit out of his league, but her beauty ran along more Victorian lines, of pale face and slim limbs and a bit of the open-mouthed ingenue—impefections that kept her off the A-list. And there were hidden depths to her, a sense that her habitual silence hid not an empty brain but impossibly complex thought. Most of the other cheerleaders you could detect by their chatter from a mile away—it was all Gucci this and Prada that and Sketchers whatever. Next to that, anyone quiet would look smart, but when Lenora did open her mouth, something intelligent tended to come out. In truth, I quite approved of his taste. And I was glad I did—it proved that there were instincts under his anger that had not been blurred or corrupted by years of hatred.
But instincts or not, she was still a knockout beauty, and there was too much clutter on his person to make it easy to see him clearly. "Why her?" I asked. "Besides, you know, the whole good-looks thing. Is there something about her you particularly like?"
"Why not her," he said.
"Well... She's kinda a little bit out of your league, Bernard," I said.
"Bullshit," he said.
"And besides, she's got a boyfriend," I said. Tad Jenkins, one of the football types. My guess is that she probably wouldn't have him for long, but at the moment he was still there.
"So what," he said. "I mean, what's he got that I haven't got."
I blinked at him.
It was such an outrageous question: what didn't Tad Jenkins have that Bernard didn't? Popularity, a well-toned physique, good grades, the ability to accept responsibility, a car, a driver's license, normal parents (I don't know the Castagne family personally, but I'm not making any bets about his family life), a girlfriend... Normal friends... A non-abrasive personality... Tact... A whole mess of things that Bernard just... Hadn't got.
But at the same time, it was a sentiment I understood completely.
Standing off to one side, watching Stasya flirt with Caleb. Looking on in dismay as my latest crush suddenly appeared with a brand-new girlfriend hanging from his arm. Watching the airhead cheerleaders girls, the girls on the sports teams, the student body presidents and vice-presidents and secretaries and treasurers and yearbook editors and newspaper editors—all the Big Women On Campus, in other words—watching all of them hook up and break up and make incredibly stupid decisions about who to kiss and who to sleep with, and wasting these opportunities that had been given them out of the sheerly random miracle of popularity. Watching Christa get boyfriends, watching Arie get boyfriends, watching in disbelief as Jane—Jane, of all people!—somehow got picked up. Picked up by a loser, surely, and someone who was clearly desperate, to have gone for her (what was his name, Brankin? Brankin? Chambers?), but regardless: how had she managed, when I had just gotten dumped by my then-boyfriend?
Watching all these things, alone, without someone of my own to cling to; and thinking, It's just not fair. I mean, what have they got that I don't have?
And in that moment I knew that Bernard had hidden depths of his own, that there was more to him than anger. That there had been times when he'd sat down in the privacy of his own room, of his own heart, and brought his soul out of its pocket and dusted it off and taken a good long look at it, and figured that, while it certainly wasn't the most flashy or fashionable or desirable of things, it was servicable, there wasn't at least something desperately wrong with it. That there were qualities he nursed that he never showed anyone, that there were selling points on this boy's resume that, just, none of us had had the chance to know about. Because—yes, because he'd hidden them from us; but they were there, and there they were.
After all. What did everyone else have that he didn't?
It must be frustrating, trying to hold to one's own self-worth, trying to hold to a sense of being non-defective, when it seems like everyone in the entire world is attacking you and destroying your sense of self over some half-perceived defect.
No wonder he was always angry.
I didn't know why he'd become the way he was; I didn't know why he'd been singled out like that. I'd dealt with the symptom but not the disease. But hopefully he'd get around it somehow.
And in the meanwhile, he was still looking at me—Bernard Castagne, with his eyes devoid of anger for the first time ever. I mean, what's he got that I haven't got.
"Only one thing," I said truthfully. "Appropriate advertising."
Bernard frowned. "I don't want to lie to people."
"And well you shouldn't," I said. "But remember, we all choose the image we project. Maybe not consciously, but we choose it in the end. And the image you project... Accents all the wrong things. You let yourself come across as hostile and impatient, instead of, you know, friendly and approachable. And with that in mind, it's no wonder that everyone thinks you're hostile and impatient—it's what you make them think."
"Not on purpose," he said.
"No," I said, my heart going out to him, "of course not, not on purpose. But... There's a lot that we do—we, as humans—that we're not aware of or conscious of. There are things that we do without meaning to. And I think this is one of those things. You try your best, but your heart is too occupied with anger, and you get distracted and things come out wrong."
"I didn't choose it," he flared.
"No, you didn't," I said, "but you can still choose against it. Are you angry right now? You've been pretty calm for the last few minutes or so. You can put away your anger. It'll be hard... But it's possible. And it'll be worth it in the end."
"What if Lenora doesn't like me," he asked suspiciously.
"Well..." I said. "There are, after all, other fish in the sea. And, besides, this isn't just for Lenora. Look at yourself, Bernard. Do you honestly want to keep on being who you are today?"
He actually did look down at himself for a moment.
"No," he said, his voice coloring—with anger; and, strangely, with grief. "I hate who I am." More of his psyche fell into place.
"What more reason to change do you need?" I asked.
His head came up. I gave him a sad smile.
"If you're expecting it to happen overnight, you're going to be very disappointed," he said.
"Change is always difficult," I said. "But I know you can do it. And, if you can keep your temper in check for a few moments, you're always welcome to stop by and ask for more help."
He gave me a strange glance, and I wondered suddenly if anyone had ever before invited him, of their own free will, to come talk to them.
"I may do that," was all he said.
He didn't thank me. But I guess we'll take baby steps for now.
Brandon watched him walk away. "Is he... Actually not-angry?" he said in tones of disbelief.
"He's... Calmed down a bit," I said. "Obviously he's not perfectly fixed, but, the groundwork is there. Maybe he'll remember some of what I told him."
Brandon fixed me with a look. "You're not a lion de-clawer, you know."
"Oh?" I said.
"No," he said. "You're a fucking miracle worker."
I shook my head. "Only under extenuating circumstances."
Well. Two problems down. How many more to go?
F .6
The fact is, I couldn't find Arie all day. I didn't have a chance to talk to her until recess, at which point we'd already had our two classes together and she'd disappeared off to... Wherever it was she went all day. How annoying is that? The one time I actually want to talk to her, and I can't find her.
Hey, I'm Derek Strong, and I can't find my girlfriend.
And before I knew it, I'd lost my chance, because it was Friday, and my week in The Program was over. Brandon and the gang collected me and Meredith from outside of our final classes (no choir on Fridays) and congratulated us on surviving The Program. "Another pair of veterans for our little circle," he said, grinning.
"Yeah, we, uh, we found you some medals, but they, uh, they have pins, and you don't have anything to pin onto," said Zach, "so, uh, we got you these instead." He held up two of the yellow smiley-face stickers that Ms. Petersen uses to denote properly-done math homework. "Uh— Here," he said. He gave one to Brandon and stuck the other onto my chest, about where a police badge would go.
Brandon took his and blinked at Meredith for a moment. In case you haven't noticed, there's really nowhere to touch a girl's chest where you aren't hitting something you're not supposed to. So Brandon just did it anyway. He put it in the same place Zach put mine: on Meredith's left breast, halfway up or so.
Meredith looked down at it.
"No, too high," said Brandon—peeled it off, and stuck it to her nipple.
Meredith looked down at it. Meredith gave a long-suffering sigh.
Thus properly attired, we convened at the south entrance to officially rejoin the world of the clothed.
There was a lot of chaos running around: it was, of course, everyone's last chance to Rule Three—or, more significantly, to be Rule Three'd, since no one had ever been known to go through The Program twice. Bernard was there, but predictably nobody touched him, and I saw another stumbling block Meredith's miracle would have to overcome: attitudes take a long time to change. Bernard might come to school a new man on Monday, but it'd probably be about this time next year before anyone noticed—if they did at all. The guy might be stuck as an outcast until college. And if that wasn't a recipe for getting pissed off, I didn't know what was. I made a note to tell Meredith about this ASAP.
But not now. I was looking for Arie. The south entrance is where her mother comes to pick her up, so she'd have to pass through here eventually. And when she does, I told myself, I am going to catch her. Even if I have to hop after her with my pants down and my wank waving and only one arm through its shirtsleeve.
So, perhaps appropriately, this was exactly the state I was in when I saw her walking by.
I didn't get a chance to hop. There was too much of a crowd around me that I had to try and push my way through. And I had barely gotten through to the edges of the mess when someone bobbed into my vision with a brilliant smile. "Hi Derek."
"Hi Faith," I said distractedly. Arie was getting away.
"You look different with clothes on," Faith said.
"I feel different with clothes on," I said distractedly. Arie was getting away.
"They make you look like a grown-up," said Faith. "It's nice."
I turned to Faith. She had all her clothes on: tan corduroy pants and a pink blouse, plus a backpack. "Look, is this important? I'm kind of busy."
"I'm quick," said Faith. "I'll be so fast you didn't even notice me." Her eyes flashed and flickered and she giggled.
I'm noticing you now, lady. "What is it?"
"Well," said Faith reasonably. "I just wanted to thank you for being such a good Program Partner. You were nice to me all week. Most people won't even talk to me, but you did, and Arie did, and you got all those people to notice me yesterday, and the day before... It was very sweet."
"You're welcome," I said. I looked around for Arie.
She was standing in the doorway to her family's van, and the instant my eyes fell upon her, she whirled away and jump in. Suddenly, somehow, from the whiplash of hair, from the hasty way the door slammed shut, that she'd been seen me talking to Faith—and that she was crying.
Fuck.
"I do my best," I said, feeling new weight sink into my belly. That's Derek for ya. Too nice to say No.
The blue van whipped past us, drowning out my words.
"Well, I appreciate it," Faith said, beaming.
"Glad you do," I said dully.
"I hope we can still be friends after this," Faith said. "You're always welcome to come find me and talk to me."
"I know," I said.
"And since Arie's out of your life, I suppose you need new friends," Faith said.
"Well," I said. "Arie's a little more than just a friend, Faith."
"I know," Faith said brightly.
Suddenly I took a closer look at her face. She had been unusually lucid this afternoon. Her eyes remained steady on mine, not flickering randomly the way they normally did. And her commentary was...
She wasn't... She didn't mean...
Did she?
"Uhm, uh, oh dear, um, I'm sorry, Faith, but I've got to go now, that's my sister over there, waiting by the car, she's gonna drive off if I don't—" Jenny was doing no such thing, she was in fact talking to Meredith and Brandon over by the clothing boxes, which is probably why, when Faith looked over her shoulder, she didn't see her. "Sorry, but I've got to go. See you next week."
Now I hopped.
A lot.
"What was all that about, you look like you've seen a ghost," said Meredith.
"I know she's a little weird, Faith isn't that scary, is she?" Brandon said.
I squeezed my eyes shut. "You don't want to know. You really, really don't want to know."
All I have to say is this: Sometimes there's safety in clothing.
F .7
And then it was all done and I had my clothes back on me, and it felt a little strange in some ways—it had only been a week, but my skin was already strangely unaccustomed to the fetters and shelters of clothing. Where was the wind stirring the light hairs on my arms, the sun smiling on every inch of skin it could find? What was all this cloth stuff, cuffing my legs and torso? It was really odd in some ways.
But at the same time, I was glad I could make my boobs look bigger again.
Hello. My name's Meredith Levine. I'm insecure. How are you?
"So," Derek asked me, "what's the plans for the weekend?"
"Well..." I said. "I've got my birthday thing tomorrow that you're all invited to... Three o'clock or so, no idea when it'll end. Why?"
"Is Arie coming?" Derek asked.
I blinked, wondering whether I should trick him into coming by saying she wasn't. "Yes," I said finally. "Are you coming?"
"Yes," said Derek. "I have got to talk to her. Can I bring Jenny?"
"Sure," I said. "Stasya, Caleb, Erica, Gavin, Jeff... They're all coming. The more the merrier."
"Is... Do you... Anticipate that your brother will cause... Trouble?" Brandon said.
"Ugh, how do I know?" I said. "I hope not."
"The more the merrier," Derek said, "and the easier with which to counter disruptive brothers."
"Sounds good to me," Brandon said. Something of what I felt must have shown on my face, because he said, in a quieter tone, "Don't you worry about a thing, sweetie. It's your day. We won't let anything ruin it."
"The fact that we even have to think about that makes it half-ruined already," I said.
"That's a bit of a pessimistic attitude to take," Derek said, but I couldn't see his face because my eyes were closed and I was clinging to Brandon as if no one else existed.
They must have exchanged some sort of signal, because Derek said, "Well. I'll see you guys tomorrow then."
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