Cinderella Story

--Tancid Everlost, © 1987 PART I

JAG:

THOUGHTS AND RECOLLECTIONS I still think about it from time to time. It's hard not to. Sometimes it takes her a little longer than usual to tuck the kids' covers late at night. Her face seems softer when she comes back to the living room, and her eyes are sort of misty. She tries to manage a smile as she tells me, "David kicked his blankets off again." Sometimes a tear will spill over, and then I hold her tight, knowing that she's thinking of his father again. It doesn't bother me anymore. I realize now that she's capable of loving me without forgetting him. I guess that means I'm finally growing up. I do think about it now and then, though. I turn it all over in my mind, wondering what I could have done to change what happened. Or maybe it's what I shouldn't have done. That's a little closer to the truth. She would be his right now if I hadn't been so selfish and stupid. Sometimes I'm glad he's gone. Then I hate myself for having such rotten thoughts, because I remember how painful it was for her when she lost him. It hurt me, too. He was my friend. That sounds kind of ridiculous, I know, but it's true. The eternal triangle, right? Except for one thing. He never really stood a chance. And the worst part of it was, he knew it. Would I have done anything differently if I'd seen how it would all turn out? Maybe. But probably not. That's really cold, but in all honesty I have to admit that I wasn't totally blind. I had a pretty good idea of where it would end. It's just that getting there was a lot rougher than I'd expected. Too many people got hurt in the process. And yes, I was one of them. But then, some of us are stronger than others. Some of us can pick up the pieces and put them back together again, even if it's only with bubblegum. Others can't even find the pieces through their tears. Was I aware of how fragile he was? Yes, I think so. Did it stop me from taking her anyway -- not once, but twice? Not a chance. Should it have, when it was me she wanted? I can't answer that. In all fairness, he never fought for her. He gave her to me freely and with love. If it sounds like I'm trying to shift the blame, I probably am. After all, I don't exactly have an objective viewpoint on all this. It might be best if I just start at the beginning and let the story speak for itself.

* My name is Michael Townsend, by the way. Most of my friends called me Jag, in reference to my pill-popping days in high school. I quit doing that when it became clear that my mom was going to beat the crap out of me every time I came home wasted, but the label stuck. I lived with my mom and my little brother Timmy in a run-down old house that some clown -- who is now minus the use of several fingers -- was foolish enough to spray paint with the comment, "Townsend sucks." We lived on the east side, which obviously was not the better section of town. I used to have a dad, but he died when I was three years old and Mom was pregnant with Timmy. He worked construction, and he got his neck broken falling off a scaffold or something like that. So I kind of took it upon myself to become a substitute father to Timmy when I got a little bit older, which is something I'm not terribly proud of, considering all the trouble he had as a kid. He turned out okay, though -- he works in a bank now, believe it or not. I hope I had something to do with that, but I doubt it. I'm not as conceited as I used to be. Mom did her best for us. Between working, cleaning, and cooking she didn't have a whole lot of time left over to hassle us. Consequently, we pretty much did as we pleased - - within reason, of course. We knew how much she loved us, so we tried not to get too far out of line. I say tried, remember -- that doesn't mean we always succeeded. Mom could never stay mad for long, though. Not when her eldest son was such a superb bullshit artist. It was an art that served me well with all other members of the opposite sex, actually. All except Corinne, at any rate. I guess that's why she blew me away so completely the night I met her.

* I should have known it was going to be one of those days. I woke up to my brother's screams -- Mom was kicking his ass all over the house. Seems he'd used her bus money to buy himself some beer the night before. That pissed her off pretty bad, especially since Timmy wasn't even old enough to drink. Of course, he didn't really see her point because he was sixteen and knew it all. At nineteen, I still kind of thought that way myself, but I volunteered to go cash in some pop bottles anyway because I didn't like to see my mom mad. That pacified her a little bit, but she was still upset when she got home from work with her paycheck short the half-day she got docked for being an hour and a half late. After dinner, she told Timmy to go fetch himself a bucket and scrub brush. Then she handed me a couple dollars and told me to get lost. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and headed for the door before she had a chance to change her mind. She smiled wearily and sighed, "Michael, make my life meaningful. Get a haircut." "When I'm thirty, Ma," I promised. "Your father would die of shame." "He's already dead and you adore me," I reminded her. "Maybe so, but before long you'll sit down on all that hair and yank your fool head right off of your neck. Then what'll I have left to adore?" I opened the door and replied, "I can sit on it now and it doesn't hurt a bit. Love you, Ma. I'll be late." Stepping outside, I heard her call, "So love me enough to see a barber!" I grinned, thinking what a neat lady my mom was. I had friends who had been bodily dragged to barber shops by their dads, or had their hair butchered in their sleep by their moms. After countless battles, most of them won the right to wear it to their shoulders. The rest moved out. I was lucky enough to have a mom who ceased to give serious thought to my hairstyle once I had reached the age where I could comb it myself. Therefore, my hair now fell to my ass in tousled, white-blond layers. She liked to tease me about it, true, but she also loved offering to loan me a shoehorn to get into my jeans or a pearl necklace to accent the gold hoop in my ear. I never took it in a bad way because she never meant it like that -- there was always something in her eyes that added, "I think you're kind of freaky, but you're my kid and I love you." Like I said, she was a neat lady. Alice -- my current toy -- could have learned a lot from her. The girl was a colossal pain in the ass, her only redeeming quality being that she was pretty good in bed. Oh, she was cute enough, but she was also rather tedious company. I always felt like she was trying to slip a noose around my neck. That probably accounts for my lack of shock at what happened when I got to her house. No one answered my knock, so I just let myself in. Her dad had skipped town many moons ago and her mom was usually out searching for a sugar daddy, which meant Alice was left home alone a good deal of the time, and I figured she was probably in the shower. I was close. She was kneeling on the floor beside another fixture in that general area, paying a very un-ladylike tribute to her mother's cooking. I leaned against the doorjamb and fished in my pocket for my cigarettes. "A little late in the day for a hangover, ain't it, sweets?" I smiled, lighting a Marlboro. Looking hurt, she replied, "That's not funny, Jag," and went to the sink to splash some water on her face. "Pardon me. You looked like you could use a laugh," I remarked. She groped for a towel, mumbling, "I don't feel much like laughing today." I wasn't about to ask her why, so I just stood there taking a drag off my cigarette. I noticed that although her skin was dry, her eyes were still wet. I was wishing that I had gone straight to the woods instead of stopping to pick her up. Now I was going to have to listen to her cry and tell me she had the flu and felt so dreadful and wouldn't I please stay home with her tonight and feed her crackers and warm ginger ale. The thought of wasting my evening playing nursemaid to a weepy clinging vine made me want to throw up, too. Turns out I was dead wrong, anyway. Her next words were, "Jag? Honey, I'm pregnant." I almost laughed. She was so comical, standing there with this sort of half-scared, half-hopeful look on her face. The floodgates had really opened by this time and her mascara was tracking long, black streams down her cheeks. It made an odd contrast to the long braid of pale yellow hair that rested on her shoulder. I took another drag off my Marlboro and managed a bland, "So?" "So!" she cried incredulously. "My God, how can you be like that? Didn't you hear what I said?" "I haven't gone deaf since the last time you saw me. And I repeat: So?" "So what're we gonna do?" she pleaded. "We? Seems to me you're the one with the problem, sweets." "Babe, you can't do this to me!" she sobbed, frustrated. "My mom will have a fit! What if she sends me out to live with my dad? I won't be able to see you anymore!" I tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile, and she wailed, "How can you treat me like this? I need you now! You can't just tell me it's my problem and then walk away from it! I damn sure didn't get this way all by myself, y'know!" "And I damn sure ain't been the only buck in your bed, either." I flipped the butt of my cigarette into the john and smiled at her. Touching her chin softly, I added, "Mrs. Townsend didn't raise no fool, sugar." In a rare display of temper, she slapped my hand away and spat, "Mrs. Townsend raised slime!" "What's the matter, Alice? You pissed because I haven't offered to make an honest woman of you? Is that it? 'Cause if it is, you can just put your leash away right now." "I'll call my dad . . . ," she began. "Be my guest. It ought to be an interesting conversation." "He's a lawyer, in case you forgot." "I don't give a rat's ass if he's the Pope," I chuckled. "You ain't sucking me into no shotgun wedding." "Then give me the money to get rid of it," she tried hopefully. I laughed. "Sure. I'll take it out of petty cash." "God, Jag! You've got to at least do that much for me!" "Why?" "Because it's your kid!" she insisted. "Yeah? Prove it." "Damn you! You know it's yours! You have to help me one way or another!" "Like hell," I replied pleasantly. "You bastard!" she shrieked, her anger flaring again. She snatched up a can of air freshener and fired it at my head. I ducked it and it went sailing past me down the hall. "Get out! Get out of my house!" "My pleasure, sweets," I cooed. Blowing her a kiss, I made a hasty retreat before she was able to lay hands on any other ammunition. A loud string of profanities followed me out onto the street and I had to laugh. If she'd shown that much spirit from the beginning, things might have worked out differently. Not that it mattered to me, of course. I wasn't really the kind of person to take a relationship with a girl very seriously. Or so I thought.

* I stopped at the dairy for some beer on my way to the woods. There was a new cashier behind the counter, biting her nails and reading a paperback romance. I set a quart bottle down in front of her and she glanced up briefly, mumbling, "Are you eighteen, miss?" "No, honey. I'm twelve. I look old for my age." She looked up -- really looked this time -- and sputtered, "Oh, jeez! God, I'm sorry!" I blessed her with a smile and replied, "Apology accepted." "It's just that . . . your hair . . . y'know . . . oh, jeez!" Fiery red splotches were bursting out on both her cheeks. "I could just die!" "That won't be necessary," I assured her. "Just ring up the beer, huh?" "What? Oh, right. Yeah. God, I'm really sorry! My boss would just shoot me!" I handed her a dollar and watched her fumble with the change. "Listen, what time do you get off work?" I asked. "Who, me?" she blurted, dropping several pennies in the process. What a dingaling, I thought, picking them up for her. "You hiding anyone else back there?" She giggled. "Eleven. I get off at eleven o'clock." "Decent. See you then, okay?" "Uh . . . yeah, sure. And hey, I'm really--" "Sorry. I know. Check you later, hon." I shot her a wink and left, hoping she wouldn't wait too long.

* By the time I hit the woods, most of the guys were already there. Alice was absent, of course, but a few of the other girls were around. One of them -- a cute little dark- haired chick named Denise -- sidled up to me and slid her arm around my waist. "Where's Alice, Jag?" she purred. I grinned. "Alice who?" She gave a little twitter and planted a wet kiss just above my collarbone, which was about as high as she could reach. I traced her jawline with my fingertips, letting them linger briefly at her chin, and murmured lightly, "Careful, sugar. I'm on the rebound, y'know." Smiling, she said, "Is that so? Well, if you search your memory, you might recall that I'm quite capable of handling whatever you can dish out." "For an hour or two, anyway," I replied with a laugh. "You're a rat, Townsend," she remarked cheerfully. "Adorable, but still a rat." "Flattery will get you everywhere," I countered, giving her a gentle pinch on the behind. She made a playful slap at my hand and I added, "Go play, sweetheart. If you're good, maybe I'll let you try to mend my broken heart later on." I kissed her coolly and she promised, "I won't be far, love." Opening my beer, I seated myself on a fallen log and watched her wiggle away. It wasn't long before I was joined by Robin Hood and America, the only two of my friends who'd been tagged solely on looks rather than personality traits, recreational habits, or odd surnames. Robin Hood greatly resembled the fictional character of that name. He had shoulder-length deep brown hair and a full beard minus the moustache. He always looked right at home in the woods. America, on the other hand, appeared to be someone who would be more comfortable at a baseball game with a hot dog in one hand and a slice of mom's apple pie in the other. It would have bored him to tears, actually, but that's the way he looked with his blue eyes, blond hair, and freckles. His hair was on the long side, too, but he just had this disgustingly wholesome air about him. His parents probably loved it, but it wasn't much of an asset to him because anyone under the age of thirty had him figured for a narc until they got to know him better. The first thing he said to me was, "Got any reefer, Jag?" "Fresh out," I admitted, holding out my free hand palm up. "What a drag," he pouted. "The only one holding is Cobra, and he's tighter than an ant's asshole." I nodded and Robin Hood laughed, "Wrong, man. Ants have to shit sometime!" That broke us up for a few minutes and brought further speculation as to the excretory habits of some of the even lower forms of animal life, such as the amoeba. America giggled himself right off the log -- yes, he did giggle. Another one of his curses that ranked right up there with the freckles. He was still gasping for breath when we hauled him up out of the dirt, and I warned, "Shut up, dipshit. Or do you want the snake to slither over here and ask you what's so fuckin' funny?" That cracked him up again, because I'd made a point of using Cobra's favorite obscenity, which he managed to use as adjective, noun, or verb at least once in every sentence. Cobra was a real prick, which was how he'd earned his label. "I'd just tell him to talk to you, Jag," he choked. "You're so good with words!" I popped him on the back of his head and muttered an affectionate, "Asshole." "He has to be an asshole to be asking you to do his talking for him," Robin Hood agreed. "Really? Is it true what I hear about your sister sleeping with a jock strap that once graced the delicate curves of the Chief of Police, too?" I returned good- naturedly. The man in question, incidentally, was positively grotesque. He could easily have blown the scales at a highway weigh-station. "Who told you?" he exclaimed in mock amazement. "God, and I told her to be discreet!" He shook his head sadly as if in tremendous disappointment. America was in stitches once more by now, of course, and this time Cobra actually did amble over with a sour, "What's so fuckin' funny?" Needless to say, America tumbled right out of his seat again at that. "Nothing much," Robin answered, deadpan. "My sister's hot for Sgt. Porker, that's all." I tried to present a straight face as I added, "She keeps his unmentionables under her pillow at night." "His jock strap!" America shrieked, erupting into absolute gales of giggles. "You guys are totally fucked," Cobra sighed, shaking his head in disbelief as he flopped down to the ground. "Now that would be nice," I replied. I shook out a cigarette and lit it, commenting absently, "Another thing that would be nice is somebody offering me a stronger smoke than this." I knew I could weasel a joint out of him, and I intended that Robin and America should benefit from the fact. After all, they had been the ones to tell me that he was holding. He crumpled his empty beer can and declared, "Jag, I've seen more innocence on the face of a fuckin' murderer. Don't play with me. Just gimme a chug of your beer and I'll let you bum some toke." "Deal," I agreed, handing him my bottle. America and Robin Hood gazed at each other in complete confusion, mixed with utter awe at my ability to pull off such a splendid con job. I winked at America when Cobra bent his head to dig through his pockets. A moment later he held a joint out to me, but I simply shook my head and flatly stated, "Two." All three of them looked at me like I'd just announced that I was moving to Jupiter, and Cobra sneered, "Fuck you, man." "You're not my type, love," I shrugged, "but if you get me high enough, I suppose I might consider it." It was kind of tense for a few seconds. Robin and America didn't seem to know whether to laugh or run for cover; Cobra appeared to be debating whether to take my remark as a joke or an insult. It was all the same to me, since I'd meant it both ways. Finally, he decided on a grunting laugh followed by a comment regarding certain persons who were crude enough to take advantage of other people's generosity. He dug out another number and passed them over to me, offering to return my bottle as well. "Keep the beer, snake," I said, waving his hand away. "I'm not an unreasonable guy." He muttered a sullen, "Thanks, man," as I got to my feet. America scrambled up out of the dirt, and he and Robin Hood followed me deeper into the woods, where we quickly disposed of one joint. The other I slipped into my cigarette pack for later.

* After a quick hike to the store -- where we further harassed the new cashier -- and a side trip to the playground to sit on the swings and get very drunk, we staggered back to the woods to join the rest of the guys. I caught sight of the thick black Puerto Rican curls of my best friend Stefano and pointed myself in his direction. Flopping down beside him, I observed with some surprise, "Birch has a lady?" "Just friends," he corrected, following my gaze. "Thank you, God," I said to the sky. Although Birch -- who was as wise and silent as the tree we'd named him for -- seemed almost as sexless as well, I was well aware that he was considered an attractive specimen with his finely- chiseled features framed by a golden halo of hair that hung to his shoulder-blades. But at twenty-five, this was the first time he'd been caught with a girl on his arm and I would have considered it grossly unfair if he'd suddenly decided to hoard this fresh piece of auburn-haired meat for himself. To Stefano I commented, "Nice ass." "Down, stud," he replied. "She's jailbait yet." "Hasn't been known to stop me before." "Maybe not, but she's cherry yet, too." "You checked?" I laughed, making a clumsy attempt to strike a match for the cigarette I had awkwardly extracted from my pocket. He sighed and lit my Marlboro, answering, "So sayeth your rival Jojo." "How sweet of him to do the dirty work for me! Maybe I'll let him break her in for me, too, before I take over. I never did care much for a brand new pair of shoes, y'know." Somehow I managed to laugh my cigarette right out of my numb fingers, and Stefano picked it up and handed it back to me. "You're low, Jag," he said, standing up and grabbing my sleeve. "C'mon. Let's go for a walk." Resisting, I protested, "Go for your own walk, man. I'm comfortable here." "Tough shit. I want to talk to you," he insisted, adding, "Alone." Reluctantly, I complied. Stefano was one guy I didn't really like to mess with, because he was liable to disconnect my head if I didn't watch myself. He was probably the closest thing to a leader that we had, and if I didn't have much respect for that then I did at least have enough for my own teeth to want them to remain in their original positions. He was quiet as we walked, and after a few minutes I found myself babbling, "C'mon, Stevie. Tell me what a worm I am so I can say I'm sorry and be done with it. I talk like an asshole, okay? I didn't know the chick meant anything to you. I thought you were still going with Carolyn." "I am," he replied. "This has nothing to do with Corinne." "Corinne?" "She has a name, Jag. It wouldn't hurt you any to learn it before you try and ball her." "Is that my lecture?" I asked, impatient to get back to the others. "No. Just some free advice. Your lecture hasn't started yet." "So start." "Okay." He paused, then stated, "Alice called." I came to an abrupt halt. "Alice called you? About what?" I swayed a little and steadied myself on a tree trunk. "Keep walking. You want somebody to hear you when you start screaming?" "Why am I gonna scream?" "Walk," he instructed. I walked. "Why am I gonna scream, Stevie?" I persisted. "What'd that dizzy bitch tell you?" "That dizzy bitch told me you knocked her up, Jag. She also told me you dumped her when you found out." "So why am I gonna scream?" "Because I'm gonna tell you to pay for her abortion." He was right about the screaming. I stopped dead and bellowed, "What the hell for? She can't prove it was me!" "Can you prove it wasn't?" he asked mildly. "Aw, fuck off, man. It's none of your business anyway." "It is now. I promised Alice I'd take care of it." "Why? It's her goddam problem!" "I'd say it's your problem, too. And I'm telling you to carry your share, man." "And what are you gonna do about it if I won't?" I challenged. "Jag, don't make me beat the shit out of a drunk. It's not something I'd enjoy." "So who's drunk?" I demanded. And to prove how sober and sensible I was, I sneered, "Come on, you Puerto Rican son of a whore! Let's see how tough you are!" "Who are you out to bullshit, man?" he wondered, astonished at my total idiocy. "It's just you and me here, remember? Don't be an asshole." Pointing my finger to a spot directly beneath his nose, I snarled, "I'll show you who's the asshole, man!" I stepped back and took a swing at him, missing him completely and falling flat on my face. He grabbed my collar and yanked me to my feet. "Don't fuck with me, Townsend," he warned, his eyes boring into my head like some kind of freaky laser drill. The look in those eyes told me I'd better straighten myself up quick before he lost his patience. "You need those legs to carry your stupid ass home tonight." "Go ahead and break 'em," I muttered, chastised. "I ain't got the money to help the bitch if I wanted to." "Then pay half," he suggested. "And give her a ride to the clinic." "In what? My private jet, I suppose." He ignored my last remark. "Borrow Robin's car." "So that's it? I do it or you kick my ass?" "That's it." "You're a great friend, y'know that, Stevie?" I pouted. "You wanna take the goddam knife out of my back now?" Disgusted, I started toward the front of the woods. I'd barely gone ten feet when he called, "Jag?" "What?" I snapped, turning. "You're a worm, man," he offered with an apologetic grin. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry," I lied. He didn't try to follow me right away, for which I was tremendously grateful. I knew I wouldn't stay angry with him forever, but at that particular moment I really wanted to.

* Seeking petty revenge, I headed straight for Corinne. She was standing around with Birch, Cokey, and a few other people. Her thumbs were hooked through her belt loops and a cigarette dangled from her slender fingers. As I approached, she tossed her head with a positively wicked laugh that made me doubt whether Jojo had been telling the truth. My doubts increased when she spoke to me. Once Cokey had made the introductions, her precise words were, "So this is God's gift to women! Tell me, sweetheart -- what makes you so special?" Something in that silky voice, something in the way those deep blue eyes appraised me made me come out with a blunt, "For one thing, I'm a terrific piece of ass, which is a hell of a lot more than you can say from what I've heard." The corners of her pretty little mouth turned up in a sweet smile while everyone else's dropped open. "You'll never know, will you?" she cooed. Grinning, I replied, "Oh, you can be had, honey." I felt a hand clamp down on my arm as she taunted, "Maybe. But not by you." Cokey dragged me away from her, muttering, "God, Jag! You've got more balls than anyone I've ever known! I think you just broke your own record for total crudeness." "What can I say? She brings out the best in me," I chuckled. "Your mouth is working overtime, man." "Yeah? Well, she doesn't exactly strike me as the holy little virgin Stefano said she was." "Corey's all talk. Remember that, will you? She ain't used to guys like you." "Guys like me?" "Walking sex machines." I laughed. "Oh, Cokey, that hurts. That really hurts, man. I never realized you had such a low opinion of me." He shook his head and groaned, "You're hopeless." "Probably," I admitted cheerily. "But I'll tell you one thing. I am gonna have that chick." "Don't count on it. She's every bit as stubborn as you are." "You don't know me very well, do you?" "And you don't know her at all," he countered. "Do yourself a favor and stick to someone your own speed. Leave Corey to somebody who cares about more than what she's got in her jeans." "And who might that be?" "Are you dense or what? Sober up a little and maybe you'll figure it out." After a thought, I ventured, "Not Birch?" "Why not?" he replied. "Stefano said they're just friends." "Stefano should listen with his eyes instead of his ears. Anyone with half a brain could've seen Birch was lying when he told him that." "So she's really his?" "No, but he wants her." "Yeah? So do I." "Look," he sighed. "Don't try it, okay? He knows how to handle her and you don't. Let's leave it at that, huh?" "You're asking me to honor a relationship that doesn't exist, man." "No, I'm asking you to have some respect for a friend of yours. That's all." "Well, I'm getting pretty damn tired of people trying to push me around tonight, so pardon me if I ignore your request." I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, adding, "Now, why don't you toddle off and find somewhere else to spout your words of wisdom? I've heard quite enough for one evening." He shook his head in disgust and said, "Y'know, Jag, there are times when I'm amazed that you have any friends at all. This is one of them." With that, he turned and walked back to Birch and Corinne. I finished my cigarette and wandered off to find solace in the welcoming arms of Denise.

* I ended up in an argument with her, too. She wanted me to walk her home afterward, and I told her point blank that I didn't want to. With tearful accusations that I made her feel like a whore, she stomped off through the woods and left me to lean back, pick at the dead leaves, and smoke my other joint in peace and solitude. I had no intention of hunting down further company, since by this time I was getting rather sick of hearing what a rotten bastard I was. It was, however, a breath of fresh air when Corinne burst through the brush with a gleeful grin and panted, "I knew I smelled some of that nasty evil weed!" She flopped down on the ground right beside me, giggling, "C'mon, blondie! Share the wealth!" "Tell me where your armed guard is, first," I questioned. She let loose that wondrously wicked laugh again and boasted, "I ditched 'em! Cokey was being a real drag, y'know. He's been hassling me all night about the way I talked to you before." I passed her the joint and she continued, "That's the way he is. Just like an extra father -- always trying to make me behave. That's why I like Birch so much. He never gives me any shit." Taking a practiced toke, she finished, "He's just like a brother, y'know? Sometimes I think he understands me better than I do myself." "You think he knows where you are?" I asked cautiously. "Sure!" she answered brightly, handing the joint back to me. "Watch, he'll show up in a little bit after he figures I've gotten it out of my system." "Gotten what out of your system?" "Oh, he knows when I need to be by myself. I told you how he is." "Sounds like you've known him for a long time," I commented, giving her the rest of the joint to kill. "Only all my life. His folks live across the street from me. He used to babysit me when I was a little brat." "Next time your folks are in the market for a babysitter, tell them I'm available," I teased. "Y'know, you're not such a son of a bitch when you're not busy showing off. I might even start liking you." "Oh, you'd love liking me. I can be real cuddly. Shall I show you?" I leaned forward to kiss her and wound up with her hand planted squarely in the middle of my face, pushing me back. "Don't start, stud," she smiled. "I like you better as a human being." It was hard to be insulted by her cheerful, offhand manner, so I flashed my own smile and responded, "My apologies, ma'm. I lost my head. Your tempting little mouth looks so kissable that I tend to forget you're frigid." "Forgive me, sir, but you really must restrain yourself," she giggled. "Perhaps you shouldn't have ditched your chaperones," I suggested, moving closer so that my back rested against the tree she leaned on and my arm tested the warmth of her own. She seemed content to allow me that much, and for once I didn't press my advantage. "Perhaps not," she grinned. We both fell silent, and she laid her head on my shoulder and gazed up at the stars. Long auburn waves caressed my arm and I fought the urge to stroke them. Cokey had been right about one thing, I realized: I had no idea how to handle this girl. That realization made me all the more determined to learn. I was already coming to the obvious conclusion that I could say anything I wanted to her as long as I kept my hands to myself. Convinced that I was on the right track, I set out to prove my theory, asking boldly, "You won't go to bed with me?" She looked up into my ice-blue eyes to see if I was serious -- which I was -- and answered a gentle, "No." "How come?" I tried. "I don't want to," she said simply. "C'mon, don't spoil my night, blondie. Okay?" "The name's Michael," I told her sullenly. Why I used my real name instead of my label, I haven't the vaguest notion. No one else used it except my mother. "Michael," she repeated softly. "You could be a nice guy, Michael." "If I was, you wouldn't be with me right now. I'd be as boring as everyone else and you'd have ditched me, too." "That's probably true," she admitted. "You know damn well it is." "Yeah, I guess so. You got a cigarette, blondie?" I caught her sly little grin and let it slide. "Sure." I dug out one for her and another for myself. I lit them both and held hers up to her lips until they closed around it against my fingers in a false kiss. "You're sneaky," she accused, not innocent of my motives. "I know. I'm not a nice guy, either." She giggled. "No, but at least you're honest about it." "I'm honest about everything, including my lust for you." "Shut up, blondie," she smiled sweetly. "Honey, all you gotta do to shut my mouth is cover it with yours." "Nice try, but it won't work." I chuckled and inquired, "Anyone ever tell you you're a real bitch?" "Constantly." "I love that in a woman." "You would." Touching her hair, I asked, "Will I see you tomorrow?" "Do you want to?" "God! You have to ask? Of course I do! How else will I ever get you into my bed?" "You never quit, do you?" "Never." I took a drag of my cigarette and coaxed, "Let me kiss you." "Why?" "Why? Because I want to." "You always get everything you want?" "Usually." "Then it's time you learned how to accept a refusal. Perpetual gratification is bad for the soul." "So's a perpetual hard-on." "You don't!" she gasped, horrified. "I most certainly do. Would you care to see for yourself?" I started to unbuckle my belt, and she sat bolt upright and hissed, "Don't you dare!" I laughed and put my arm around her, pulling her back to my side. "I'm kidding, babe," I confessed. Kissing her hair, I added, "I'm sorry. Really. I promise I'll behave." My other hand slid behind her neck into that auburn silk, bringing her closer, and I whispered, "Just let me kiss you," as my lips brushed the smooth skin below her ear. My mouth touched hers, and suddenly I was thrown backward by the hard impact of her hand on my cheek. "Shitfire! What was that for?" I thundered, my own hand flying up to gingerly inspect the damages. "To remind you that I won't be just another one of your easy conquests, blondie," she explained. "Christ! Find another way to remind me! You could hurt somebody like that." Giggling, she pointed out, "I believe I just did." "You're a bitch," I smiled. "So I've heard." I stared into her delicate face for a long moment, then asked, "Kiss me. Please." "Will you settle for one?" she inquired suspiciously. "Yes," I swore. Shyly, she reached her arms up around my neck and teased my mouth with her own. I parted her lips with my tongue -- fully expecting her to push me away -- and when she didn't, I pulled her closer into my arms, savoring the taste of her. A low, whimpering moan escaped her throat and, grasping a handful of my hair, she pressed tighter against me. My fingers traveled up under her shirt, exploring the satin flesh of her back. She broke away, breathing hard. Unwilling to let her go completely, I nuzzled her shoulder, trailing hot little kisses along the base of her throat. "No more, Michael," she begged. "Please. No more." "Don't make me stop," I murmured against her skin. "Not now." She pushed me gently, insisting, "You promised." Frustrated, I got to my feet and took a few steps away from her. I turned to look at her for a moment, muttered a pained, "Shit!" and presented my back to her again. My head spun in total confusion -- it'd been less than an hour since I'd eased Denise down onto these same leaves, and here I was feeling like I hadn't touched a woman in years. This little twit had me half-crazy with wanting her, and all because of one stupid kiss! I jammed my hands into my pockets, mumbling, "I didn't think anyone could do that to me anymore." "Sorry 'bout that, blondie," she offered. "You did promise, y'know?" "And that's one mistake I'll never make again. I've decided chivalry sucks." "Is that a threat?" she giggled. I faced her with a wicked grin and growled, "Damn right it is." She burst into laughter, declaring, "God, you're cute when you try and act pissed!" "So who's acting?" I chuckled, walking back over to flop down beside her. "I'm very pissed. Thanks to you, I'm gonna have to walk home bow-legged and spend the rest of the night dreaming about doing to you what I should have gone ahead and done already." "Won't that be a switch!" she mocked. "Super-stud going home horny!" "You got a mouth like a sailor, babe." "Really? I guess you ought to know. After all, you just kissed it." "Smart ass." She giggled, remarking, "Better a smart ass than a dumb ass." "You're incredible," I smiled, shaking my head in wonder. "How true," she agreed immodestly. Sitting up on her knees, she leaned forward and plucked my cigarettes from my shirt pocket. "Want one?" she asked, shaking two from the pack. "Gee, thanks," I replied as I took the one she held out to me. She snickered, "Just trying to be polite," and dropped the pack into my pocket. "You gonna light it for me, too?" I inquired. "Can't. My father doesn't let me play with matches." "Bet he doesn't trust you around knives, either," I commented, lighting her cigarette, then mine. "Only dull ones," she grinned. "I believe it." I paused to take a drag of my Marlboro and asked, "Where do you live?" "Marine Drive." "That's on the north side of town. What's a nice middle-class girl like you doing down here with the east side trash?" "Having fun," she giggled, reaching over to brush a leaf off my jeans. "You ought to be out on the tennis courts practicing your backhand." "Tennis is boring, blondie. Getting high and getting my first kiss isn't." "Now you ain't gonna try telling me you never been kissed before. You didn't learn what you just showed me by watching TV." "I guess I must be a natural," she shrugged. "Bullshit." I took a drag of my cigarette and added, "I don't think those lips are any more cherry than the ones between your legs. You're about as virgin as my mother is, and I guarantee you I wasn't hatched from an egg." "Could've fooled me. You sure act like you were." "That was low." "Then we're even, aren't we? I'm not about to provide you with a doctor's certificate vouching for my maidenhood, so think what you want." "Okay, I'm sorry. Wanna go get a beer and we'll drink to your unquestionable virtue?" "Can we compromise on a cheap bottle of wine?" she asked, grinding out her cigarette carefully in the dirt. I jumped up and brushed myself off, answering, "Don't see why not." I grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet, teasing, "You buying, rich bitch?" She flashed a haughty smile and swiped at her jeans, sending a shower of crackling leaves to the ground. "You're definitely not a nice guy, Michael. No, I'm not buying -- you're the one that owes the peace offering, remember?" "And you're the one who claims I was the result of an abnormal method of birth," I reminded her. "Hatching is not an abnormal method of birth. Not for chickens, anyway," she laughed, taking a few dancing steps away. I followed her, challenging, "Who you calling chicken, honey?" "Did I says chickens? Gee, I meant lizards!" "C'mere," I chuckled, throwing my arm across her shoulders. "Let's book it before I withdraw my offer." "Would you do that?" she cooed, grinning up at me as we started walking. "No more than I'd withdraw my offer for you to share my bed." "Shut up, blondie," she groaned, punching me lightly in the side. "I told you how to manage that," I pointed out as I dropped a kiss on her temple. She batted me away like a pesky fly, protesting, "Yeah, you did. But it didn't work!" "It's only a temporary remedy," I laughed, giving her a little squeeze. "I require frequent massive doses." She rolled her eyes and said nothing, so I added, "Preferably from the same nurse." "I won't dignify that line of crap with a reply," she declared, crossing her arms in front of her. "You just did." "I swear you're the most impossible person I've ever met in my entire life." "Which is how long, incidentally?" "What?" "How old are you? Stefano says you're jailbait -- not that I give a shit, mind you." "Well, I suppose he's right. I won't be sixteen for three months yet. Consider yourself contributing to the delinquency of a minor." "One of my favorite pastimes," I grinned. "Don't tell me the others. Please." "I think you already know most of them." "Yeah, I think I do. Let's not review them, huh?" Taking her hand with my free one, I bargained, "If you wrap this pretty little arm around my waist, I'll promise not to speak another word." "You're enough to drive a sane person over the edge," she frowned. "Good thing you're not sane," I nodded, rubbing her fingers. She sighed in exasperation and slid her arm around me. Happily, I shut up with a smile.

* A lesser girl would have been tremendously embarrassed by the stunt I pulled at the dairy. As it turned out, we both had a good laugh and the only ones offended were the customers and the cashier. The gumball machines were what set me off. Corinne was already heading for the cooler when I caught hold of her arm and yanked her over to them. Dropping a coin in, I flipped the little handle and was instantly rewarded with a genuine imitation pearl ring encased in an exquisite plastic bubble, which I deftly broke open to reveal this new treasure in all its lustrous glory. I grasped her hand and -- before she was able to free herself -- slipped the circlet onto a slender finger, proclaiming loudly, "With this ring I pledge -- not to uphold your honor, but to totally demolish it. Please accept this token of my undying lust, madam." The lady with the little boy clapped her hands over his ears. The middle-aged man stifled a snicker and began studying the battery rack intently. The elderly fellow with the goofy hat widened his eyes in horror as his blue-haired wife sniffed with disgust. The cashier -- previously under the impression that I was madly in love with her -- looked about ready to cry. Sighing heavily, Corinne took me firmly by the arm and led me off toward the cooler as she tossed out the explanation, "You'll have to excuse my friend. This is his first pass from the psychiatric unit and he's having some difficulty controlling himself in public. All the stimulation, y'know." They all nodded wisely, smiling gently at her in sympathy. We ducked behind the doughnut shelves and dissolved into muffled laughter. "I'm gonna kill you when we get out of here!" she whispered between giggles. "That was beautiful!" I choked. "You were just perfect, sugar! God, did you see their faces? That old fucker's already got me scheduled for a lobotomy!" "Sounds like a good idea to me," she grinned. Grabbing a bottle of apple wine out of the cooler in front of us, I pouted, "I'm insulted." "Give me that before you drop it!" she ordered cheerfully, snatching the bottle from my hand. "You know the hospital said you're not to be handling glass objects." "Afraid I might hurt myself, babe?" "That's why I'm here -- to protect you from yourself. C'mon, let's go. It's time for your shock treatments." She took my arm again and steered me over to the cashier, who asked her in a small voice, "Does he do that kind of thing often?" Corinne smiled and answered, "Oh, he's slightly overdue for his medication. I suppose that accounts for his little outburst before. I do apologize." "Hey, that's okay. Y'know, he's been in here a couple times tonight and I kind of thought he was . . . well, sort of strange." I moved closer, leaned toward her across the counter, and hissed, "You have to watch out when you open the cooler. The parakeets will get out if you're not careful." "Elmer, give the nice lady the money for your juice," Corinne said patiently. "Then we can take you back home and the nurse will let you have some candy to make you feel better." "Oh, boy! Candy!" I crowed, digging through my pockets in a show of excitement. I handed over the cash, babbling, "I like candy! Candy makes me go to sleep and see pretty girls! I like pretty girls!" Corinne elbowed me in the ribs and scolded, "Hush, Elmer! You're scaring the nice lady." She took the change and dropped it into my pocket, mumbling another apology to the cashier as she pushed me to the door. Once outside, I broke into convulsive laughter and she shoved me backward into the alley behind the store. "Elmer?" I shrieked. "God, babe, you're priceless!" She shook her head, grinning, and muttered, "Parakeets in the cooler! You really are nuts!" "Yeah, but at least I didn't say anything about the goldfish in the pop bottles." She groaned in reply. Seating herself on an empty milk crate, she opened the wine and took a greedy drink. "Save a little for the mental patient," I chided, dropping down to the cement beside her. Handing me the bottle, she asked, "Do you ever act normal, blondie?" "Only when I'm asleep." I took a big gulp of wine and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. She toyed with the ring on her finger thoughtfully. "Am I supposed to keep wearing this?" she inquired after a moment. I shrugged. "Suit yourself, babe." I was suddenly sorry I'd bought the damned thing. Past experience with the female of the species had taught me that they required very little in the way of encouragement in order to claim me as their personal property. I drank deeply from my bottle and waited for her statement of ownership, thinking what a pity it was that I would end up arguing with this unusually interesting chick. Instead, she removed the ring and held it out to me, deciding, "I'd better not. You might start taking it seriously." Shocked, I just stared at it for a minute. Then I looked up into her dark blue eyes and found myself saying, "Keep it, hon. It'll remind you to come back tomorrow night." "A piece of string would do nicely for that purpose," she replied, unmoving. I took the ring and placed it back on her finger, remarking, "It'd probably cost more, too." "It's pretty, Michael!" she insisted defensively. "Then wear it." I passed the wine bottle to her and added, "Here. Drink to pretty things: you, me, and fake jewelry." "Guys can't be pretty, stupid," she corrected, accepting the bottle and taking a sip. "I can. My mom always says I'm prettier than most of the chicks I bring home." "In reference to your own jewelry, no doubt," she teased, tugging playfully at my earring. "Or perhaps the length of those platinum blond tresses. Doesn't say much for your taste in women, at any rate." "If that's supposed to be an insult, I think it just backfired on you." "No. Your mom's never seen me." "Yet." "If that's an invitation, you're out of luck. I have to be home by midnight." "Or what? You turn into a pumpkin?" "Not quite. More like I'll turn into an old lady before I ever get out of the house again." "My poor little Cinderella. Don't worry, you can take me up on it tomorrow night. Maybe I'll even show you my bedroom -- it's real cozy." "Somehow I don't think that's the kind of ball they were talking about in the fairy tale," she grinned. "You read it your way and I'll read it mine." "I'd hate to hear your version of Snow White. You'd have her screwing all the dwarves." "She didn't? Shit, I feel so disillusioned. Next you'll be telling me Little Red Riding Hood didn't love getting eaten by the Big Bad Wolf." "You're warped," she giggled, punching me in the arm. "That's me. Hey, gimme that wine if you ain't gonna drink it." She took another sip and handed me the bottle. "Where do you live, anyway?" she asked. "Third Street. Down by the river." "Nice neighborhood," she commented sarcastically. "It ain't Park Avenue, but it's home." "Sorry. I didn't mean anything by that." "Yeah, you did." She started to protest and I assured her, "Hey, it's cool. You're not exactly the first person ever to tell me I'm white trash. I'm used to it." "Jag, I never said . . . ." "I know you didn't," I chuckled. "I'm just playing with your head. Takes more than that to get under my skin, y'know. My turn to say sorry." "Is that the kind of humor you get from living with rats?" "What?" I barked. "Just playing with your head," she answered smugly. "My mom wouldn't allow a rat within fifty feet of our house," I emphasized, pulling my cigarette pack out of my pocket. "Only tall blond ones, huh?" "I said I was sorry!" "Yeah, but you deserved that. Now shut up and gimme a smoke." She stuck her hand out, but I held the pack out of her reach and told her, "No more freebies, smartass. You pay for this one." "How much?" she fumed, folding her arms. "I'll let you off cheap. Another kiss." "I'll die of a nicotine fit first," she said stubbornly. I shrugged and lit one cigarette. Inhaling deeply, I proceeded to blow a steady stream of smoke into her face. She shot me an evil look, declaring, "I know what that means, blondie!" "What?" I replied, the picture of innocence. "You said you wanted a smoke." "Oh, you're not so lilywhite, sweetheart," she sneered. "Really? What do you think it means?" "Same thing you think it means: 'Fuck me.'" "Hey, you're right!" I laughed. "So how about it?" "How about kissing my sweet little ass." "Love to. Bare it," I returned cheerfully. "When pigs fly!" she snapped, getting to her feet. "Where you goin', hon?" "To buy my own damn cigarettes!" I grabbed her ankle and grinned, "Aw, sit down. C'mon. I'll stop." Grudgingly, she sat and I offered, "Here, take one," as I held a Marlboro out to her. "Don't be pissed at me, okay?" She took the cigarette, waited for me to light it, and mumbled, "I want to go back." I gave myself a mental kick in the ass, coaxing, "Not yet, huh? Not 'til you show me a pretty smile. C'mon, sugar. You pout nice, but you smile better." She merely glared at me. "Hey, Cinderella, smile for me or I'll take my rats back and you won't have any coachmen," I tried. Her eyes sparkled as she fought to keep her mouth under control. Against her will, the corners began to turn up. "It won't be much fun walking home with only one glass slipper when your driver takes off after a hunk of cheese," I persisted. "Okay, okay," she giggled. "You win. For now, anyway." "Still wanna go back?" "Not for a few minutes. I like it here." "Here? You're kidding." "Nobody's telling me to behave." "This is an alley, babe. You're sitting on a milk crate and leaning against a garbage can." "So what? It's better than getting hassled on a velvet chaise." "You have a velvet chaise?" "My mother does. She gives me hell every time she catches me sitting on it. She won't even sit on it herself -- she's afraid it'll get ruined. I don't know what she bought it for. Probably to impress her friends." "That's ridiculous." "You don't know my mother." "I don't know as I want to." "She's a bitch. You'd hate her. My father's the same way. They really make a terrific pair -- a couple of pompous assholes." "That bad?" "No, worse. What're your folks like?" "My dad's dead." "Shit, I'm sorry." "Don't be. I don't even remember him -- he kicked off when I was just a little kid. My mom's great. I think you'd like her." "Ask her if she'll adopt me," she grinned. "Then you'd end up committing incest with me amongst the rats," I teased. I took a big gulp of wine and passed the bottle to her, prompting, "Finish it and we'll go." She polished off the last of it in one swig and dropped the bottle into the can behind her. "Get another," she urged, and seeing indecision written on my face, added, "I'll buy, if you want." "It ain't that," I told her, snapping a pebble off into the bushes. "I always got money enough for booze." She laughed suddenly. "You're afraid! I don't believe it! You're actually afraid of that goofy chick in there!" "Bullshit! I--" "C'mon, blondie! Admit it -- you're scared she's gonna call out the wacko wagon on you!" "Aw, fuck you," I sulked, painfully aware that she'd hit the proverbial nail right on the head. I snapped another pebble. "You wish," she replied cheerfully and lightly got to her feet. Before I could stop her, she'd skipped around the corner. Mildly confused, I sat back and lit a cigarette. I watched the smoke curl up into the night sky -- sky the color of her magnificent eyes -- and puzzled over what had made her leave when she hadn't seemed at all offended by my stupid remark. Anyone else would have been, of course, but I was quickly learning that Corinne wasn't anyone else. No, she hadn't seemed pissed at all. That had definitely been a genuine smile lighting her face when she'd slipped away from me. What then? Maybe she'd decided I was a real asshole for being somewhat reluctant to face that dipshit cashier again. Too much of an asshole to be graced with her presence? I flicked my cigarette too hard in an attempt to knock the ash off, and succeeded in knocking off the entire tip of fire. Muttering an obscene, "Eat me, cocksucker," I re-lit it. I was trying to force back my irritation -- trying to convince myself that I didn't need any prissy little piece of cherry to waste my time on -- when she rounded the corner with a second bottle of apple wine, a pack of Marlboros, and one of the biggest shit-eating grins I've ever seen. I smiled. "How'd you do that?" I asked in wonder. "Do what?" she returned, coming to stand in front of me. She pitched the cigarettes into my lap and set to twisting the cap off the bottle. "How'd you buy that shit? You're underage!" "I know that and you know that, but banana brains in there doesn't. I told her you lifted my wallet on the way back to the happy home when she carded me. She was most understanding." She tossed down a gulp of wine and kicked my thigh, ordering, "Let's go, blondie." I tucked the cigarettes into my shirt pocket and jumped up. Throwing the one in my hand behind a garbage can, I declared, "You can't possibly be real." She laughed and started walking toward the woods, the bottle swinging beside her jeans as she gripped its neck between two fingers. I fell into step behind her and caught up with her a moment later. "Hey, Cinderella. I shared mine with you," I reminded, indicating the wine bottle gently bumping her leg. "That you did," she agreed as she handed it to me. "Trade you for a smoke." I gave her the rest of my old pack and some matches, but she took just one and returned the rest, saying, "Thanks, but I'd never see daylight again if my father found them." "Yeah? Then what's he gonna say when you come home plastered, babe?" "Hopefully he won't notice." "Dream on," I chuckled. "Am I being that bad?" An almost imperceptible flash of concern crossed her face and I gave myself another mental kick. I slid a caressing hand over her ass and murmured, "Cinderella, I love it when you're bad." As a distraction, it was perfect. She spun around and delivered a stinging slap to my hand, and -- although I wasn't exactly thrilled with the red finger-marks flaring up on my skin -- I could tell she wasn't thinking about her father anymore. "Take a break, stud," she shot. "I'm not that drunk." "Damn!" I sighed, grinning. I passed the wine back to her without drinking any and said, "Have some more." She rolled her eyes heavenward and the hint of a smile played around her lips. We walked the rest of the way in silence, not touching.

* We'd barely seated ourselves amidst the crackling leaves when Birch appeared a short distance away through the trees. Corinne called him over and immediately slid onto his lap once he'd settled himself against a tree trunk. She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled into his shoulder like a sleepy child. Something started to ache inside my chest -- something I now recognize as jealousy, but couldn't define at the time. "Found a friend, love?" he asked her gently. She nodded happily and flashed an impish grin at me. "Tell him about the dairy, Jag," she giggled. Birch turned a questioning glance in my direction and I shrugged, "Just fucking around." "Oh, it was funny, though!" she insisted, and proceeded to recount all the gory details of our performance at the store. I felt like a perfect ass, particularly when she quoted my declaration of intent word for word. I passed her the wine bottle to shut her up, and she removed one hand from his golden hair to reach for it. She drank deeply, then held the bottle to his lips and tipped it up. I felt another zap under my ribcage. "We've gotta go soon, babe," she told him. "It was almost eleven when I snagged this bottle." "Say the word and we're gone," he replied. He stroked her arm absently, and she leaned back against his shoulder to take another sip of wine. They looked so comfortable together -- the thought surfaced and brought another zap. And following that thought, a stronger one: Maybe Corinne only considered Birch a brother, but he and I both knew that his feelings for her were quite a different matter altogether. I knew it as surely as my own name. Double zap. There was so much love in his eyes when they fell upon her that I couldn't bear to look. I picked up a dead leaf and started shredding it methodically. I glanced up to see her fish a cigarette from his pocket. He produced a butane lighter, and in the flame I noted that the love in his eyes was reflected back as mere fondness in the midnight blue of hers. Fuck it, I decided, he can't tack up No Trespassing signs until he owns the property. I'll take her if I want to, and that's his tough shit. I noticed the hand that had been stroking her arm had come to rest lightly on her ass. I expected a reaction on her part, but none came. Jealousy gave way to a sadistic desire to inflict pain. Deliberately trying to hurt, I asked, "So, you gonna bring my new toy back for me to play with tomorrow night, Birch? I promise not to wear her out so bad again." Corinne met my sly grin with a sleepy little smile that appeared to be a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Birch was cool, I'll give him that. He didn't flinch a bit. He only looked to her and asked, "Did you want to come back here tomorrow, love?" She nodded and he turned to me, saying, "Looks like you'll have your toy, then." "I'm not his toy," she murmured, taking a last drag of her cigarette and flipping the butt into a bare patch of dirt. I barely heard her, but she couldn't have shot me down any more effectively. Truthfully, it was a pretty stupid comment for me to have made considering whose lap she was cuddled on. I blundered right along anyway, directing my next question to her. "Still coming home with me tomorrow, babe?" She shrugged. "Maybe." God, I wanted to hurt him so bad, and she just plain wouldn't let me! The wild child I'd ached for all night had become a tired little girl nestled in her babysitter's arms, and I didn't know how to fight that. Violence flashed inside my head -- I wanted to slam all the peace and contentment off his gentle face, rip her out of his protective embrace, and take her right then and there under the whispering branches of the trees. My mind saw it clearly -- she would hate me, but oh God, she would love me, too. Heaven and hellfire made one. I fought the image down. Assault was a familiar friend, but rape was a stranger to me and I intended to keep it that way regardless of the temptation I felt. I wasn't totally immoral. She was speaking to me, I realized with some confusion. "Huh?" I replied intelligently. "You want the rest of this?" she repeated, offering the wine bottle. "I gotta haul ass or I won't be going anywhere tomorrow." "I never refuse alcohol," I told her, my thoughts still whirling vaguely with violent fantasy. We both stood at the same time, and Birch rose gracefully as she handed me the bottle. He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and leaned against the tree in gentle golden glory. I hated him. I caught her fingers in mine when they touched around the bottle and quietly instructed her, "Don't forget me when you slide between your sheets tonight, Cinderella." "You want me to have nightmares?" she said with a sleepy grin, just a little girl up past her bedtime. Oh, but such a sensual little girl! "Not nightmares, sugar," I whispered. "Just wet dreams." "Shut up, blondie," she replied, still grinning. "Kiss me goodnight?" I asked with little hope. Softly, she answered a simple, "No." She pulled her hand away and turned to Birch. "Let's book it, babe." They moved toward each other and she slid her arm easily around his waist. I felt a mild zap through my anger, remembering the coaxing I'd had to do for that same privilege. He draped a hand casually over her shoulder and, with a kind smile, promised, "See you tomorrow, man." "Yeah," I agreed sullenly. I could have felt some justification for this intense new hatred if he'd gloated a little or acted smug in any way. As it was, I was uncomfortably reminded of the Jesus stories I'd fidgeted through in Sunday school. Birch would've made a great Christ. I watched them walk away through the trees, saw a tired auburn head come to rest upon a strong golden shoulder, a loving hand tenderly pet the darkly silken waves. I realized she hadn't even said goodbye to me. My chest hurt.

* Does anyone really know when love ignites in the heart? The exact moment, I mean. It can't be ignored once it's burst into raging flame, but what about the first spark? When did I start loving Corinne? I don't know. Was it that first fiery kiss that kindled it, or had it happened even before that? When did she cease to be merely a challenge and become a full-blown obsession? I guess it doesn't really matter all that much. I only know that I left the woods by the back way that night, discarding the idea of easing my pain with Lori or any of the other chicks. I didn't feel like having anyone but Corinne, although at the time I rationalized it as simply being too pissed to talk to anyone at all. Not being accustomed to chasing women -- they usually chased me -- I figured that was the reason she had me so messed up. That may have been part of it, I suppose, but in retrospect I truly believe I'd already begun to love her. I walked home that night with my thoughts centered more on this elusive child than on the girl who claimed to be carrying my own child. To be honest, I hardly thought of Alice at all, and that only in trying to take my mind off Corinne. I dreamed that night of long auburn waves, midnight-blue eyes, and violent white fire beneath the stars. I woke to find my sheets damp for the first time in seven years.

* The following night I squeezed into the lowest-slung jeans I owned, pulled on a skin-tight black T-shirt, and hung a gold chain in my ear. I stood in front of the bedroom mirror and dragged a brush through my hair, reflecting not as platinum blond like she'd said, but as purest white shot with gold. "Okay, I give," said Timmy, lounging on his bed behind me. "Who is she?" "Who?" I asked, not innocently enough to be convincing. "Whoever it is that rates all this raw sex," he smirked. "You're gonna need scissors to get those clothes off you tonight. How you gonna piss, big brother? Or did you already cut off the circulation to your kidneys?" "Eat me raw, shitface," I replied, bending to snatch up a shoe and heave it at his chest. He caught it, laughing. "You're gonna split a seam doing shit like that." "I'll split your dumbass skull first." "Touchy, aren't we? C'mon, Jag. Who's the lucky bitch?" "Marilyn-fucking-Monroe." "Don't let it break your heart, but she's dead." "Yeah, I know. She looked at you." The phone rang then and Timmy ran for the kitchen to grab it. He was back a moment later, leaning in the doorway. "For you, sweetness. It's Alice." "Hang it up," I told him, reaching for an old army jacket. "Do what?" I shrugged into the jacket and repeated, "Hang it up." He gave me a puzzled look and I snarled, "I don't wanna talk to the bitch, Tim! Hang the fucker up!" "Ah, love!" he chuckled. Shaking his head, he turned to go back to the phone. I planted my foot firmly in the seat of his pants to hurry him along. "You die for that, pretty- boy." "Yeah, I'm shaking." "I'll getcha in your sleep," he called over his shoulder, heading for the kitchen. "You'd have to, asswipe," I yelled back. My mom was at the store, or I would've gotten chewed for that. I stuffed my cigarettes into my jacket pocket and a dollar plus change into my jeans. Timmy reappeared with the comment, "Your quarter's heads up and if you hold still I'll read you the date." "You can read?" I retorted. He laughed and flopped back down on his bed. "Well enough to know Lisa just loves your tongue." "I keep forgetting how pigs like to root through garbage. You get hot reading my trash, you little pervert?" "Oink." "Just don't go jerking off on my bed," I remarked, taking a final appraisal of myself in the mirror. I liked what I saw. I had a good build -- long, lean, and muscular -- and it was accentuated nicely by the tight clothes I'd chosen. I bent, shook my head, and straightened again, pleased with the effect on my hair. Ice-blue eyes reflected on even features and clear skin. Definitely U.S.D.A. prime choice. "Ass-kicking," Timmy sighed dreamily, mocking me. He was studying me studying myself. "What can I say, Jagger? You're simply gorgeous." I flipped him the little finger of my right hand. "Have a feather. You don't deserve the whole bird." "Chew my shorts," he grinned. "Sorry. I'm on a diet," I replied, starting for the door. "Tell Mom not to wait up for me." "If I'm here." I wheeled, spitting, "Boy, you better be in that bed cutting Z's when I get home or I'll kick that punk ass of yours right up between your ears! Mom don't need no grief from you tonight." "Yeah, she gets enough from you." "Shut your face before I redesign your dental pattern. I want you home by eleven o'clock. Now, you catch my drift or should I snow again?" "Okay, hard-ass. I get the point." "Glad to hear you got something besides oatmeal under that thick skull. Why don't you show some real brains and scrape some of your clothes off the floor before you leave. Mom's doing laundry tonight." "Want me to lick your ass, too?" "Ask me next time we're out of toilet paper." "I don't have to take orders from you, y'know." "You do unless you want me to make your face even uglier than it is now." "Does your mama know what a king-size prick you are?" "No. Does your mama know what an obnoxious little brat you are?" A slow grin spread across his face and he answered, "I won't tell if you won't." "You won't tell anyway 'cause I'll stomp your ass," I replied with my own grin. He stuck out his tongue and taunted, "Prick." "Brat," I returned good-naturedly. "Sneak me in a can of beer?" he asked hopefully, leaning forward on his elbow. "If I do, you damn sure better be here to drink it." "You ever consider joining the army? You'd make a great drill sergeant." "Shit, I'd make a great anything." "Yeah, so long as it didn't call for any amount of modesty." "Who needs modesty when you're as perfect as I am?" "I hate to break it to you, but conceit's still classified as a fault." "So who's conceited? I'm being honest," I remarked on my way out. "You get much more honest and your head'll be too big to fit through the front door!" he called as a parting shot. I had no problem whatsoever with the front door. It was the neighborhood mongrel outside the door that gave me trouble. The thing weighs probably half a ton on a lean week, and apparently had decided that today was my day to provide the chow. Not in any kind of bone-hunting mood, I pushed it down when it leaped on me and started slobbering all over my face. I guess that must have been unacceptable behavior on my part. The next thing I knew, it had its fangs sunk deep into the tattered hem of my jeans. "Get off me, you furry cow!" I demanded, aiming for dog-ribs with my other foot. Momentarily satisfied with a small hunk of denim seasoned with a dash of pain, it trotted off in search of a tastier meal. I brushed the dirt off my jacket and wiped the slime from my face with my sleeve. I was righteously pissed until my thoughts flew back to the person I was hoping to see that night -- who was anything but a dog -- and then I calmed considerably. My mind replayed the previous evening, that one kiss standing out like a glass slipper on a staircase. Cinderella. I conjured up her image, remembered the tentative touch of her lips on mine and the feel of her silken skin under my hands. Heat shot through my body at the memory. The pain was as real as on the night before when I recalled her breathless words, "No more, Michael." Cinderella, your fairy godmother was really a witch in disguise, I mused. She cast a spell on me and made me love you. No, bad choice of words. Not love. Couldn't be -- I don't even know what it means. I effectively squelched another little voice that whispered, Couldn't be? Really? Then how come the only thing rattling around inside your skull is her name, her face? How come you're ready to cream your jeans over one lousy kiss? And how come your chest hurts every time Birch touches her? That's exactly what love means, asshole.

* I did see her that night, but never alone. The one time I was able to pull her aside for a moment and ask her to go for a walk with me, she told me I smelled like dog. If that wasn't bad enough, she spent most of the evening practically drooling over this guy Mitch English, who looked a bit like a copper-haired Rod Stewart. A word about English. He was a notorious cherry- chaser. That's all I need to say in explanation of his interest in her. Any normal guy has probably broken at least one chick in his life, but this dude was making it his career. Personally, I tried to avoid it as a rule. Being "the first" tended to make things exceptionally nasty when the time came to split up. Most of the other guys I knew were willing, but cautious. English did it for the sheer pleasure he derived from the corruption of innocent flesh. Then he usually dumped them, fast and hard. I suppose it's stating the obvious to say that he had few female friends once his reputation got around. Either no one had informed Corinne of his mission in life -- which I doubt -- or else she'd chosen to ignore it. That wasn't surprising, considering the amount of time she'd spent with me when my own rep wasn't exactly snow white. At any rate, there I was watching her flirt with this sleaze that surely didn't share my qualms about rape. Did it bother me? Well now, do fish swim? I suppose the next question will deal with my behavior during the evening. Don't ask. When Denise approached me hopefully, I told her loudly to go find herself a nice cucumber patch somewhere. She ran off crying, Stefano chewed my ass, and Corinne stifled a giggle. I noticed she wasn't wearing my ring. I completely forgot about Timmy's beer that night, but it didn't matter anyway because he wasn't home when I got there. I didn't do any shit-kicking when he finally stumbled in -- I was too busy dreaming about Corinne.

* Sunday night she was nowhere to be found. I was an absolute bastard until about eleven-thirty when Birch showed up. I headed straight for him and grabbed his arm. "Where's Corey tonight, man?" I inquired, trying desperately not to sound desperate. His only reply was a questioning stare -- first at the hand I had clamped onto his arm, then into my face. "Uh, sorry, man. Rough night," I said, removing my hand. "That's understandable," he replied. "You're plastered." "You ain't telling me anything I don't already know. What I do want to know is where you're hiding Corey." "I'm not hiding her anywhere, Jag," he laughed gently. "She's at home." "At home? Why?" "She's not allowed out on school nights." God, why did he have to know so damned much about her that I didn't! "Oh," I mumbled, disappointed. After a thought, I eagerly added, "You got her phone number?" "I've got it, but I'm not giving it to you tonight." "C'mon, Birch--" I began. "Not tonight," he interrupted firmly. "You're shit- faced, my friend. The only thing you'll accomplish by calling her tonight is to get her in trouble." "No I won't," I protested. He laid a loving hand on my shoulder and spoke gently. "Trust me, okay? I'm not trying to fuck you over, Jag. Meet me here tomorrow night, or come up to the store in the morning if you'd rather. I'll give it to you then, I swear. Let it rest for tonight, now. It's late." I didn't believe a word of it. Furthermore, I didn't feel like hiking up to the head shop where he worked in the morning any more than I wanted to wait until the next evening. "Tell me her last name?" I tried. "So you can look it up in the phone book? Sorry, friend." "Have a heart, man. I need to talk to her." "It'll wait." I couldn't bite back my anger any longer. I shook his hand off and spat, "That's fucking cold, y'know? It really is. You think I don't know your game? I ain't stupid, man. I might be drunk, true, but I ain't stupid. You're just jealous, that's all. You know I'll fuck her blind before you even get the chance, and you're jealous. You're just like a goddam Chihuahua trying to keep a Great Dane from stealing its bone. Have you kissed her mouth yet, puppy? No, of course not. She told me as much. Well, I have. She's very nice, y'know. Very hot. Too hot for you, I'd say. So I'll tell you what -- why don't you be a man and back off? Stick to babysitting and leave the rest for me." He was silent for a moment. There was pain in his face -- I'd finally managed to hurt him, but somehow the knowledge didn't give me as much pleasure as I'd thought it would. At length, he took a deep breath and asked calmly, "Are you finished?" "Yeah," I grunted, too stubborn to utter the apology forming in my mind. "Good. Now listen carefully, because I'll only say this once. I have no reason to bullshit you, and you'd see right through it anyway if I tried. As you so graciously pointed out, you're not stupid." He paused briefly, then continued, "Corey and I are very close, and I intend to keep it that way. You can take her body, and possibly even her love -- I've never had either one. You can't take her friendship away from me, though. I'll always have that. She has no one else, Jag. Her parents treat her like shit, and the kids in her neighborhood are all airheads. That's why I brought her here -- to meet some real people, people who don't care how much money her father makes or what committees her mother is on. Maybe she does need you to be her lover, but she still needs me to be her friend. I won't interfere in your relationship with her, and I expect the same consideration from you. Is that clear?" "Yeah," I sighed, deflated. "But answer me one question, huh?" "What's that?" "You do love her, don't you?" There, it was out. He looked away and quietly admitted, "Yes." "But you expect me to believe you're not jealous." "I want her to be happy. If that means giving her to you, then I have to accept it." "And that doesn't bother you?" He laughed weakly and looked at me again, saying, "Sometimes love hurts, my friend." "I wouldn't know," I mumbled. I studied my feet for a few minutes until he asked, "Do you still hate me?" My head shot up in surprise and the kind look in his eyes made me answer truthfully, "A little." "I suppose that's an improvement," he chuckled. "Now would you do me a small favor? I'd rather Corey didn't know about this conversation. Can I trust you not to mention it to her?" "Why?" "You and Cokey are the only ones who know how I really feel about her, and I want it to stay that way. She doesn't need to know." "You want her to keep thinking of you as a brother?" "It's easier on her." "It's stupid, too." "Do you really want the competition? I think you'll get enough of that from Mitch." "English? He's an asshole." "True, but Corey doesn't seem to share your opinion." "And you do?" "I don't want her hurt. It's as simple as that." "What makes you think I wouldn't hurt her?" "Don't you know yet?" he replied, a half-smile teasing his lips. "What?" "You love her, too," he declared, somehow looking both sad and pleased at the same time. "Yeah, right," I scoffed, more than a little uncomfortable with his accusation. "You might as well admit it, Jag. If not to me, then at least to yourself. You fell for her like the proverbial ton of bricks." "Sure. And the President's a closet Communist." "Is he now?" "About as much as I'm in love with Corey." "In that case, I'd say our country's in bad shape." "Take a break, Birch." "Sure. You keep my secret, and I'll do the same for you. Deal?" "Yeah, deal," I groaned. "But only because you'd erect a fucking billboard saying 'Jag Loves Corey,' whether it's true or not." He laughed. "You're confusing me with some of your other friends. Have a little faith in me, okay?" "Why don't you have a little in me? Give me her phone number." "Tomorrow," he promised. "You're not gonna change your mind, are you?" "Not a chance." "I could kick your ass, y'know." "I'm sure you could." "But you still wouldn't give it to me." "That's right." "Not jealous, huh?" "Not jealous." "I think you're full of shit." "That's your privilege," he shrugged. "I wouldn't call that much of a denial." "I wouldn't call it any kind of denial. We've been through this already, and I warned you that I wasn't going to repeat myself." "Yeah, and I don't wanna hear it again anyway. Saintliness nauseates me." He laughed again and patted my shoulder. "I wish I could hang around and watch you puke, but actually I only came by to pick up Cokey. If I don't get my ass in gear, he's liable to chew it all the way home. See you tomorrow?" "Not if I see you first." "Right," he chuckled, moving off to find Cokey. And Timmy thinks I'm a hard-ass, I thought. He ought to have a brother like Birch. Inspiration struck like a bolt of lightning. Timmy! There was an excellent possibility that he would have her phone number. He probably had a class or two with her at school, unless she went to one of those private academies. No way would my little brother pass by a nice piece like Corey. The more I thought about it, the more certain I became that he was the one I should have been talking to instead of wasting my time with Birch. I couldn't have taken off for home any faster if I'd had a jet engine strapped to my back.

* The house was dark when I got there, with the exception of the little light over the stove that Mom had left on for me. I headed straight for my room and flipped on the wall switch. Timmy was sprawled out on his bed, and he grunted and buried his face in the pillow when the light came on. I walked over and kicked his mattress. "Wake up, Tim. C'mon, wake up." He mumbled a half-intelligible, "Fuck off," and pulled the pillow over his head. I yanked it away from him and whomped him with it a few times. "C'mon. Get up, you little shit." He rolled over and squinted at the clock sitting on the dresser. Shielding his eyes from the light with his hand, he looked up at me and grumbled, "What's your trip, man? It's past one o'clock!" "I think you got something I want," I replied, plopping down to sit beside him on the bed. "Gimme my goddam pillow." He made a swipe for it, but I jerked it out of his reach, saying, "Trade. Tell me what I wanna know and I'll give it back. Otherwise, sleep without it." "You're a real pain in the ass, y'know that? I ain't got nothing of yours." "Did I say that? I'm looking for a phone number, stupid. You know a chick named Corinne? Brown hair, blue eyes?" "Corinne Rogers? She's in my study hall. What do you want with her?" "None of your business. You got her number or not?" "Yeah, I got it. Now gimme back my pillow. I'll find it for you in the morning." "Find it now," I demanded, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. "C'mon, man! You can't call her now, anyway. Let me catch some sleep, willya?" "Now, Tim," I insisted. I stood, grabbed hold of his arm, and hauled him out of bed. He landed on the floor with a thump. Mom called a tired, "Mike? Is that you?" from the other room. "Yeah. Go back to sleep, Ma," I hollered in return. To Timmy I said, "Okay, numb-nuts. Start looking." He got to his feet and rubbed his posterior tenderly, muttering, "Jesus! I hate you when you're drunk!" "Yeah, I know all about it. Shut up and look." Grudgingly, he complied. After rummaging through a dresser drawer for a good fifteen minutes, he finally produced a tattered matchbook cover containing a phone number and a flowery signature. I could've kissed him. Instead, I settled for a quick, uncharacteristic hug and a joyful, "Ass-kicking, Tim! You're the best!" I tossed the pillow right into his puzzled face and skipped out of the room to the kitchen. I grabbed a beer from the fridge, lit a cigarette, and dialed the number written on the matchbook cover. Leaning against the wall, I let myself slide to the floor as I listened to the phone ring six or seven times. Finally a shrewish voice snapped, "Hello!" "Hi. Can I talk to Corey?" I asked cheerfully. "Who is this?" the voice demanded. Apparently this was going to be tougher than I'd expected. "Uh, this is a friend of hers." My befuddled brain suddenly kicked into gear. "One of her girlfriends had a car accident and she's at the hospital. She asked me to call." "Just a moment." Mild concern in the voice. I smiled to myself and took a swig of beer. Silence. Then a sweet, sleepy voice, "Hello?" "Act upset," I instructed. "I just told your mom one of your girlfriends was in a wreck." "It's nothing, Mother," she said away from the receiver. I heard protest in the background. "Adele's boyfriend." Pause. "Nothing! He had to slam on the brakes to miss a kitten and she bumped her head on the windshield, that's all." Another pause. "She's fine, Mother. She just needed a few stitches." "Tell her you have to go down to the hospital," I prompted. "Goodnight, Mother," she sighed. She waited half a minute, then snapped, "What's with you, blondie? It's nearly two in the morning!" "I'm aware of the time, babe. Can I help it if your phone number's a frigging federal secret? It took me all night to get the damn thing!" "So who gave it to you?" "My brother, but it took a while. I had to wake him up." "You seem to be something of an expert at that. Who's your brother? I'd like to strangle him at my first available opportunity." "Timmy Townsend. You have a study hall with him." "The scrawny little punk with the greasy hair and the obnoxious mouth? That's your brother?" "He's not so bad," I said defensively. "I wouldn't give that little twerp a second look, let alone my phone number." "He has his ways." "So it seems." I started to reply, but she cut me off to ask, "Did you call me to discuss your brother, or was there some other equally impressive reason you had for waking me up?" "I missed you tonight," I answered lamely. "How touching. Can I go back to bed now?" "I wanna see you. C'mon, I'll meet you somewhere. You can tell your mom you had to go to the hospital and hold your girlfriend's hand." "Forget it, blondie. I'm not gonna fall asleep in biology tomorrow on account of you. Some asshole would shove a pickled frog down my shirt." "So skip. You can come over to my house -- my mom'll be at work." "I said forget it. You understand the term?" "I'm not gonna see you tonight, huh?" "Brilliant deduction." "Tell me what you're wearing, then." "What?" "Tell me what you're wearing. If you won't let me see you, at least you can let me imagine you." "Christ! What do you think I'd be wearing at this hour?" "Tell me." "A nightgown! What else!" "Is it virgin-white or cherry-red?" "You're really twisted." "Well?" "Neither one, you sicko. It's pink." "Is it see-through?" "Goodnight, Jag." "Hey, Cinderella?" "What?" "I'd really like to fuck you." The phone went dead in my hand. I smiled, kissed the receiver goodnight, and hung it back on the hook.

* I called her again the next evening after dinner. Mom was in the living room doing some crochet work and Tim was making a feeble attempt at outlining a term paper that was due by the end of the week, so I wasn't worried about anyone eavesdropping. Her mom answered the phone again. I asked for Corey and she inquired, "Who's calling?" "Michael," I responded, hoping she didn't recognize my voice. A moment later, Corinne came to the phone with a curt, "What now, blondie?" "Still pissed, huh?" "I was expecting a call from someone else, to be perfectly honest. You're tying up the line." "Anyone I know?" "As a matter of fact, yes." "Birch?" "Why should he call me? He just left here ten minutes ago." Zap. "Who, then?" "God, you're nosy. Mitch English, if you really must know." "How the hell did that sleaze get your number?" "I gave it to him." "How come he rates so high? You didn't give it to me!" "You didn't ask," she answered simply. "Well, shit! I didn't know I wasn't gonna see you for another week. What do you want with English, anyway? The only thing he wants from you is your cherry -- nothing more and nothing less." "Funny, I had the same thought about you." I didn't have any kind of reply for that statement, so she pressed, "Am I wrong, blondie?" "You're missing the point," I said finally. "What I want isn't important here -- it's what you want. You already know I'll stop when you tell me to. English won't. Is that what you want? You wanna be raped?" "Answer my question." "You answer mine." She sighed. "I'm waiting." "So am I." I was met with stubborn silence. Eventually I conceded, "Awright, you're not wrong. Except for one thing -- I don't give a shit about your stupid cherry. To tell you the truth, I wish you'd lost the damn thing long before I even met you! Maybe then you wouldn't be such a fucking bitch." I took a breath and continued more calmly, "Yes, I do wanna ball you -- I wouldn't be human if I didn't. Half the guys I know right now feel the same way about you. Am I such a shit because I'm the only goddam one of them who's honest enough to say it to your face?" "Crude enough, you mean," she corrected. "Whatever." "Well, you're trying very hard to be noble, I'm sure -- but I haven't heard you mention love yet." "And you won't, either. I'd rather not insult your intelligence by feeding you a line of crap that I generally save for total morons. If you want that kind of romantic bullshit, you'd better stick to English. Of course, you won't keep your precious little maidenhood for long once he gets you alone -- but then that's your choice, sweetheart." "Listen, Jag--" she began. "No, you listen," I interrupted, my temper blowing completely. "The more I think about it, the better it sounds. You go right ahead and tease English the way you do me. See if he'll let you push him away after one of your hot little kisses. Go on and try it, babe. If you're a real hellcat you might get away with it, but personally I don't think you've got what it takes. Once he's got you broken in, come back and see me -- I'll show you what a good piece of ass is. I don't want your goddam cherry, though -- I wouldn't take it if you gave it to me on a fucking silver platter." And with that, I slammed the phone down so hard that the bell inside went Ting. I reached into the fridge for a beer, stalked into my room, and threw myself onto my bed. "We got beer?" Timmy asked eagerly, looking up from a blank page. "Get me one, huh?" "Fuck me dry," I spat, lighting a cigarette. "C'mon, Jag. Mom won't know," he persisted. I ignored him. He studied me for a moment, then observed, "You're acting like a person who's righteously pissed, big brother. What happened?" "Just shut up and do your homework, willya? I don't wanna talk about it." He shrugged and went back to staring at his empty sheet of paper. I sulked and smoked my cigarette. Five or ten minutes later I heard the phone ring. It's Corinne, I thought irrationally. Mom yelled for me and I took that as a confirmation. She thought it over and she wants to apologize, I decided as I headed for the kitchen. Well, okay. I'll be forgiving. Mom handed me the receiver saying, "Telephone, hon. It's Alice." The name hit me like a bucket of ice water. I mumbled a polite, "Thanks, Ma," waited for her to leave the room, and placed the receiver back on its cradle. I scuffed back to my bed to indulge in some more self- pity, but half an hour later the phone rang again. This time I went for it myself. "Hello!" I barked, expecting to hear Alice's whining voice on the other end. Wrong again. It was Stefano. "Hey, what's up your ass, man?" he asked, slightly taken aback. "Sorry," I sighed. "I thought it'd be Alice again." "Really." "Aw, Stevie -- she's being such a bitch! She must've called me twenty times this weekend!" "You think that might have anything to do with the fact you keep hanging up on her?" "What?" "I just got off the phone with her, and I don't mind telling you it wasn't the most pleasant experience of my life. Carolyn wasn't exactly thrilled with it either, to put it mildly. You're putting me in a bad position, Jag. My chick don't like me playing crying towel to yours for a solid half hour." "She's not my chick." "Whether she is or not, you're making things pretty damn awkward for me." "I didn't tell her to call you!" "What'd you expect her to do? Send you a singing telegram? C'mon, get serious." "Look, I don't wanna listen to any more of her shit. Can't you understand that?" "All she wants is to tell you she's got an appointment at the clinic for Monday morning at nine. No big deal." "And it took her half an hour to tell you that, huh?" I sneered. "Christ, have a little pity, would you? The chick's hung on you, man! It breaks her heart every time you slam that phone down on her." "Poor baby." "God, you're cold! I bet you sleep in a freezer at night!" "Yeah, most guys shave when they get up in the morning. I just scrape off the icicles." "Ha, ha. Listen, Carolyn's waiting for me. I promised to take her to a movie tonight. Just make sure you get Alice to the clinic Monday at nine. And don't forget the money." "How am I supposed to dig up that much cash by Monday?" "If I can do it, so can you." "Carolyn, too?" "No, asshole. I'm loaning Alice the other half. She's gonna pay me back out of the money she makes from babysitting." "Where you gonna get it from?" "I dunno. I guess I'll have to pawn my guitar." "I got nothing worth pawning," I muttered forlornly. "Anyone you could borrow it from?" "My mom maybe, but I don't relish the thought of asking her for it." "Well, I'm not really excited about pawning my guitar, y'know. My brother gave it to me, in case you don't remember." "I'd forgotten," I admitted, moved. He'd lost his brother in Vietnam. "I haven't. He brought it home the week before he was shipped out, and he said we could jam together sometimes when he got out." He gave a short, hard laugh. "Too bad the Cong had other plans for him." I wasn't fooled by his feigned indifference -- I knew how much he'd idolized his older brother. "It's a bitch," I agreed, not knowing what else to say. "Yeah. Well, hey, I gotta go before Caro decides to arrange the same fate for me. Good luck with your mom. If you can't get anywhere with her, call me back and we'll figure out something." "Sure, thanks." "You be around tomorrow night?" "I doubt it." "Anything wrong?" "Don't worry about it. Go shag your ass to the movies." "Awright, check you later." "Yeah, 'bye." I hung up and just stood there for a minute. Things started ticking off one by one in my mind: Alice getting knocked up, Stefano taking her side against me, my having to ask my mom for money I knew she couldn't spare. Corinne choosing that bastard English over me. Suddenly, I just blew. Completely, totally, right off the goddamned Richter scale. I was never one to function well under pressure, and it seemed like it was all closing in on me from every side. Anyone care to speculate as to how I dealt with the situation? I bellowed a frustrated, "Shit!" and started trashing the kitchen, that's how. Very mature, right? First to go was the toaster. I put a dent in the refrigerator door with it. Mom's cracked old pottery cookie jar went next. It cracked about a million times more when it hit the floor, scattering fragments clear out into the dining room. Mom and Timmy rushed in just as I fired the coffee pot through the glass front of the oven door. "Timothy, you get back to your room!" Mom ordered, and he obeyed. I backed up against the cabinets as she advanced on me and slapped me across the face hard enough to make my head hit the cupboard behind me. I froze, terrified. It was hardly the first time she'd ever hit me, but the woman had murder in her eyes. "Michael Townsend, you tell me what this is all about right now, and you make it damned good!" "I just can't take no more, Mom," I choked weakly. I think I was crying, but I'm not sure. "I just can't!" I sank to the floor, wrapped my arms around my knees, and dropped my head onto them. She was there beside me seconds later, her arm circling my shaking shoulders. "What is it, baby?" she soothed. "Tell me what's wrong." "Everything's wrong," I told her without looking up. "Well, how about let's take just one at a time, okay?" she coaxed, smoothing my hair with her hand. "You're gonna kill me." "No I won't. If I was gonna kill you, I would've done it already." "I'm sorry I fucked up your kitchen." "We'll fix the kitchen later. Right now I'd rather concentrate on fixing you." I paused to take a breath, then blurted, "Alice is pregnant," tensing for a solid smack. She didn't react at all for a moment, and I glanced up. She looked kind of shell- shocked. At length, she sighed, "Are you the father?" Father? That was an odd concept. "I don't know. Probably. She says I am." "Do you want to marry her?" "Are you kidding?" "I didn't think so. Well, what does she want?" "She wants to get married, naturally, but I already told her no way. I guess she's gonna have an abortion. I'm supposed to take her over to the clinic next Monday." "Is that what you want?" "I ain't got a choice. Stefano said he'd kick my ass if I didn't." "I see." "There's more." "More?" "Yeah. He says I gotta pay half, too. To carry my share, sort of." "What do you think about that?" "I suppose he's right," I admitted. "But I don't have that kind of money, Ma." "How much do you need?" "Too much." "A week's pay?" "About that, I imagine." "Okay, you've got it." "Just like that?" "Just like that. But it's gonna mean a lot of peanut butter and jelly dinners, Mike. You understand that?" "Yeah." "No more beer. No more chips or pretzels. That's the only place I can cut back -- the bills gotta be paid." I nodded, feeling like a real shit. "Okay, that's settled. What else is bugging you?" "Nothing," I lied. I couldn't bring myself to tell her about Corinne. "Your mouth is saying Nothing, but your eyes are saying Something." "It's personal, Ma." "More personal that your girlfriend getting pregnant?" "She ain't my girlfriend. Not anymore, at least." "Oh. Someone else, then?" "Ma, please. I really don't wanna talk about it. Anyway, you've already solved my biggest problem. I can handle the rest, I think." "Sure, baby," she smiled, patting my shoulder. She struggled to her feet and went to the fridge to get the last two cans of beer. She handed one to me and opened the other for herself, adding, "If you change your mind, though, I want you to come talk to me. I can't afford any more of your temper tantrums." "Thanks, Ma." "Drink your beer. And enjoy it -- you won't be seeing any more for a while. Then get you a broom and clean up your mess." "I will." She left for the living room, and I let my head fall back against the cabinet in exhausted relief. I was instantly sorry I did as soon as I made contact with the wood -- it hurt like a bitch. I must've banged it pretty good when she hit me. I also had a sneaking suspicion that I would be sporting one hell of a bruise on my cheek in the very near future. Oh, well. Payment for services rendered, I figured. I went to fetch the broom.

* Mom never said anything about my having to pay her back, but I felt guilty enough to go out and pick up a couple of lawn-mowing jobs anyway. If nothing else, I wanted to at least replace her oven door. I wasn't terribly fond of the work, but I did get a kick out of the look on her face when I came home covered with dirt, grass stains, and assorted blisters and handed her ten dollars, another five still in my pocket. She gave me a warm hug and I promised her there'd be more where that came from. I could be very masochistic with the proper motivation -- the left side of my face had turned varying shades of black, purple, and blue. I made a grand total of thirty-five bucks that week, twenty-five of it going to my mom. The other ten I kept for my own personal recreational activities: booze, cigarettes, etc. I also lost five pounds, which I could ill afford. Mom noticed and splurged on a pizza Friday evening, limiting Timmy and herself to two slices apiece so that I could stuff myself. I guess I already mentioned what a neat lady she was. I argued with myself every day whether or not to call Corinne again. The mornings and afternoons weren't so bad. I was too busy cutting grass and looking for more that needed it to think about her more than occasionally. The nights were a bitch, though. She was in my mind constantly then, and I hated it. I wanted to call her and tell her the truth -- that maybe I did love her. But of course she wouldn't believe me, not after what I'd said about saving that line for total morons. Anyway, I wasn't even sure I believed it myself at that point. On the flip side of the same coin, I was still mighty pissed at her. What right did she have to criticize me for the simple crime of wanting her? I was a hell of a lot more honorable about it than English would ever dream of being. So what was his major attraction? Did she prefer soft words and hard moves? That was his style, not mine. At any rate, that wasn't the impression she had given me the first night. I didn't really think that she was too stupid to be able to judge English for what he was, but even a complete idiot would have backed off after all the warnings she'd surely had by that time. Either she was deliberately trying to hurt me, or she was just out for kicks. I didn't see any reason she'd have for hurting me, unless it was revenge for the way I'd treated Birch that night. That seemed a little unreasonable to me, since it hadn't appeared to bother him much. I was still trying to work it all out as I showered and changed my clothes Friday evening. I avoided the mirror, not needing any reminders that black was rapidly going to purple, purple fading to blue, and blue turning green. The green would become yellow in another day or two. I wished my mom would've picked anywhere but my face to deck me, but I didn't dwell on it since I'd been the one scarfing up most of the pizza she'd bought. I got to the woods later than usual, probably around nine-thirty. All the way there I debated whether or not to approach Corinne, how to go about it, and what to say to her. I shouldn't have worried about it -- the decision was practically made for me. She was standing with a knot of other people, and the blond that was talking to her when I arrived wasn't Birch; Birch didn't wear a braid. "I hear he's hot for you, little girl," Alice was saying blithely as I came up behind her. "I wouldn't pay any attention to him, if I was you. I mean, being as how I'm the one carrying his child . . . ." I grabbed her arm and spun her around. It was too late to stop the bomb, but I could still launch one of my own. "Not for long, bitch," I thundered, dragging her away from the shocked little gathering. She started to protest, "Jag, I--" I silenced her with a sharp, "Shut up, you cunt!" She began to cry. I got her further back into the woods and wheeled on her. "Don't you ever pull shit like that on me again!" I raged, my fingers digging into her arm. "Ever! You don't own me -- you never have and you never will! I don't give a flying fuck what you're carrying -- you don't go broadcasting it to my friends!" "You're hurting me!" she wailed, trying to pry my hand loose. I pushed her away roughly. "Tough shit. You didn't do much for me back there just now, either." "I was just--" "Trying to fuck up my chances with Corey," I finished for her. "You think you can get me back that way? You better think again, slut. Oh, I'll get you to your goddam clinic on Monday -- don't worry about that. You fixed that one up just perfect. But after that, we're done -- you come within ten feet of me and I'll take that ugly fucking braid of yours and jam it right up your twat. You understand me?" "No, I don't!" she sobbed. "I knew you were mad about the baby, but I thought you loved me!" "Well, then you think too goddam much, because the only thing I've ever loved about you is the way you spread your legs." "I can still do that," she implored tearfully, trying to put her arms around me in a last ditch effort to hang on to me. "You make me sick," I said, disentangling myself with difficulty. She persisted, begging, "Please, honey. We can do it right here if you want to." I hate to say what I did next. It will absolutely remove all doubt as to what a total shit I could be when provoked, but I did promise myself to be honest when I started writing all this. I took her face in my hands and said coldly, "Fine. I'll give you a small sample of what to expect from me from now on." With one hand I grabbed that stupid braid and yanked her head backward, crushing her mouth in an icy, passionless kiss. With the other I covered one of her breasts and squeezed hard enough to make her scream. She ran from me then, stumbling off through the trees toward home. I sat down calmly to smoke a cigarette and wait for the cavalry to arrive. Stefano came crashing through first, followed immediately by Robin Hood. "Where's Alice?" Stefano demanded. "I think she went home," I answered easily. "What happened?" "Well, I don't think she likes me anymore," I shrugged. "Goddammit, Jag! What'd you do?" "Robin, you gonna let this guy do all the yelling here? Ain't you gonna bitch me out, too?" "Answer me, Townsend!" Stefano roared. "Whatever he did, she had it coming, Stefano," Robin said quietly, having been one of the witnesses to her earlier scene. "I didn't do nothing," I sighed. "She wanted some ass. I guess she just don't appreciate my technique like she used to anymore." "You raped her!" Stefano accused. "I kissed her." "You kissed her," he snorted. "Okay, I felt her up, too." "You felt her up, too." "What are you? A fucking parrot?" He glared at me and I confessed, "Awright, so maybe I was a little rough with her." "Sounded like more than a little." "I didn't beat her up or anything, Stevie, so just lay off. I just knock 'em up, y'know -- I don't knock 'em around." "You're a real comedian, huh?" I shrugged. "C'mon, man. Let it be," Robin said to Stefano. "You know how Alice is -- she'd howl if you looked at her cross- eyed." "Maybe so," Stefano replied. "But if you're bullshitting me, Jag, I'll put you in traction. And I'm not kidding." "You don't believe me? Ask her." "Oh, I intend to. And I'll tell you something else -- I don't wanna catch you anywhere near her anymore. Just stay the hell away from her." "Nothing would please me more. Would you mind informing her of your decision? I mean, I did have this little date with her for Monday morning and I've been having this trouble with my telephone . . . ." "I'll handle Monday myself -- consider yourself excused from duty. I'll stop by Sunday night to pick up the cash. As for the phone calls, I doubt you'll have a problem with that after tonight." "Splendid. Now do you think you might also offer her a little advice regarding her rather irritating tendency to interfere with my future romantic endeavors?" "Run that by me again without the fifty-cent words." "Keep her away from Corinne, Stevie. I mean it. If she fucks things up for me, then I'm not gonna be responsible for what I do." "He's right, man," Robin agreed. "That Corey chick don't know how things are around here yet. Shit, I've known Alice for years and she still floored me talking about Jag nailing her. Corey don't even have any idea of what a smothering little whore she is -- I hate to think what must be going through her head right now." "I'll talk to her," Stefano assured me. "Make sure you do," I returned. "And while you're at it, you can tell her I want my Zeppelin album back." "I'll get it for you Monday." "I'd appreciate it," I said stiffly. "Are we straight on all this now?" "Yeah, we're straight. I leave her alone and she leaves me alone. No problem here, dear." "Awright, take it easy," he told me, turning to leave. "As easy as I can get it," I remarked, and he turned back long enough to flash me a grin -- the kind usually bestowed upon the hopelessly insane -- before he walked away. Robin Hood stuck around for a while and then he left, too. I leaned back and closed my eyes, feeling drained. Shortly, I heard a soft voice asking, "You okay, blondie?" I opened my eyes, realizing I'd drifted off to sleep. "I'm dreaming," I decided. "You can't be real, because if you were . . . . Aren't you mad at me?" She shrugged. "Sit down," I invited, patting the ground beside me. "I shouldn't. I told Mitch I was just gonna go . . . well, you know." I smiled at her reluctance to discuss her bodily functions. "C'mere, Cinderella," I coaxed. "Come sit with me for a minute. I could use a friend right now." "For a minute," she conceded, seating herself. I offered her a cigarette and she took it. "Is it true? About Alice, I mean?" she asked when I'd lit it for her. "Yeah, it's true," I groaned. "Did she do that?" She indicated the bruise on my face. "No, that was a present from my mom." "Your mom hits you?" "When I deserve it." "What'd you do?" "You don't wanna know." "Yeah, I do." "I trashed her kitchen." "You trashed her kitchen?" she snickered. "Why?" "'Cause I'm a stupid asshole, I guess." She laughed. It was infectious -- I started laughing, too. "No, really," she gasped, wiping her eyes. "Why'd you do it?" "The truth?" I smiled. "Yeah, of course." "I dunno. A lot of reasons. I just freaked out and started throwing things." "At your mom?" "No! Are you nuts?" "I thought maybe you were. So what'd she hit you with? A sledgehammer?" "Felt like it." "Doesn't sound like you're very pissed off at her." "Why should I be?" "I'd be pissed at my mother if she hit me." "I told you, I deserved it. Anyway, she cooled down as soon as she found out I wasn't just breaking stuff for the hell of it." "What all'd you break?" "A toaster, a cookie jar, a coffee pot, the oven door. And I dented the fridge." "Jesus!" "Yeah, I know." She gave me a suspicious look and asked, "I didn't have anything to do with all this, did I?" I shrugged. "Sort of." "Well, then I guess I owe it to you to kiss it and make it better, huh?" she declared, leaning over to touch her lips to my bruised cheek. I shifted and brought her into a full kiss, my hands gripping her arms just below the shoulder. She laid one hand on my hip and tilted her head back. "You cheat," she murmured as I ran my tongue along her throat. "I know." I dropped little kisses on her face and snaked my arms around her waist before returning to her mouth. She slid her other hand up behind my neck, parting her lips to welcome me in. I was sure I'd died and gone to heaven. "Please, God, if this is a dream, don't ever let me wake up," I prayed. She smiled and kissed me again. Deciding to chance another slap, I lowered my mouth to the side of her neck and fastened on, hoping she'd at least pick the other side of my face to crack me one. "What're you doing?" she breathed, tangling her fingers tenderly in my hair. "Marking you," I said as I finished. I placed a kiss beside her lips. "You're mine, Cinderella." "Says you," she replied softly, removing her hand from my hip to carefully touch her neck. With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she whispered, "Teach me how." "There's nothing to teach," I told her. "You just do it." "What do I do?" she asked, brushing my hair away from my neck. "Suck." Her mouth touched my skin and I closed my eyes. I could scarcely believe what I was feeling . . . but it sure beat getting smacked in the face. She pulled back to examine her work, gave me a wicked little smile, and brought her lips to my throat to mark me again. I pressed her closer, moaning, "Oh, God! Stop, babe. Please!" "No," she answered, biting my skin gently. She latched on once more. It was too much -- I couldn't stand any more. I pushed her down into the leaves and rained kisses all over her face, her neck, her mouth. I teased her lips with my tongue, parted them and dived inside. At the height of pleasure and pain, I nuzzled into her hair and warned, "Get away from me, babe. Please, or I'm gonna take you right now." She took heed and slid out from under me, sitting up. I jammed the heel of my hand hard against my crotch, wishing she'd stayed and glad she hadn't. I would've torn her jeans off in another minute. "I'm sorry," she said, noting my rather obvious discomfort. I nodded, waiting for my frustration to subside a bit. "Have you ever thought of registering those lips of yours as a lethal weapon?" I asked wryly after a moment. She showed a tiny smile and I added, "Now I'm positive I don't want your cherry. I'd end up being your slave for life." "You just get hot too easy," she teased. "Only for you," I replied with a lot more truth than she probably realized. I hadn't been so blind-assed horny for one chick since I was thirteen. "You're so full of shit, blondie!" she giggled. "I bet you'd be a millionaire if you had a nickel for every time you've pulled that line." I raised my eyebrows at her, stating, "For your information, sweet one, if I got a nickel per shot I would have exactly five cents if you count this last time." "I find that hard to believe, what with your rep," she grinned. "Hey, Cinderella, lemme tell you something, okay? People talk about me for one of two reasons: Either they wish they had me, or they wish they were me. And either way, a good deal of what they say is pure bullshit." "You're awfully conceited." "Whatever you think. But I'll tell you something else too, while we're on the subject. Your own rep'll be sucking shit within a week at the rate you're going now." "Oh, really." "You think I'm kidding? What do they call me, hon? Stud, right?" She bit her lip. "Right. Now how do you suppose they refer to English? He's the cherry-chaser. Maybe you'd like to try for Valentino next? That's Jojo, in case you hadn't heard yet. Doesn't matter, though -- you don't need him. Just keep hanging with me and English and you'll be known as a slut before you've screwed either one of us. Guilt by association, y'know." "That's not fair." "Neither is life, but that's how it goes. Just like Robin talking about Alice tonight, reminding Stefano what a smothering little whore she is. Those were his exact words." I laughed brittlely. "She's no whore, hon. I doubt she's balled half a dozen guys in her life. She just went and pulled herself a bad rep." "How?" "By screwing the three people I've just mentioned, English being the first and myself the last. Not to mention Cobra -- it's social suicide to sleep with him." "Why?" "Have you met him?" I chuckled. "Yeah, I see your point," she admitted, wrinkling her pretty little nose with distaste. "He may be cute, but he's awfully creepy." "You're quite perceptive at times, my dear," I mocked. She stuck out her tongue and I remarked, "Use it, don't abuse it." "Oh, shut up. Anyway, I'll spend time with whoever I want to, and anyone who doesn't like it can just kiss my ass." "Hey, now. First come, first served. I asked first." "I keep forgetting how demented you are," she groaned. "I can't help myself. It looks so sweet tucked away inside those nice tight jeans -- I just have to wonder what it looks like without them." "No need to wonder -- I can tell you. It's perfect, except for one thing: It's cracked." "Oh, you're bad," I laughed. "Do you know how bad you are?" "How bad?" "Bad." "This is great -- you're demented and I'm bad. What a combination." "I happen to think it's a terrific combination, myself." Then, without missing a beat, "Have you kissed him yet?" "What?" "English. Have you kissed him yet?" "That's none of your business." "No, but tell me anyway." "What do you care whether I have or not?" "I just do. So have you?" "Would you be jealous if I said yes?" I took that as my answer. "I don't get jealous," I lied, feeling very much the opposite. "Well, I haven't," she shrugged. "You haven't?" "That's what I said, isn't it?" I shook my head. "I don't believe you." "So what? You don't believe I'm a virgin, either." "Now wait a minute. We settled that argument last week." "Did we?" "Don't get philosophical on me. I apologize." "Don't apologize unless you believe me. I despise hypocrites." "So do I." "Does that mean you believe me?" "It does. Can we kiss and make up now?" "I don't know. Can you control yourself?" "Good question. Shall we find out? I'm willing to take the risk if you are." "You're a shit," she scolded, moving close to meet my mouth with her own. "Mmm, I know," I agreed between kisses. She smiled. At length, she broke away and lay down with her head in my lap. "Tell that to go away," she teased boldly, giving my crotch a feather-light slap. "I would, but it don't listen very well," I returned. "Maybe if you talked to it . . . ." "Oh, hush! You're impossible." "Not at all. Try me." "No thanks. I've already tried enough of you for one night." "You can't tell me you didn't like it, babe." "I can if I want to." "Yeah, but it wouldn't be true." "Well, you don't have to get so technical about it." I laughed. Stroking her hair, I sighed, "I wish you'd let me fuck you." "And I wish you'd quit nagging at me." "And do it?" "Not hardly, sweetheart." "How about softly?" "You have a comeback for everything, don't you?" "Well now, I try." "Anyway, I thought you'd decided you didn't want my cherry." "I don't. I want what's beyond it." "It happens to be a package deal." "For the moment, maybe, but I doubt that's a permanent condition." "Oh, so it's alright with you if Mitch breaks me in, then?" "If that's what you want," I said coldly, looking up at the sky. "You don't need my permission." "That's very true, but it doesn't sound much like the guy who was whispering, 'You're mine, Cinderella,' a little while ago." "I've been known to say strange things in the name of passion." "You don't have to get defensive. I knew you didn't mean it." "Will you stop twisting my words? I meant it, okay?" I snapped, glancing back to her face. "Sure, I understand. You meant it then, but not now." "Cut it out, Corey!" I said a bit harshly. "Why? Am I pissing you off?" "Get up." "You are pissed." "Get up, dammit!" She sat up and turned, sitting on her heels with an enigmatic smirk playing around her lips. "Hitting too close to home, blondie?" she taunted. "You're a fucking tease, y'know that? You wanna be wanted, but you don't wanna be had. If I was to tell you I loved you right now, you'd just laugh in my face. That's hitting home, now isn't it? 'Cause that's all you are -- a goddam cock-teaser. You tell me I'm wrong." "Liking me drives you crazy, doesn't it?" "God!" I swore, getting angrily to my feet. I stomped a short distance away from her, slumped against a tree, and kicked the bark with the heel of my boot, my arms crossed at my waist. She came to stand in front of me and reached up to touch my face. I turned my head sharply to shake her hand off, but she only replaced it again immediately. I continued to gaze off into the distance as her other hand closed over my shoulder. When her mouth touched my throat, I jerked away. "Stop it!" I commanded. "Michael, will you please quit fighting me?" she insisted softly, laying her hand on one of mine. "Regardless of what you think, it's not a crime for you to enjoy my company without screwing me. C'mon, I don't see you getting pissed off at Stefano because he won't fuck you." "You don't see me kissing him either, do you?" She laughed. Bright, airy. "Would it make you feel better if I told you that I have no intentions of letting Mitch break me?" "In that case I'd say you're playing with fire and you'd better back off before you get burned." "Oh, that's right. You think he's gonna rape me." "I don't think it, babe, I know it." "So okay. If and when that happens, you can feel free to say you told me so, awright?" "I'll laugh my ass off." "Really, Jag. He's been a perfect gentleman, which is more than you can say." "If he's such a wonderful human being, what're you doing here with me?" "I'm sure you know the answer to that." "Yeah. I'm the poor slob you can tease without worrying about your virginity." "Oh, honestly!" "Well, it's true, isn't it?" "Can I tell you something, blondie?" she sighed, sliding her arms up around my neck. "We both want the same thing, y'know. I'm just not ready yet." I sucked in my breath. "You do wanna go to bed with me?" "Someday, yes." I wrapped my arms around her and buried my face in her hair. I almost told her I loved her, but bit it back at the last moment. It was probably best that I did, because just then English showed up, sneering, "Well, Corey, I see the piss turned out to be a shit." "Nice to see you, too, English," I said easily, looking up. Corinne put a hand to her hip and frowned, "Oh, please." I noticed her disgust was aimed primarily at him, not me. "So what's the deal?" he asked her. "I thought you came here to spend the evening with me." "It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind, y'know," I pointed out. "Shut up, Jag," she groaned, going to stand beside him. "Sorry to spoil your party, Townsend," he jeered, "but obviously the lady would rather be with me." He took her hand and started to lead her away. "Really?" I called after him. "Check the neck, English!" I grinned to myself and leaned back against the tree, feeling much too smug and self-satisfied to be upset at her departure. After all, she had said she wanted me.

* Taking an educated guess at her mother's opinion of hickeys, I'd been careful to mark Corinne where it could easily be hidden by her hair. She, however, hadn't been quite so thoughtful. As a result, I took a good deal of ribbing from my brother, mainly consisting of the standard comments about vampires and being attacked by rogue vacuum cleaners. My mom wanted to know if Alice and I had gotten back together. I assured her we hadn't. I went out looking for some more shaggy lawns that morning, didn't find any, and got back to the house around eleven o'clock. "Didja get the license number of that truck?" Timmy cracked as I pulled the front door closed behind me. He was sprawled out on the floor, watching cartoons. "What truck?" I inquired, my mind elsewhere. I really should've known better than to ask that question. "The one that hit you, dummy!" "Funny, Tim. See me laughing," I returned dryly. I grabbed a slice of cinnamon toast from the plate in front of him. "Where's Mom?" "In the back yard, hanging out some sheets. Did I say you could steal my food?" "You didn't say I couldn't," I replied, heading for the kitchen. I opened the fridge and selected a carton of orange juice, frowning at the dent in the door. I took a few swigs straight from the carton and put it back. The kitchen door banged open and my mom came in carrying an empty laundry basket. "Back so soon?" she smiled. "Yeah," I said, still munching toast. "Done all I can 'til next week, I guess." "Well, don't set any up for Monday. After you take care of Alice, I want you to go pick me up a new front for that oven door and get it fixed." "I'll do it first thing. Stefano decided to handle Alice himself." "Oh? Any particular reason for this sudden show of generosity?" "Guess he don't believe in putting the cat in the cage with the canary." "You and her aren't getting along too well, huh?" "I'll nominate that for the understatement of the year." "Well, I never really cared much for her anyway. Maybe I shouldn't say so, but I'm glad you didn't go off and marry her. She'd have made an awful daughter-in-law." I laughed. She stuck the laundry basket in a corner and went into the living room to do some mending. I reached for the phone and dialed Corinne's number. "Hey, babe," she said when her mother had fetched her. "Not waiting for English to call?" "Nah," she chuckled. "I think he's a trifle upset with me after last night." "Pardon me if I don't sympathize. What're you doing?" "Nothing. I was just sitting in my room listening to the stereo." "What's playing?" "Tull. You like them?" "Yeah, but I like Zeppelin better." "Figures. Plant's more your type." "And what's that supposed to mean?" "Ian Anderson isn't exactly the sexpot that Robert Plant is." "Can your mother hear what you're saying?" I laughed. "Uh-uh. She went back upstairs to lie down. She has a headache." "It ain't even noon yet!" "She gets migraines. According to her, they last for a week at a time." "I bet your dad loves that." "Shit, they don't even sleep in the same room. He could care less." "Sounds like a nice, warm family atmosphere. So, you doing anything today?" "I dunno. You got something in mind?" "Walk up to the mall, maybe? Go across to the bowling alley and bowl a game, if you want. There's an import store up the road, too. Ever been inside?" "Uh-uh." "They got some wild shit in there. Incense, tapestries, chocolate-covered bees -- you name it." "Chocolate-covered bees?" "Grasshoppers, too, if you're more into the traditional." "Gross!" "I promise not to buy you any, okay?" "If you do, I'll feed them to you!" she threatened cheerfully. "Does that mean you'll come?" "Hold on -- I'll ask." The phone clattered down. I hoisted myself up onto the countertop and lit a cigarette. Timmy wandered in to drop his plate into the sink. "Hey, get me an ashtray, Tim," I told him. "Get it yourself, lazy," he retorted. "What color do I look to you?" "Black as shit. Now go get me one -- I'm on the phone." On the other end of the line, Corinne picked up and said, "Hey, it's cool. I can go. But I'll have to meet you somewhere . . . ," just as Timmy was arguing, "I ain't getting jack shit for you after you swiped my breakfast, you overgrown pig." "Hang on a sec, sugar," I said into the phone, and to Timmy, "Get the fucking ashtray, dickface, or I'll use your goddam mouth!" Mom hollered, "Mike!" from the other room, her tone of voice a warning rather than a request for my presence. Timmy smirked, "Ha, ha, asshole." I yelled, "Sorry, Ma," and kicked him in the pants as he minced past me out of the kitchen. "My apologies," I told Corinne. "I was trying to get my dumbass brother to bring me an ashtray." "So I gathered," she replied. "Want me to wait while you get one?" "Nah, I can use the sink, I guess." "Well anyway, I can go, but I gotta meet you somewhere. My mother's being a regulation bitch today, so I told her I was going to a girlfriend's house to play Monopoly. She don't really think I'm old enough to be messing around with boys yet, and I didn't feel like hassling with her. You don't mind, do you?" "Of course not. I'd be embarrassed having white trash show up at my door, too," I teased. "You're a dear to be so understanding," she countered. "I suppose this means I can't bring my rats along?" "Only if they know how to heel. Now where you want me to meet you, smartass?" "What's close to you?" "Well, which way you coming?" I thought a moment, then said, "Up the tracks, I guess. That's the shortest way from here." "Okay. Um, how about I meet you at the park off of Brighton? The tracks run right along the edge of it." "Decent. Gimme an hour, awright?" "It's yours. I'll be by the swingset." "Gotcha. Check you later." "'Bye." I hung up, doused my cigarette under the faucet, and pitched it into the garbage. Mildly ecstatic, I started for my room to change my shirt and brush my hair. The phone rang. I grabbed for it, answering, "Yo." "Jag, don't hang up," Alice said quickly. "Please, honey. I need to talk to you." "You got nothing to say that I wanna hear," I replied impatiently, wishing she could've waited another ten minutes to call. I would've been gone by then. "Please don't be that way," she whined. "I'm sorry about last night. Really." "I'm not." "You don't need to be. It was my fault. I shouldn't have been telling anyone about our baby until you said it was okay." "Cut the crap, Alice. And don't start with me about babies -- that ain't no baby you got in there, just an egg and a sperm that happened to run into each other." "It is so a baby!" she insisted. "No matter what you call it, it ain't gonna be there two days from now." "But what if I change my mind?" "I wouldn't advise it. You'd make a lousy unwed mother." "Why're you talking like that? I could be a good wife to you, honey! I can cook real good, and I know how to do wash and everything. I wouldn't even care if you wanted to go out with Stefano and them sometimes -- I'd stay home with the baby. Honest. We could get a little apartment for just the three of us, and I promise I'd keep it real clean." I cut her off before she could get any further. "And would you care if I fuck Corinne while you're staying home with the kid?" There was a long pause before she said, "Why do you wanna hurt me so bad?" "I don't wanna hurt you, dear. I just wanna be done with you. Can't you understand that? I don't want you anymore." "You can't just fall out of love with me just like that!" "Alice, listen to me. Listen carefully, darling: I was never in love with you to begin with." "You're lying!" "Look, I ain't got time for this shit. I was on my way out when you called." "Corinne?" "You're learning." "You don't need her, Jag! From what I hear, she don't even put out. You'll never get anywhere with her." "Maybe you'd like to stop by tonight and count the passion marks she didn't give me." "You let her give you a hickey?" "Three." "You . . . you never let me do that." "What does that tell you?" "Why're you trying to make me jealous? I told you I'd be good to you!" "Are you really as dense as you make yourself out to be? I ain't trying to make you jealous -- I'm trying to make you leave me alone. Now I gotta go, you understand?" "Wait, honey . . . ." "Stefano'll be calling you later. Cry on his shoulder -- mine's taken." "I already talked to him this morning." "Then you got no business calling me. He promised you'd back off if I did." "I don't wanna back off! I want you!" "You can't have me!" I said, pronouncing each word carefully. "Now I ain't telling you again." "But--" "I'm gonna hang up now, sweets. Don't bother calling back 'cause I won't answer. I ain't making Corey wait on account of you." And so saying, I dropped the receiver on the hook and headed for my room. I had one foot through the bedroom door when the phone rang again. Stepping inside, I shut the door and stripped my shirt off. A moment later my mom knocked, saying, "Telephone, Mike." I opened the door and asked, "Who is it?" "Alice," she replied, adding, "She sounds a little upset." I yanked open a dresser drawer and picked out a gray sweatshirt that I'd chopped the sleeves off of months before. "I ain't home." "I'm not gonna lie for you, son," she said sternly. "Then wait thirty seconds and you won't have to." I pulled the sweatshirt over my head and grabbed my brush. "You're going outside with half your belly showing like that?" she inquired, noting the gap between the bottom of my shirt and the top of my jeans. "That's right." I finished brushing my hair and pocketed my cigarettes, money, and a stiletto; I'd run into some strange characters walking the tracks before. "'Bye Ma," I grinned, giving her a pat on the rear end on my way out. "Michael Townsend, you're still not too old to be spanked!" she yelled after me, but I knew she was smiling when she said it.

* The only unusual thing I encountered along the tracks that day was a small, smooth rock shaped somewhat like a heart. I slipped it into my pocket with Corinne in mind. I crossed into the park through a line of trees bordering the tracks and spied her sitting on one of the swings. She saw me, but made no move to come to me. I walked toward her. "Been waiting long?" I asked, perching on the swing beside her. "A while," she admitted, handing me an open can of Pepsi. "Here." "What's this for?" "I thought you could use it after such a long hike. I would've brought you a beer, but my father only drinks bourbon." "Is there . . . ?" I began, grinning. "Certainly. Would I sit here all this time holding a lousy can of straight Pepsi?" "I'm sorry, babe. It was that stupid bitch Alice. She called right when I was about to leave." "You too, huh?" I'd taken a swig from the can, and I came close to spitting it out when her words registered. "Do what?" I choked. She laughed, slapping me on the back. I coughed for a minute. "Too strong for you, blondie?" she teased, pushing out with her legs until she was standing with her ass still resting on the seat of the swing. If she'd lifted her feet, it would've taken her for a ride. "Eat me, babe," I sputtered, taking another sip to clear my throat. "Sorry, I already had lunch." "Alice called you?" "Most definitely. We had a nice little chat." "About what?" "Well, let's see. First she says, 'You best quit messing with my boyfriend, little girl. Don't you know he's only using you to make me jealous?' So I said, 'Well now, if he is then I'd say it seems to be working.' So then she goes, 'Listen here, you smart-assed bitch! You just back off or I'll take a piece of you home with me next time I see you!'" She shrugged. "And what'd you say to that?" "I ain't gonna tell you." "Yes you are." "Nope. No way." "C'mon, Cinders," I coaxed. She sighed. "You really don't like her, right? I mean, truthfully?" "Truthfully? She makes me wanna puke." "Okay. You're gonna laugh, then," she warned. "So what'd you say?" "I told her to lick my twat." I thought I would die laughing. "Oh, Christ!" I gasped. "You're too much! What'd she say then?" "I couldn't tell you," she giggled. "I hung up on her." When I'd fully recovered, I assured her, "You don't need to worry about her, sugar. She's all blow and no show." "Do I look worried to you?" she chuckled. "That bitch lays one finger on me and her ass is grass. Feel free to convey the message." "I'd love to, but I'd rather not have to talk to her again. Ever, if that's at all possible." "You're heartless." "Shit, she's the heartless one. Trying to trap me into marrying her. Jesus! Just what I need right now -- a wife and a kid to tie me down." "I was under the impression she wasn't planning to keep the baby." "Who knows? She changes her mind whenever it suits her. She's supposed to be going to the clinic on Monday." "She's having an abortion?" she asked, shocked. "Well, yeah. What else?" "You'd actually sit back and let her murder your baby?" "C'mon, don't be so melodramatic about it. You make it sound like killing a real live kid." "And just what exactly do you think she'd be doing?" Oh, she was getting mad! "Hey, it ain't like it's a real baby or anything. It's just a little blob of jelly." "Really? How do you think you got started, Mr. Intellectual?" "Well . . . ." "Yeah, 'Well.' What if your mom had murdered you, blondie? What if she hadn't been married when she got pregnant with you?" "She wasn't," I mumbled, studying the ground. "I didn't hear you, sweetheart." "I said she wasn't," I snapped. "I was an accident, okay? You satisfied?" She stroked my arm with the back of her hand. "I'm sorry, babe." "Forget it. You had no way of knowing." "I'm still sorry." "Yeah. Sorriest bitch I ever met," I smiled grudgingly, looking up at her penitent face. "But it proves my point, though, wouldn't you say?" she inquired gently. "Can't resist rubbing it in, can you?" "Not a chance," she grinned. I grabbed the chain of her swing and yanked it toward me. "Bitch," I scolded, planting a quick kiss on her mouth. She gave my hair a playful tug. * It took us a good half hour to walk to the mall. I held her hand when she'd permit me to and gave her cigarettes when she requested them. We talked some, but mostly I spent the time considering the things she'd said at the park. I'd never really thought about abortion in quite the way that she obviously did. In my mind -- for some odd reason -- pregnancy and babies were only loosely related. I mean, as far as I was concerned, a baby was something small and red that cried a lot and eventually turned into a kid. Pregnancy meant a lady with a big belly. Somehow I never fully connected the belly growing with the baby inside growing. I knew all the technicalities, sure, but knowledge and total comprehension don't always go together. That put me in a bit of a dilemma. I had no desire to be saddled with Alice and her squalling brat, but the idea of killing a real child was pretty damned repulsive as well. Finally I gave up trying to puzzle it out and decided to go the easy route: I'd just leave it up to Alice to solve the problem. Either she'd have the kid or she wouldn't, but one way or the other she'd have to do it without me. It was definitely the coward's way out, but it was the only answer I could come up with at the time. I realized in pondering all this that my obsession with Corinne was forcing me to make some rather uncomfortable changes in my life. First, this business of my having to chase her instead of it being the other way around like I was accustomed to -- that bothered me more than I cared to admit, since it put me in extremely unfamiliar territory. Then there was the matter of having to come to terms with my jealousy, which had been a foreign emotion to me until I'd met her. It was really an exercise in futility to deny it any longer, since the pain in my chest and the churning in my gut obviously seemed to coincide with her snuggling up to Birch or flirting with English. Which brought me to the next point: If I was indeed jealous, then it followed that I must indeed love her. No maybe about it this time, Jack. Uh-uh. Facts is facts. I didn't particularly want to face up to it, but the only other alternative was to continue trying to bullshit myself, which was slightly ridiculous. I wasn't ready to think about confessing it to Corinne, however. The last little change ran along the same lines as the first three. Not only was she affecting my general attitude and emotions, but she was starting to rearrange my entire way of looking at things. And it wasn't just that abortion stuff, either. No sir, there was more to it than that. The stone I'd found, for instance. A week before, I wouldn't have given it a second glance. Even the marks on my neck. I hadn't allowed a girl to do that to me in years -- it tended to create problems with whatever other females I happened to be involved with at the same time. Oh, she had me confused, alright. Who was it that said love's a bitch? I was beginning to see their point. Loving Corinne was white fire in its most absolute sense -- pleasure and pain, heaven and hell, purity and corruption. And I wasn't so sure I liked it. But then all I had to do was look at her and I knew I couldn't bring myself to back off. I didn't want to. True, loving her was hard . . . but not loving her would've been unthinkable. She was everything. Not only was she both physically and sexually attractive, but she was intelligent as well. Most of the girls I knew acted like stray pups whenever I was around, trailing along at my heels and begging for a pat on the head or a scrap of meat. They took every ounce of shit I gave them and drooled for more. Not Corey. She had warmed to me somewhat, but it was still quite clear that I was going to have to accept our relationship on her terms or none at all. I felt a brief moment of sympathy for Birch. So was I willing to go completely against my grain in order to have her? Well, what can I say? She caught me studying her and noted, "You're awfully intense this afternoon, blondie." "Just wondering which I'm gonna get first -- your ass or my first Social Security check." "You can't collect Social Security until you've had a job, silly," she teased. "Oh, you don't think trying to seduce the ice queen is work, huh?" I countered. "It's nothing you'll ever get paid for." "How about if I take my pay in pussy?" I inquired shamelessly, earning a slap on the back of my head. "Sorry, but the government don't deduct Social Security from pussy," she said with mock disdain. "I'm crushed." "I can tell." "Y'know what the difference is between me and you?" "If you don't know by now, I ain't gonna be the one to tell you." "No, seriously." "Okay, what?" "Well, see, I make my judgments from experience and you don't. I mean, I've been a virgin before and I can truthfully say that it sucks compared to screwing. Now you, on the other hand, have never done any screwing. So how can you say being a virgin is better when you haven't tried anything else? Really, I think you should broaden your horizons a little so you can make a more informed decision. You never know -- you might find out you've been wrong about it all this time. Y'know, it's like saying you hate pizza without even tasting it." "That's sick." "What's sick about it?" "How can you talk about pussy and pizza in the same breath?" "They both make a good meal," I shrugged, grinning. "I don't know you," she groaned, walking a bit faster. I grabbed her by one of her belt loops before she could get too far ahead of me. "Allow me to introduce myself: Michael Townsend, stud, specializing in lust, sin, and lewd behavior." "Not to mention total idiocy." "That, too." I held onto her belt loop with my thumb and slipped my fingers into her back pocket. "I love your ass," I murmured, giving it a slight squeeze. "Yeah, but do you also love your balls?" she threatened with a wicked smile. I removed my hand. "You're vicious, Cinderella." "Only when it's necessary." "Can't touch you in public, huh?" "Not like that." "Want me to walk ten paces behind you, too?" "Oh, don't start that shit again!" "You really think anybody driving by gives a damn if I got my hand on your ass?" I laughed. "And you say I'm conceited!" "Christ!" she spat in exasperation. She grabbed my wrist and slapped my hand back against the seat of her jeans. "There! You happy now, stud?" "Blissfully," I grinned, choosing to ignore the fact that I'd lost even though I'd won. It had still been her decision, despite my having teased her into it. Shortly thereafter, we reached the six-lane boulevard fronting the mall and I had to relinquish my so-called victory. As anyone who has attempted to cross a road like that on foot can confirm, it isn't something easily accomplished with one hand inside someone else's back pocket. Let's face it -- sex and heavy traffic just don't mix. We made it across the boulevard intact and proceeded through the parking lot to the main entrance of the mall. Just inside was the usual group of pre-teens annoying the rest of the world with a now obsolete toy that must have been invented by the ultimate sadist. It consisted of two strings with hard, heavy, glass or acrylic balls on one end, connected at the other end by a small plastic ring. The ultimate goal in playing with this rather obnoxious contraption was to get the two balls clacking off each other both above and below the hand holding the ring. More often than not, however, the actual result was little more than bruised forearms and a lot of dirty looks from anyone exposed to the clacking for more than thirty seconds. Much to my intense embarrassment, one of the older girls came running right up to me as soon as she spotted me. She was a precocious little twelve-year-old -- cute, but a real pest -- that Jojo and I had condescended to tease on occasion. The last time I'd bothered with her, I'd made the mistake of blessing her with a kiss on the cheek. I should've known it would come back to haunt me later. She latched onto my arm immediately and gushed, "Oh, Jag! Am I ever glad to see you! Jennifer doesn't believe me that you kissed me -- she's such a pain. Will you tell her it's true? Please? She's telling everybody I'm a big liar!" "So tell her she's a jealous bitch," I responded indifferently, trying to hide my discomfort. "I can't do that! She'll tell my mom I said a swear word!" I glanced at Corinne, who challenged me, "Go for it, stud." She obviously was highly amused at this unexpected turn of events. "Thanks," I muttered sarcastically. To the pest, I said, "Which one is Jennifer?" "The one in the pink turtleneck," she replied eagerly. I eyed the little group and saw her sitting at one end of a bench, watching us smugly. She really did look like a pain, I had to admit. She probably wouldn't have believed me, either. "I ain't got time for this shit," I sighed. "C'mere." I leaned over and dropped a quick, cold kiss right onto the pest's mouth. "Wow!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Thanks! That'll fix her!" I checked. Jennifer's lower jaw was hanging down somewhere between her non-existent breasts. "Don't mention it," I said, adding a stern, "Please." The pest skipped away to rejoin her little gang of friends and I started walking again. "Cradle-robber," Corey grinned, falling into step beside me. "Sit and swivel, babe," I remarked, offering her my middle finger. "Ever thought of going into politics? Kissing babies is good business on the campaign trail, I understand." "You forgetting who dared me to go for it, sweets?" "Not the first time, I didn't," she chuckled. "Christ! It was a peck on the cheek! That's all -- no more, no less." "Oh, okay," she smirked, either doubting me or wanting me to think she was. "It was! Ah, shit -- forget it. I don't have to defend myself to you." "That's right. You don't," she agreed, that maddening smile still playing at her lips. I took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, growling, "So shut up, bitch." She giggled. "Well, since you put it so nicely." "Hey!" I threatened with mock-gruffness, and her other hand flew to her mouth to stifle another outburst. I dropped the one I was holding and threw my arm around her waist, saying lightly, "I think I could love you if I tried real hard." Her hand still covering her mouth, she shook her head violently. Her eyes sparkled with silent laughter. "Then again, maybe not," I taunted, reaching for my cigarettes with my free hand. A giggle escaped through her fingers.

* We sat on a bench skirting the fountain in the middle of the mall for a while, our conversation centering mainly on anyone odd who happened to pass by. I spotted the kid with the sunburst stitched across the lower portion of his fly, but I have to give Corinne the credit for being the first to point out -- verbally, of course -- the guy with the braided beard. We'd been there maybe an hour when I spied Stefano and Carolyn coming out of a nearby jewelry shop. "Hey, Stevie!" I called, attracting not only his attention, but that of about a dozen non-Stevies as well. They wandered over to us arm-in-arm, and sat down with Stefano beside me and Carolyn on the other side of him. "Hey, who opened your cage?" he kidded me as he seated himself. "Your mama," I replied cheerfully. "Up yours," he returned with equal good humor, adding, "Hey, Corey," to that person. She smiled. "Into grand larceny now, boy?" I asked, nodding toward the jewelry store. "Caught me. Show him, Caro." Carolyn held out her left hand. An opal glittered on her ring finger. "Oh, Caro! Lemme see!" Corey squealed, leaning closer. "Got more for my guitar than I thought I would," Stefano explained somewhat sheepishly as Corey expressed her admiration. "Sucker," I commented, not unkindly. Corey heard my remark and yanked a handful of my hair. "I'm gonna have to cut this shit off if you keep doing that," I warned her. "I take it back," she grinned mischievously, patting the top of my head in apology to my scalp. "You're next, Jag," Carolyn predicted. "Huh-uh! Not me, girl," I insisted, prompting a laugh from Corinne. "He's a closet queen, y'know," she stated sagely. "They only tolerate superficial involvements with the opposite sex." It was my turn to pull her hair, although I barely tugged it. She shot her tongue out at me and I wagged my finger at her, scolding, "Ah-ah-ah! I told you about that now, little darlin'." "I rest my case," Caro told Stefano. "Admit it, Townsend," he chuckled. "You finally met your match." "You just wanna see me suffering along with you, that's all." "Yeah, misery loves company," Corey sighed in false sympathy, somehow managing to keep a relatively straight face. "Shut up, bitch," I said evenly, generating no small amount of surprise from the couple on my right. She didn't even blink. "Make me, cocksucker." "Y'know something?" I grinned at Stefano. "You may be right." I turned to Corinne and dropped a quick kiss into her hair. The sly satisfaction in her eyes was beautiful to behold.

* We all hiked up to the import store together that afternoon. We examined the knick-knacks, sniffed the scented soaps, and flipped through the stacks of posters. I purchased a tin of violet pastilles for Corey and a box of cinnamon incense for myself. Actually, I'd bought them both for her, but she claimed that her father would never consider allowing her to burn incense in his house and insisted I keep it for her. I teased her about the chocolate- covered insects, naturally, but only a little because Carolyn looked about ready to throw up after a few of my bug- related comments. Close to five o'clock, we headed back to the mall, and Stefano and his now-official steady left for home. Corey and I paid a visit to the cheese shop, where I picked up a small Gouda cheese and a can of Pepsi. We then took a short walk outside to enjoy our "meal" on the loading dock beside the bowling alley -- I didn't think pulling out a stiletto inside the mall would've been terribly cool, seeing as how that particular type of knife is totally illegal south of the Canadian border. I whipped it out with a flourish once out at the dock, however. The blade shot out with a hard click when I touched the button, and I laid the point of it carefully against the tip of Corey's nose. "I could have you now, couldn't I?" I questioned mildly, grinning. She slid her finger between the blade and her face, gingerly pushing the knife away. Completely unafraid, not the least bit nervous. "Asshole," she chided pleasantly. "You're a bold bitch," I observed with affection, picking up the cheese and tearing off the cellophane. "Gotta be, around an ignorant bastard like you," she replied with a smile. I sliced a thick wedge of cheese, peeled off its red wax coating, and handed it to her. "Think of me when you bite into that," I teased. "You sure know how to kill a person's appetite, blondie." I cut myself a slice, asking, "Want me to lie and say I'm sorry I said it?" "Fuck you," she mumbled around a mouthful. "Please." She popped open the Pepsi and took a swig, throwing the tab at my shirt. I laughed and set to gnawing on my cheese. "You like Caro's ring, huh?" She nodded. "Yeah," I agreed. "Sure beats a fake pearl, right?" "Uh-oh," she groaned. "Well?" "I knew you were gonna do this." "What? I just asked a simple question." "Yeah, and I'm screwed no matter how I answer it." "How do you figure?" "If I pick the logical answer, I hurt your feelings. If I go by sentimental value, then you're gonna start nagging me about how come I ain't wearing it if I like it so much." "You're right. You're screwed." "I knew I should've never let you talk me into keeping it." "That's not an answer, though." She chewed a bite of cheese thoughtfully before replying, "I'd rather have a fake pearl from you than a real opal from Stefano. Okay?" "C'mon, Cinders, you can do better than that." "Maybe, but that's all I'm gonna say." "Okay, you stubborn brat. So how come you ain't wearing it?" "See? I told you you'd start that shit!" "God forgive me for being so predictable," I sighed to the sky. "Awright, smartass, let's go at it from your angle. What if I do wear it, huh? What then?" "Whaddya mean?" "Suppose I wear your damn ring. Just for the sake of argument, suppose I wear it and give up Mitch or whoever else happens to interest me." "Sounds good so far," I interrupted. "Does it? Fine. Now what about you?" "What about me?" "How long could you stay faithful to a virgin, blondie? Be honest." I squirmed a little. "Well . . . ." "Well, nothing. If you say any more than a week at the most, you're bullshitting." "Christ! You think a lot of me, don't you?" I sulked. "Actually, I do," she insisted. "But not so much that I'm willing to sit home alone while you're out fucking around." "So you get your kicks, I get mine. Is that the way it goes?" "You got it, babe." "Okay, let's explore a different angle, then. What if you weren't cherry?" "That's irrelevant, since I am." "We're supposing, remember?" "Awright, so what if? You'd be sick of me in two months." "Don't have much confidence in yourself, do you?" "I'm only being realistic. Your track record sucks." "According to your sources, anyway." "All fiction has its basis in fact," she shrugged. "Y'know, if I did as much screwing as you seem to think I do, my cock would've dried up and fallen off years ago." "If that happened, I'm sure you'd manage to find a way to grow a new one." I grinned, shaking my head. I reached into my pocket for my cigarettes then, and came across the stone I'd picked up along the tracks. "Here," I said, offering it to her. "I found this on my way to the park today." She took it, observing, "It looks kind of like a heart." "No shit, Sherlock. That's why I saved it for you." "Thanks, blondie," she murmured sincerely, leaning over to touch a kiss to my cheek. "Yeah, I can be sweet every once in a while," I replied, lighting a Marlboro. "Careful. You'll spoil your image." "I'd prefer to spoil yours, but you won't let me." "Hey, you gonna gimme one of those, or do I have to beg?" I tossed her the cigarettes and matches. "You can beg anyway if you want. I wouldn't mind." "Oh, shit!" she cried suddenly, jamming her hand into her pocket. "I almost forgot!" A moment later she flipped a baggie onto the concrete between us. It contained enough pot to roll a couple good-sized joints. "Got any papers?" she inquired hopefully. "At home," I replied, lifting the bag to inspect its contents. "Where'd you get this from?" She laughed. "I raid Birch's ashtrays. Cokey never bothers with saving roaches -- he just throws 'em out. So I snag 'em whenever I'm over there." "Does he know?" I chuckled. "Cokey? Uh-uh. He don't like me smoking weed. Usually Birch tells me to take the ashtrays into the kitchen and wash them. That way I can grab the goodies without Cokey finding out." "Partners in crime, huh? Well, let's go to my house and roll us a number." "We can get papers at the tobacco shop, I'm sure," she protested. "Yeah, but I want you to meet my rats anyway. C'mon," I coaxed, wiping my stiletto clean on the leg of my jeans and slipping it into my pocket. "Or are you afraid to see how the other half lives?" "I dunno -- should I be?" she teased. "Oh, probably." "Well, they say there's nothing to fear but fear itself. Let's go. I'll hold you responsible for my personal safety." "Wait 'til we get there first. Then you can hold me any way you want," I grinned as I grabbed my cigarettes and got to my feet. She rolled her eyes and gathered up her baggie and the can of Pepsi. "You're an animal," she sighed, shaking her head.

* It wasn't quite dark when we reached my house. Corinne seemed fascinated by the neighborhood, remarking on the number of people outside sitting on their front porches, working on their cars, chatting across ragged hedges, and so on. The stray children and dogs tearing back and forth across the street really caught her eye, I noticed. It gave me the distinct impression that she came from an awfully cold, sterile world. No wonder she was such a rebel. "'Townsend sucks'?" she grinned, noting the artwork on the side of the house. "This must be yours." "Gotta get me a bucket of paint sometime soon, I guess," I grumbled, mounting the steps ahead of her to open the front door. "I keep forgetting what a snotty little rich bitch you are." I held the door for her, then followed her through and closed it behind me. My mom was sitting on the couch with her crocheting, her legs curled up underneath her. She raised her eyes and smiled. "This's Corey, Ma," I told her. "She's from up the north part of town, so show some class." She shook her head, saying, "I wouldn't wanna make you look bad, son." That brought a smile from Corey, and Mom added, "Nice to meet you, dear." "Same here," Corey replied pleasantly. I pushed her toward my room, asking, "Timmy home?" "No," Mom answered. "He sneaked out while I was bringing in the laundry." "God bless him," I said happily as I walked Corey into my room and shut the door. I sat down on the floor in front of my stereo and started flipping through the albums. "Any requests?" I inquired, throwing a quick glance in her direction. "I mean, the equipment leaves something to be desired, but it's functional." "Got any Bowie?" she asked. "Uh-uh. Would you settle for Cream?" "It'll do." I pulled out a record and popped it onto the turntable. Noticing that she was still standing just inside the door, I patted my bed and told her, "Sit." She gave me a rather dubious look and I promised, "I'm not gonna rape you, Cinders. If I wanted you that way, I wouldn't have bothered waiting for a bed to do it on." She sat. I got up and started searching my dresser for a pack of papers. I found some that were strawberry flavored and pitched them into her lap. "You do know how to roll, don't you?" "Of course," she replied indignantly. "Don't you?" "You wouldn't have anything left if I rolled," I smirked, plopping down beside her on the bed. She brought out the baggie and proceeded to roll a nice, fat joint. Handing it to me to light, she questioned, "Ashtray?" I grabbed one off the dressertop and set it on the floor at our feet. Then I struck a match, and she frowned, "Aren't you gonna light some of that incense or something?" "I can if you want," I shrugged. I passed her the lit joint and dug in my pocket for the little box I'd bought. "Well, I mean . . . your mother, y'know?" "Oh shit, she knows I smoke," I chuckled. "She does?" "Listen, I'm gonna be awful upset if you let that thing burn out between your fingers. Toke or choke, babe." "Oops!" she grinned, bringing it to her lips and inhaling deeply. I lit a cinnamon cone anyway and placed it in the ashtray. The smoke curled upward, blue and deliciously spicy. "How's that?" I inquired. "Mmm, I like." "Thought you might. Sure you don't wanna keep it?" She shook her head -- having just taken a rather large toke -- and croaked, "Can't." I took the joint from her and inhaled. Several hits later, I handed it back to her and proceeded to peel my sweatshirt off and toss it onto the floor. She shot me a suspicious glance as I leaned back on one elbow. "Will you stop looking at me like that?" I complained. "I swear my britches are staying on no matter how far outta shape I stretch the crotch." She laughed through a lungful of smoke and predictably ended up in a coughing fit. I got up and started for the door. "Hang on," I told her. "I'll get you something to drink, okay?" She nodded, trying to catch a reasonably clear breath. I headed for the kitchen and got out a glass. My mom came in as I opened the fridge, her arms crossed at her waist. I searched my mind for a possible crime I could have committed that she might have stumbled upon in the last twenty minutes. She waited until I had the orange juice carton in my hand to state, "I don't approve of this, Michael." "What?" I asked, pouring. "Unless my nose and eyes are failing me, you're in there smoking pot with a girl who's not even old enough to smoke cigarettes." "It's her stuff, Ma," I protested, returning the carton to the fridge and pushing the door shut. "Be cool, huh? She's kind of special." Her eyes narrowed. "This wouldn't happen to be the one that you didn't wanna talk about, by any chance?" "Could be," I admitted, studying the glass I held. "The one responsible for turning my son into a human tornado?" I didn't answer, and she warned, "She's gonna be trouble, honey. She's 'way too young for you." "Can I decide that for myself, please?" I returned, a slight edge to my voice. "Certainly," she snapped, irritated by my remark. "According to the law, you're an adult whether you act like one or not." She turned to walk away and I apologized, "I'm sorry, Ma. I know you're only trying to help -- I shouldn't've mouthed off like that." "Just be careful," she muttered as she left the kitchen. My conscience grunted and went back to sleep. As for myself, I took a sip of juice and headed for my room. I opened the door and was immediately assaulted by the combined scents of marijuana and cinnamon. Corey was perched on the side of the bed, one foot tucked under the other leg. Ah, heaven. I handed her the glass I was carrying and stretched out half-behind her on my stomach. "Thanks," she smiled, turning slightly to see my face. She drained half the glass and set the rest on the floor. "Anytime," I replied, fishing my Marlboros out of my pocket. I lit two, passed one to her, and commented, "My mom just told me you're too young for me." "I am," she agreed, taking a long drag. "Shit, three and a half years? That ain't much." "It is when it makes you an adult and me below the legal age of consent." "Ask me if I give a damn." She giggled. "Do you give a damn?" "Hell, no," I declared, throwing an arm across her lap. "I'm a cradle-robber, remember? You said so yourself." "That's right -- I did, didn't I?" "Uh-huh," I nodded, poking my finger into her side. "Ticklish, babe?" "Don't!" she implored, squirming. "Ooh, you are!" I chuckled and poked her again. Grabbing my hand, she gasped, "Stop it, Jag!" I showed no mercy, and pretty soon she started seeking revenge. "Oh, no you don't," I scolded, laying hold of her wrists. And then I had her pinned beneath me, her right leg still dangling over the edge of the bed. "Got you now," I grinned. "Say uncle." "Never!" I lowered my mouth to hers, tasting orange juice. She struggled for about three seconds and then melted. "Uncle," she breathed when I drew back. I loosed her wrists and she slid her hands up into my hair, pulling me down for more.

* We were still in that same position half an hour later when my mom knocked on the door, calling, "Mike?" "Christ!" I muttered, sitting up. "What, Ma?" "I need to talk to you." "Can't it wait?" I pleaded. Her reply was firm. "No." Corey sat and straightened her blouse while I went to open the door. "What?" I repeated. Quietly, Mom asked, "Mike, did you take any of that money I had put away for Alice?" "No, why?" I replied, somewhat alarmed. "You didn't take any?" "There's some missing?" I started toward her room with her following behind. "Over fifty dollars," she stated flatly. "I had this torn fingernail that kept snagging on my yarn, and I went to get the nail file out of my drawer. And, well, I could tell someone had been in there -- and when I checked the envelope I'd put the money in . . . ." I yanked open her top dresser drawer, noticed that the contents were a bit jumbled up, and checked the envelope myself. "Shit!" I thundered, sitting down hard on the end of her bed to count the money again. "Timmy, you fucking thief!" "You really didn't take any?" she tried a third time, hopefully. I could almost read her mind: God, please don't let my baby be stealing from his own mother! Bus money was one thing, but this? "No, but I'm gonna," I fumed, shoving the envelope back into her drawer. "I'm gonna take it right out of his rotten little ass." "Oh, Michael! No . . . ," she protested. "Just watch me." After a good look at her expression, however, I tempered my threat with, "Don't worry, Ma -- I promise to leave him breathing. In pieces maybe, but breathing." And with that I stormed back to my own room, slammed the door, and flounced down onto the bed. "What's wrong?" Corey questioned, concerned. "My brother's a fucking bastard," I spat. "How about rolling up another number?" She reached for the papers and baggie, asking, "What happened?" "Little prick thieved a shitpot of money off my mom. Fifty bucks, plus." "Told you he was a punk." "Yeah, so what? That don't help me any now. The money he took was supposed to be for Alice. Where the hell am I gonna make up that big a difference by tomorrow night?" "For Alice?" "You know." "Oh, the clinic thing," she frowned. "Yeah, that. Stefano graciously offered to let me pay half or have my ass kicked." I sighed. "So willya visit me in the hospital?" She finished rolling the joint and twirled it between her fingers for a moment thoughtfully. At length, she looked up and said, "I've got twenty dollars on me. Birch can come up with the rest, I'm sure." I shook my head in refusal. "Uh-uh. I ain't taking money from you for some other chick." "I don't consider it as being for her," she insisted. "My motive is purely selfish -- I don't wanna see you get flattened." "But you said--" "I know what I said, and I meant it. But I also know I don't wanna kiss a guy that's wearing dentures. Now shut up. It's settled." She handed me the joint. I toyed with the matches for a minute before asking, "No dentures, huh? How about forty or fifty years from now?" "We'll see," she shrugged coyly. I grinned and lit the joint. We passed it back and forth until it was gone. I put a Doors album on the turntable and leaned back against the side of the bed. "Come back up here, blondie," she ordered. I dropped my head backward to look up at her. "Why?" She slipped her arm around my neck and laid a kiss below my ear. "Because I said so, that's why. Don't argue with me." "Wouldn't dream of it," I replied, climbing up beside her. She pushed me down onto the pillow and snuggled up against me, stroking the length of my back. "You've got such nice skin," she murmured into my hair. "If memory serves, yours is pretty nice, too," I returned, checking her midnight eyes. She said nothing, only matching my gaze with her own. I slid my hand up the back of her blouse. She buried her face into my shoulder and pressed a kiss into the base of my throat. "I was right," I sighed contentedly. I threw a leg across her, bringing her closer. "Is the rest of it this good?" she asked softly. I kissed her lips and promised, "Better." She touched a hand tenderly to the side of my face. "I think it's gonna have to be soon, babe." "Oh, yeah," I breathed, pulling her tight and crushing her mouth with my own. My hand moved across her ribcage until it came to rest on a firm breast. She shivered, but didn't push me away. "God, you feel good," I declared, gently caressing satin flesh. She whimpered. I was the one who finally pulled free, fearful not only of breaking my earlier promise, but of her allowing me to do so. She would've given herself to me that night, I'm sure of it. But somehow, somewhere, a new dimension had been added to my desire: I wanted her to share it, completely. I didn't want her to have any regrets in the morning, to feel uncomfortable about seeing me again, to wonder whether I'd bother with her anymore once I'd gotten what I wanted from her. It occurred to me that I wanted her to know that I loved her . . . but then, I would have to prove it with actions rather than words, wouldn't I? I'd dug my own grave on that score, after all. I lit a cigarette to break the tension, my nether regions all the while screaming at me what a damned fool I was getting to be. Corey cuddled up to my back, apparently hurting a bit herself. "Should've gone to the tobacco shop for papers, I guess," I mumbled, trying a laugh that didn't come out quite right. It sounded rather strangled. "No, I . . . I'm glad we didn't," she argued softly, touching her lips to my back. Did she know how much she was torturing me? She ran delicate fingers over my arm and ventured, "Michael?" My hand closed over hers, and I brought her palm up to receive a light kiss. "What, babe?" "You're different from what everybody says about you. I mean, you're not what I thought you were at first." "I'm not what I thought I was, either," I admitted. "Whaddya mean?" she asked innocently, but I never had to come up with an answer, because just then my little brother stumbled into the room. He blearily surveyed the situation -- the dimmed lamp, the lingering fragrances of incense and pot, the rumpled bed, Corey's defiant refusal to back away from me at his intrusion. He presented an ugly smirk and slurred, "Well, Jagger, I gotta say I never 'spected to come home an' find Miss Priss here slummin' it with you!" He took a few staggering steps toward his bed. I never knew a person could go from loving tenderness to purple rage so fast, but I did it then. I jumped up, grabbed his shirt in a white-knuckled fist, and slammed him against the wall with a loud whump. "You miserable piece of shit!" I roared, yanking him outward and shoving him back again. "You got the fucking balls to steal money from Mom's dresser, go out and get wasted, and come home and talk to me like that? I'll tear your goddam punk ass apart with my fucking teeth, you little bastard!" I slammed him once again. Somewhere in a rational corner of my mind, I saw my mom come in and heard her ask Corey to go for a walk with her. I beat my brother until he cried.

* I left Timmy sobbing on his bed, wailing about his numerous bruises and a broken finger. The finger wasn't really my fault -- I was aiming for his face when he threw his hand up to ward off my fist. I got a cigarette and a glass of juice, pulled a shirt on, and sat on the couch to wait for my mom and Corinne. My anger was spent, but I was still upset -- he'd confessed to using the money to buy a couple bags of pot and some acid. I recalled a nightmare he'd had several weeks earlier. I'd woken to his whimpering, and he'd been babbling about spiders. It'd taken an awfully long time for his head to clear. I remembered thinking at the time that it was reminiscent of an acid flashback I'd had to pull my friend Ganj through. We'd been sitting in one of those little fast-food restaurants when he'd suddenly begun acting increasingly paranoid until finally he broke completely and started whining about the walls closing in on him. It didn't quit until I'd gotten him out of the restaurant and out into the woods. Now my suspicion had been confirmed -- Timmy's "nightmare" had really been a flashback. How was I going to tell my mom that her baby was an acid-head in addition to being a thief? They returned shortly. "You better take a look at his finger, Ma," I told her dully. "I think it's busted." She nodded without expression. "Did you get the money back?" "He spent it." I paused, then added, "On dope." "I see," she replied, tight-lipped. She turned without further comment and went to the bedroom to tape his finger. I sighed heavily and ground my cigarette out in the ashtray. "Let's go over to Birch's, hon," Corey offered quietly, reaching for my hand. "It's getting late, and we need to dig you up some more cash." "Yeah," I mumbled, taking her hand as I stood. We headed out into the street and walked in silence for half a mile. Finally, I spoke. "Did you have a nice walk, babe?" "Actually, it was. Yeah," she replied, smiling. "We went down by the river and talked to a couple of old guys down there looking for minnows. They had a big bottle of rotgut they wanted us to share, and your mom drank some but she wouldn't let me have any. Then the one of them was telling about how he used to work on the shrimp boats down in Georgia when he was younger. He was pretty cool for an old dude." "Wish I'd been with you," I sighed enviously. "I wish you had, too," she said gently, squeezing my hand. We arrived at Birch's apartment all too soon. Cokey opened the door and invited us in. Birch was curled up in an overstuffed chair, absently picking out a melody on an acoustic guitar. He looked up and smiled, "Hello, love. I was wondering where you were today." She went to give him a hug and he asked, "Taking good care of my little one, Jag?" "Doing my best," I replied, still jealous despite the fact that I really had no reason to be. "Sit down," he offered. "Can I get you a beer?" "I'll get it," Corey volunteered before I could answer. She crossed to the kitchen, and Cokey excused himself to go take a shower. "Nice place," I commented, feeling the need to say something halfway intelligent. I seated myself on the couch, sinking comfortably into the cushions. "You should've seen the last one we had," he chuckled, rolling his eyes. "What a sty!" "Use the fireplace much?" "In the winter, yeah. And sometimes on rainy days to cheer things up a bit." Corey came back with my beer and settled down beside me on the couch, tucking her feet beneath her and leaning against me so that I had a choice of having my arm squashed or putting it across the back of the couch behind her. Somewhat self-consciously, I chose the latter course. Birch didn't seem visibly affected by any of this and I relaxed a little. My hand slid to her shoulder. She then proceeded to tell him the gruesome little story that had made our visit necessary. He said nothing, only nodded thoughtfully. "So you need another thirty dollars or so, correct?" he inquired when she'd finished. "That's it," I sighed wearily. He stood the guitar beside his chair and got to his feet. "I need it back by the fifteenth -- that's when my rent's due." "No problem," I replied. "I can have it back to you by then." "You can discuss the interest rates with my financial advisor there," he smiled as he left the room. I looked to Corey and she grinned, "He's teasing." "That was a snap," I marveled, wondering what kind of man would lend money so easily to the guy who was stealing his chick. "Told you," she said smugly. "What's it feel like to have someone wrapped so thoroughly around your little finger?" I asked carelessly. "Whatever do you mean? You're the one he's loaning the money to, not me." Oh shit, I thought, remembering the deal I'd made with Birch that night at the woods. I'm gonna blow it here if I'm not careful. "Well, you know he wouldn't be if the two of you weren't so tight," I explained lamely. "Me and Birch ain't exactly what you'd call friends. We just happen to hang around the same people." "That's obvious or I would've met you before now. But what makes you think he wouldn't have helped you out if you'd asked him yourself? He's a sweet guy, Jag." Maybe, but I knew the real reason just the same. If I didn't come up with the cash, Alice would jump at the chance to use it as an excuse not to have the abortion. And if she kept the baby, she would use that to try and keep me, too. If her daddy the lawyer succeeded in forcing me to the altar, then Corey would no doubt end up going to the next available male. English would win by default. No, he had to help me ditch Alice so that I could be free to do what he couldn't -- keep Corey from English. But they say the best laid plans of mice and men . . . .

* Birch drove us both home that night -- Corey first so that I could spend a little more time with her. She kissed us each goodnight, him on the cheek and me on the mouth. He looked away when her lips touched mine. I didn't kiss her again for three weeks. Stefano stopped by the next evening for Alice's money, as promised. We went out drinking together and I busted up a couple of hardhats who noticed my earring and were foolish enough to call me a faggot. Monday morning I fixed my mom's oven door through a blinding hangover and then crawled back to bed to sleep off my suffering. Stefano called in the afternoon to tell me that Alice had gone through with her clinic appointment and was home in bed, crying into her pillow. Tuesday I did a few lawns in the morning and was home by noon. I took a quick shower and was in the kitchen searching for something edible when Veronica called. I guess I've neglected to mention her up until now, so perhaps I'd better take this opportunity to fill in a few details about my relationship with her. She'd picked me up one day at the bowling alley when I was sixteen and she was twice that. I was very flattered and very willing -- she was an elegantly beautiful woman. She was also married, with two kids. Same old song and dance: Her husband was frequently away on business, the kids were brats, and she was restless. I went home with her and spent the next three hours in her bed. After three years, I still spent hours in her bed. I rarely saw her more than once a week at most, but I still saw her. She was a hard habit to break, being the only female I knew who wasn't looking for commitment. With one recent auburn-haired exception, anyway. At any rate, when she called me that Tuesday I agreed to meet her at the woods that evening. Not without a small pang of guilt, I have to admit in truth. But that I silenced with the memory of the conversation I'd had with Corey on the dock. There was no logical reason for me to deny myself a bit of pleasure if she was going to be flirting around with anyone who caught her eye. And she wouldn't be around anyway since it was a school night. So what was the harm, right? I couldn't have been more wrong. I spent the early part of the evening with Robin Hood, Jojo, and Yamen and was totally shit-faced by the time Veronica showed up. I pulled her down onto my lap immediately and kissed her deeply, not waiting for any amount of privacy before sliding my hand up under the front of her blouse. "Missed me, Jag?" she inquired, forcing my hand away. "Mmm," I answered, burying my face in her coal-black hair. Why was I thinking only that her hair was nowhere as silky as Corey's? "Hey, Ronnie," Jojo grinned, "when you get tired of this vulgar barbarian here, lemme know. I'll be around." "He's trying to tell you he wants sloppy seconds, honey," Yamen chuckled. "Find your own meat, Valentino," I answered for her, lifting her in my arms as I stood. "This barbarian's got firsts, seconds, and thirds." On the last word I shot a meaningful look at Yamen. "Sorry, guys -- you heard the man," she cooed as I carried her off deep into the woods. God, what a slut she was, I realized with disgust! Disaster came shortly thereafter. I'd already taken her once. She lay amongst the leaves, her blouse open and her skirt up around her hips, whispering obscenities into my ear. My jeans were unzipped, although nothing vital was exposed at the moment. I was kissing her neck, one hand kneading a bare breast, when Corey appeared only a slight distance away. I didn't even know she was there until she uttered a dismayed, "Oh!" Startled, I looked up, saw her, and scrambled to my feet, nearly losing my pants in the process. "Wait, Cinders!" I implored, fumbling with my zipper as she backed away. She turned and fled through the trees. I gave chase and caught up with her some thirty yards in, laying hold of her left arm. I spun her around and saw tears sparkling in her eyes. "I'm sorry!" she choked, a lone tear spilling over to run hotly down her cheek. "I didn't know . . . I . . . no one told me!" My thoughts were fuzzy. Why was she apologizing to me? I'd been the one caught in a compromising situation. "I wasn't expecting to see you tonight," I blurted tactlessly, not knowing what else to say. "I mean, I didn't think you were allowed out on school nights." Way to go, Townsend -- open mouth, insert foot. And chomp down as fucking hard as you can, while you're at it. "I told my mother I was on the refreshment committee for the P.T.A. meeting at school tonight. I . . . I wanted to see you." She hung her head. "I was stupid not to think that you might've made other plans." She lifted her face again, her eyes silently pleading. "I never would've come looking for you, but they didn't tell me you were with someone else! I wasn't trying to screw anything up for you, Jag! Honest!" It hurt me to see her so upset. I tried to reassure her, saying, "I know you weren't, babe," as I pulled her close. "Don't!" she cried, pushing away so suddenly that I had to take a step backward to keep my balance. "You shouldn't even be here with me! You're hers tonight." "Hey, I don't belong to anybody -- tonight or any other night!" I declared, my temper flaring. "So don't you stand there and tell me I'm hers, 'cause that's bullshit! If she don't like me talking to you, she can damn well shove it right up her ass." "Oh, so you'd just take off and leave her there?" she accused, her hands going to her hips. "To be with you? Damn straight I would." "Then you're exactly the inconsiderate piece of shit everybody says you are, Michael Townsend!" "What? I'm a piece of shit because I care more for you than for her?" "Wrong, blondie," she spat angrily. "You don't care for anyone but yourself! All you want is your own pleasure and the hell with anybody who happens to be in your way! You ditch Alice for getting pregnant, you ditch this chick the minute I show up -- well, you ain't gonna have the opportunity to ditch me, too, sweetheart, 'cause I wouldn't be caught dead with a selfish prick like you!" "Hey -- stop, okay?" I begged, laying my hand on her waist. She slapped it away, her eyes blazing with an almost frightening fury. "What's with you tonight, hon? I don't understand . . . ." "Of course you don't understand -- you're too fucking plastered! Let me spell it out for you: Your attitude sucks, Townsend. It absolutely sucks!" "Corey . . . ," I tried, but she wasn't listening. "Y'know what I hope?" she asked, and -- without waiting for a reply -- continued, "I hope she's gone when you get back, and then you won't have anybody left to shit on!" And with that, she turned and stalked away in hurt anger. I stood there for a moment in stunned confusion, then sighed and shuffled back to Veronica. "Who was that?" she asked curiously, fastening the last button on her blouse. I slumped down beside her and muttered, "Some stupid bit of cherry I was dumb enough to get hung on." "Oh, one of those," she nodded sagely. "Won't give out, but won't give up." I mumbled something in the affirmative, not wanting to discuss it. She cuddled up close and offered to take me out for a drink, which I declined. "C'mon, angel, don't sulk," she purred, stroking my crotch. "If it's more ass you want, you don't need a baby like that. I'm here." "I know," I sighed, accepting her caresses more with apathy than interest. "I can make you forget all about her," she promised hungrily. But she couldn't. Even when she eased my zipper down and lowered herself onto me, my body still ached for Corinne.

* For the next three weekends she practically glued herself to English. There was nothing I could do about it -- she refused to even speak to me. I tried calling her house, but her mother had apparently been instructed to tell me that her daughter was permanently residing in the powder room. I mean, the girl would've had to be seriously ill to be pissing as much as her mother claimed she was. Would it be stating the obvious to say I was utterly miserable? I pretty much gave up going out on weeknights, and I slept with no one. Absolutely no one. I'd lost all desire for anyone but the only girl that was totally inaccessible to me. I lay in bed at night remembering the evening she'd pushed me back against that same pillow, trying to recall the feel of her baby-soft skin under my questing fingers, torturing myself with crystal-clear memories. Don't ask me how I managed to get so hung on her in just barely over one week's time that it made three weeks without a word from her pure living hell -- I did manage it. And I have no idea how. Except maybe there really is a Cupid, and if there is then I'd say he can be an awfully sadistic little bastard at times. So that was the state of mind I was in the night that Farley's parents went out of town. It was Saturday. I'd spent the previous evening watching English paw her ass, and I'd almost decided to stay home and forego the pleasure of an inevitable repeat performance. Two things changed my mind: my mom and my brother. He was getting more heavily into drugs every day and, proportionately, my mom was getting more heavily into kicking his ass. When they started going around again, I made my exit. Farley didn't live too far from my house, and I was there in less than fifteen minutes. The place was already a zoo -- there were at least thirty people there, and over half of them looked like they might have made a few too many trips to the keg set up in the kitchen. Corey and English were involved in some heavy necking on the couch and didn't even notice my arrival. I had to restrain myself from kicking him in the shin as I passed. I joined Robin Hood, America, Jojo, and Yamen on the floor in the corner after picking up a mug of beer for myself. "Thought maybe you'd gone out and hanged yourself," Robin commented as I seated myself. It was a reasonable enough remark -- if possible, I'd surpassed even Cobra in pure sourness over the last couple of weeks. "Sorry to disappoint you," I retorted unkindly. "Man, we gotta get this guy laid tonight," Jojo said to Robin. "He's getting to be an insufferable bastard." "I'm quite capable of finding my own pussy, thanks just the same," I scowled. "Hey, mellow out, man," Yamen chided, passing me the joint that had been making its way around the circle. I accepted it and sucked the smoke deep into my lungs. Lori dropped into my lap a few moments later. "Been looking for you, sugar," she cooed, toying with my earring. "What in God's name for?" I snapped irritably. "For anything you want, I guess," she purred, undaunted. "What I want is for you to go whore yourself with somebody else." "I'm available," Jojo volunteered, grinning lasciviously. She stuck her tongue out at him and he suggested, "I've got the perfect place for you to put that, too." "You're not getting rid of me that easily tonight, Townsend," she scolded cheerfully, ignoring him. "I'm having your ass no matter how nasty you get." "Don't hold your breath," I replied. "My offer still stands," said Jojo. America giggled and speculated, "He's got the clap." "Is that it, Jag?" Robin grinned. "You got the clap?" "Fuck me and see," I spat, pushing Lori off my lap in order to reach my cigarettes. "Ooh, nas-tay!" from America with another giggle. "You sure you can handle this guy, Lori?" Robin chuckled. Glancing over her shoulder, she returned, "No worse than cherry over there can handle her chosen one, I'd say." I didn't have to turn around to know whom she was referring to. Jojo followed her gaze and snickered, "From the looks of things, you ain't gonna be able to call her that much longer." At that remark, I had to turn. What I saw struck my heart with a sickening fury: English was trying to coax Corey into a room around the corner, and I knew the layout of Farley's house well enough to be painfully aware that the room in question happened to contain his parents' king-sized bed. "Another one bites the dust," smirked Yamen. "Wonder what old lady Farley's gonna think about coming home to bloody sheets," Jojo laughed. "Why don't you just shut the fuck up, or else learn to eat through your asshole," I threatened angrily. I still hadn't forgiven him for telling Corey where to find me that Tuesday evening while neglecting to mention that I wasn't alone. His sense of humor had ceased to amuse me. "Oops!" he grinned, mocking. "I keep forgetting you're hot for that little piece!" "Cool it, Jo," Robin warned, obviously the only marginally sensible person present. "He'll kick your ass." "I'm terrified," he replied blandly. At that point, I suddenly decided that Birch and Cokey would be much better company than this motley group. I found them seated at the kitchen table, along with Cokey's girlfriend Marty. Cokey was in the middle of a lengthy discourse on a blue-haired old lady with a silver Cadillac and a pink poodle, who had visited his place of employment earlier in the day. He worked at a car wash. One of his fellow employees had set the Caddy on the tracks improperly, and it had ended up crashing through the side wall of the building. The poodle had taken a healthy shit on the office floor. When Marty launched into her day at the beauty salon where she did manicures, Birch quietly said to me, "You're not looking well tonight, friend." "I lost, man," I sighed miserably, looking up just in time to see Corinne disappear into the bedroom with English. He only shrugged. "Maybe." Then he returned his attention to Marty's tale of the lady who'd requested each of her fingernails be painted a different color. It was less than twenty minutes later that I heard the scream. I was out of my chair and running for the bedroom before anyone else had even raised an eyebrow -- and oh, the scene that greeted me when I barged through that door! Corey lay face-down across the foot of the bed, her blouse shredded and her jeans dangling from one trim ankle. English knelt between her legs, one meaty paw pinning her wrists in a cruel grip at the small of her back as she struggled futilely to twist free. His head snapped up as the door banged open against a dresser, and he muttered a nervous, "Shit!" I didn't waste time exchanging pleasantries -- I simply grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him right off of the bed. Now I don't really want to go into the grisly details of what transpired over the following ten or fifteen minutes, because what I did to the guy qualifies as nothing short of butchery. Suffice it to say that I hauled him outside onto the driveway and pounded on him until I was dragged off . . . which took six guys to accomplish. Someone was on the phone calling an ambulance when I was shoved back into the house. Cobra had hold of my right arm, and Robin -- sputtering something expressing doubt in regard to my sanity -- had my left. I shook them both off, deciding to go check on Corey since I obviously wasn't going to be allowed to finish ripping English's face off. Lori and Denise shrank away from me as I passed them. Birch was calmly pleading through a closed door. Cokey and Marty hung back a bit uneasily, exchanging worried glances. As I approached, Birch looked up and informed me, "It's locked." "Fuck the lock!" I snapped, pushing him aside impatiently. I took a step backward and kicked the door open. It banged against the dresser again -- harder this time, splintering wood -- but this time the only greeting I received was a wintry stare, cold and wet. I flicked a brief glance back at Birch and he nodded almost imperceptibly. Stepping into the room, I closed the door carefully behind me and leaned against it, wincing a bit inside as my Cinderella clutched the tatters of her shirt closer to her chest. Midnight eyes drilled straight into my soul as her voice, low and husky, cut cruelly through the air between us. "Thought you were gonna laugh your ass off, sweetheart. Wasn't that what you said?" Hate dripped from her words like poison, and I knew in that moment that I had a hell of a lot riding on my reply. Holding her gaze, I admitted steadily, "So I lied." "Did you," she said flatly. It wasn't a question. Silence hung thick for minutes that stretched into an eternity. Her eyes left mine and swung to the dark window, an occasional tear tracking across creamy skin just visible beyond tangled auburn. The faint wail of the approaching ambulance became audible and then grew to a shriek as it pulled up outside and was strangled into nothingness. Her mouth curled slowly into a scornful smile -- that of the avenged victim. Her gaze drifted back to meet mine and she inquired, "Your handiwork, I suppose?" I drew a breath and told her evenly, "I meant it when I said you're mine." "And what about you?" she wondered aloud. "Are you mine?" I've been yours since you first kissed me, Cinderella. "Yes." "For how long?" "For now." She considered for a moment. I waited, my throat tight and my chest feeling hollow. All or nothing, boys -- spin the wheel and take a chance. 'Round and 'round and 'round she goes, and where she stops . . . . "Are you going to make love to me now?" My answer surprised me even more than her question. "Yes." I crossed the floor and knelt at her feet, gently removing one of the hands that clutched her blouse together to hold it between my own. "And what if I scream?" I touched my lips to her fingers. "You won't." The ambulance siren roared to life outside and soon faded down the street. I took her other hand in mine and what was left of her blouse fell open. She studied me, her face a mask of icy passion -- I thought of dry ice, so cold it could burn. No, Townsend, not dry ice at all. White fire, remember? I realized it had to be that way -- I guess I'd known it all along. She was going to tear me apart. I leaned forward and pressed a kiss above one tender breast. Softer, "Will it hurt?" Another kiss, lower. "Probably, yeah." I checked her eyes. "Are you scared?" She answered with a contemptuous laugh. "Of you, blondie?" Bringing a bare foot up against my chest, she pushed me backward and swung her legs up onto the bed. Smiling wickedly then, she invited, "Come on, stud. Do your worst." I threw my shirt off and climbed onto the bed, straddling her. My hand went to my zipper, easing it down, and I taunted, "Want me?" She reached up and pulled me down into a bottomless kiss, but I backed away stubbornly and insisted, "Tell me, Cinderella." Her voice little more than a whisper, she murmured, "I want you, blondie. You know I do." No mercy. "Then ask me nice." Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me down toward her hungering mouth again. "Please, you son of a bitch. Take me now." There were no more words.

* My back still carries the scars from that night, when she drew my blood as I drew hers. I took her virgin flesh, and she took my virgin soul. I bit back words of love, loving her instead with my body -- with gentle caresses, tender kisses, a moment of pain. Her beauty was frightening, her passion enough to make me shiver in its heat. And when the time of our union was no longer more than memory, she held me close and whispered, "Again, Michael." White fire gave way to a sweet, quiet burning as she gave herself to me once more, and there was no pain this time. She slept in my arms.

* I came awake late that night as a shaft of light fell across my face, and through slitted eyes I saw the glint of gold before the door swung closed. He moved silently to her side of the bed and stood gazing down upon her for what seemed like forever. At length, his hand reached out as if to touch a naked breast, then paused and withdrew. I heard a shuddering sigh, a bittersweet murmuring of, "Goodbye, little one." He pulled the sheet up to cover what couldn't be his and studied her a moment longer, and then his fingers stretched out to pet the dark silk of her hair as he turned to leave. She woke at his touch and saw him there in the dim moonlight. Tiredly, she whispered, "Birch? Take me home." He turned back and sat carefully on the edge of the bed beside her. She held a hand out to him and he took it, saying gently, "Stay with Jag tonight, love. He needs you." "But my parents . . . ," she protested. He put a finger to her lips and finished, "Will be told that you're spending the night at Adele's. Now hush." "You're gonna leave me here?" "I am." "And how am I supposed to get home?" "Come by the apartment. I'll be there all day." She sighed, exasperated. "Why d'you want me to stay so bad?" "Because you want to," he chuckled softly. There was a long pause before she spoke again. Quietly, "I love him, Birch." I thought I could detect a sad smile through the darkness. "I know, love." "Do you think I'm stupid?" "For wanting what no one else can handle? No. Someone has to be able to tame the lion." He bent to kiss her forehead. "Go to sleep now, little one. I'll see you in the morning." "Cook me a cheese omelet for breakfast?" she asked hopefully as he stood. He stroked her hair tenderly, replying, "Your wish is my command, as always. But I'm leaving the dishes for you." "As always," she teased. "Sleep," he ordered lovingly. He put a finger to his lips, then touched it to the tip of her nose. "Sweet dreams." "Birch?" she asked as he moved toward the door. "When did I get too old for a bedtime story?" He paused a moment in thought and then answered, "When you got to be old enough to sleep with a man, I suppose. Now close your eyes and hush." She sighed. "'Night, babe." "Goodnight, love," he replied before he opened the door and stepped out of the room. Corey snuggled in against my shoulder and drifted off long before I ever did.

* Warm sunlight beating down hard through the window onto my bare skin awakened me late that morning. She was gone, I realized with disappointment. I stretched, enjoying the feel of smooth sheets caressing my body and the memory of the hours past, wishing she'd stayed longer. Eventually I rose, pulled my jeans on, and zipped the fly -- suffering sweet pain as I remembered the earlier reversal of those same actions. God, what she could do to me without even being near! I headed out to the bathroom -- noting several inert bodies strewn haphazardly around the living room -- and then wandered into the kitchen, where I found Farley, Jojo, and Cobra seated at the table. Farley and Jojo were each nursing a cup of coffee; the drink in Cobra's hand appeared to be a Bloody Mary. "Coffee, Jag?" Farley offered, looking up. "Yeah -- heavy on the caffeine," I replied as I pulled up a chair. I shook out a cigarette and lit it as he got me a cup and poured. "Rough night, stud?" Jojo inquired with a knowing smirk. He reached over to swipe one of my cigarettes and I tossed him some matches, wondering, "Now whatever would put a vulgar idea like that into your thick head, pray tell?" "Well, either you finished what English started, or else you've taken to walking into doors neck-first." Shit, I'd forgotten the fresh mark she'd left just above my collarbone. "Not to mention the fuckin' cat scratches on your back," added Cobra from his better vantage point. "He has cat scratches?" Jojo asked, amused. "He has cat scratches," Cobra affirmed. "Face it, man -- you're a mess," from Farley. "What's your mama gonna say?" "Nothing near what yours is gonna say when she gets a good look at her sheets," I said blandly. "Tell me you didn't," he pleaded. I merely shrugged, and he got up to go strip the bed, muttering under his breath. "Well, well," Jojo was saying to Cobra. "Never thought I'd see the day the stud would be stealing cherry from English." "Call fuckin' Ripley's," Cobra suggested dryly. Jojo laughed, then turned to me to question, "So tell me, Townsend -- was she any good? Worth bruising your pretty fists for?" "That's for me to know and you to forget about finding out." "Must've been ace," he commented to Cobra. "Never known him to be so secretive about the details before." "Left him fuckin' speechless." "Maybe we should've been trying harder, huh? Of course, it ain't too late. And he does make for a good teacher -- guess it all works out for the best in the end." "Jojo . . . ," I warned. "Shut up?" he grinned. "Right," I nodded, pleased that he'd caught on so quickly. "Ultra-ace," he winked at Cobra. Then, stirring his coffee, "Hey, tell him about English, man." Cobra grinned evilly. "The damage or the repair work?" "I already have a fair idea of the damage," I told him, grinding out my cigarette in a chipped ashtray. He started counting off his fingers. "Lessee -- two casts, one large rib-wrap, couple hundred yards of bandages, and seventy-three fuckin' stitches. Oh, yeah -- a few feet of wire for his jaw, too. Did I forget anything?" "I think that about covers it," Jojo assured him pleasantly, mashing his cigarette out beside mine. "You really did him up good, loverboy. Sgt. Porker even had his crew out here looking for you." "Yeah?" I remarked, mildly interested. "You exaggerate, Jo," Cobra cut in. "They didn't actually know who the fuck they were lookin' for. English didn't have the balls to tell 'em." "Or the teeth," he snickered. Cobra laughed. Farley emerged from the bedroom with an armful of dirty linen at that point and commented, "Townsend, you're a pig." I smiled and nodded in agreement, and he continued on to the laundry room in the basement, grumbling. Someone coughed from the living room and Ganj rolled over -- rather awkwardly, since he was stretched out on a recliner -- and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Jojo got up to refill his coffee cup. "Seen what time Corey split this morning?" I asked Cobra. "'Bout nine, I guess -- wearing your fuckin' shirt, in case you didn't notice." I hadn't. Well, it'd be easier to explain to her parents than the condition of her own shirt, I realized. She wasn't stupid. I checked the wall clock -- not quite eleven. She'd been gone about two hours. Ganj stumbled in and heaved himself up onto the kitchen counter with a grunt. "Kill or cure," he muttered as he lifted the half-empty mug of stale beer sitting beside him and chugged it. "Ten to one he pukes it up," Cobra remarked encouragingly. "No bet," I replied, sipping my coffee. "Kid's got an iron gut." Ganj wiped his mouth on his sleeve and belched. "Never fails," he said with a poor imitation of a grin. "Now if this shittin' banging in my head would just quit . . . ." "Take a bottle of aspirin and call me in the morning," I offered. Farley returned in time to see Ganj cheerfully firing the empty mug at my head. I picked it out of the air about two inches away from my face -- my reflexes are a little slow first thing in the morning. "You guys are such assholes!" Farley groaned, grabbing the mug out of my hand before I had a chance to return fire. "My old lady's gonna have a cow when she sees this place." He sighed. "America barfed all over the carpet." The rest of us busted out laughing. "Ah, shut up before I make all you damn hyenas get down on all fours and lick it up," he threatened half- heartedly as he set the mug carefully in the sink. He slumped into a chair and raised his coffee cup, peering over the rim thoughtfully. "I suppose I could always hop a freight car for Alaska." Cobra sawed away at an imaginary violin and Ganj spoke up, saying, "Oh, cut the pity party, Farley. Me and Jag'll help you clean up before your folks get home." "Speak for yourself, man," I argued. "I didn't fuck up nothing but a couple of sheets." "And did you ever fuck them up!" Cobra cackled. "Yeah?" Farley put in. "What about the tree, huh? What about the goddam tree, asshole? How the hell do you get blood off a goddam tree?" I laughed. I'd smashed English's head against a tree outside a few times, I recalled. "Jojo, you're elected then," Ganj decided. "For maid duty?" he responded incredulously. "Get serious, man." "Who tripped over the coffee table and dumped two ashtrays and four mugs of brew?" Ganj admonished. "Ah, kiss my ass," muttered Jojo, defeated. "Naw, you ain't pretty enough for me, fella," Ganj retorted as Jojo kicked his chair back and started searching the drawers for a rubber band. "Oh boys, now don't fight!" said Farley in a sing-song falsetto, letting his wrist drop limply. "I simply hate a nasty old lovers' quarrel, don't you?" This last directed to Cobra. "Fuckin' A," he agreed heartily, obviously entertained. Jojo rolled his eyes, tying his rust-colored hair -- almost as long as mine and fine as silk -- into a sloppy ponytail. "Cobra, I ain't heard your excuse yet." The snake arched an eyebrow and he sighed, "Forget I mentioned it." "Well, guys, I hate to break up this lovely party," I declared, pushing my chair back, "but I really must hit the road. I guess you'll have to fight over the mop and bucket without me." "Gotta go get your fuckin' shirt back from Juliet, Romeo?" inquired Cobra with a lecherous smirk. "Did I hear you say you wanted me to teach you how to kiss trees like I did English?" "I'll kick your scrawny little ass, fucker." "Don't you just wish," I smiled pleasantly. "C'mon, cool your shit, guys," Farley begged wearily. "All I need right now is to have you two going at it in here. Christ!" "Not to worry, Patrick dear," I soothed. "Truly, the dude loves me like a brother. Doncha, snake?" I patted Cobra's head gently as I stood and then laughed when he shot out a fist to knock my arm away and missed. Farley buried his face in his hands and moaned, "Go home, Jag. Please go home." I saluted. "On my way, sir." "Pussy," Cobra mocked. "Love it," I replied as I headed for the door. A salt shaker flew after me and cracked open against the wall as I dodged it and skipped outside laughing.

* Figuring I'd already wasted enough time on coffee and bullshit, I headed straight for Birch's apartment without bothering to stop home for a shirt or a comb. Cokey greeted me with as much of a snarl as he dared. "She's not here, Townsend. Go peddle your ass somewhere else, huh?" I raised my eyebrows and uttered an amused, "Whoa!" I hadn't realized the guy was suicidal. Birch came up behind him and pulled the door open the rest of the way, welcoming me in with a kind, "Hello, friend. Cokey was just going out to pick up something for lunch, if you'd like to stay." "Not hungry, but thanks anyway," I replied. "Coffee, then?" I debated. Cokey edged past me out the door with a look suspiciously resembling disgust, and I shrugged. "Sure. Why not?" I followed him into the little kitchen and deposited myself at the breakfast table, digging out my cigarettes and matches. I lit one and floated a smoke ring up to the low ceiling. "Name your poison," he said as he filled a cup with steaming, dark liquid. "Black," I replied automatically. "I'm a purist." He chuckled. "You may change your mind after a shot of this. Cokey buys Cuban coffee. Shit'll knock you on your ass." "I'll take my chances." He slid the cup across the table to me and poured one for himself, diluting it with liberal amounts of milk and sugar. I took a sip of mine and grimaced. "God, you weren't kidding!" He smiled and set the creamer and sugar bowl in front of me. I dumped in a large dose of each, and found the Cuban brand to be quite excellent once it'd been properly doctored. Birch leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee in his usual picture of serene golden perfection. Again I envied him his absolute beauty, although I knew full well that my own looks were nothing to cry about. There was just something about him . . . . "What?" I blurted, realizing he'd spoken. "I said, 'What brings you here this fine morning?'" he repeated. "Maybe I should've asked what planet you're on, instead." "Sorry. Guess I'm still a bit . . . ." My voice trailed off, and he provided, "Shell-shocked?" I started to protest that that hadn't been the precise word I'd been fumbling for, but he only laughed and said, "Spare me, okay? I know you were awake when I came in last night. Or do you really think I'm so naïve that I can't figure out how the two of you spent your evening?" Christ, did he know how much I'd seen? That hand reaching out, wanting -- needing? -- so badly to touch . . . . "Jag," he sighed, suddenly seeming very old and tired, "I couldn't leave her without saying goodbye. Can you understand that?" I nodded; I understood. More than I wanted to, in fact. I'd taken what he'd been waiting -- how long? -- for. His parting from her had been permanent in that sense. A thought struck me and I couldn't restrain myself from voicing it. "You've never been laid, have you?" Pretty crude, Townsend. I gave myself one of my famous mental kicks. "You want an answer to that?" he inquired tolerantly. "No." With a sudden certainty, I already knew the answer. He stared into his coffee cup, a pained smile touching his face fleetingly. "Pure as the driven snow, my friend." He looked up then and choked out a laugh. "I'm a damned fool, wouldn't you say?" "Birch . . . ." He held up a hand to shush me. "Erase that, okay? Forget I said it. I'm happy for you -- truly. No regrets, I swear. We all did what we had to and I'm long done with my tears, so how about you and I lighten up a bit in honor of your victory?" My victory over whom, Birch? English? Or you? "Sure," I said aloud. "But tell me one other thing first." "Is this another heavy?" he grinned. I shook my head, and he shrugged. "Well?" "What's up his ass?" I asked, jerking my thumb toward the door to indicate Cokey. He laughed -- full, rich, and genuine. "Now you see why I don't ever have to get jealous. Cokey's appointed himself manager of that department." "He's pissed at me 'cause I cut you out?" Still chuckling, he nodded, "Exactly." "Oh, man!" I groaned, beginning to wonder myself what planet I was on. "I don't even believe this." "I suppose I could say, 'Oh, what a tangled web we weave,' but the rest of the quote doesn't fit." "Sounds good to me anyway," I decided. He laughed again and lit a cigarette. "So, getting back to basics. Why're you here?" "Hell, you know," I mumbled. "Thought Corey might still be here, huh?" "You got it." I lit a second cigarette, the first having burned out in the ashtray. "Well, I'm afraid she's been and gone. If I'd known you were planning on dropping in, I'd have talked her into staying longer." He shrugged. "I wasn't planning on it," I stated bluntly. "She sneaked out on me." Another laugh. "You have such a suspicious mind!" "Do I," I said dryly, taking a drag off my Marlboro. "She didn't sneak out on you, Jag. She told me you looked so damned peaceful lying there that she just didn't have the heart to wake you. Don't let yourself get so bent over nothing." "Yeah, whatever." "Oh, come on. I know you heard her saying that she loves you." "So?" He shook his head, smiling. "Will you listen to yourself? Just for one minute, will you stop and realize how little sense this attitude of yours is making?" "Look, what do you want from me?" I snapped, getting aggravated. "I don't want a goddamned thing from you," he answered easily. "I'm only trying to help you get your shit together so you can love this girl like you want to. Like she needs you to." He came to the table, flipped the chair opposite me around, and straddled it. Setting his elbows firmly on the tabletop, he took a drag of his cigarette and coaxed, "Out with it, Townsend. What're you so afraid of?" "Not you, for damn sure." "Good. There's no reason you should be." "So what do you expect me to tell you?" "How about the truth, for starters?" "You want the truth? Great. The truth is I think you're a tremendous pain in the ass. Okay?" "Why? Because I'm trying to help you?" "No, because I think you're a nosy son of a bitch." "Really? Let me ask you something, then. Who else can you talk to, friend? Who can you actually sit down with and not have to go pulling your little image-trip? Can you call Stefano and say, 'Hey, man, I got this cute little bit of pussy hung on me and she's got me scared to fucking death'? What's the look for? You think I don't know how you talk?" "Sounds funny coming from you." "Probably so, but that's not the point. Can you tell him that? Could you tell Robin, America, Jojo -- anyone -- how you're feeling right now?" "What's it to you who I got to talk to, anyway?" I sneered uncomfortably. "Because I care, asshole." "Right." His eyes closed briefly in exasperation and he drew a breath. "Look, I'm losing my patience with this 'tough shit' business you're giving me. I'm going to lay it on the line for you as straight as I possibly can, and you can take it for what it's worth or not at all. "You think you're hurting over her? Open your eyes, man -- she's yours. She's been yours since the first time she saw you. I've prayed ten years for her to love me like that, did you know that? I fell in love with her before she even turned five. I put up with all the cracks from people who thought I was queer, because I was waiting for someone that none of them were even aware of. I know all about hurting, Jag; I'm well acquainted with it. You've barely tasted it yet. "Now you don't wanna talk to me because you're into this big macho thing and you figure that we've got to be out to fuck each other since we both want the same chick. You don't believe me when I tell you honestly that I want to help -- you think I'm just looking for an in so I'll know where to aim the dagger. Haven't you ever heard of sacrificial love? I'll admit it sucks, but it's all I can offer her under the present circumstances. "Believe this, if nothing else: If she'd returned my feelings for her, there would've been no way in hell I'd have let you take her from me. But, as it stands, you happen to be the one she loves. So what are my choices? I can be a selfish bastard and fight a losing battle, or I can accept you in love as the man who makes her the happiest. And I've had enough hurt of my own to know that I don't want to inflict any on her by fighting with you. If you please her, then by God I'll help you have her in any way I can. "I love her, Jag -- she's my life. Don't you see I'm the one person you don't have to bullshit? I know her like a book -- I can share that with you. If there's something you're uncertain about, tell me and I'll get you through it. I want you to have her, because that's what she wants. If you want her, I'll do all I can for you . . . but if you'd rather suffer in silence, I can't do anything except know how you feel. "You wanna talk to me? I'm here. You wanna be a stubborn fool? There's the door. I've had my say -- the rest is up to you." "Why you self-righteous martyr!" I spat. "You think you've cornered the market on pain? You're nothing but a whining little masochist! You sit there and talk about me pulling image-trips? Man, you been eating poison for so long you think it's fucking candy! Hurting's just second nature to you anymore. You think it's worse for you just because you've been doing it longer? Shit, you're so used to it you don't even feel it. What makes you think an old wound bleeds more than a fresh cut, anyway? Lemme pour a little salt on the fucker and see what you think then. When you get from your pesky little dull ache up to some real pain, then you can tell me you know how I feel. "I'm nineteen years old and I never even knew what love meant when I met Corey! Now all of a sudden I'm a goddam basket case over some crazy chick I barely know. And you say I oughta be doing cartwheels because she's come out with this major revelation that she loves me back? Jesus Christ, I don't even know where in the fuck I am! I'm ready to tell her last night that I'll wait as long as she wants just so we don't have to go through any more of this crap over English or Ronnie -- God, I hate seeing her cry! -- and she ups and asks me if I wanna take her to bed now!" "It was deeper than that," he interrupted. "What?" "That business with Ronnie. There was more to it than you think." "What?" I repeated. "I fucked up. I was screwing someone else and she caught me. Isn't that enough?" "She wasn't thrilled about it, granted, but that's not what made her cry. She was terrified that you'd be angry with her. She thought you'd assume that she'd come back there already knowing you were with Ronnie, with the specific purpose of breaking up whatever was going on. She was afraid you'd think she was just another conniving little bitch." "So why'd she get so pissed when I tried to talk to her, if she wasn't all that upset about me being with Ronnie?" "I got the feeling she wasn't terrifically impressed with your eagerness to dump someone right in the middle of a rather intimate moment." "Shit, I'd dump anybody anytime for her!" "Yeah, I can understand that perfectly. Unfortunately, that's not the way her mind works. She figures if you could do that to Ronnie, you could do the same to her. Not too unreasonable, if you think about it." "That's warped." "To you, maybe. But you have to understand her point of view. She's scared to love you, Jag. Why do you think she told me instead of you? In that sense, she's smarter than either one of us -- she doesn't want to get hurt. She knows your rep, and you've got to admit there's an awful lot of truth in it. She really put her ass on the line with you last night." "Well, she won -- she's got me. Shit, she's had me." "But don't you see? She doesn't want you for one night, or one week. She wants you, period." "Like I said." "So why don't you just tell her and ease her mind a bit?" "Because I can't." "Care to tell me why?" "Because some dumb long-legged blond fool who shall remain nameless told her that that 'love' bullshit was only for total morons." "You didn't." "I most certainly did. She wouldn't believe me now if I wrote it in ten-foot neon." "Have you tried telling her you're a total moron?" I sighed. "I hadn't thought of that." "That's why I'm here," he smiled. "So you got all the answers. Isn't that nice. Problem is, they're your answers, not mine." "Does that make such a difference?" "You're damn straight it does! I can't come off spouting shit like that to her." "And why not?" I pushed cigarette butts around in the ashtray, silently fuming. At last I looked up and barked out, "Okay, you son of a bitch, you were right! I'm scared. That's what you wanted to hear, wasn't it? I'm goddam fucking-well scared. I don't know how to deal with this shit -- it's as simple as that. I feel like I just jumped out of a goddam airplane right into the middle of the ocean and I don't know how to swim. And somehow the prospect of drowning doesn't really turn me on." "So will you grab a life preserver if I throw you one?" "Throw it and see." "Tell her you're a total moron." "And then what?" "Just ride with the waves and paddle when you need to." "Is that what you'd do?" "No -- I had to learn to keep my head above water on my own long ago. Nobody's ever thrown me anything." "Should never've jumped out the fucking airplane." He shrugged. "Maybe someone pushed." "Good theory." "Trust me yet?" "I dunno. You gonna see her later today?" "Probably." "Give her something for me?" "Such as?" "Just a note. You got a pen and paper?" He leaned over and pulled them out of a drawer, placed them in front of me, and started to rise. "Don't get up." "You want me to see what you're writing?" "Might as well satisfy your curiosity. You already know what I'm gonna say anyway, don't you?" He didn't answer, so I started to write. When I had finished, the note read simply:

Cinderella,

I love you. Call me -- please.

Michael

I waited for him to laugh, but he didn't. He only asked, "Has she got your number?" "Give it to her. If she calls, then I trust you." "What if she doesn't want to?" "Your problem." "Wouldn't it be easier for you to just call her?" "That wouldn't prove anything though, now would it?" "This feels suspiciously like the salt you referred to earlier." "Does it? And how does it feel?" "Like shit." "Good. That puts us on even ground for the moment." "Is that it? I thought maybe you'd decided to play sadist to my masochist." "Could be that, too. No sense in bullshitting you." I lit another cigarette. "So now we find out if you've been bullshitting me." The door opened then, and Cokey entered with a bag of groceries. "Still here?" he inquired with a dirty look as he dropped the sack onto the table, inches from my hand. "Gee, I'm sorry!" I gushed insincerely. "I didn't realize I had a time limit." "That's enough," said Birch firmly. "Cokey, Jag is a guest here and you're to treat him as such. I will have peace in my home. Is that clear?" "Crystal." "And you," he told me, "will watch your fucking mouth or get out. Understand?" I folded my hands and dropped my chin onto them, staring at him pensively. "How come you never let me have any fun?" I pouted mockingly. He ignored the question. "Understand?" "Yes!" I sighed. "God, you're a pain!" "Thank you. Now how about grabbing some plates out of the cupboard by the sink? I'll teach you how to make a bitchin' Italian sub." I got up as he added, "And anyone who wants to give me any more shit gets onion duty." "I adore onions," I grinned mischievously, reaching for the plates.

* Birch insisted upon giving me a lift home that afternoon, promising he'd go straight to Corey's from there. I took a quick shower and waited impatiently for the phone to ring, but the only call I received was from Stefano, and that was brief. Dumb bastard had been right about one thing -- I definitely couldn't bring myself to talk to Stevie about Corinne. When dinnertime came and went without a word from her, I convinced myself that he'd been lying his ass off. It wasn't as easy a task as might be expected, because a large part of me really wanted to believe all he'd said. Having someone to confide in wouldn't have been so bad. Might've even helped, being as how he also happened to be her primary confidant. I stayed home that evening anyway, still clinging desperately to a faint glimmer of hope. When even that blinked out, I turned my bedroom light off and tried unsuccessfully to sleep. I heard Timmy stumble in around midnight, shit-faced again. Mom chewed his ass for a few minutes out in the living room, gave up in disgust, and let him stagger in to his bed, which he fell onto fully clothed. I left him alone, too depressed for any kind of major confrontation. Mom went to bed shortly thereafter. I gave up trying to get to sleep about quarter of one, and went out into the living room and flipped on the late movie. It was almost over, of course, but I didn't really give a damn anyway. It was enough just to have the noise keep me company for a little while. I stretched out on the couch and buried my face in the threadbare throw-pillows. God, how I wanted to cry! That was when the phone finally rang. I didn't give it the chance to ring twice -- I practically flew off that couch, thoughts tripping over each other a mile a minute. It couldn't be, could it? No way, not this late. Birch, if it is, I love you . . . . "Hello," I gasped, half out of breath, my left hand still gripping the doorjamb I'd swung myself around. A voice, low and sweet. Her voice. "Hi." "You called!" I said stupidly. "I was waiting for my parents to go to bed. I didn't want them listening. Will you get in trouble?" "No. Did you . . . did Birch give you my note?" A pause. Then, "Yeah. I've gotta tell you the truth, though. I didn't really wanna call you." "Why not?" "I d'no. Just feels funny, I guess. Calling a guy." "Then why did you?" "'Cause Birch said I'd be on his shit list for the next hundred years if I didn't. What'd you do to him, anyway? Tell him Mitch needed a roommate in Intensive Care?" "Aw, Cinders! No! Come on, I wouldn't do that -- he's the best friend I've got." I don't know what prompted that statement, but I did know it was true as soon as I said it. "Since when?" she inquired skeptically. "Let's just say since very recently." "How recently?" "Well, actually it's been quite a while, but I only figured it out about thirty seconds ago," I replied honestly. "Are you high?" "Unfortunately, no. Why?" "'Cause you're not making a damn bit of sense." "It's a long story. Skip it." "Then tell me another one." "About what?" "About what this crazy note's supposed to mean." "Well, shit -- it means exactly what it says." I hesitated a moment. Swallowing hard, I gave myself a good, hard mental push. "I love you." There was silence on the other end of the line for half a minute, then, "Aren't you the guy who promised not to insult my intelligence with romantic bullshit? I seem to recall a comment about saving that line for total morons." I'd called that shot right -- she'd remembered. So okay, Birch -- here goes nothing. "Can I be wrong once in a while, please? I fucked up, hon. Turns out I'm the moron." Another pause. "Jag, don't do this because of last night, okay? I'm a big girl -- I don't need this routine. I mean, it's sweet and all, but you didn't force me into anything I didn't want myself. You don't have to try to make me feel better about it, because I'm not sorry about what we did." "I guess my next line is, 'Gee, that's great -- I'm glad you're so understanding. Maybe I'll see you around sometime.' Right?" "I guess," she returned quietly. "You got the script all written, doncha? Well, I hate to disappoint you, sweetheart, but I meant what I said. I'll sit here and tell you all night long if that's what it takes to convince you -- it'll give me a chance to find out if it gets easier to say after the first time." I took a breath. "I love you, okay? That wasn't too hard -- you believe me yet?" Silence. "No, huh? Awright. I love you. Believe me?" "Michael . . . ." "Not yet? Well, that's cool. It's not sticking in my throat quite so bad anymore, so I guess I can pull this off. I hope you're not tired, 'cause we may be here for a while, from the looks of things. I love you, Cinders. Getting through yet?" "Will you please--" "Guess not. Okay, I've got time. I love you. Believe me?" "Michael, stop!" she hissed. "I love you." "Awright, I believe you! Now shut up!" "Certainly." She sighed. "Now what?" "Now you tell me that you love me." "What?" "You heard me." "I heard you -- I just don't believe what I heard." "Well, I suppose I could--" "Don't you dare start that shit again! I love you!" "Pardon?" I asked, surprised. "I . . . I said, 'I love you.'" "That's what I thought you said." And already knowing the answer, I added, "Did you mean it?" "Yes." Silence once more. She spoke first, softly. "So where do we go from here?" "I d'no. I've never done this before. Not seriously, anyway." She laughed quietly. "Okay, shut up. I've got an idea. You still got that poor excuse for a ring, by any chance?" "Yeah." She sounded embarrassed. "Go get it." "Now?" "Yes, now. Go on -- I'll wait." "Okay," she replied, obviously thinking I'd finally lost what little brains I had. "Hang on." I heard a muffled clunk as she set the receiver down, and I grabbed a Marlboro from one of the kitchen drawers and slid to the floor to wait. She wasn't gone long. "Awright, what next?" "Well, whaddya think? Put it on." "It's on. I'm 'way ahead of you." "I see this commitment hasn't taken the smartass out of you." "Would you want it to?" "Shit, no." I took a drag of my cigarette and inquired, "You do understand, don't you, that I don't want you so much as looking at another guy?" "Thought you didn't get jealous, blondie?" "I lied." "I see. And what about you?" "What about me?" "If I can't look at other guys, then you'd best not be looking at any other women." "What other women?" She laughed. "You're insane." "I know. When can I see you again?" "Oh, why'd you have to bring that up? You know I can't get out again 'til Friday." "C'mon, sugar, you can do better than that. Birch gets to come over during the week, doesn't he?" "Well, yeah. But . . . ." "But nothing. You can fix it." "You don't know my parents," she warned. "True, but I do know you. If anyone can bullshit my way in, it's you." "Thanks for the vote of confidence. I hope you're right." "Hey, c'mon now -- think positive." "I'll try." "Don't try -- do it. I need to see you." "I could mail you a picture . . . ," she teased. "Yeah, and I could wrap it around my cock and jerk off," I countered, smiling into the receiver. "Now quit being such a smart-assed bitch." "I love you," she giggled. "If you really meant that, then you'd play with me tonight." "Play what?" "You know. Tell me how you look right now." "Oh, that. You wanna know what I'm wearing, right?" "Yeah." "Okay. Wait a sec." Long, confusing pause. Then, "Still there?" "Yeah. What're you doing?" "Never mind. Just ask your question." "What?" "You know. Ask." "You mean, 'What're you wearing?'" "That's the one. Go on -- ask." I shrugged to myself. "Okay -- what're you wearing right now?" "Nothing." "Huh?" I said blankly, sure I'd heard wrong. "That's what I'm wearing, babe," she giggled. "Nothing." Her words hit me below the belt -- literally. A fierce aching settled in beneath the zipper of my jeans, all ready for a good long stay, by my estimation. "No . . . ," I breathed. "Well, you don't have to believe me if you don't want to, but I sure hope my mother doesn't decide to come down for a glass of milk right now." "Oh, Cinders -- tell me you're lying," I pleaded. "If I told you I was lying, then I really would be lying," she returned maddeningly. And in a soft, taunting purr, she added, "Miss me?" I moaned. She laughed quietly and pressed, "Michael? D'you miss me?" In answer I asked, "Think maybe you could send me that picture special delivery? I need it." "You don't need my picture for that, sweetheart," she replied, her voice low. "Are you alone?" "What? Yeah." "What're you wearing?" "Jeans. That's all." "Unzip them." "What?" "Shh. Do it." "Why? What're you--?" She cut me off with a husky, "D'you love me, blondie?" "Yes . . . ." "Then do it." She waited. I sighed. "Awright." I popped open the snap at the top and eased the zipper down, and she said, "Now touch yourself." "Corey, c'mon now," I argued lamely. "You can't expect me to sit here in the kitchen and jerk myself off . . . ." "You're not jerking off," she told me softly. "Close your eyes, Michael. You're making love to me. I'm here." And in my mind's eye, she was.

* Now anyone who has ever participated in the type of experience I've just described -- and I'm willing to bet there are precious few who would admit to it -- can probably vouch for the fact that it tends to make a person feel like the world's most stupendous asshole afterward. I know I did, anyway. I mean, it was very erotic and all at the time, but later -- oh, Jesus! At any rate, I only brought it up to make clear just how deep it had already gotten. To say she had me wrapped firmly around her littlest finger would be putting it mildly. I was about as far gone as is humanly possible in such a short period of time. So, in the midst of this maelstrom of emotions, I suppose it would be another massive understatement to say that I was a bit disturbed by her phone call the following evening, although not for the obvious reason. I'm getting ahead of myself, though. Her voice carried the ring of defeat; the occasional hitch in her breathing told me she'd recently been crying. "I did my best," was all she said. It took some time for me to come out with a reply. "What'd they say?" I managed finally. "Well, my . . . my mother had an absolute fit and took off upstairs saying she was getting a migraine. A-and then my father really blew his top. He said it was my fault that my mother was sick and he d-didn't want any heathen tramp for a daughter and he never should've let Birch take me out so much." "How'd Birch get dragged into this?" "Oh, he's gotta have someone to blame for corrupting his little princess. I . . . I guess he figures I never would've met any boys if Birch hadn't showed me where to find them. Now he says I'm gonna end up getting pregnant and ruining my whole life and . . . oh, my God! Jag . . . ." "What?" "Oh, no." "What, hon? What's wrong?" "No . . . I can't tell you. Nothing." "Cinders, what is it? Was it something your dad said?" "Just . . . nothing, forget it. Okay? Just . . . ." "It can't be what he said about you ending up pregnant, is it? I mean, you're not afraid you're . . . sweetheart, it's only been two days ago! You couldn't already be thinking . . . ." "My period was . . . was two weeks ago. I never thought about it. In school -- in health class -- they said that was when . . . you know." "But you can't know for sure yet -- that's impossible. Take it easy, huh?" No reply -- it sounded like she might be crying again. "Cinderella? Hey, hon?" "Wh-what?" "I love you, y'know? C'mon, don't. If and when, that's when we can worry about it. Okay?" Nothing. Time to go for broke, Townsend. "Sweetheart, is it Alice? Please don't be thinking about that now, huh? It's not the same, if that's what's going through your head. I'd never ditch you like that, I swear. Aw, lover -- willya please just talk to me? Please?" A heavy, sobbing sigh. "No, I . . . I couldn't make you . . . I wouldn't wanna do that . . . trap you into . . . oh, Michael, I gotta go . . . ." "Don't you hang up on me 'til we finish this!" I demanded in panic. "Corinne, you bitch, if you're pregnant you'll marry me and I don't wanna hear another goddam word about it! You ain't getting rid of my kid and you ain't gonna have it alone -- that's a promise, so believe it. Now forget about it 'til you know for sure. It's settled, understand?" "Y-yeah." "Good. You got any more shit to dump on me, or can we get back to the real problem?" "H-huh?" "I wanna see you, angel. What can I do?" "I d'no." "Giving up so easily? That don't sound like my Cinderella. Maybe you're the one trying to do the ditching, huh?" "What?" "You out to ditch me, lover? Is that what's going on?" "What're you talking about?" "Shit, you try once with your parents and give up because your daddy calls you a tramp. And then all this crap about babies, like it's supposed to scare me off or something. You really love me a lot, doncha? Christ! If you want me to fuck off, just say so. I don't need all the extra bullshit, y'know?" "Why you heartless bastard!" she spat in sudden fury, somehow managing to still keep her voice low. "How dare you speak to me like that! You don't know what I've been through for you today -- you have no idea! I begged and pleaded and cried -- and you've got the absolute balls to sit there and say I don't love you! You'd better be damn glad you're not here right now, 'cause if you were I'd claw your pretty face to shreds!" Oh Lord, what a hellcat she could be! It took me a second to catch my breath after that little verbal ass-kicking, I'll say in complete honesty. "You got a mirror?" I inquired, grinning to myself. "I beg your pardon!" she returned in an angry hiss. "Just wondering if you look as gorgeous as you sound. I'm sorry, sugar -- I just miss you like hell. You know what an asshole I can be." I paused and then offered an apologetic, "I love you." "Likewise," she conceded grudgingly. "Won't tell me?" "When I feel like it. 'Til then, suffer." "Ooh, you're cold!" I chuckled, feeling her spite right through the telephone. "Bet you wouldn't even register on a thermometer." "You know what you can do with your thermometer, blondie." "Ouch! No thanks, hon -- I'll pass." "Well, aren't you just the height of intelligence!" she remarked sarcastically. "At least you're smart enough to know when to back off." "Somehow I get the impression you're still pissed at me." "I can't understand why." "Could be these icicles growing on the phone here, maybe. Can you spit ice cubes, too?" "You'd be the first to know." "C'mon, sweetheart -- what do I gotta do to thaw you out?" "I guess you could kiss my cute little ass." "I'll be right over." "Don't you dare!" "Gee, I thought maybe that was an invitation," I sulked teasingly. "Not very nice of you to get my hopes up like that." "Oh . . . shut up." "Just as soon as you tell me how much you love me and how miserable you are without me." "You're a shit, Townsend." "Flattery isn't necessary. A simple statement of utter devotion and adoration will do quite nicely." "If you--" There was a sharp click on the line and she cut herself off. "Father, would you hang up, please? I'm using the phone," she said with frigid politeness. "Who are you talking to?" came the other's voice. "Just a friend." "Not that boy?" he accused, making it sound dirty somehow. Corey sighed. "Michael, would you please say hello to my father?" "Hi, Mr. Rogers," I said in my best ass-kissing manner, thinking insanely of the guy on the television kiddie show. I suppressed a burst of crazy laughter and continued, "I was just asking your daughter if it'd be alright for me to stop by for a little while tonight. I'm really looking forward to meeting you in person, sir." "I don't think so, young man," he replied gruffly. "Oh, if you have other plans this evening, I certainly do understand. Perhaps some other time . . . ." "No, you don't understand, son. I do not allow my daughter to date at her present age and I would appreciate it greatly if you would stop harassing her. You've already created quite enough trouble in our household." "Father!" she cried, shocked. "S'okay, Corey," I soothed, adding to her father, "Sir, I agree completely with your position. There are far too many young ladies out on the streets these days making questionable reputations for themselves. Shameful, isn't it? What I had in mind wouldn't really be a date, however. I thought I could just come by some evening, meet you and your lovely wife, and possibly spend a little time watching TV or something with Corinne -- under your supervision, of course. I understand she's quite fond of Monopoly . . . ." He ignored me and addressed her instead. "Corey Anne, you have exactly two minutes to say goodbye to this person, and then I want to see you in my study." Click. "Whoa!" I breathed incredulously. "Now I see what you mean, sugar." "Sorry, babe," she sighed. "I should've known he'd be checking out my phone calls tonight. Royal prick, ain't he?" "I think he could use a good piece of ass to lighten him up a little." She giggled. "You wasted a superb performance. Where'd you ever learn to bullshit like that, anyway?" "It's an inborn talent. Usually serves me well, but you and yours seem to be the exception to the rule." "Well, I guess I'd better go before he wears a hole in the carpet." By way of explanation, she added, "He paces the floor when he's working up to a good heavy-duty lecture." "Wait, Cinders -- when am I gonna be able to see you again?" "I d'no. I'll keep working on him." "Can I call you tomorrow?" "Better not. I'll call you if I get anywhere with him. If I don't, I probably won't be allowed to use the phone anyway." "Love you." "Same here. Miss you, too." "Later, babe." "Don't I wish! 'Bye." She hung up first, and I followed suit after a moment. Deep in thought, I grabbed a Coke from the fridge, went out to the living room, and flipped on the TV to keep my mom from chattering at me. It didn't work. I'd no sooner slumped into a chair and lit a cigarette than she started asking if maybe I was having some trouble I'd like to talk to her about. "Nothing major," I replied noncommittally. She put her crocheting down and studied me. "I'd rather have you tell me now than watch you stew over it for the next two weeks and then go berserk in my kitchen again." I only looked at her, so she continued, "I'm not deaf, baby. When you raise your voice, I can hear every word you say from here. You think you got another one pregnant, now don't you?" "Ma . . . ," I sighed. "Wasn't once enough to teach you to be more careful? I can't afford to keep financing these little visits to the clinic -- I got the electric bill, the water--" "Ma, cool it, okay? It's only a remote possibility right now and anyway, if you heard me so damn well, then you oughta know that it ain't a problem for me no matter how it turns out. If I really did knock her up, then I'll marry her. See? Simple." "Simple? And just how would you go about supporting a family, pray tell? Or were you planning on moving them in here and having your mother foot the bills?" I took a drag of my cigarette and answered, "Well now, I guess I'd just have to break down and get me a full-time job, wouldn't I? In a few months I should be able to pull in enough cash for first and last on a small apartment, plus some tucked away for utilities and a few bags of groceries." "And diapers." "And diapers," I agreed cheerfully. "Don't look so bummed, Ma. It wouldn't be such a God-awful terrible thing as all that. Come to think of it, it might even be a blessing in disguise -- at least I'd get to see her more than twice a week." "A lot more." "Willya quit the doom and gloom number, please? I told you before, she's special. It's not like it was with Alice." "And I believe I told you before that she was gonna be trouble for you. We are discussing the little girl you had over here several weeks ago, are we not?" "She ain't no little girl, Ma." "No, I guess not -- she's obviously old enough to get herself pregnant." I laughed. "Correction: I was the one that got her pregnant, if she is at all." "Don't be smart with me when I'm this close to wanting to castrate my firstborn." "Okay, okay!" I grinned. "But for real, Ma -- don't worry about it. I mean -- granted, I hadn't planned on getting any presents for Father's Day next year, but I wouldn't call it 'trouble' if I did. Not considering who I'd be able to wake up next to every morning, anyhow." She appeared to be resigning herself to the idea. "Do you love her?" "Is that question really necessary?" "Of course it is!" "No -- what I meant was, can't you tell?" "Forget about what I think and just tell me what you think. Unless you're too embarrassed to tell your own mother . . . ." "Yes, I love her," I confessed, forcing it out into real words. "And I don't 'think' it, Ma -- I know it." "You're an expert already, huh?" "Now who's being smart?" "Pardon me for being a bit skeptical. I don't suppose you bothered to find out what her feelings are?" "She says she loves me." "But does she love you enough to wanna marry you and raise you a family?" I shrugged. "I guess I'll find that out if she misses her next period." She watched me snuff my cigarette in the ashtray and said, "Give me one of those." "Thought you quit." "I'm starting again, okay? Now give me one." I passed her a Marlboro and some matches, and she lit it, asking, "How old is this girl, anyway?" She coughed a time or two, and I waited for her to compose herself before I answered. "Fifteen." "Fifteen?" "She'll be sixteen pretty soon." "Has it occurred to you that her parents could bring you up on charges of statutory rape?" "I'm aware of that. Whaddya want me to say? 'Gee, I'm sorry I fell in love with somebody I shouldn't have and did what most normal people generally do with the person they love'? C'mon, Ma." "Tell it to the judge. Maybe he'll give you a book of poetry before he locks you up." "You worry too much." "And you don't worry enough. I think this girl stole your brains along with your heart." "Enough, Ma." "Okay, it's your life. Just don't come looking to me for bail money." "Wouldn't dream of it." And with a sly grin, I added, "But willya come to my wedding?" She groaned, "Ask me in five or ten years." I chuckled and turned my attention back to the TV.

* The thing of it was, it wasn't the baby stuff that had me bugged. It may have been the number one problem in everybody else's mind at the time, but my own personal train of thought was running on only one track: how I could get to see Corey again. Before Friday night, that is. I didn't want to wait that long. So, with that thought in mind, I walked up to the head shop to see Birch as soon as I finished my lawn-mowing jobs the next morning. He was tacking up some notices of upcoming concerts when I opened the door, making the little bell overhead jingle. There were a few other people inside, browsing through the record bins or various other goodies. He looked up at the sound of the bell and smiled. "Well, hello!" he said in greeting as I approached the counter. "Something I can do for you today, or is this just a social call?" "A little of both, I guess," I replied, resting an elbow on the glass. I looked down and briefly studied the vast array of hash pipes, roach clips, and other paraphernalia displayed beneath the countertop, commenting, "Nice merchandise." "Interested in anything in particular?" "Your van, actually," I answered bluntly. "No point in beating around the bush." "Wanna run that by me again?" he asked, smiling indulgently. "Look, you said you're the only one I can count on, right?" He nodded. "So this is the problem: I wanna see Corey, but her folks seem to be under the general impression that this here wolf ain't never been housebroken. They won't let me in, and you already know they won't let her out, either. And if you tell me to wait 'til Friday -- yeah, I see it in your eyes, asshole -- I'll deck you right here and now." "So what good are wheels gonna do you?" "I figured maybe she could stand a substitute bus driver this afternoon. If I drop her off at her regular stop, nobody'll know the difference." "You wouldn't get to see her for more than half an hour at most that way." "It'll do 'til I think of something better." A customer came up beside me with a handful of albums at that point, and I had to wait for Birch to ring up the purchases and do the required Thank You Come Again number. "So how about it, man?" I coaxed once he was free to talk again. "Let me borrow it for an hour or so? If I fuck it up, you can personally feed me all four tires. Fully inflated, even." He reached into his pocket and tossed the keys onto the counter. "I lock up at six," he said firmly. "I want the two of you here no later than five after." I started to interrupt, but he continued, "Take her somewhere and enjoy your time together. I'll handle her parents." "What're you gonna tell 'em?" "One hell of a bullshit story, I imagine. Now forget that and just remember to be here by six o'clock. You strand me and you don't get jack shit from me ever again, understand?" I grabbed the keys before he could change his mind and grinned, "Birch, my friend, if you had tits I'd kiss you!" He returned my grin and shook his head slowly. "For that, I suspect Corey'd kill you. Get outta here, Townsend. I've got work to do." Always happy to oblige, I flipped the keys up into the air, snatched them deftly as gravity brought them back down, and headed out to the street to locate Birch's van, leaving the bell jingling behind me. I found it parked out back in the alley behind the store, the noonday sun shining brilliantly off the high-polished black paint and glittering chrome. A silvery blue and white unicorn pranced amongst diaphanous clouds on the panel behind the driver's door. He wouldn't have to shoot me if I wrecked it; I'd shoot myself. It was a work of art on wheels. I climbed in, rummaged through his glove compartment until I happened upon a Zeppelin tape, and popped it into the tape deck. I was almost in heaven -- the only thing missing was Corey, and I was going to remedy that soon enough. I pulled the van out into the street and started for home to clean up and change my clothes. * I made one other stop before heading over to the high school. Call me a fool, I don't care -- I drove out to the mall and paid a visit to the same jewelry store I'd seen Stefano's shit-eating grin coming out of. With the kind assistance of the sweet old lady behind the counter -- who was apparently accustomed to dealing with embarrassed young men certain that they had Asshole scribbled across their foreheads in bright orange day-glo -- I managed to select a white and black pearl combination set in gold with a tiny diamond chip. I gave her a ten dollar deposit, and she gave me a receipt and slipped the ring into a little envelope she'd stapled onto the store's copy. I smiled and told her I'd see her the following week. Then I walked back out to the parking lot, fighting to suppress an acute anxiety attack all the way there. I didn't want to throw up or anything in Birch's van. When the butter in my knees solidified to a reasonable degree, I turned the key in the ignition and took off for the school. My heart rate had just about returned to the normal range by the time I pulled up behind the line of buses at the front doors. And there -- perched rudely on the brick wall that made a railing for the stone steps -- was Alice, her skirt hiked up high enough that any passing male could've named the color of her panties without guessing. Christ, the girl had skipped so many days of her second senior year that I'd forgotten she was technically still a student there. She was with a group of other chicks, and I prayed fervently that she wouldn't see me and come running over. Well, she didn't see me, but she definitely saw Corinne as soon as that one hit those steps. I couldn't hear anything, of course, but I could tell that some rather unpleasant words were exchanged. Corey kept walking, seemingly unruffled, but Alice looked positively livid. As I watched, I saw Alice whisper to one of her bleached-out friends and follow that with a conspiratorial nudge. The girl approached Corey, said something, and sent her books skittering across the sidewalk the moment she turned. That's when I jumped out of the van, fuming. Corey had sent the blond reeling into the bushes with a good, hard shove and was stooping to pick up an English Lit text when I came up beside her and leaned down to gather up Advanced Algebra. "Alice, when're you gonna quit acting like such an immature little cunt?" I snapped, cutting off her laughter abruptly. Corey's face was expressionless as she moved away to collect notes and homework papers fluttering helplessly across the manicured lawn. The blond momentarily gave up trying to struggle her way out of the bushes, apparently not wanting to attract any attention to herself. Alice choked. "Jag, what're you doing here, honey?" she inquired, making a poor attempt to sound sweet. "Picking my girlfriend up from school, if it's any of your goddam business . . . which it ain't, incidentally." I reached for a notebook titled Math, adding, "I hadn't planned on picking up her books, though -- not off the ground, anyway." "I didn't flip her books, baby!" she insisted defensively. "Nancy did!" Nancy looked about ready to crawl farther back into the hedge. "Of course," I sneered. "You didn't have a fucking thing to do with it, sweets." She opened her mouth to form a denial and then closed it again as I walked away after Basic Biology. Now, I wasn't that long out of school that the book wasn't still familiar to me, so there was really nothing about it capable of impressing me . . . except perhaps the note that had slipped halfway out from between its pages when it had fallen. My own name was what caught my eye. I glanced up to check on Corey's whereabouts and saw her still chasing a few loose dittos. I pulled the note free and started to read. The first line was written in sloppy blue Flair: My sister says you're fucking Jag Townsend. The reply was in flowery black ink: Good for her. In blue: Well are you? Black: That's my business. Blue: I wish I was. He's a fox! Black: No shit. Blue: My sister says if you keep messing with him tho, that Alice chick is going to kick your ass cuz she still wants him. Black: She can try. Blue: Aren't you afraid of her? Black: For what? Blue: She's older than us. She must be at least eighteen. Black: So? Blue: She can beat up Julie. I know cuz I saw her do it last year. Black: Big deal. Blue: You're nuts, girl. You ought to leave him alone, even if he is a fox. He can't be worth getting your hair ripped out. Black: Like I said, that's my business. Blue: Bell's going to ring. See ya at lunch. I tucked the note back into the book. Tough talk for a princess, I thought as I looked up to see Corey returning with an armful of papers which she was methodically cramming between the covers of English Lit in some semblance of neatness. Oh, Cinders, you're too damned pretty -- what're you gonna do when Alice lays hold of some of that wild auburn? I took the book from her and asked, "When did all this shit start?" She shrugged. "I d'no. When did you start reading my notes?" "When I became the subject matter." I slid my free arm around her waist and steered her toward the van. "It fell out of your book." "What're you doing here, anyway?" "Came to pick you up -- what does it look like? Birch loaned me his van. Don't I even get a kiss hello?" She dropped a quick peck on my cheek as I opened the passenger door for her to get in. I went around to the other side then and climbed into the driver's seat. "I hope that ain't the best I'm gonna get from you today," I chided as I tossed her books in back and started the engine. "Sorry, I think the administration frowns upon people screwing in front of their hallowed halls," she remarked, taking a Marlboro from the dash. "Name a better place and we're there." She pushed the cigarette lighter in and waited for it to pop back out. "I gotta get home, blondie. You know that." "No you don't, lover," I argued, grinning. "Birch has it all figured out. All we gotta do is pick him up by six." I pulled out around the buses and drove out of the parking lot. "And what's he got up his sleeve?" she inquired dubiously. "Don't know -- but whatever it is, I'm all for it. So, where to?" "How should I know? I got no experience in the best places to go to get my clothes torn off." Laughing, I declared, "I love you." "I know," she smiled. "Watch the road."

* We ended up making love in the back of the van, down by the riverfront. It wasn't as nice as the bed at Farley's, naturally, but the thick floor-to-ceiling shag carpeting made it comfortable enough. Well, it's really not fair for me to say that, though, since I spent most of that time stretched out on satin flesh. Let's just say she wasn't complaining, and leave it at that. On our way to pick Birch up later, I asked her again what was going on with Alice at school. "What is it with you and that broad?" she retorted lightly, side-stepping the question. "You afraid I'm gonna hurt her or something?" "The reverse, actually," I told her. "She seems to have you on the menu for the week." "Yeah, she's been worse since the word went out about us spending the night together at Farley's," she admitted. "I don't get it. It ain't like I never cheated on her, y'know? I must've balled Ronnie half a dozen times when I was going with her -- not to mention several other assorted one-night stands -- and she never cared before. I mean, she bitched and everything, but she never gave anybody shit like this." I paused, then frowned, "I shouldn't be talking to you about this kind of crap, should I?" "Probably not. Why don't we change the subject." "I'll change it, but I won't drop it. What else has she been doing to you?" "She don't do nothing but run her mouth. When she wants dirty work done, she gets her little girlfriends to do it. Don't get so bent -- I can handle it." "Now where have I heard that before?" She sighed. "Okay, so you were right about Mitch. But this is different, babe -- I can lay another girl out flat a hell of a lot easier than I could a guy twice my size. Y'know?" "Sure, hon," I said to appease her. "Mind if I ask you one little question, though?" "Huh?" "You ever been in a cat-fight before?" "Well, everybody's gotta have a first time once, right? Might as well be with Alice as anybody else," she shrugged. "I ain't about to lose any sleep over it, so why should you?" "Tell me what they've been doing." "Just kindergarten shit. Shoving me into lockers, flipping my books, pushing me on the stairs. Nothing life- threatening." "Would you let me go out with her one more time? Just so I could strangle her a little?" "Let me fight my own battles, blondie," she grinned. "You're as bad as Birch -- you never let me have any fun." "So sorry. I'd rather keep you to myself and strangle her with my very own little hands. Selfish, aren't I?" "Well, hell! Can I at least watch?" I asked jokingly as I pulled up in front of the head shop and switched off the ignition. "I wouldn't wanna expose you to all that nasty violent stuff," she teased, hopping out of the van without waiting for me to get her door. "I don't know how strong your stomach is." I followed her to the storefront door, which Birch unlocked for us. "I just have to make up the deposit and run it by the bank," he explained, locking the door again behind us. "Then we're free." "So what'd you do, babe?" Corey wanted to know immediately. "Tell my parents I was kidnapped by little green men? Or do I have to think up an excuse for a three- hour detention now?" He laughed. "Actually, love, you were just so upset after your argument with them last night that you took the downtown bus run from school to come see me and cry on my shoulder. Of course, I couldn't leave work to bring you home right away, and I thought it'd be best anyway for you to have some time to pull yourself back together. As a matter of fact, you were so shook up still that you couldn't even come to the phone. You poor thing. By the way, I'm staying for dinner tonight." "You are?" "I am. But the only problem was, I'd already made plans with a good friend for after work and I just couldn't back out . . . . Jag, you don't have anything special to do this evening, do you?" I'd lost him there for a minute, but suddenly I caught on. "I do now," I grinned. "Splendid," he replied cheerfully, ringing open the cash register. "I hope you like ham -- I figured that was a fairly neutral suggestion." "I think it just became my favorite." Corey giggled and leaned over the counter to plant a kiss on his cheek. I waited for the familiar zap, but it didn't come. "Birch, you are without a doubt the absolute, positive, number-one best!" she bubbled joyously. Then, glancing back at me, she amended, "Well, with one exception, maybe. Oh, this is just bitchin'! I can't even believe it!" "Shall I pinch you?" I offered with a sly grin. "Don't you dare!" she laughed. "If I'm dreaming all this, then I wanna keep on sleeping forever!" "Wrong fairy tale," I teased. Birch jotted some figures down into a ledger and zipped the day's profits up in a bank bag. "Okay, we're set," he announced brightly. "Let's book." He let us out, cut the lights, and locked up. We piled into the van, Birch driving, Corey in the passenger seat, and myself in the back. He gave her a strange look. "Get outta here," he ordered gently. "I'll let you know when we hit your street." "You're the boss," she shrugged, crawling back to join me. I slid an arm around her shoulders and grinned, "Hi." "Hi yourself," she giggled, kissing my neck.

* We stopped at the bank for Birch to drop the cash bag in the night depository, then headed out to Corey's house. Well, "house" isn't the best choice of words, maybe. "Small mansion" might be better. He called her up to the front seat as we rounded the corner. I must say he knew her parents well -- they were indeed watching for us. I noticed as I got out of the van that they were the only living things visible on the entire street. I'd been right on that score -- it did look to be a very impersonal type of neighborhood. Every home was exquisite, every lawn and hedge clipped to perfection, every Porsche and Mercedes gleaming flawlessly. Not a single tricycle or doll buggy in sight, no sign of dogs or cats anywhere. It could have been a picture from a magazine. I felt a sudden rush of love and pride for my own shabby neighborhood. Birch introduced me -- there was significance in the fact that he was the one to do so, I'm sure -- and then we were stepping inside while Mr. Rogers explained stiffly that he hadn't realized I was such a good friend of Angie's -- who? -- and he was terribly sorry to have mistaken me for one of his more unsavory acquaintances. (Good morning, boys and girls. Today we are going to visit Plastic-land. Can you say Dickhead?) As we were being shown into the living room, I looked at Birch and silently mouthed, "Angie?" He jerked a thumb toward his own chest and wordlessly returned, "Shut up." It wasn't until later that I learned that his mother had had the bad grace to christen her only son Angel. He believed it must've been revenge for a rough childbirth experience. Funny I'd never before considered him having a full name like everyone else -- he'd always been just Birch to me. Needless to say, the conversation was a bit strained that evening. It didn't improve any when we sat down to eat, either. Birch did his best to ease the situation, and I could tell that they genuinely did like him in their own fashion, but I could also tell that it would be a cold day in hell before I even came close to sharing his exalted position. Corey's mother kept casting surreptitious glances at my tousled white mane and the gold cross dangling from a wire in my ear. She did a lousy job of trying to hide her disapproval. Mr. Rogers (can you say Hypocrite?) was a bit more subtle. Dinner itself was rather odd, in my opinion. Where I'd grown up, food was food. Ham? Okay, you pick it up from the grocery store, take the wrapper off, and throw it in the oven for a while. Beans? Those are easy -- open the can and dump them in a pot on the stove. Potatoes? Well, either you peel 'em first and then mash 'em, or else you just stick 'em in the oven plain and butter the hell out of 'em before you dive in. Right? Wrong. The ham was done up all fancy with glaze and pineapple rings and God knows what all. The beans were swimming in something strange with mushrooms in it. It was also my first exposure to potatoes au gratin. I don't even want to talk about the rest of the meal -- to this day I haven't figured out exactly what it was that I ate for dessert. I didn't have the nerve to ask. There were dainty little curlicued R's etched into the handles of the silverware and -- get this -- the napkin rings. Stefano would've laughed his ass off if he could've seen those damned napkin rings. I hadn't even known they existed until that night. They even had a linen tablecloth. I imagined dropping a forkful of salad -- with dressing, of course -- onto that nicely ironed material, and cringed. It was enough to give me nightmares for a month. Thank God Birch hadn't suggested spaghetti. I used the wrong fork for my salad, by the way. After dinner we had a friendly backgammon tournament at one end of the living room, while Corey's parents watched something that sounded horribly boring on the television at the other end. Yes, the room really was large enough to have "ends." Mr. Rogers (can you say Snob?) smoked a meerschaum pipe. Birch smoked nothing, so I followed his example -- apparently pipes were acceptable, but cigarettes were considered gauche. Mrs. Rogers peeked over at us occasionally, seeming amazed that someone like me could not only play backgammon, but could even manage to win now and then. I felt like a zoo exhibit. (See how smart this little monkey is, boys and girls?) Birch and I left at ten o'clock. Mr. Rogers actually shook my hand -- I would've felt more warmth from a can of tuna -- and his far-from-lovely wife blessed me with a chilly smile. Corey blew me a kiss behind their backs. I was thinking that maybe Rapunzel would've been a more appropriate tag for her -- the wild child locked away in an ivory tower. Birch started up the van and paused to study me a moment. "Sucks, doesn't it?" he said softly. "That don't even begin to describe it," I muttered. "Sometimes I come so close to telling her to run away," he confessed, reaching for a cigarette. "It tears me up seeing her stuck in that place, having to live with those people every day. Makes me want to--" He caught himself. "S'okay, man. You love her, too -- I'm getting used to it. I don't mind you wanting to play knight in shining armor as long as you leave the reality of it to me." "Wish you could rescue her," he sighed. He backed the van out of the driveway and turned it toward the east side of town, his expression such that I had to tell him, "I may get the chance." "How?" "This is confidential, awright? I mean, you don't tell anybody, not even Cokey." "Yeah, you got it." "Our little friend thinks I may have hit her at a bad time of the month. There's a slim chance she could be wearing maternity clothes before the year's out." "You think she's pregnant?" "She thinks, possibly. Right now I'm praying she's right." "Slow down -- you just said what?" "Man, that pipe tobacco has done fogged your brain. Think. If she's pregnant I've gotta marry her, and she can't very well be my wife and still live with her parents. You catching on yet? After what I've just seen, I want her to do a number on that damn rabbit two weeks from now." "You're either incredibly brilliant or totally insane, friend. I don't know which," he said in open disbelief. "Whatever. I won't care which if it works out." Quietly, he admitted, "Neither will I." "So you're with me on this, right?" "Always." "Then talk to her, okay? Tell her you know, tell her it's alright -- that I'm in it all the way with her. She's scared, man." "Alice," he nodded, picking up on it immediately. "Bingo." "She thinks you're gonna dump her the same way." "I tried to convince her I wouldn't, but I ain't too sure she believed me. If it comes from you, she'll call it gospel truth. Do it for me?" "Consider it done." "I paid down on a night-and-day ring for her today, but if you tell her that, I'll kick your ass. I want it to be a surprise." "You're just chock-full of surprises tonight." I laughed. "That's all -- I promise." Our conversation turned to comparatively inconsequential matters then, and that was when I questioned him about his name. "No shit, that's what it says right on your birth certificate?" I asked, grinning like an idiot. "I have a copy in my wallet, if you'd care to see it." "Oh, man, I gotta," I chuckled. He dug the wallet out of his back pocket at the next red light and handed me a slip of paper from inside. "I have to carry it because no one believes a name like that is for real. I've had salesclerks take my checks to their bosses because they think they're phony." I knew I had to be reading the damned thing wrong in the hazy glow of the streetlights -- it couldn't be what I thought I was seeing. "Turn on your dome light," I requested. He complied and the words still read the same. "No," I insisted, shaking my head. "It can't be this bad. Angel Fairchild?" "'Fraid so," he told me, flicking off the light. "Angel Fairchild?" I repeated, laughing. "Really?" "All my life." "Oh, Jesus! You're gonna kill me for saying this, but it fits you," I choked. "You think so, huh?" he returned dryly. "God, yes! It's perfect. Oh, I'm gonna die!" "I guess the humor in it has worn a bit thin over the past twenty-five years. Although I must admit, this is the first time anyone's ever told me it's perfect for me." I patted his shoulder. "Oh, believe me, man -- it is. It most definitely is. I love it. Angel Fairchild. Beautiful, just beautiful. It's you, man." "You're cruel, Townsend." "I'm sorry -- I can't help it," I laughed. "This is the thanks I get. It's jackasses like you that give me my martyr complex, y'see?" "And I thought you'd make a good Christ. Here it turns out you're already an Angel! Don't have far to go, do you?" "If I tell you to eat shit, will it blow my image?" "Oh, definitely!" "Then eat shit." "Aw, there you go -- shot to hell. Shame on you, Angel." "You're a lunatic," he sighed. "I know," I agreed as we pulled up in front of my house. "That's what makes me so damn much fun to be with." He leaned against the steering wheel and pleaded with the stars, "Give me strength." "Here, hide this sucker," I said, tossing the birth certificate into his lap. "Better yet, bury it." I hopped out of the van and slammed the door. And, poking my head back through the open window, I grinned, "Take care, man. Don't let that halo slip no more." "Get thee gone before I summon up an industrial- strength lightning bolt," he replied pleasantly. I skipped up the walk to my front door, laughing. "Hell hath no fury like an angel scorned," I called back over my shoulder in a slightly perverted quote. Still grinning, I stepped inside and was greeted by my mom. "Traveling in style tonight, huh?" she commented, glancing out toward the street as Birch drove away. "You missed dinner, y'know." "I already ate," I told her, heading for the kitchen to grab something to drink. I found a beer in the fridge and took a handful of pretzels from the bag on the counter to go with it. "Ah, real food!" I sighed contentedly as I sank into a chair back in the living room. "You're right -- I did miss dinner. More than you'll ever know. I wish you could've seen the crud I put in my mouth tonight." "So where'd you eat?" she asked, reaching over to steal a pretzel. "Me and Birch went over to Corey's. Did you know his real name is Angel Fairchild?" I laughed at her raised eyebrows. "I love it! Anyway, you wouldn't believe what they do to good food over there. God, I never wanna be rich if it means having to eat garbage like that." "I don't think that's anything you'll ever have to worry about." "True. What a relief that is. Hey, I may need you to teach Corey how to cook a regular meal if I'm gonna marry her. No way could I eat that kind of shit every night!" She smiled. "I'm sure she could manage without my interference." "Not if she learned to cook from her mother," I chuckled, making a face. "You'd think they'd have a housekeeper to do all that if they're so well-off," she mused. "I doubt there's any alive that could meet their standards. Or maybe it's just that they can't find anybody willing to work for them for more than thirty seconds. I mean, these people are strange with a capital S." "They can't be that bad. You only just met them . . . ." "Ma, we're talking your basic blue-blooded snobs here. This bozo don't ask you if you got brothers or sisters -- he wants to know if you got 'siblings.'" I laughed. "I told him I did once, but the doctor gave me a shot of penicillin and it went away." "Oh, Mike!" she groaned, hiding her face in her hands. "Shit, I couldn't help it -- he was such an asshole. But y'know, the old fart never even cracked a smile! Here's Corey about ready to die, and Birch is choking behind his napkin . . . and this bastard's looking like the next candidate for Mount Rushmore. And then the old lady -- she goes, 'I believe the boy meant that to be humorous, dear.' I swear to God, those were her exact words. Just like she'd all of a sudden figured out it was a joke and I wasn't really retarded after all. It was unreal." I lit a cigarette and added, "I don't know how Corey can stand living like that. I mean, I guess it'd be okay to be able to have whatever you wanted, money- wise. But her parents -- shit, I'd suffocate if I had to put up with squirrels like that every day." "Maybe she is suffocating," Mom said thoughtfully. "Why don't you invite her here for dinner sometime this weekend?" "Yeah? Decent. Can we have normal food?" She smiled. "Normal? What, peanut butter and jelly?" "No," I chuckled. "I was thinking more along the lines of some nice fat hamburgers on the grill. I'll even cook, okay? You can do some . . . um . . . how does corn on the cob grab you? Bet she's never even tasted the stuff -- her parents probably don't allow her to eat without utensils." "Next you're gonna ask me if we can eat in the back yard, right?" "Ooh, that's wicked! I do love it!" "So find out when she can come. We'll show her how the other half dines in style." "Have I told you lately how terrific you are?" "No, I don't believe you have." "Well, I'm telling you now. You put the rest to shame, mother mine." "Oh, you're just saying that because it's true," she scolded teasingly. I laughed and tossed her another pretzel. "Yeah, but don't let it go to your head," I grinned as she crunched away one section at a time.

* I was planning to call Corey after she'd gotten home from school the next day, but it turned out that the lady whose yard I did last that afternoon wanted me to trim up her shrubbery and weed her flower garden in addition to the usual mowing and edging. So okay, it was extra bucks. I didn't get home until nearly dinnertime, and by then I figured I'd just go ahead and shower and eat before calling her. Well, the shower proved no problem, but I was only halfway through my mound of wonderfully simple macaroni and cheese when the phone rang. It was Birch, his tone dead serious and somewhat urgent. "Hey, I'm over at Corey's," he said without preamble. "I want your ass over here now." "No can do, man," I replied. "It'll take me at least an hour--" "Call a fucking cab. I'll pay the fare." "What--" "Just do it -- I'll explain when you get here. If I have to." Puzzled, I agreed and we hung up. Mom asked what was going on and I told her what little I knew as I looked up the number for the taxi company. Within half an hour, I was there. Birch met me at the street and paid the driver. "Now will you please tell me what in hell is going on?" I demanded as the cab pulled away. "You look like shit and sound worse." He steered me toward the house, answering, "The girl's got to see a doctor, Jag, and I can't talk her into it. She needs a tetanus shot at the very least, and . . . well, you'll see for yourself. She's a mess." "What happened?" I snapped, losing patience with the way he was giving me all the details while leaving out the basic facts. "Just come on," he insisted, opening the front door and pushing me inside. He started leading me up the stairs and I protested, "Whoa! Where's her parents, man?" "The old lady's playing the migraine game and the old man's paying a visit to Sgt. Porker's office. Now come on, will you?" He grabbed my arm and hauled me up to Corey's room. My brains felt scrambled. I couldn't understand . . . . "Birch, you're such a bastard," she complained as we entered. "I told you not to call him. Jag, go home, okay? It's nothing -- he's just overreacting . . . ." He took hold of her chin and turned her face until I could see four raw and oozing slashes running the length of her left cheek. "Am I overreacting?" he asked me curtly. My first response was, "Who the fuck did that to you?" "Jag, really--" she began. "Alice," Birch answered for her, interrupting. "They got into it after school today." She giggled and winced at the effort. "If you think I look bad, you oughta see her! She ain't gonna be giving me no more shit for a while, I'll guaran-damn-tee it!" "Tetanus shot," Birch reminded me. I nodded. "C'mon," I told her, reaching for her hand. "We're gonna run you over to the emergency room and get you patched up." "Fuck you, blondie -- nobody's sticking me with no goddam needles! I'm fine," she insisted. I looked at Birch and sighed, "You're gonna explain this to her parents, friend." And with that, I picked her up and unceremoniously threw her over my shoulder. "You son of a bitch!" she shrieked, kicking and flailing with evil intent. "You put me down right now! I mean it, you blond bastard!" "Nasty, ain't she?" I grunted to Birch. "I'm taking your goddam balls with me, you cock-biting motherfucker!" she threatened, trying to perfect her aim. "You eat with that mouth?" I grinned as I carted her out the bedroom door. "Mother!" she screamed in desperation. "Go for it, Angel," I directed. "I'll meet you at the van." He tucked his keys into my front pocket where Corey couldn't reach them, and went to pacify the undoubtedly distraught Mrs. Rogers. "I hate you!" Corey spat as we descended the stairs. "No you don't," I replied, shifting her slightly to keep her feet from connecting with anything vital. "Yes I do!" I slapped her bottom and corrected, "No you don't." "Ooh, Townsend! You suck!" "Yeah, we'll discuss that later. After we get you fixed up nice and pretty." I carried her out the door and over to Birch's van, where I fumbled the key into the back door and dumped her inside. She bitched non-stop while I climbed in with her and pulled the door shut. "If you think I'm gonna stand still for some jackass in a white coat to stick me--" I kissed her, more to silence her than for any other reason at that point, I guess. She fought, but not too hard. By the time Birch appeared, she was docile. Frowning, but docile. I opened the driver's door for him and we were on our way to the hospital a moment later, Corey still registering an occasional half-hearted complaint. I had to pull her out of the van when we arrived, and it was only under the threat of being put over my shoulder again that she grudgingly agreed to walk herself inside. The doctor on duty thoroughly scrubbed and bandaged her face, and administered a tetanus booster. She sat stoically through it all, the only indication of her discomfort being the holes she was trying to dig in my arm with her own fingernails. Her eyes blazed hellfire at me when the needle punctured her flesh; I kissed her hair and whispered, "Love you, Cinders." At my urging, Birch stopped at the store on our way home and picked up a couple bottles of wine. We stayed there in the parking lot for some time getting pleasantly loaded, Corey finally relaxing enough to curl up against my shoulder. Birch risked the battery to let the tape deck play. Uriah Heep poured out of the speakers, filling the air. I got a bit too high on the wine and music -- carelessly, I slid my other arm around Corey's waist and started dropping kisses along her neck. She was drunk enough to respond. All else faded off into some hazy never-never land as I pulled her close and tasted her lips, touched her hair, felt her hands stroking the length of my back . . . . It wasn't until Birch actually rose to crawl up to the front seat that I remembered him, realizing with sudden clarity that there was only my hand covering what her blouse should have been concealing. I tugged the soft material back down to her waist, quietly murmuring, "This ain't too cool, lover. We got company, y'know?" "It's just Birch," she returned in a whisper. "He don't care." Christ, was she really so blind? "Still," I insisted. Even shit-faced, I had sufficient sense to know he had to be hurting, whether it showed or not. And that thought didn't give me the joy it might have in the beginning -- as a matter of fact, it made me feel pretty damned uncomfortable. Honestly, I explained, "It don't feel right." I made my way up front and sat facing Birch, my left arm hugging the back of the seat. "Let's go," I told him, fishing in my pocket for a Marlboro. I glanced over at Corey; she was sulking. Oh, well -- nothing like making everyone miserable at the same time. I couldn't read Birch's expression . . . but then, I didn't have to. His pain at not being able to have her at all was as real to me as my own at having her only for such a brief time. I wasn't overly thrilled with all these new insights that my newborn conscience was throwing my way, either. Being selfish and immature is a hell of a lot more fun -- not to mention that it's also much easier. Conscience is a funny thing, though. It's quite similar to the human infant -- wakes up screaming and won't go back to sleep until you take care of the dirty linen. And as any new father can testify, the first few diapers are the most awkward to change. After that, you either leave it to someone else or you learn from your initial struggles. So I was learning. Trouble was, although Birch seemed to be expert at making sacrifices, he apparently didn't care to have any made for him. The first thing he said to me after we dropped Corey off was, "Don't do that again, huh?" "What'd I do now?" I sighed pettishly. "That shit you pulled back at the store. You forget yourself for a minute and then you make like it's some kind of crime. Look, I don't need your pity, okay? Just because I'd rather not play the voyeur doesn't mean you have to stop on my account. You act like you're afraid to touch her in front of me, and that's stupid. I'm not a jealous teenager, remember? You don't need my permission to kiss her -- I'm not about to create a big scene over it. And don't give me those innocent eyes -- you don't even put your arm around her without checking my reaction. Keep that shit up and she's gonna file me away with her parents. Or is that what you're after?" "Of course not," I protested. "I didn't think you were quite that devious. But that's where it's heading. You think she's gonna want me around long if it keeps her from doing what she wants with you?" "I wasn't exactly looking at it from that angle." "No. You were worrying about the wrong person again. What's it gonna take to make you forget me, forget yourself, and concentrate on her? I gotta wrap this thing around a telephone pole to clear your head?" "You wouldn't!" I implored, envisioning glittering chrome and black metal twisted beyond recognition. "I might," he considered, "but don't count on it. I don't know as you're worth my wheels." "I'm not, I'm not," I agreed quickly. He nodded, one corner of his mouth turning up in a suppressed grin. "Yeah, you're probably right -- you're not." I lit a cigarette and, going back to the original topic, asked, "So anyway, what you're telling me is that you don't mind me making Corey in front of you?" He shook his head. "I mind, asshole, but that's my problem. It doesn't have to be yours." "I'm confused," I admitted. "As usual. Haven't we been through this before?" "We've been talking in a more abstract sense up 'til now." "The same principles apply. Look at it this way: You get appendicitis and the doctor says your appendix has gotta go. Hurts like hell, right? But you know it's gonna be twice as bad if you don't let the dude cut you. You don't have to like it, and you damned sure don't wanna watch him do it, but you go through with it because it's gotta be done. You understand? The surgeon doesn't cry for his patient, so why should you cry for me? I signed the fucking release form, didn't I?" He lit a cigarette for himself and continued, "I walked into this with my eyes wide open, friend. It's too late for me to back out now, even if I wanted to. So just do your job, okay? Take care of my little girl and forget about whether or not you're hurting me. Let me handle that in my own way." "Does your own way always include having major surgery without the benefit of anesthesia?" "That's low, Jag." "Yeah, but you asked for it." "I suppose I did. So I'm a masochist -- we've already established that as fact, haven't we?" "No, I don't think that's the most accurate description for you." "No? And why not?" "D'no. My bullshit alarm's buzzing, I guess. A true masochist enjoys pain, and I don't think you do. You're more of a martyr -- you do your suffering for a cause." "Now that's an intriguing thought. Doing some rather lofty analyses these days, aren't you?" "Yeah, fuck it. It's getting too deep. I'm not sober enough to be talking like this anyway." He laughed. We reached my house shortly thereafter. He parked in the street and turned to face me. "Y'know, there's a free concert up at the college Saturday," he informed me. "I was planning to go, and I'd really like to take you and Corey." "Sounds good to me," I shrugged. "There's a catch." "Naturally." "I want her to have fun. None of this crap like tonight. You do what you feel like and don't worry about anything else. Okay?" "I guess." "Don't guess, Townsend." "Okay, okay!" I sighed. "She can tear my britches off right in front of the goddam stage if she wants to! You happy?" "Deliriously," he said dryly. "I was better off hating you, y'know that?" "In some respects, maybe." "I think it's really shitty of you to be putting all this on my head. I mean, there's no way I can win. No matter what I do, I make somebody miserable." "You ought to learn to be a bit more gullible, then," he stated simply. "Huh?" "If you were as easy to bullshit as Stefano and the rest of them, I could've lied to you, too. There is such a thing as being too intelligent for your own good." "Oh, fantastic." "So I'll pick you up at nine then, alright?" "Yeah, you got it. I'll be ready." I climbed out of the van, then shot back, "The question is -- will you?" "Get lost, Townsend," he grinned, reaching over to roll up the window. I patted the door twice and he drove off down the street. Shaking my head in bewilderment, I headed up the front walk. Even when I could understand him, I still couldn't believe he was for real. * I phoned Corey Thursday afternoon and asked her if she'd forgiven me yet. "Oh, I d'no. Maybe," she returned coyly. "How you feeling?" "Sore. My face looks like a balloon." "No." "Well, maybe not that bad," she admitted. "Whatcha doing?" "Missing you." "Besides that." "Nothing much. You?" "Just finishing up a term paper for history. I gotta have it in tomorrow. Which reminds me -- exams start next week. You're gonna have to live without me for a while." "Gotta hit the books, huh?" "You said it. If I flunk, my father'll make me go to summer school . . . and that idea don't exactly appeal to me." "Me neither. Study your ass off, girl." "Yes, sir." "You're learning already," I teased. "Shut up, blondie," she retorted pleasantly. "Well, I'm glad to hear you still got a bit of fire left in you. Hey, when does all this cramming start, anyway? I was hoping to see you this weekend." "It can wait 'til Sunday, I'm sure. I don't think I could concentrate very well anyhow, knowing I'd be missing out on being with you." "I got a couple of invitations to pass along, in that case." "Such as?" "Birch wants us to go to a concert at the college with him on Saturday." "Oh, wow! You said yes, didn't you?" "What kind of question is that? Of course I did -- that is, as long as you're coming with me." "Nothing short of an act of God is gonna stop me, babe." "Decent. This means I'm forgiven, then. Right?" "Oh, shut up. What's the other invitation?" "Nothing quite as thrilling, I'm afraid. My mom wants you to come for dinner this weekend." "Oh -- revenge, huh?" "Well, fuck you, too. I withdraw the invitation." She giggled. "Can't take a joke, can you, blondie? Of course I'll come." "I don't know as I want a bitch like you at my table," I retorted in haughty mockery. "Yeah? Well, you don't count 'cause your mom was the one who invited me. So there." "I'll have to speak to her about the quality of people she chooses to associate with." "You do that." "So how's tomorrow sound?" I chuckled. "I'll see if I can catch your brother's bus after school, okay?" "I'll meet you at the bus stop. Wouldn't want you walking over here alone -- it's such a tacky neighborhood, y'know. All kinds of weirdos and perverts around here." She laughed. "Don't I know it!" "You weren't supposed to agree with me, now." "When I'm talking to the guy that taught them all they know?" "Ah, you love it." "True. I miss you." "You're gonna be in bad shape by next weekend." "And you won't?" "Hell -- worse, probably. Can I still call you?" "You'd better!" "Every half hour?" "Only if you wanna take my finals for me." "I thought we decided that summer school was a bad idea?" I laughed. "I guess I'll have to settle for once a day." "You mean you weren't a straight-A student? I'm heartbroken." "What can I say? I majored in sex education." "Lucky for me," she teased. I smiled to myself. "You're a kick, Cinders." "Takes one to know one. Hey, guess what?" "What?" "I love you," she whispered. "Aha! Someone's listening!" "Unfortunately. But I had to say it anyway." "Am I complaining? You can tap it out in Morse code if you want to." "Uh-uh -- my father was in the Navy," she giggled. "Guess you better scrap that idea, then. Stick to whispering -- it's sexier, anyway." "Ooh -- in that case, I'll have to do it more often." "Please do." "Wait a minute." To someone else she said, "What?" Pause. "Michael." Longer pause. "Yes, ma'm." Then to me again, "My mother says to thank you for making me go down to the hospital last night." "My pleasure," I replied suggestively. To her mother, "He said he was glad he could help." "Tsk, tsk. Such bullshit," I chuckled. "That wasn't what I meant and you know it." "Oh, hush," she hissed. "By the way -- speaking of your little adventure yesterday, did Alice give you anymore shit at school today?" She laughed. "What makes you think she even showed up there?" "She didn't go to school today?" "Huh-uh. I told you I did her up righteously." "Well, it don't really take much to keep that girl out of classes." "Think what you want. You never believe anything I say anyway -- what else is new?" "Sorry! I believe you, okay?" "Don't take my word for it. Ask your brother -- he was there." "Timmy saw the whole thing?" "Most of it. It started in the cafeteria, though. He didn't see that part -- only what happened after school." "So what started it? You never told me." "Ah, she got Julie to dump my lunch tray. I figured since it was going anyway, I might as well make sure it wasn't a total loss." She giggled. "You could say I gave it a little tip on its way down. It landed right on her shoulder. I swear, I'll smile every time I eat beefaroni from this day forward!" "Beefaroni?" I snickered. "All over her blouse -- front and back! It was a scream!" "God, I bet she was pissed!" "Worse than a cat in a bathtub. And everybody was just cracking up -- she looked so ridiculous!" "And Alice don't care much to be laughed at." "You ain't a-kiddin'. She told me she'd get me later and she did, but I got her twice as bad." "Hey, what's that Birch was saying last night about your old man going to see Sgt. Porker? Was that about all this?" "That? Yeah, he wants to press charges for assault and battery. I'm trying to convince him to drop it -- she won't be messing with me for a while, I'm sure. Not unless she's just plain crazy." "Nah, she's dumb, but she ain't crazy. I imagine she'll leave you alone from now on -- physically, at least." "Pardon me if I use my own judgment on this. Yours ain't too reliable, if you recall." "What's that supposed to mean?" "Remember telling me, 'She's all blow and no show'?" "Well, she never pulled this kind of shit before, either. I told you that, too." "Wonder why." "Actually, I do, smartass." "Think, babe. Maybe you were running around on her, but nobody ever took you away from her for more than one night. Right?" "So?" "So, it was never serious before." "Well, it is now." "Exactly." "Yeah, okay. I get it. Nobody else was a real threat 'til you came along. Awright -- that explains it. Sharing me was cool, but losing me ain't. So how come you got it figured out so damn quick? You hold the same point of view?" "Lemme put it this way: No." I laughed. "Ronnie's gonna be so disappointed!" "Oh, you can have Ronnie if you want." "Yeah?" I chuckled skeptically. "Sure. When d'you want your ring back?" "No, no, lover -- you keep it. I promise I'll be so fucking faithful it'll nauseate you." I was laughing, but I meant it. "I dunno. I got a pretty strong stomach . . . ." "You'll need it. I'll have you downright complacent within the month." "Careful -- you'll ruin your rep." "What the hell. I already ruined yours." She loosed that wicked laugh that I loved so well. I smiled to myself and lit a cigarette, not knowing how soon I'd be put to the test.

* I hadn't even had time to wash off the dirt and grass covering me in layers before Veronica called me the next afternoon, wanting to know why she hadn't heard from me in so long. I hadn't seen her since that night in the woods nearly a month past. "I been busy," I hedged. "Too busy for me? That's new," she purred, obviously waiting for a better explanation. Okay, Townsend -- get on with it, I prodded myself. "Truth is, Ronnie, I can't see you anymore." That gave me a bit of a pang, but less than I'd expected. "The thing is, I'm going with somebody now, and I can't be fucking around on this chick." "You're going with somebody?" she asked with a hint of humor in her voice. "Yeah. That's it." "Doesn't pull much weight with me, darling. You forgetting I'm a married lady?" "This is serious," I insisted. "Marriage isn't?" Not for you, obviously. "C'mon, I mean it. If you wanna fuck around on your old man, then go for it. I ain't doing it that way, though." "Can I remind you that you haven't been to the altar yet?" "Don't matter to me." You're gonna have to say it, man. "I love her." "Well, we wouldn't have to advertise, you know. I am capable of being discreet." "You ain't listening," I protested. "Of course I am. You don't want to hurt her. Fine. She doesn't have to know. You know what they say -- 'What they don't know can't hurt them.' So we just be a bit more careful. No problem." "Yeah, it is a problem. I'd know, and that's enough." "You really are serious, aren't you?" "Yeah, I really am." "God, that's a pity." "I'm sorry, sweets. There's just no more for us." "Well, I'll miss you, baby. If you change your mind, you've got my phone number." "Thanks, but no thanks. I'll give you Jojo's if you want it." "I already have it, but I appreciate the thought." "See? You don't need me." "I may not need you, but that doesn't mean I don't like you. You're better than Jojo, you know." "No offense, but I'd rather not discuss it," I said uncomfortably, bothered by her reference to the actual nature of our relationship. "So there's nothing left to say, then?" she asked somewhat sadly. "Just goodbye." "Miss me a little, okay?" she requested. I nodded, though she couldn't see the gesture. "Okay," I agreed quietly. She hung up.

* An hour later I had showered, dressed, and started for the bus stop. Ronnie was still on my mind a bit, which I suppose was only natural after a three-year affair, shallow as it had been. Part of me regretted the break, while another part sighed with relief. Juggling several chicks at once had become habit over the past few years, and suddenly having my options so severely cut was strange. On the other hand, there was only one girl I really wanted anymore, and I had her. Logically, dumping Ronnie shouldn't have bothered me, but it did. Not much, really, but enough to make me wonder if I'd screwed up by getting into such a heavy commitment with Corinne. Then I saw her stepping off the bus, and all my doubts vanished completely. She was the epitome of wild beauty, tousled auburn lifted slightly by the breeze, her hips swinging invitingly as she moved toward me. She wore a tightly-gathered knit shirt which left her shoulders and midriff bare, and the tattered hem of her low-slung jeans swept the ground as she walked. The left side of her face was a bit swollen and the scratches that crossed it were still an angry red, but it did little to mar her perfection. "God, you look good!" I sighed happily as I took her books and kissed her squarely on the mouth. The neighborhood girls alternately giggled and openly expressed their envy. "Right, Townsend," she scoffed. "Pretty as a picture." "To me, you are," I assured her. I took her hand and we began walking. We hadn't gone even half a block when Timmy ran up behind us, asking me if I'd take his books home for him. "Why? Where you going?" I inquired irritably. "Tony's, but don't tell Mom that," he replied. "Tony's scum -- you oughta stay away from him. You're liable to get busted hanging around his place." "Ain't happened yet. So take my shit home, huh?" He held his books out and I took them. "Don't call me from juvy," I warned him. "You get hauled in and you're on your own, shithead." "Watch yourself, Jagger -- you're sounding more like Mom every day," he mocked as he turned and started off in the opposite direction. "Yeah, bite my ass," I called after him. Corey was grinning when I looked back to her. "You always talk to him like that?" she asked, amused. "Certainly," I answered. "He's my brother, ain't he?" "Who's Tony, anyway?" "Local pusher. Deals everything from reefer to smack - - probably the sleaziest character I ever met." "You're letting your brother hang with a walking drugstore?" "What am I supposed to do? Chain him to his bed and take him out for a walk once a day? Kid's gotta learn the same way I did, hon. I made it okay, didn't I?" "Maybe he ain't as smart as you, though. Ever think of that?" "Can't be much dumber. You don't know all the shit I used to do, girl -- I've done everything that don't come in a needle, and I mean everything. Where d'you think my label came from, anyway?" "Never thought about it, I guess," she shrugged. "Well, now you know. I popped pills you never even heard of. If it wasn't for my mom, I'd probably still be doing it, too." "Why? What'd she do?" "Kicked the living shit out of me every time she caught me. I finally got to where I figured I had to either quit doing the pills or run away from home. Do I need to tell you my addiction to food and shelter was a bit stronger than the other?" She laughed. I had a sudden, annoying memory of doing acid with Veronica. Guilt for thinking of her made me tell Corey then, "I talked to Ronnie today, by the way. It's over. Just thought you'd like to know." "Oh, you saw her?" I shook my head. "She called. I haven't seen her since the night you caught us . . . ." I couldn't say it, but she had no such problem. "The word is 'fucking,' babe." She laughed at my expression. "It's okay," she soothed. "There weren't any strings then." I leaned over to kiss her cheek as we walked. "There are now," I reminded her. "Yeah, so now you better watch your ass," she said lightly. We reached my house then, and I let her in and tossed all the books onto the dining room table. "Want a beer?" I inquired, heading for the kitchen. She followed, answering, "Sure, I guess so." Looking around curiously, she asked, "Where's your mom?" "Working. She'll be home in a couple hours." I reached into the fridge, grabbed two bottles of beer, and handed one to her. "It's just you, me, and my bed, Cinderella," I grinned, popping the caps off the bottles. She touched her bottle to mine and smiled, "To the three of us, then." I didn't even bother to take a drink before seizing her hand to pull her into the bedroom.

* "I should go out and fire up the grill," I sighed, not really wanting to untangle myself from either the rumpled bedclothes or Corinne's naked limbs. "Mmm?" she replied in a sated, drowsy murmur. I kissed the top of her head, nestled so comfortably against my chest. "My mom'll be home soon," I said softly. "I need to get the charcoal going if you wanna eat before midnight." "Not hungry," she mumbled, snuggling in closer. "But I am, sugar," I chuckled as I rolled her over to steal a kiss. "Wait here if you want." I climbed over her, stood, and stretched. "I'm up," she groaned, kicking the covers back as she pushed herself into a sitting position. I slid my jeans on and tossed her clothes to her. "I'll be out back. Just go out the kitchen door -- you can't miss it." "Aw, wait," she complained as I started out of the room. "Jag!" I blew her a kiss and grinned, "Get dressed, lover." Pulling the door closed, I went to fetch the charcoal and lighter fluid. I'd just thrown the match into the grill and was staring into the leaping flames it had generated when I heard the back door bang shut. I tore my gaze out of the fire and saw her coming shyly across the yard. "See? That wasn't so hard to find, was it?" I teased as she came up beside me. "Don't do that to me," she sulked, yanking my hair. "I feel weird walking around your house without you. What if you mom had come home?" "So what? You can't say, 'Hi, Michael's getting the grill started'? She knows you're gonna be here." "Yeah -- eating, not balling her son." I laughed. "Well, being as how she's aware of your possible expectant condition, I imagine she can damn well figure out how it happened," I chuckled, poking the charcoal around with a stick. "You told her?" she gasped, horrified. "She overheard my end of the conversation. Close your mouth, willya?" "Oh, my God! She knows? Shit, now I really feel like an asshole. Why didn't you tell me?" "I just did. Now settle down, huh?" "Settle down? Bullshit -- I'm leaving!" She spun and started to walk away, but I caught her arm. "Hey -- hold it, bitch," I commanded, pulling her back to stand in front of me. "Ain't you forgetting something?" "Like what?" she spat, trying futilely to shake my grip. "Like the fact that my mom was in the same damn situation twenty years ago?" "What's that got to do with--?" "Oh, I get it -- you're better than she is, huh? Don't want her to know you're as bad as she was, 'cause shit like this ain't supposed to happen to good little rich girls like you -- only to poor white trash like her. You really think a lot of my family, don't you." Roughly, I released her. "Christ! Go home, little girl. Come on back when you grow up." I stalked over to our rather decrepit old picnic table and sat. It was never going to work -- I was sure of it. She would never adjust to any other lifestyle than the one she was accustomed to. I was a fool to think she could, just a lowly stable boy trying to court the princess. No better than the dirt she walked on, in her mind. I lit a cigarette and took a swig of the beer I'd brought out with me. Minutes passed without the sound of the door banging shut, and then I felt two gentle hands close over my shoulders. "Can I bum a smoke?" she asked softly, her voice uneven. I handed one back sharply without turning. Tender fingers smoothed my hair, running the length of it again and again. "Jag?" she tried hopefully, with no response. "I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean that the way it sounded." Deep, shuddering breath and then, "I just want your mother to like me . . . I . . . ." I turned to find her eyes brimming with tears, reflecting the glow from the subsiding flames. My anger fled and I took her into my arms. All my previous irrational thoughts were erased as she clung to me and nuzzled into my bare chest, her hands searching through my hair to stroke my back in conciliatory passion. Petting her shining auburn waves, I murmured, "I'm a rotten bastard, huh?" "No . . . ," she protested, pressing her lips to my skin. "Yeah, I am. I'm sorry I came down on you so hard." "I just don't know how to act . . . . I mean, if I brought you home and told my parents, 'Guess what? I may be pregnant and this is the guy I've been sleeping with' . . . God! All hell would break loose -- they'd probably kill us both." I put a finger under her chin and lifted her face until I could look into midnight-blue eyes. "Cinderella, just be you. My mother ain't gonna condemn you for making the same mistake she did. Her biggest worry right now is whether or not you love me enough to wanna marry me." I brushed a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes and asked, "Do you?" She turned away, not answering. Suddenly, fear settled into my chest, a painfully tight knot making each breath strained. I laid a hand on her arm. "Cinders? Babe, don't you want me?" "I don't know," she admitted quietly. "You don't know? What's that supposed to mean?" "You're pushing me too fast, Michael. Let me breathe, okay?" she pleaded. I swung my legs over the bench and planted my elbows on the table, threading my fingers through my own hair. "I don't understand you," I sighed. "You tell me you love me . . . ." "I do," she insisted, turning to face me. "But not enough to marry me." "I'm not sure!" she declared, agonized indecision rich in her voice. "If the circumstances were different, maybe--" "But they're not different, sugar," I reminded her, interrupting. "In another week or so you'll know for certain whether I knocked you up or not, and then you're gonna have to make up your mind." "I know!" she snapped irritably. "Would it really be so bad?" I ventured, throwing one leg back out from under the table to straddle the bench. "We could be together every night -- all night. You wouldn't have to take any more crap from your parents. You could do anything you wanted 'cause it'd just be you and me." "And your child," she added. "Him, too." "Her." "Okay, her. So I'd get to spend the rest of my life with two gorgeous girls." "Yeah, until she decides to carry on the family tradition and go get herself knocked up." Laughing, I hugged her tightly. She smiled weakly and I kissed her, considering the problem solved. We were still locked in that same embrace fifteen minutes later when I heard a creak. Looking up, I saw my mother in the doorway, about to retreat back into the house. I signaled for her to come outside and Corey jumped back startled when the door banged. Before either of them had a chance to speak, I prompted, "Mom, would you please tell Corey that you ain't gonna hate her if she's pregnant?" Corey's mouth dropped open in shock and her hand flew to cover it -- and then she was up and running for the house. Disgusted, my mom scolded, "Mike, when in God's name are you gonna learn a little tact?" I just shrugged and she went off after Corey, shaking her head.

* Actually, it turned out to be the best thing I could've done. The charcoal had burned itself almost to the point of being useless when my mom appeared at the back door with a plate of hamburger patties -- and Corey in tow. I never asked what was said between them that night, and neither of them ever volunteered the information. All I knew for certain was that something very special had occurred. My mother was laughing, and Corey's eyes sparkled with gaiety rather than tears. "This's quite a girl you've got here, Mike," Mom smiled as she handed over the raw burgers. "You really oughta start appreciating that." She patted Corey's shoulder and instructed, "Kiss and make up, now. I've got things to do in the kitchen." I watched her walk back to the house, then turned to Corey and declared, "It sure is nice to see you smiling again, sugar." "Feels nice, too," she agreed self-consciously, inspecting her feet as she spoke. With my free hand I lifted her chin, and then dropped a briefly lingering kiss on her mouth. "I always do what my mama tells me," I grinned, touching a finger to her nose. "Yeah, like hell," she joked, still a bit shy. I laid the hamburgers out on the grill one by one, and set the plate on the shelf underneath. Taking her hand then, I kissed her fingers and inquired, "My brother home yet?" She shook her head. "No." My arms slid around behind her as I told her, "Good, 'cause I'm gonna rape you after dinner." "You can't rape the willing," she countered as she laced her fingers at the back of my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. I laughed.

* Dinner was a joy. We ate at the picnic table -- the three of us -- and told stupid jokes and had a wonderful time. Even the onions didn't prove to be a problem. I looked at Corey as I reached for them, and she grinned and took a pile for herself. The corn was a real kick -- she ended up with melted butter smeared all over half her face, where I kissed it off right in front of my mother, much to Corey's embarrassment. And yes, we even roasted marshmallows. Pretty corny, I know, but it was fun. Mom took an armful of dishes in and came back with a couple Hershey bars and some crackers, and we made little sandwiches out of them, gooey marshmallow oozing out the middle. We were all a royal mess by the time the charcoal died to ashes. Corey offered to help clean up, but Mom wisely refused any assistance and sent us out of the kitchen to go amuse ourselves. Guess I don't really need to mention what a simple task that was. I popped an old Zeppelin album onto the stereo and pushed a giggling Corey down into the tangled mass of sheets that my bed had become. We made love again -- quietly -- and cuddled together, talking of nothing significant and touching an occasional kiss here and there. I heard my mother go to bed around eleven, and shortly thereafter Corey sighed and pulled away. "Birch is picking me up at eleven-thirty," she explained apologetically. "I gotta get dressed." She crawled out of bed and bent to pick up her shirt. I reached out a hand to caress the back of her thigh, leaning over the edge of the bed to touch my mouth to her hipbone as she straightened. "Don't," she scolded, taking a step away. "I really gotta go." "Gonna leave me all alone?" I pouted, teasing. "Got to," she replied, disappearing for a moment as she pulled her shirt over her head. "You know the rules, babe." I grinned. "Rules were made to be broken." She shook her head, smiling, and continued dressing. I propped myself up on one elbow and watched, entranced by her every movement. "You're magnificent, y'know," I declared dreamily. She zipped her jeans, agreeing, "I know." "Conceited bitch." "Just emulating the one I adore." "Me?" I inquired, projecting shocked innocence. "No, you couldn't mean me. Conceit's a fault, and I don't have any of those." "Shit," she sneered, grinning. I laughed and sat up to reach for my jeans. She brushed her hair as I dressed, ignoring me. I walked her out to the street, an idea rapidly taking shape in my mind. I said nothing right away -- I wanted to bring it up when I had Birch's assistance available. I'd missed something. "Huh?" I asked absently, my thoughts elsewhere. "I had a good time tonight," she repeated. "Thank your mom for me, okay?" "Yeah, sure." "Oh, still sulking?" she chided, poking my ribs in an effort to elicit a smile. No, Cinderella. Not sulking -- plotting. Birch pulled up then, and I waited for Corey to open the passenger door and turn to say goodbye before imploring her, "Stay." That was all -- just one word. She laughed uneasily. "Get serious, Jag." "I am," I insisted, calm only on the surface. "Stay." "I can't . . . ." She looked to Birch for help and found none there. "It's up to you, love," he shrugged instead. "But . . . ," she began. "Birch can tell your folks he dropped you off at Adele's to spend the night." I glanced at him and he nodded. "They won't know any more than they did the night we stayed at Farley's. C'mon, sugar -- say yes." "What about your mom?" she argued, still not convinced that we could get away with it. "We'll be gone before she gets up. She sleeps late on weekends." "And your brother?" "He can sleep on the couch if he comes home." "Got it all figured out, doncha, blondie?" I smiled. "And what if I don't want to stay? Got an answer for that?" "Give it up, love," Birch chuckled. "You're fighting a losing battle. One that you don't even really want to win." "Says you," she replied, affecting a pout. "How come you always take his side?" "Because it's the same as yours," he smiled. "Now go. I'll talk to your parents for you." I took her hand, grinning. "I owe ya, Angel," I told him as I pushed the door shut. "Yeah, just don't stay up all night. I don't wanna make another trip over here for nothing. You be ready to go at nine, understand?" "Perfectly," I replied cheerfully. "'Bye, babe," sighed Corey, still pissed at being out- maneuvered. "Goodnight, little one," he returned. "See you in the morning." He popped the van into gear and I patted the door. "Later, man," I called as he drove away. I turned to Corey and her eyes narrowed as she said, "You're such a sneaky son of a bitch! You did that on purpose, didn't you?" "What?" I asked, feigning surprise. "You were planning that all along! You were just waiting for Bitch to come along and back you up." "Now would I do that?" "Yes, you would!" "Yeah, I guess I would," I shrugged, grinning. "Ooh!" she fumed, too exasperated for words. She stormed off to the house, and I called after her, "Hey, sugar -- don't slam the door." Without turning, she flipped me her middle finger over her shoulder and continued on into the house. I shook my head, laughed, and followed her. She did slam the door, incidentally. I found her in my room, perched on Timmy's bed with her arms folded across her chest. "I'm not sleeping with you, Townsend," she declared in a low hiss as I closed the bedroom door. I crossed the floor, slid one arm under her knees and the other around her back, lifted her easily, and said, "Oh, yes you are." Dumping her onto my own bed before she had the chance to slap me, I stretched out beside her and prodded, "Tell the truth now, Cinders. You ain't really pissed at me, now are you?" She faced the wall. "C'mon, lover," I chuckled. "You wanna be here with me and you know it." "I hate being manipulated," she spat indignantly, pushing away my hand as it caressed her arm. "Aw. Even when the end result is so sweet?" I kissed her neck, murmuring, "C'mon, hon -- thaw out a little. Show me you love me." She scooted closer to the wall and muttered, "Bastard!" I got to my knees, reaching over to switch off the light, and lay down against her once more. Leaning over her then, I grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face me. "Bitch," I growled, and kissed her full on the mouth. Her anger faded under full-scale onslaught, and soon she gave in and slept nestled peacefully in my arms.

* I was awakened around three a.m. by a pounding on the bedroom door -- which I'd locked -- and my brother's slurred voice bellowing, "Jagger, openna friggin' door, ya bassart! Hey! Hey, ya goddam bassart! Openna friggin' door!" I jumped out of bed and yanked the door open, hissing, "Will you shut your fucking mouth, asshole!" "Lemme in," he mumbled, trying to push past me. "Wanna go ta bed. G'outta m'way, willya?" Hearing my mom's door open, I muttered an irritated, "Shit!" and shoved him out into the dining room, closing my bedroom door behind me. "Mike?" she asked from her doorway. "What's going on?" I flipped on the light, answering, "I don't even want this pig in the same room with me tonight. He can't even stand up, for Christ's sake!" She squinted in the light, running a hand through mussed hair. As if to prove my point, Timmy took a step forward to argue for his sobriety, stumbled, and knocked over one of the dining room chairs. He caught himself on the table, swayed, and fell flat on his ass. The shock of the sudden landing started a chain reaction -- moments later he was throwing up all over himself and the floor. I looked at my mother and said, "Case closed." She nodded and told me, "Go back to bed, son." As I returned to my room, I heard her sigh, "Timothy, if you can manage to clean up this disgusting mess, you can sleep on the couch. Otherwise, stay where you are. I don't wanna hear anymore racket from you tonight . . . ." I shut my door and climbed into bed again with Corey, who had already slipped back into exhausted slumber.

* I woke her at eight and we went to the kitchen to grab some breakfast. Timmy still lay where he'd fallen, dried vomit clinging to his clothes. I noticed he'd pissed his pants, too. "He's getting worse," I commented as I steered her past him. "Guess it's about time for me to break down and kick his ass a little before he kills himself." "I think I just lost my appetite," she said weakly, trying to smile. I laughed softly and kissed her hair. She did manage a slice of toast and honey, and then I got her into the shower, wishing after only thirty seconds of her soaping my back that I'd wakened her about an hour earlier. We were sitting on the front step discussing the history of the artwork adorning the side of my house when Birch arrived. Corey ran down the walk first, yanked open the door of the van, and climbed in. "I hate you," she declared pleasantly, kissing his cheek before she crawled into the back. "Yeah, me too," I grinned as I pulled the door shut and went to join her. He raised an eyebrow and dryly remarked, "How sweet." I booted the back of his seat and laughed, "Drive on, Angel. We're ready to rock." Corey giggled. "Why am I already regretting inviting you two?" he sighed, putting the van into gear. He jammed a James Gang tape into the tape deck and shouted back, "Wine's in the cooler. Help yourselves." I leaned over to grab a bottle and Corey crept over to lean against his seat, her forearms resting on his shoulders. "Any sweet leaf, darling?" she purred, barely audible over the music. "No," he replied, "but there's a bit of hash in the glove compartment if you want it." She looked back over her shoulder at me and asked, "Toke up a little hash, blondie?" "Oh, definitely," I nodded. She went up front and was back a moment later with a small pipe and a ball of tin foil. Carefully, she unfolded the tin foil and broke off a fair-sized chunk of the dark hash inside, which she then dropped into the bowl of the pipe. I held the match for her as she inhaled. It came to me next. I re-lit it, got it going good, and handed it to Birch before it could go out again. He didn't keep it long, not wanting to be totally blitzed while driving. Corey and I had no such responsibilities to inhibit us, however, and were soon righteously stoned. By the time we hit the college campus, we were just barely able to navigate our way out the back door of the van. Birch tucked a bottle of wine inside his fringed suede jacket and steered us in the general direction of the music. The band on stage was doing a halfway-decent rendition of Dylan's "Subterranean Homesick Blues." Corey squeezed my hand. As we got closer, I sighted a number of people I knew. Apparently we weren't the only ones to have had this idea. We found a clear spot near Stefano, Caro, Robin, Ganj, and his chick Sassy, and settled there. General greetings were exchanged. I asked Robin Hood if America was around, and he replied in the affirmative, saying he thought maybe he'd gone off in search of a beer. America returned -- Budweiser in hand -- as the band launched into a Crosby, Still, Nash & Young number. "He won't drink my Genesee," Stefano chuckled to me as America flopped to the ground beside Caro. "Yeah, I don't drink cougar piss, either," America retorted, lighting a cigarette. From Robin, "Is there a difference?" That struck me as being extremely funny -- especially in my condition -- and I was still gasping for breath when the band went into Cream's "Sunshine of Your Love." Birch passed me the wine bottle and I took a deep hit, flinching a bit at the tangy taste of the Sangria. Corey stretched out in the grass and closed her eyes, a blissful smile lighting her entire face. "So, whatcha been up to?" Stefano asked me. "Haven't heard much from you lately." "Guess I'm more into private parties these days," I shrugged. "Been spending most of my time with Corey -- when she's free, anyway." "Oh, giving up your friends on account of your latest passion's plaything, huh?" he snickered, opening a fresh bottle of Genesee/cougar piss. "Fuck you. Who do I know that's more entertaining than she is?" "Your mama, maybe?" "Yeah -- at least my mama's better than yours." "Naturally. She's got at least fifty more years of experience." "Gee, your mama don't look like a two-year-old to me. You better check your math, man. I could swear she's at least twelve." Caro clapped a hand over Stefano's mouth at that point. "Anytime you guys are done with your juvenile bullshit, I'd like to go back to the car and get that bag of potato chips we brought." "So go," Stefano replied disinterestedly, removing her hand. "Steven . . . ," she warned. He groaned. "Okay, okay. Christ, what a slave driver!" Getting to his feet, he held out a hand to pull her up. "Back in a flash," he promised as she led him away. "Don't you threaten me!" I called after him, grinning. The air shook with the heavy, throbbing bass of "Hey Joe" as I stretched out beside Corey and tickled her nose with a weed.

* It was a gorgeous day, really. The sun gave warmth without becoming stifling, only the slightest few fluffs of cloud scudding across bluest sky. Alcohol in various forms flowed freely, as did smoke -- both legal and illegal. On closer inspection, I spotted several people obviously tripping their brains out, Ganj one of that number by early afternoon. The band on stage gave way to a second group, then a third. Corinne radiated a stoned, peaceful contentment that was a joy to behold. I kept close to her, taking her often into deep, sensual kisses -- too high to care that Birch lay propped on one elbow less than three feet away, sunlight dancing golden sparks in his hair as he watched the stage, chewing thoughtfully on a weed. It was too perfect. I got up -- a bit unsteadily -- around one-thirty to go and fetch another bottle of wine from the van. No big deal in itself, but it turned out to be my major mistake of the day. I kissed Corey, got the keys from Birch, and started picking my way through the crowd, managing with difficulty not to fall on anyone. I never saw Sassy get up to follow along behind. Now, I mentioned some pages back about my fidelity being put to the test, right? Well, the phone call from Ronnie was shit compared to what Sassy put me through. It's a hell of a lot easier to turn down a nice piece of ass over several miles of telephone cable, after all. When that piece is quite literally right in your hands, though . . . . I'm getting ahead of myself again. I made it to the van still in an upright condition, surprisingly. Yes, I was that fucked up. Remember that, please, while I'm grinding out this part of the story, because I'm not exactly proud of my initial reaction to her overtures. There I go, side-tracking again on feeble excuses. Forgive me, I'll get on with it. I was patting the lid back onto the cooler, bottle in hand, when she came up beside me. "Hi," she said, smiling innocuously enough. "Hi yourself," I smiled back. "You lost?" She shook her head. "Nope. I followed you here." Sorry, but I was too far gone to catch the hint. "Yeah?" I chuckled, wondering fuzzily what had prompted her to tag along. She didn't keep me guessing long. "I've been thinking about you lately," she purred, moving closer. "A lot." Suspicion began to peek through the fog in my head. I took a step backward and bumped against the open back door of the van. She took a corresponding step forward. "Jag? Baby, I want some more of you." Her arms gliding up the front of my shirt to my neck, her lips coming to press against mine as she drew my head down . . . . Memory kicked me in the ass and sent disjointed pictures ricocheting around inside my skull: the wild party at Jojo's a couple months back, everyone totally shit-faced, Veronica with me and Sassy with Ganj. At first, anyway. Somehow it had gotten turned around by the end of the evening. Pictures: Sassy pushing back the blankets on Jojo's bed, not for Ganj, but for me. Taking her small, slightly plump body while simultaneously hearing Ronnie's long limbs thrashing in the next room. Sassy's soft, desperate caresses. Ronnie's cries of ecstasy -- so familiar even at a distance -- as my own passion peaked. Sassy's grateful kisses, so like what I was feeling now . . . . Reality intruded, its edge sharp and unblinking. I was returning her kiss, one hand in her hair, the other stroking her ass hotly. "Whoa," I breathed, pushing her away and shaking my head in an effort to clear it. "What's the matter, baby?" she inquired honestly. "You rather lie down?" She indicated the floor of the van. "Corey . . . ," I began guiltily. She waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Don't worry about it. I told Ganj to go ahead and make her. She'll be too busy to wonder what you're doing." "You did what?" "I told Ganj to make her," she repeated. "Like before, y'know? So everything'd be cool for us." For anyone who has never done any good hash in large quantities, let me explain that it has the capability of bringing thoughts home with the icy clarity of the most vivid hallucination. The image of my Cinderella locked in the arms of that bedroom-eyed bastard who claimed to be my friend, her slender fingers tangled in layers of thick slate- colored hair rather than my own fine white-blond . . . . I slammed the door of the van shut and marched purposefully back toward the crowd, a puzzled Sassy calling after me, "Jag? Jag, what's wrong, baby? Did I say something wrong? Jag?" The sound of her voice was drowned in music as I left her behind. High as I was, I had no trouble finding them, being spurred on by jealous anger and all. Funny thing was, there wasn't a damned thing going on when I arrived. Well, not what I'd expected, anyway. It was obvious that something had transpired in my absence -- Ganj's cheek showed white fingermarks against a fiery red background and Corey sat curled up at Birch's side, flanked on her right by a protective Carolyn. Caro looked up as I approached and hissed reproachfully, "Lipstick, asshole!" I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and smeared the frosted salmon-pink evidence down the leg of my jeans, hoping I'd also somehow erased the silly, sheepish grin I'd felt rising to my lips. "Are you staying this time?" she inquired in bitchy accusation, pausing halfway in a move to get up. "It's okay, Caro," Corey soothed quietly. "Go on. I'm awright." "Stay a minute if you want," I shrugged. "I got a little something I need to take care of anyway." I walked the few paces to where Ganj sat slightly off to himself -- acknowledging Stefano's meaningful glance which read, Be cool, man -- and went down on one knee beside him. I couldn't tell from his expression how much he was comprehending through the acid he'd dropped, but it was going to be said anyway. I poked a finger hard into his chest and told him, "Next time you decide you wanna ball my chick, Ganj, I suggest you talk to me first." "Look, man . . . ," he started weakly. I pushed harder with my finger and his hand shot out behind him to catch himself from going over flat on his back. "You look, shithead! Don't fuck with me again unless you wanna die young. Okay? Just don't." Stefano's hands on my shoulders, his voice calm and reassuring. "That's enough, Jag. Take it easy. Don't freak him, okay?" "Yeah, sure," I replied flatly as I stood. "God forbid I should upset the back-stabbing little son of a bitch." "C'mon, lighten up," he coaxed, leading me away. "The dude's in Never-Never Land. He don't know what he's doing." "Right, Stevie," I agreed sarcastically. "You got it." I returned to Corey's side, and Caro scooted over to make room for me to sit down. I looked at Corey and tried on a smile. Her only comment was, "You forgot the wine, blondie."

* I had to go back for the wine, of course. I played it smart the second time around, though -- I had Corey go with me. It worked out very well, because we ran into Sassy on her way back, and the whole truth came out when she found herself face to face with the two of us together. It seemed that Alice had put her up to it. She'd known about that previous little swap job -- naturally, since she was the one I was supposed to have been going out with at the time -- and had conned Sassy into taking another crack at me. Apparently, she must've figured it would be the ideal way to break up my current relationship with Corey. If I'd been much higher, it might've worked. As it stood, however, the plan backfired. Sassy -- not entirely sober herself -- was half hysterical by the time she'd finished blurting out her confession, and Corey couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She graciously forgave Sassy her foolishness, and Sassy was absolutely pitiful in her relief at not getting her ass kicked. From that day forward, she worshipped the ground Corey walked on. And so the afternoon progressed in relative peace, the music continuing even after the last of the bands had departed as several guys from the dwindling crowd produced a harmonica and a guitar or two of their own. Birch, Corey, and I moved closer to the site of this little impromptu concert, fully in the spirit of prolonging the warm delight of the day. We stayed until well after dark, Corey -- always the imp -- even talking one of the guys into handing his guitar over to Birch for a few songs. Does anyone need to be told that he never hit a single sour note?

* Leaving her that night was hard for me, knowing I wouldn't be able to touch her again for another week. What made it worse was the fact that I was straight enough by then to require conscious effort to ignore Birch's presence as I kissed her goodbye in the back of his van. I was torn between wanting to cram as much loving as possible into those last few moments and not wanting to hurt this golden deity that I called my friend. Replaying in my mind all that he'd told me, my thoughts finally settled into an angry little corner that jeered, This is what you wanted, ain't it, Angel baby? (Kind of like, You asked for it, you got it -- but this ain't no fucking Toyota here, Jack.) It was my only out, really. There was no way I could reconcile such opposing desires at the time. So I took the easy road, like usual -- I got myself downright pissed about the whole thing. I kissed my Cinderella with a positively vicious passion that left her nearly breathless. "Dream of me tonight, lover," I told her, louder than I should have. "I will," she murmured in return, a sleepy, rapturous smile touching her lips briefly. And then she was gone, forgetting her customary sisterly kiss to Birch's cheek. I rejoiced at this omission at first . . . until I climbed up front and caught a glimpse of his tormented features. My rebellious anger fled as guilt rushed back at top speed. "Well?" I inquired as he pulled the van away from the curb. He shot a quick glance in my direction, trying to read me. "Well what?" "Was my performance satisfactory?" "By whose standards?" he sighed after a minute of reflection. I leaned back and kicked my feet up onto the dash, shaking my head. "You're a wicked son of a bitch," I grunted, half as an insult and half as a peace offering. "Yeah, likewise," he replied, in much the same vein. We fell into a fairly comfortable silence for the next few blocks then, while Birch concentrated on the street ahead and my own thoughts turned inward to retrace the events of the day. "Hey," I said, sitting suddenly upright to face him, "tell me exactly what went down with Ganj today when I was gone." He sighed again. "To what purpose? It's over now." "'Cause I wanna know, okay?" "Now who's into pain?" he muttered, punching in the cigarette lighter and reaching for a Marlboro. "How descriptive do you want me to be?" "Very." "I can't convince you to just let it go?" "Get on with it, Birch," I warned. He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled slowly. "She didn't see Sassy go after you." He paused to take another drag and then continued without looking my way. "She curled up with her head on my lap right after you left." I quite literally bit my tongue and -- finding myself suddenly unable to look upon his face -- turned to stare out the window. He drew a breath and went on, "Ganj came over a few minutes later and tapped her shoulder. She must've been really deep into the music -- her eyes were closed, I know -- because she jumped a mile when he touched her. He said he wanted to talk to her for a second, so she got up and walked over a little ways with him--" "And what was your problem?" I interrupted. "Your mouth was glued shut or something? Or d'you only butt in where I'm concerned?" He braked for a stop sign and glanced over at me. "Townsend, are you sure there's a connection between your brain and your own stupid mouth?" "Up your ass, golden boy," I retorted, lighting a cigarette for myself. "Sure, just as soon as you tell me when I've ever interfered with you, because I don't recall butting into your business . . . unless you're counting the times you've barged in on me looking for favors, that is." "Ah, fuck you," I grumbled, beaten again. "Well, I guess that's the closest I'm gonna get to an apology. Now, do you wanna hear the rest of this shit or not?" "Yeah. Talk, already." "Alright. Shut up, then." He took a last drag of his Marlboro and snuffed it in the ashtray. "They went over by that tree we were sitting near. I couldn't hear what was said, but according to what Corey told me afterward, he told her that since you and Sassy were gonna be occupied elsewhere for quite some time, there was no reason for the two of them not to do the same. Then he kissed her." "He kissed her?" "I thought I told you to shut up. Yeah, he kissed her. Isn't that what I said?" "On the mouth?" "More or less." "More or less what, asshole? Talk straight." "Haven't you had enough yet?" "More or less what?" I repeated impatiently. "More like in the mouth, if you must know," he sighed as he pulled the van over to the curb in front of my house. "He was French-kissing her?" He nodded. "And that's when she clocked him?" "Not exactly." "Whaddya mean, 'Not exactly'? I know she hit him -- he was wearing her handprint on his goddam face." "Oh, she hit him. But not until he got his hand up her shirt." I went positively numb with jealousy. "Front or back?" I ground out, my temper under control only because the guy beside me would've been the wrong one to annihilate. "What do you think?" "I think I'm gonna kill the pretty little bastard, that's what I think." He shook his head. "Whoa, Jag. You can't kill the dude for trying something he did before with your permission." "That was different -- I was with Ronnie that night, not Corey. And how d'you know about that anyway?" "Doesn't matter. What does matter is that he didn't know there was supposed to be a difference. Sassy talked him into it, same as last time." "And Alice was behind it all." "Of course." "You knew?" I asked, surprised. "I'd have to be an imbecile not to be able to figure that much out. Her methods are rather obvious, I'd say." "So now I'm supposed to forget about Ganj feeling up my chick because it ain't his fault? Is that what you're telling me?" "It was a set-up, man. He was a pawn, that's all. You think he would've fallen for it if he hadn't been so blown away? C'mon -- all of you were fucked up when it happened." "Oh, sure -- that makes everything okay. Peachy-keen and all that happy horseshit. Right, Angel?" "No, but it explains a lot, wise-ass." "Yeah, like maybe why Corey took so long to deck him, huh?" I spat. "Because she was too fucking stoned to know she was kissing the wrong guy? Oh, yeah -- you got it, man. No chance she might've been enjoying it or anything, 'cause she was too damn high to know any better -- right?" "Can I ask you a question before you get yourself all convinced that she's nothing but a gutter whore?" he inquired patiently. "Certainly." "Thank you. What I wanna know is this: How far did you and Sassy get, Jag?" His question hung unanswered in the air between us for a long time, his eyes holding mine, making it impossible for me to come out with an effective lie. He broke the silence himself, finally. "That's what I thought," he nodded sagely, as if he'd read my mind and knew the truth. "Okay, so I'm a piece of shit," I muttered, turning to stare out the window once more as he released my gaze. "No, just human," he corrected. "Like Corey. Or Ganj." "I still wanna kick his ass," I said without much force behind the words. "That's cool. There's no crime in wanting." "Just as long as I quit there, huh?" "Very good, friend. I'll make a pacifist of you yet." "A pussy, you mean." "Call it what you will," he chuckled. "Go on in, now. Relax and get some sleep. Phone Corey in the morning and tell her you love her." "S'that an order?" "Yeah. Now get lost. I'm tired." I hopped out of the van and headed into the house, oddly calm and content. I grabbed a beer from the fridge, lit a cigarette, and dialed Alice's number. And -- still in that pleasant frame of mind -- I spoke four words and hung up. Just four words, that's all. "It didn't work, cunt."

* The following week was a drag, of course. Corey had her exams to study for, and I had . . . nothing. I called her faithfully every evening, but the nights seemed awfully empty once I'd placed the telephone back on its cradle. I went out a few times. I saw Ganj up at the woods Monday night -- he avoided me like the plague until I finally pulled him aside and told him, "Peace, man. Okay? Cut the shit, now -- I ain't no fuckin' leper." "You're not pissed off at me anymore?" he asked incredulously, still looking like he thought I might start kicking his ass any second. "Do I look pissed to you?" I said mildly. "Guess not," he grinned, relieved. "Right," I nodded, taking a swig of the beer I held. "You can thank Birch for talking me into letting you keep your pretty face. But -- you fuck with my chick ever again, and I'll shove those sexy little green eyes of yours so far up your ass that you'll have to shit for three days just to see daylight. Understand me, Ganja? I won't care what kind of high you're on, 'cause your body'll still bruise the same no matter how fried your brain is. And Birch won't be able to talk me out of having your ass the next time around." "Fair enough," he agreed weakly, trying valiantly to hang onto his grin. "That ain't a threat, man. It's a promise. You fuck me over and I'll fuck you up. Are we straight?" "Yeah, we're straight." "Okay. Behave yourself and you got nothing to worry about." I handed him my beer and he took a sip, saying, "I wish to hell you would've told me sooner. About this thing with your chick, I mean. How was I supposed to know you'd gone Puritan on me?" "How was I supposed to know you were gonna try and bed her at an outdoor concert, for Christ's sake?" "Yeah, it was pretty stupid," he chuckled. He had another drink and passed the bottle back to me. "Yeah, it certainly was," I agreed, wondering how long it would be before he got himself drugged up enough to reach that particular level of stupidity again.

* Tuesday I hitched a ride out to the mall to pay another ten dollars on Corey's ring. I ran into Robin there, and we hung around for a while, turning our fingers red on a bag of pistachio nuts he'd bought. Wednesday was a total zero, and by Thursday night I was desperate enough for intelligent company to walk over to Birch's apartment. He wasn't home when I first arrived, as Cokey so pleasantly informed me. "She ain't here, stud," he snapped the moment he saw me. He made as if to slam the door in my face, and I stuck my hand out to catch it before it closed. "I'm looking for Birch, asswipe. Last I knew, he was still a he." "Yeah, well, he ain't here either, so take a hike." He tried again to push the door shut, but it wouldn't give under my opposing pressure. "Been studying your book of etiquette again, I see," I mocked. "I'd like to know when he's gonna be back, if you don't mind." "Why? So you can shove him a little closer to the edge? What's with you, Townsend? Why can't you just lay off and leave the poor bastard alone? Can't you see what you're doing to him? Or is it just that you don't give a shit?" I measured his eyes -- one part anger, two parts fear. Nothing there to scare me at all. "I think you underestimate your roommate," I said blandly. "I also think you have a death wish. Do you?" "Not for myself," he countered, trying to mask his nervousness with false bravado. I considered. I knew I could turn him into dog food, and he obviously knew it, too. On the other hand, I figured that Birch might be just a wee bit distressed if he came home to find his roommate stuffed inside an Alpo can. "How come you got such a hard-on for me, huh?" I asked, deciding to avoid physical confrontation. "What'd I ever do to you?" He uttered a short, harsh laugh. "You're fucking up my entire life, that's what!" Violet eyes darkened with suppressed anger behind the gray-black fringe of his hair, and he elaborated, "Everything was cool here 'til you came around. We used to do stuff, but that's all changed now. We never play cards or talk or anything anymore! I mean, Corey used to come over and she'd get Birch to build a fire and turn all the lights out, and we'd all sit around telling ghost stories and goofy shit like that. Now she hardly ever comes by anymore, and when she does, all she wants to do is talk about you! Birch don't laugh or smile no more, he don't eat, he don't sleep -- he just sits and plays his guitar real soft until three or four in the morning, and then he goes to bed and cries. Every night, Townsend. Oh, he thinks I don't hear him -- but I do. Now, maybe that don't bother you, but it bugs the shit out of me! So you'll have to pardon me if I don't welcome you into my home -- which you so thoroughly have fucked up!" And so saying, he finally managed to shove the door closed. I just stood there a moment, hands in my pockets, head cocked to one side. My lips pursed, I nodded slightly and came out with a neutral, "Nice shirt, Coke. Looks good on ya." The door didn't answer, and I turned and walked away toward the stairs. I stopped about halfway down to light a cigarette. I felt like a pinball machine -- thoughts banging back and forth across my brain: Nice fucking night, Jagger -- should've stayed home. Stayed home, shit -- should've just decked the son of a bitch like I wanted to. ". . . then he goes to bed and cries. Every night, Townsend." Dumb shit needs to learn some manners. ". . . he don't eat, he don't sleep . . . ." Talks like it's my fault or something. ". . . he thinks I don't hear him . . . ." What's he expect me to do? Give up my Cinderella? ". . . but I do . . . ." It wouldn't make a damned bit of difference -- she don't even see him as a lover. ". . . maybe that don't bother you . . . ." She don't see him! ". . . maybe that don't bother you . . . ." Yes, goddamn it! Yes, it bothers me! Footsteps on the stairs below, and then Birch appeared on the landing. He looked tired. His expression brightened as he saw me. A smile touched his lips and spread warmth across his face. If it was an act, it was a damned good one. "This is a pleasant surprise," he declared, coming to stand several steps beneath me. "What's up?" I shrugged. "Nothing. Just thought I'd stop by." "Well, I'm glad you did. I need to talk to you about a few things." He nodded toward the top of the stairs. "C'mon." "Uh . . . I don't know as that's such a hot idea, man," I told him. "Cokey wasn't exactly what you'd call happy to see me, y'know?" "Take a ride, then?" he offered. "Yeah, I guess." We started back down, and I asked him conversationally if he'd been working late. "No," he replied, shaking his head. "I was over helping Corey cram for her Lit final tomorrow." "I'm jealous," I commented lightly, feeling it deeply. "What? Of Dickens?" he chuckled. I laughed politely, my heart not really in it. It didn't matter that there was no logical reason for me to feel that way. The zaps had diminished over the past week and a half, but they hadn't vanished entirely. And they weren't listening to reason at the moment. We walked out to the parking lot, where I suggested to Birch that we swing by the coffee shop and grab a bite to eat. Cokey's words were still echoing around in my head, along with all this other miscellaneous garbage. ". . . he don't eat, he don't sleep . . . ." "Sure, if you're hungry," said Birch agreeably.

* Our waitress was young, pretty, and more than a little flirtatious. The Hello we got with our water glasses and menus carried with it a silent, "God, would I like to take the two of you home with me!" I wasn't sure if Birch had caught the message or not -- but then, he wasn't in the habit of looking for it, I suppose. At any rate, he ignored her come-on as completely as he ignored the menu she brought. I ordered a chili dog and a Coke. Birch requested a cup of coffee, black with sugar. "And a cheeseburger with fries," I added for him. He tried to protest, but I silenced him with a curt, "Shut up, Angel baby. I'm buying." The waitress, uncertain, remained until I fixed her with an impatient stare and prompted, "Food, remember?" I made a little shooing gesture with my hand, and at last she trotted off to the kitchen. I turned to Birch and sighed, "Now, there were some things you wanted to discuss?" "Other than the fact that you're unbearable?" "Other than that, yes." He lit a cigarette. "You recall asking me last week to talk to Corey about this . . . situation the two of you may be faced with?" I nodded. "Well, Dickens wasn't the only topic we covered tonight." He paused to take a drag of his cigarette and continued, "She was a bit aggravated that you'd told me, at first. She said she would've preferred to tell me herself, if and when it became definite." "Hell, it's my kid, too!" I interrupted defensively, just as the dingy waitress returned to deposit Birch's coffee and my Coke in front of us. Talk about bad timing. She gave me a strange look and went to Hello the fat middle-aged couple seating themselves a few booths away. Birch grinned and inquired, "Want a megaphone?" "Yeah, and you can bite my left nut, too," I retorted. "Now get on with it. What other little gems did she come up with, besides that I ain't allowed to talk about my own damn kid?" He took a last drag of his cigarette and tapped it out in the little black plastic ashtray that was nestled between the salt and pepper shakers. "Well, we talked a while about ourselves -- why she was suddenly finding it necessary to be keeping secrets from me, and so on. I brought the subject back around to you, and she told me she never even would've mentioned it to you, but it just sort of happened." "Yeah," I nodded, remembering exactly the telephone conversation in which I'd first gotten the news. If the thought hadn't occurred to her precisely when it did, she probably wouldn't have informed me of her suspicions, stubborn brat that she was. "At any rate, I told her what you said -- that you would marry her gladly, that everything would be okay no matter how it turned out. I explained that your situation with Alice had been completely different, that you never loved Alice the way you love her, that I could see the change in you, etcetera." "You went all out, huh?" "With both barrels," he agreed, then sighed. "I just wish I could tell you it did some good." "You saying it didn't?" I asked somewhat nervously. I didn't like the expression on his face. He lit another cigarette while I waited impatiently for his reply. Finally he answered, "Just don't order any wedding cake, okay? She won't marry you, Jag." I couldn't say anything -- the waitress was back with our food just as I started to open my mouth. My chili dog looked about as appetizing as a limp dick dipped in dogshit. "So, just what exactly did she say?" I managed at last, ignoring the starched slime-green uniform swishing away from our table. "I mean, is there any particular reason she despises me so much? Or is she just holding out for someone with a fatter wallet?" He shook his head, amused. "Are you naturally this bitter, or do you suck lemons for a hobby?" I started to reply, and he held up a hand to silence me. "Yeah, yeah -- I know. Bite your left nut." If I'd been in a better mood, I might've laughed. As it was, the best I could do was a rather withering scowl. "Talk, golden boy," I growled irritably. He stubbed his cigarette out with more attention than it required as he said softly, "Well, the long and short of it is that she loves you too much, my friend." He looked up, his face a blank, and awaited my response. "Too much? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" "It means what it means," he shrugged, salting his French fries absently. "She feels she'd be trapping you, and she doesn't wanna do that. She said you'd hate her within a year . . . ." "I'd never hate her for that!" I insisted. "Okay, scratch that. Let's say 'resent' instead." "I wouldn't resent her, either." "Wouldn't you? How d'you know?" "I just know, awright?" "Whatever. It doesn't really matter, anyway. What matters is that she thinks you would, and she loves you to the point where she doesn't want to marry you for the wrong reasons and then have you regret it later. 'Nuff said." "So, what you're telling me is that I'd stand a better chance if she didn't love me? Cokey's right -- you really are half loony." "Am I," he remarked dryly, not as a question. "Damn straight you are if you expect me to believe that crock of shit." I bit into my chili dog, aggravated, discovering with no great joy that it tasted better than it looked. Birch sighed heavily. "Well, I wasn't gonna tell you this part, but I guess it's necessary in order to prove the point." His gaze dropped to his plate, where he methodically stirred a French fry through scattered grains of salt. "This'll probably piss you off . . . ." "I'm halfway there now, so spit it out, willya?" "I asked her," he replied slowly, "if the situation had been different -- if I'd been the one she'd slept with -- would she have accepted me as a husband." He wasn't finished, but I couldn't restrain myself from hissing, "You asked her to marry you? Why you back- stabbing son of a bitch!" "You're not listening," he cut in before I could go any further. "I didn't ask her to marry me. I asked her if she would've married me if I'd been the baby's father instead of you. There's a difference, Townsend." "Not much," I grumbled. "Yes, there is. I was asking her a hypothetical question, not proposing. But that's not the point." "Oh, and just what is the point?" I inquired sarcastically. He popped a fry into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully before replying, "She said yes." "Well, isn't that just dandy?" I snapped angrily, hoping he'd choke. "I hope the two of you -- excuse me, the three of you -- will be very happy together." I lit a cigarette and stared at the napkin dispenser, fuming. "You still don't get it, do you? Don't you understand what I'm saying? She wants your love, freely given. She doesn't wanna force you into anything because she cares for you so much that she wants you to be happy, regardless of where that leaves her. She doesn't want you to make sacrifices for her that you'll be sorry for later on. As a matter of fact, if it hadn't been the possibility of pregnancy that'd made you offer marriage, I think she most likely would've accepted." "And you?" I spat, casting a brief glance in his direction. He laughed without feeling. "Me? Obviously she doesn't care much for me." Or maybe it's just that she knows you'd always love her and accept her no matter what the future might bring, Angel. I finished my chili dog, my anger gradually seeping away in the face of his unshakable kindness and reasoning. What he'd said did make a certain amount of sense, in a somewhat perverted way. It left me with a bit of a dilemma if she did indeed turn up pregnant, however, and Birch had no answers for that problem when I presented it to him. He ate a total of three French fries and left the cheeseburger untouched.

* I phoned Corey Friday evening around seven and asked her how her exams had gone. She was optimistic, confident that she'd pulled mostly B's, with a couple possible A's if she was lucky. I didn't mention the previous night's conversation with Birch, and neither did she. I did, however, ask her if she'd started the rag yet, to which she replied in the negative. Birch showed up at her door while we were talking and offered to give her a ride up to the woods to meet me. She accepted gratefully after consulting briefly with me. I say "briefly" because it didn't take me very long to come out with an enthusiastic, "Hell, yes!" We had a pleasant evening together . . . particularly when we were not in the company of others. Midnight rolled around far too soon. She promised to meet me at the park the following day, kissed me goodnight, and then left with Birch. I hung around a while longer before going home to my empty bed. The next week was much the same. I spent as much time with her as possible, Birch played taxi for us, and she still showed no signs of sparing the rabbit. I would've been quite content if I hadn't been so worried about losing her. Half of me kept hoping for a child, maintaining that I could somehow convince her to marry me in spite of all Birch had told me. The other half kept repeating his words, giving hope a firm ass-whipping. It didn't help any that everyone around me seemed to be in the process of changing partners. Geoff and Candy -- one of the two married couples we knew -- filed for divorce that week, leaving Candy with two toddlers to raise alone. Marty left Cokey to head out to California and live with an old boyfriend who'd recently lost his wife of eight months to a drug overdose. Denise took up with Cobra for exactly five days, and then decided she couldn't stand him any longer. Farley got her next. Ganj dumped Sassy when he caught her kneeling before Jojo one night behind the dairy. "And she wasn't sayin' her prayers, either -- if ya know what I mean," he said by way of explanation. Sassy and Jojo lasted only three days, at which point she found out he was still seeing Ronnie and made the mistake of expressing her displeasure. Sassy said, "It's me or her," and Jo said, "'Bye, bitch." And rumor had it that Alice and English were now consoling each other rather nicely. I guess it's understandable that I was feeling a wee bit insecure by the time Saturday arrived. Nobody would've believed it of me, given my past who-gives-a-shit attitude, but it was true. Furthermore, it didn't make me feel any better when Corey called to tell me that Birch had to work late doing inventory, and Geoff -- who'd dropped by after checking out a room for rent down the street -- volunteered just a shade too eagerly to go pick her up while I showered and changed. I told him quite bluntly to wait twenty minutes and I'd go along. He shrugged and helped himself to a beer out of the fridge. We met her around the corner from her house -- since she'd told her parents that she was going over to good ol' Adele's -- and headed out to the woods, stopping on the way to pick up a case of beer, courtesy of the newly-emancipated Geoff. I made a mental note to forgive him his earlier lapse of good sense as long as he didn't try to pull any more shit on me. I needn't have worried -- he grabbed Sassy the minute we got there. No one bothered to remind him that his divorce wouldn't be final for several weeks to come. Candy would hear that her old man was already out screwing around before the night was even over. I shot half a six-pack in quick succession to kill the churning in my gut. I had a bit of a buzz on by the time I crumpled my fourth can and pitched it onto the growing pile behind me. Corey, of course, was intrigued by the technique and wanted to try it herself. I had my misgivings about teaching her, but I was also just drunk enough to be talked into it. I punched a hole at the bottom edge of a fresh can and held it out to her. "What now?" she asked confidently. "Get ready for a beer bath," I chuckled, sure she'd choke right away. She swatted my stomach with the back of her hand. "Jag!" "Okay, okay!" I laughed. "Just pop it open, relax your throat, and let the brew do all the work." She tipped the hole up to her mouth and popped the tab on top. I watched, fascinated, as she actually managed to drain about half of it before she sputtered, choked, and jerked the can away to splatter on the ground. She wasn't quite quick enough, however, to keep from getting a bit of a shower in the process. I laughed, patting her on the back as she coughed. "Chicks shouldn't be tryin' to shoot hootch, stud," declared Jojo as he ambled over with Lori in tow. "They ain't built right, y'know?" He sat down beside Corey, continuing, "Those tender little lips were made to be wrapped around something better than a beer can . . . if you catch my drift." "Fuck you, asshole," I returned, pulling Corey closer. "She downed half of it--" Corey covered my mouth with her hand and sweetly said, "Sorry, Valentino, but if that was meant to be an invitation, I'll have to disappoint you. I don't much care for cocktail wieners; I prefer the foot-long variety, to be perfectly honest." She touched a devotedly chaste kiss to my cheek, while Lori giggled with obvious delight. "Are you insinuating . . . ?" he began. "I'm not insinuating anything," she smiled pleasantly. "You can compare if you like. That is, if you think your ego can bear a bit of deflating." Lori held up a hand to shush her, snickering, "No need. I've seen 'em both, and Jojo . . . you better shut up while you can, boy!" Three out of four people got a good laugh out of that, and I don't think I need to name the one who sulked in embarrassed silence. "S'okay, Jo," I chuckled at last, reaching around Corey to pat his shoulder in amused sympathy. "It ain't what you got -- it's what you do with it." Lori opened her mouth to speak, but Corey cut her off, saying, "Quiet, girl. The dude feels bad enough already." They both giggled. "Well," pouted Jojo, "maybe you two would like to share the stud between you tonight, since I ain't good enough for anybody anymore." Corey arched an eyebrow and Lori wisely backed off, cuddling up to Jojo and murmuring an apologetic, "Sorry, doll -- I was just teasing." He ignored her and reached instead for a handful of Corey's hair, letting it glide softly across his palm, feeling its texture with his thumb as he inquired brashly, "Sure you wouldn't like to trade off for a while tonight, Jag?" He inclined his head toward Lori, adding, "This one here is really starting to get on my nerves." With a cold precision that betrayed my anger more than slightly, I snarled, "Hands off my property, 'Tino. Now. Before you start getting on my nerves." "Touch-y!" he mocked, releasing her hair with a flick of his wrist. And to her, he said, "Are you that good?" "Better," she replied immodestly. "The best," I corrected. "So keep your pecker parked, Jo, 'cause she's all mine." "Greedy bastard," he complained lightly, leaning back to slide an arm around Lori . . . who, incidentally, appeared a bit disappointed herself. "That's right," I admitted with pride. "Greedy as hell and just rude enough to flaunt it." And so saying, I proceeded to prove my point by bestowing upon Corey a kiss of sufficient depth to cause Jojo to rise, muttering, "C'mon, Lor -- let's split. This's disgusting." Corey pushed back a moment later, assuring me, "You can quit now. They're gone." "So who wants to quit?" I teased, tracing a finger from the base of her ear to the hollow of her throat. She smiled, kissed the tip of my nose, and reached for another beer. "What's your rush, blondie?" I relaxed against a tree trunk, grinning, and studied her as she worked a hole into the beer can. Apparently, sex was on hold until she'd gotten the boozing down pat. "Heard from your monthly visitor yet?" I asked conversationally, lighting a cigarette. "Hmm?" she mumbled distractedly, intent on her task. "I was wondering if you got the rag on yet, lover." "Yeah," she replied absently, tipping the can up and popping the tab. I choked; she didn't. * Robin drove us out to Corey's that night to drop her off. We let her out down the street in order to keep up appearances, and watched until she stepped through her front door. "You're awfully quiet tonight," he commented as he pulled away from the curb. "Ah, got a lot on my mind, I guess," I shrugged noncommittally. "Sounds to me like you could use another six," he suggested. I shook my head. "Nah, I already drank enough to keep me pissing 'til next Thursday. I ain't really in the mood to go back out to the woods, anyway. Just drop me at Birch's, huh?" "Sure," he replied, frowning slightly. We spent the next few minutes in strained silence, until finally he inquired hesitantly, "Mind if I ask you a question?" I watched the trees slip past. "Hit me, bud." "What's with you lately?" "D'no. What's with me?" "C'mon, man -- you know what I mean. You ain't you no more." "S'that so?" I remarked dryly. He sighed in exasperation. "Fine. Have it your way. If you don't like to party no more, then far be it from me to give a shit why." "The boy's in love, Robin darling. Leave him alone." "That's cool -- be a smartass. See if I care." I laughed. "I'm touched at your concern, man. Truly." "Go ta hell," he grumbled irritably. "Workin' on it daily. Listen, don't worry about me, okay? I can handle my own shit. I swear." He nodded in grudging assent, and dropped me off at Birch's apartment shortly thereafter. I climbed the stairs quickly, feeling no shame at the way I'd lied to Robin. I knew I couldn't talk to him anymore -- not about anything that really mattered, at least. It wasn't his fault. I was the one who'd closed him off, side-stepping his efforts to draw me out. But it wasn't all that strange, to be honest. We'd never actually had a serious conversation about anything important since we'd known each other -- it's just that he'd never noticed before. There'd never been any really major problems to be dealt with, so there'd never been any subjects considered off limits. Now I'd gone and cut him -- and most of my other friends, as well -- out of a large portion of my life, and he didn't quite know how to deal with that. Oh yes, I knew I wasn't me anymore. Not the "me" that he was accustomed to, at any rate. And the funny part was, I didn't really give a damn. It's kind of like running into an old childhood friend and wondering what in God's name you ever had in common with each other. Hey, Sam -- nice to see ya. Let's do lunch sometime, huh? Then you run on and hope to Christ you never see the jerk again, because he's not the cool dude you used to think he was. My problem was, I was starting to grow up. Slowly but surely, as the saying goes. I didn't feel any more mature than usual as I knocked on Birch's door, however. Far from it. All I felt was a muddled sort of confusion, which I naïvely trusted him to be able to clear up for me. He invited me in -- pleased to see me, as always -- and offered me a beer. "Coffee, thanks, if y'don't mind," I requested, following him into the dark kitchen. He flipped on the overhead light and put the pot on the stove to warm up, obviously not in the habit of drinking coffee at this late hour of the day. "So, am I gonna get my ass chewed for not providing limo service tonight?" he smiled, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned back against the counter. "Nah," I chuckled. "We made out awright." "You did get to see Corey, then?" I nodded. "Geoff took me out to get her and Robin drove us back." "And I thought I was irreplaceable," he sighed dramatically. "You wound me, my friend." "You're becoming a terrible wise-ass." "Must be the company I've been keeping of late." I groaned and went to the cupboard to fetch myself a cup. Once he'd poured my coffee, we retired to the living room, where he settled comfortably into his armchair with a half-empty bottle of wine while I seated myself in the corner of the couch. He lit a cigarette, inquiring, "Is there something you wanted to talk about? I get the feeling I'm supposed to be asking you some kind of leading question, but -- to be perfectly honest -- I'm a bit too wired to figure out what it ought to be. So it's up to you." I shrugged. "She ain't pregnant." After a moment of thoughtful silence, he asked, "She told you that?" It took me several years to fully understand the meaning behind his question . . . and his reasons for phrasing it precisely as he did. At the time, I simply took it at face value and nodded. "And what do you think about that?" he prompted. "I d'no. I guess I should be happy," I replied without emotion. "But you're not?" "Not really, no. I thought maybe . . . shit, I don't know." "You were still hoping she might change her mind about marrying you." "I suppose." He took a last drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray that rested on the arm of his chair. "Am I crazy?" I wondered aloud. He laughed softly. "No. Stupid, yes, but not crazy." "Thanks a lot," I muttered sarcastically. "Don't mention it." He sipped his wine. "So where do we go from here?" "Huh?" "What now?" "Whaddya mean?" "What're your plans? You still pushing for a wedding, or have you dropped that idea now?" "I d'no. Does it really matter? I mean, my plans ain't been worth dogshit lately." "I think it matters a great deal, actually." "Yeah, well, fuck it. I'm just gonna ride it out for a while 'til I get my head straight. There ain't no baby, so there ain't no rush." He looked troubled by my statement, but said nothing. I lit a Marlboro. "Play something," I coaxed, indicating the guitar leaning against his chair. "Such as?" "Anything. I don't feel like talking anymore right now." He nodded, taking no offense where none was meant. I curled my legs up underneath me as he picked up his instrument and began to finger a hauntingly soft tune. My mind wandered with the music, and eventually I slept. * I woke the next morning to hushed voices arguing in the kitchen. "Now, man!" Cokey was hissing. "You tell me what that obnoxious little fucker is doing on our couch! Right now!" "Don't do this to me, Cokey," from Birch. "I mean it. Don't." "No! I've had it with this shit! I wanna know what the hell he's doing here! You can't keep on doing this to yourself!" "Don't try to run my life, alright?" Birch replied sternly. "And stop trying to pick my friends for me -- you're not my mother." "Hah! Some friend! Friends like that'll kill you before you're thirty! Listen, Ange -- please! You're only human! Quit trying to be some kind of goddam saint all the time! Tell this asshole to get lost and stay lost, or I will!" "You'll do no such thing. You say one wrong word to him and you'll find yourself out on your ass." "You threatening to kick me out?" "Yes." Pause. "Are you serious?" "Try me." "You can't keep this up, man! I can't just sit back and watch you dig your own grave on account of that worthless piece of shit out there!" "Don't push me, friend," warned Birch evenly. Cokey sighed heavily, exasperated, and changed tactics. "I heard you crying last night, y'know. It ain't the first time, either." "You were dreaming. I told you to lay off that raw pepperoni." "Angie, don't lie to me! Goddammit, I hate when you do this! Just be a person, willya? Think about yourself for a change -- it ain't a crime to be a little selfish once in a while! The world won't end if you try to grab a little happiness for yourself, y'know. Townsend can have any chick he wants -- he don't need Corey. Not like you do." "He loves her, Cokey." He snorted. "Yeah, between the sheets, he loves her." "And she loves him," Birch continued, ignoring his remark. "She loves you, too!" he insisted. "As a friend, that's all. It's not the same." "It could be if you'd try a little! You ain't even trying!" "I don't want to hurt anybody." "Except yourself, right?" "I'm used to it -- it's candy." Shit, he'd gotten that line from me. I squirmed internally. Cokey cursed in frustration and stormed out of the apartment, pausing before he slammed the door to call back, "And that fucker'd better be gone by the time I get home, Fairchild!" There was a moment of silence, and then I felt Birch nudging the cushion on the couch beneath me with his knee. "You can quit faking now, Jag. C'mon -- up. Your breakfast's getting cold." I opened my eyes to find him setting a glass of juice and a plateful of eggs and sausage down onto the coffee table. "How'd you know I was awake?" I wondered, reaching for the glass. He shrugged and settled back into his chair, closing his eyes. "Where's yours?" I asked suspiciously. "I already ate." "Really." He sighed. "Don't you start in on me, too -- okay?" I let it drop. Picking up my plate, I studied him as I gnawed a link of sausage. He really did look exhausted -- possibly on the verge of collapse. His features seemed more sharply defined than they had been a month ago, his skin beginning to show lines I'd never noticed before. But, God - - he was still so beautiful. "Birch?" "Hmm?" Golden lashes resting against pale flesh -- he looked almost dead. "Can I tell you something without you taking it the wrong way?" "I'm listening." "I love ya, man." His eyes remained closed. "It's mutual." I chewed my food thoughtfully for a few minutes, and then confessed, "I can't back off, Birch. You know that, don't you?" "I don't want you to," he replied softly. "I'd do anything else in the world for you, but I just can't back off." "I know." There was no condemnation in his voice, only weary acceptance. "Would it help to tell you I'm sorry?" "I'd rather you didn't say anything at all right now, if it's all the same to you." "Yeah," I murmured, tapping my fork gently against my lower lip. After a moment, I found myself adding, "It really ain't candy, though -- is it, Angel?" "No," he agreed. "It really ain't."

* For Birch's sake, I left that day before Cokey returned. I would've preferred to stick around and kick the little creep's ass, but I didn't want to upset Birch any further. All this emotional turmoil aside, on the surface things continued to go along pretty well during the following week. Until Friday, at any rate. That's when the proverbial shit hit the fan. Corey and I had made plans to meet at the bowling alley around six o'clock. She would be bringing the legendary Adele with her, since it had been arranged for Adele's mother to drop them both off. I knew that a few of the other guys would be around that night, so I wasn't too concerned about how we could dump little Adele. I made it there by five-thirty and found Jojo, Yamen, and Ganj shooting some eight-ball over at the pool table. Lori was perched nearby on a rack of bowling balls. That iced Jojo as far as Adele was concerned. "Hey, Romeo -- where's Juliet?" he called as he finished his shot and looked up to see me approaching. "She'll be around," I replied casually. "I got winners." "Ganj, you gonna step down and let this ugly shitheap take your up?" Yamen grinned. "Might's well," Ganj answered apathetically. "I suck at this game anyway." "I'm gonna rip your ass apart," Yamen told me in gleeful eagerness. "You gotta beat me first, dipshit," Jojo reminded him. He pocketed the five ball -- leaving himself without a shot -- and played a safety. "I'm screwed," Yamen groaned, noting that the cue ball was now surrounded by solid-colored balls. He tried for a bank shot, which turned out disastrously -- not only did he scratch, but he simultaneously kissed the eight ball into the side pocket. "Like I said," laughed Jojo. "Gonna rip my ass apart, huh?" I mocked. "Better take winners, then." Yamen grumbled and Jojo announced, "Looks like I got me another over-confident fool to blow away, here." "We'll see," I retorted as Yamen turned his cue stick over to me. "Your rack," Jo said, chalking his own cue. Some minutes later, he wasn't quite so self-assured. He had three balls left, while I was down to one . . . which I was preparing to sink into the far corner pocket, leaving me set to bury the eight in the opposite corner if I put a good stop on the cue ball. "You'll scratch, man," Jojo sneered, trying to psych me. "The only balls I scratch are the ones between my legs . . . man," I grinned mischievously. I lined up my shot. I heard them before I saw them -- an unfamiliar voice stage-whispering, "Which one is he?" Then Corey's voice, sweet and low: "The tall blond." I sent the nine ball spinning into its appointed pocket as Adele blurted, "But, Corey -- he looks like a girl!" The cue ball stopped dead on impact. I ignored them long enough to pocket the eight and remind Yamen that it was his rack, and then I stepped up to Corinne, murmured, "Hey, sugar," and kissed her with more passion than was appropriate in a public facility. "Oh, please!" Jo complained. "Townsend, you gag me!" "Shut up and pay attention," Lori told him. "You might learn something." "Absolutely revolting," Yamen commented, grinning. I winked at Corey. "They're so jealous." She nodded, playing along, and agreed, "I know. Ain't it a shame?" "Your break, stud," Yamen informed me, stepping back from the table. "Make up your mind which stick you're gonna use -- the one in your hand or the one in your pants." I laughed and returned to the game, leaving Corey with the blushing Adele. I was beginning to have my doubts about seeing that girl fixed up with anybody that night. Although I knew she was the same age as Corey, she struck me as someone who would've been more on the level of the pre-pubescent mall crowd across the way. Maybe that would be the best place to ditch her for a few hours, I mused silently with sick humor. She was introduced around, eventually. Jojo facetiously complimented her on her skirt and she took it seriously, thanking him. Corey rolled her eyes and tried to keep a straight face, while I concentrated intently on the three ball in order to keep myself from cackling out loud. Jo coughed and lit a cigarette. Only Ganj muttered a quiet, "Shut up, Jo. Don't be such an asshole." Hope flickered dimly alight again as I realized that there might yet be a chance for poor little Adele.

* Indeed, as the evening progressed it seemed more and more likely that Ganj would prove to be the answer to the question of how to pry Adele loose from Corey. Six-thirty arrived, and with it came Coyote -- an acquaintance of Yamen's who was in much the same profession as Tim's buddy Tony. Yamen, Jo, Ganj, and I went in five dollars apiece on a bag of pot, which Adele was unaware of since Yamen collected the money and then went off to the men's room with Coyote to complete the transaction. Coyote left in search of additional business, and the rest of us walked across to the mall, where Corey, Ganj, and I -- and Adele -- stopped at the cheese shop while Jojo, Yamen, and Lori went on to the tobacco shop to pick up some papers. Once inside, Ganj and I grabbed several of the cheaper bottles of wine and headed for the cash register. Adele pulled Corey aside and spoke her name a bit worriedly. "What?" Corey sighed irritably. Adele whispered to her, and in return she hissed, "Del, will you please lighten up some!" "What's wrong?" Ganj asked, turning. "The booze," Corey replied wearily. "Oh," he nodded, smiling, and took off down the aisle to pick up a bottle of ginger ale for Adele. I grinned and shook my head in amusement. "He's such a sucker." "He's very nice," Adele protested meekly. "Yeah, lucky for you," Corey told her. "Honestly, Del - - you're being such a drag." "I'm sorry," she whined. "I don't mean to be." Corey put a sisterly hand on her shoulder and sighed, "I know." She was a lot more understanding than Jojo turned out to be when we all got out to the dock and Ganj unpacked the bag, handing Adele her bottle of pop. "Ginger ale?" he snorted in disbelief. "Christ, what rock didja say you found this one under, Corey?" Ganj spoke up immediately. "Hey, lay off, man. Let the chick have what she wants. She ain't hurtin' you none." "Ooh -- what've we got here? Hector Protector?" he sneered in return. Ganj shot him a bird, and he inquired, "Age, I.Q., or the size of your dick in centimeters?" I turned to Yamen and instructed, "Break out the shit before these two get violent, huh?" "Be more for us if they do, though," he chuckled. I growled at him and he leaned back, laughing, and pulled the baggie out of his jeans. "Papers, Lori," Jo prompted, nudging her. Shifting onto one elbow to present her backside to him, she cooed, "Certainly, darling. Would you care to do the honors?" "But of course!" he grinned, sliding his hand into her back pocket. "Who's rolling?" "Jag is," Yamen decided, throwing the bag into my lap at the same time as Adele began to plead, "Corey, we'd better go . . . ." She obviously had had enough of us over- sexed, drugged-out freaks. Corey fixed her with an evil glare and opened her mouth to speak, but Ganj was already on his feet, grabbing Adele's hand. "Let's go for a walk, okay?" he offered, pulling her gently to her own feet. "There's a great ice cream parlor down the road a bit. I'll buy you a sundae." Uncertain, she looked to Corey, who told her, "Go ahead, Del. He won't bite." "Not hard, anyway," Jo snickered. "Shut up, shitface," she snapped, kicking his leg. "Woman!" he warned as Lori giggled. "Townsend, call off your bitch!" I laughed and shook my head. "Sorry, man. You get what you pay for." Ganj tugged at Adele softly, urging, "C'mon. It's cool." "Go on, chickie," I said, shooing her. "He's harmless." "Unlike some people," Jo complained, rubbing his leg and thereby provoking general all-around laughter. Ganj led Adele away -- much to everyone else's relief -- and Jojo tossed me the pack of papers. "Thank God that's gone!" he remarked, watching the pair depart. "That chick's a royal pain, Corey. Really." "Yeah? No shit. But maybe she'd loosen up a little if you'd get off her case for five minutes -- didja ever think of that, bozo?" "I do believe I smell smoke!" Yamen snickered. "Was that you that just got burned, Jo?" "To a crisp," I assured him, licking the gummed edge of the paper I held as I finished rolling the first joint. Jojo lit a cigarette, doing his damnedest to ignore us. "I suppose you were never straight, right?" Corey continued, obviously out for Jo's ass at the moment. "Nah, he was born with a weed in his mouth," from Yamen. "Fried his mama's twat something awful on his way out." "S'that right, Jo? Huh? And did him have an itty-bitty wittle hard-on, too?" "Cool it, Cor," I advised her, noting that Jojo was getting more than a little pissed. "No, just hold on a second, Jag. There's something else I wanna find out first." She turned back to Jo and bit out, "Hey, red -- I'm talking to you. Listen. When your mama gave you tit, which side'd you get the Jack Daniels out of?" He blew. It was inevitable, the way she was going at him. Leaning forward to point his cigarette in her face for emphasis, he snarled, "Fuck you, bitch!" Lori and Yamen were speechless. I wasn't. "Apologize, Jo," I said firmly. "Now." "What?" he squealed, incredulous. "Do it." He started to protest, but I silenced him, saying, "You wanna smoke this number? Or would you rather I shoved it up your ass?" He shot me a murderous look and mumbled, "Sorry." "I didn't hear you," I pressed. "I'm sorry!" he snapped, louder this time. "Corey?" "You expect me to apologize to that raunchy little--?" "I expect you to do what I tell you if you want my ass tonight, yes." She rolled her eyes. "The things I do for you!" "Get on with it." "Awright! Take a break, already. Sorry, Jo." He nodded. No one spoke, and a moment later they both burst out laughing. "Are we a couple of assholes or what?" Corey giggled. Jojo -- still laughing hysterically -- gasped, "It was the left one!" "What?" asked Lori in confusion. "The Jack Daniels!" he croaked. Corey fell against my arm, shaking with hilarity, and hugged me. "I'm sorry, babe," she giggled. "Can I still have some ass?" "Can I still have some reefer?" babbled Jojo. "Do you have any idea what these two are gonna be like when they're high if they're this bad now?" from Yamen. By that time, I was the one left speechless. * We were working on our fourth joint when Ganj and Adele returned. He managed to convince her to come sit with us anyway, even though we were still engaged in illegal activity and all. Come to think of it, there was also a bit of immoral activity going on by then, too, but that's the way of it. Corey and I were curled up against the wall, and although we were still fully clothed, I wasn't all that far from wanting to alter that little detail whether we had an audience or not. Needless to say, I wasn't exactly thrilled to see Little Miss Propriety again. Lori passed the joint to Ganj, and Adele turned away to look directly at Corey and me. As her expression grew increasingly horrified with each passing second, I cursed under my breath and withdrew my hand from inside Corey's blouse. "Try some?" Ganj asked softly, holding the number out to Adele. She shook her head vigorously. "Go for it," Lori told her. "Go on -- it don't do nothing but make you feel good." She giggled. "It don't even give you a hangover!" So saying, she raised the bottle of wine she held and drank deeply. "Don't make you grow green fur or funny-looking scales, either," Yamen chuckled. "I . . . I don't know how . . . ," Adele whimpered, wide- eyed. "You don't have to," Ganj soothed, squeezing her hand. "Christ, you guys make such a big deal out of nothing," Corey sighed, sitting up to light a cigarette. "Give her a shotgun, Ganj." He shook his head. "Corey, she don't want--" "Yeah, I know -- she don't want anything," she snapped. "What're you talking about?" Adele asked innocently. "Shotgun, chickie," I told her. "Watch." I dug a fresh joint out of my pocket, lit it, and took a few hits. "On your knees, bitch," I smiled at Corey, poking her in the side. She knelt in front of me obediently and leaned close as I put the lit end in my mouth and blew a steady stream of smoke into her face. "Remember -- no French-kissing 'til he moves the weed," Jojo said in mock-sternness. Corey giggled and choked. "You shit!" she coughed, laughing. He looked to me and whined, "Daddy, she's pickin' on me again!" I reached around and slapped her lightly on the ass. "Bad girl, Cinderella." She stuck out her tongue and grabbed a bottle from Yamen. "Hey!" he complained. "Drink your own, girl." "Yours was closer," she grinned, still hoarse. Returning his bottle, she told Adele, "See? Nothing to it . . . as long as certain assholes can manage to keep their mouths shut, anyway." With this last, she directed a haughty smile toward Jojo. Jo pointed a finger at his own chest. "Who, me?" "You got an identical twin?" "Gee, I don't think so . . . ." "Must've been you, then." He shrugged. "Oh, well. Must've been, I guess." There was laughter at this performance, and then Yamen asked, "So, what's it gonna be, Miss Adele? You up for a little marijuana?" He pronounced the word with so much devilish awe that we all cracked up again. She didn't get the joke, of course. "I don't think I should," she said nervously. "All you gotta do is breathe in," pressed Lori. "You do know how to breathe, don't you?" "Ah, piss on it," Jojo remarked, dismissing the whole matter with a wave of his hand. "Why waste good smoke? She probably wouldn't get high anyway. I didn't the first time I tried it." "You didn't smoke enough, then," I chuckled. "You mean I won't get stoned if I just take one puff?" asked Adele. I sputtered -- as did most of the others -- and Corey groaned, "You don't 'puff' reefer, Del, you toke it." "Yeah. 'Puff' was a magic dragon," Yamen declared, snickering. Adele shrugged, embarrassed. Ganj -- a bit more sensitive than the rest of us -- explained, "It's kind of like blowing up a balloon, hon. The more air you put into it, the higher you fly." "Same as drinkin'," Yamen added, illustrating by tipping his bottle up. "She don't drink, stupid," Ganj reminded him. "She can't make no comparison from that." "Well, pardon me!" he retorted, trying to appear wounded and failing miserably. "He can't help it," I smirked, making excuses for him. "He done had too many 'puffs' of that there 'marijuana.'" Jojo laughed. "Is that it? And I thought he was just normally like that!" "Lick my lollipop, Valentino," he countered, grabbing his crotch for emphasis. "I knew you were getting lonely, but this's ridiculous!" Jo snorted. He crawled behind Lori, babbling, "Save me, darlin'!" When the general hilarity had died down a bit, I looked to Adele and inquired, "So, chickie? You want a little shotgun or no?" "Well . . . ." She bit her lip and turned to Ganj. "Will you do it? I mean . . . ." She dropped her gaze shyly. He loved it. "Sure, hon," he replied gently. "If you want." I tossed him another number. We observed the proceedings with mild interest, Lori offering occasional encouragement to Adele. "You gotta hold it," she told her after Adele had inhaled, exhaled immediately, and uttered a delicate cough. "Pretend you're going underwater." She tried again, faring better the second time, although her subsequent cough wasn't quite as feminine. Lori handed her a wine bottle and Adele's throat was just raw enough for her to accept in desperation. "I don't feel any different," she shrugged at last. "Go again," Lori suggested. Fifteen minutes and a second joint later, Adele was sufficiently loaded for Ganj to chance a quick kiss to her cheek as she sat holding her breath from her last hit. Her eyes -- previously closed tightly -- flew open at his touch, and she giggled daintily and choked. Lori handed the bottle back to her as I chuckled, "Uh- oh -- Ganja's hooked." "So's Adele, I hope," Corey murmured in my ear. I grinned at her in reply and dropped a lingering kiss onto her mouth. "My parents are going out tonight," she informed me in a mischievous whisper. "Matter of fact, they're probably gone by now, if you'd care to call my house and check." I arched an eyebrow and she smiled sweetly. Not needing any further prodding, I got to my feet, pulled her up, and announced, "Excuse us a moment, people -- I got a phone call to make." "Yeah, sure," Jojo snickered. Yamen put in, "Is that what they're calling it these days?" "They ain't got dirty minds," I told Corey in mock- assurance. "No, of course not," she agreed, carrying it through as I slid my arm around her to lead her away.

* There was no answer at her house. With joyful anticipation, we hurried back outside to the dock to pick up Adele -- and, as it turned out, Ganj -- and headed for Marine Drive. The walk there was a kick in itself. It'd been muggy all evening, but halfway home the sky opened up and drenched us all. Even Adele was hard put to keep from laughing once the initial shock had worn off. We hit Corey's house looking like a pack of drowned rats. "Towels, lover," I instructed the minute we got inside the door. "Please!" Adele added, shivering. "I'm freezing!" "Warm her up, Ganj," Corey called back as she ran up the stairs, giggling. I went after her. I found her gathering armloads of fluffy towels out of the linen closet in the hallway. "I'll take those," I grinned, doing so. "I ain't waiting no longer for you, Cinderella." I walked back to the top of the stairs and dumped the whole pile straight to the bottom. "Help yourselves, kids!" I hollered before returning to Corey's side. She was stripping herself right there in the hall, and I felt a little hitch in the lower portion of my anatomy. "Well, looks like I ain't the only one in a hurry tonight," I smiled. She threw a towel at me and wrapped another around herself. "First you dry off some," she insisted. "I ain't fucking no fish." I laughed and followed her into her bedroom, clutching my towel.

* An hour or so later, Corey rose and dressed herself in a dry pair of jeans and a peasant blouse that left almost nothing to the imagination. "Ain't that just a bit . . . sheer?" I inquired as she picked up her hairbrush. "Do you care?" she returned absently. "Well, we do have company downstairs." "Del won't mind." "I wasn't actually referring to Adele." "What? Ganj's never seen a pair of tits before?" "Not yours." She turned to regard me, an amused smile spreading slowly across her face. "I do believe you're jealous, blondie." "Me? Jealous?" "You. Jealous." "Shit, no way," I lied. "Good." She gathered up my wet clothes and said, "I'll be right back -- I'm just gonna take these down to the dryer." "Hold it!" I commanded, jumping out of bed to take the clothes from her. As I'd suspected, her blouse had already become damp, clinging closely to her skin and leaving her breasts clearly visible. "Change the shirt, first." "Thought you weren't jealous?" "Maybe a little," I admitted grudgingly. "Tough," she replied with a haughty grin, scooping up the wet pile from the floor once again. I grabbed her arm, laughing, and growled, "Oh, no you don't, sugar!" Wrestling her down to the bed, I told her, "You don't get away from me that easy!" as I tugged at her blouse. She shrieked in playful delight and struggled wildly against me, which was probably why we never heard her parents come in downstairs. We had just lapsed into a highly passionate kiss when I heard a vaguely familiar voice thundering, "Corey Anne, what in God's name are you doing!" (Can you say Oh Shit, boys and girls?) Corey sat up -- startled only for an instant -- and then adjusted her blouse, sighing, "It's called kissing, Father. Ever heard of it?" I pulled the sheet across my lap, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Mr. Rogers was bellowing, "Don't be smart with me, missy!" She slapped herself on the forehead and continued, "Silly me! Of course you have! I'm here, aren't I?" "Corey, don't," I begged quietly, laying a hand on her arm. "Shut up, blondie!" she snapped, shaking off my touch. "Stay out of this!" "I suggest you listen to your young man! You're in quite enough hot water without making it worse by back- talking your own father!" he roared. "Oh, and what am I supposed to do? Thank you for coming home early and ruining my life?" "I think we'd better finish this discussion in my study." "Do you. And what's wrong with finishing it right here? You afraid to make an ass of yourself in front of a real man?" "Now, young lady!" "Fuck off!" she spat furiously. I spoke up. I had to. "Cinders, stop it -- please." "Didn't I tell you to stay out of this?" she fumed, tears beginning to sparkle in her eyes. "Whose side are you on, anyway?" "I'm on our side, lover -- you know that," I insisted, immediately regretting my choice of endearments as her father's scowl darkened. "But you gotta do what he says. Please -- for me." "Why should I?" she snapped as the first tear spilled down her cheek. I looked to her father, praying for his understanding. "If you could leave us alone for a few minutes, I'll do what I can to calm her down so she can talk a little bit more rationally." He frowned, and I pointed out, "Look, what more can we do in five minutes that's any worse than what we've already done?" "Five minutes," he agreed, warning, "and then you'd better be dressed and be gone, son!" "Thanks," I breathed as he retreated. I pulled Corey into my arms as soon as he was out of sight and held her while she cried. "I hate him!" she sobbed against my shoulder. "I mean it, Michael -- I hate that goddam bastard! I hate him, and I hate my mother and her stupid fucking fake migraines, and I hate this house, and most of all I hate my whole fucking life!" "I know, sweetheart," I soothed, stroking her hair. "I know. Shh. It's okay -- I'm here." I rocked her for a minute or two and then backed away to take her face between my hands. She was a mess, but she still looked gorgeous to me. Even more so, knowing that I would probably have a pretty rough time getting to see her again after what had just happened. "I love you, Cinderella," I murmured, brushing tears away from her eyes. "He's gonna ground me forever!" she wept angrily. "Oh, Michael . . . ." "Not forever, babe. For a few weeks, maybe, but not forever." "That's still too long!" "I can wait," I assured her, forcing myself to smile. "And so can you. You're too much of a fighter to let him get you down this easy. C'mon -- show me some spirit. You can bullshit your way through this if you go about it the right way." "A-and wh-what's the right way su-supposed to be?" she asked, her breath starting to hitch as she calmed. "For starters, quit trying so hard to piss him off. You're only making things worse." "I can't h-help it." "Yes you can. You love me, doncha?" She nodded. "Then do it for me, okay?" She took a deep breath. "Okay." "Thank you," I said tenderly, wiping away a final teardrop. She ran trembling fingers along the length of my hair and pleaded, "Kiss me." I did, savoring the bittersweet taste of her tears, trying to capture every detail of the moment, wanting to etch it all permanently into my memory for the days ahead when she would be forbidden to me. Never before in my life had I hurt so damned bad.

* I wriggled into my soggy clothes then, time slipping away from us much too quickly. She came to stand behind me in front of the mirror above her dresser, and lovingly began to pull her brush through my hair. "Michael," she said quietly, "if you find it too difficult to wait for me, I'll understand." I turned and touched a kiss to her forehead. "Sweetheart, if I find it too difficult to wait for you, I'll take a cold shower. Now don't say shit like that anymore. I love you, remember?" She nodded, burying her face into my chest as her arms slipped around my waist to hug me tight. "I love you, too, babe. So much." "Hey," I grinned, tipping her chin up so I could look into her eyes, "you're getting yourself all wet again." "I don't care," she told me forlornly, nuzzling up against my shoulder once more.

* Halfway down the stairs, we met with her father -- who had clearly reached the limits of his patience. "Well, young lady?" he inquired, drumming agitated fingers on the bannister. "Have you composed yourself yet?" Her eyes flashed, but she merely lowered her head and answered a moderate, "Yes, sir. I apologize for being so disrespectful." His anger eased a fraction, and he grudgingly acknowledged, "Well, son, it does seem as though you have some influence over this wayward child of mine. However, I still find it necessary to insist that you leave my home immediately . . . and permanently. If I should ever catch you anywhere near my daughter again, I shall not hesitate to have you arrested." You won't catch me near her again, I thought sullenly. I ain't dumb enough to get caught in this same predicament with her twice. I'll just be a hell of a lot more careful next time. Aloud, I argued politely to be allowed to see her under his supervision, explaining with faultless lies how Corey had forgotten that they wouldn't be home that evening and we'd been very surprised to find that they'd gone out and we were so ashamed that the situation had gotten so far out of hand, promising repeatedly -- with more lies, obviously -- that it would never happen again. He wouldn't budge. "Young man," he declared impatiently, "if you refuse to leave of your own volition, I shall be forced to telephone for an officer to escort you off the premises." "You'd better go," Corey sighed. "He means it." And - - surprising both males present -- she reached up and kissed me squarely on the mouth, right there in front of her father. Then she stepped back to arrange the tousled layers of white-blond that rested lightly against my chest to her satisfaction, murmuring softly, "'Bye, babe," her voice becoming husky as fresh tears brimmed in her midnight-blue eyes. I descended the stairs slowly and headed for the door. The last thing I heard as I left the house was her heartbroken plea, "Daddy, may I please be excused for a while before we talk?" It was the first and only time I ever heard her call him Daddy.

* Ganj was leaning up against a large maple tree down the street a piece, waiting for me. As I approached, he pushed off with his foot and fell into step beside me. "Goddam, it's good to see you still breathin'!" he declared with a smile. "I was gettin' worried about you, in there for so long." "Where's Adele?" I inquired curtly. "Ah, the old bitch went and drove her home. Said she'd have to tell her folks what she'd been 'up to.' Shit -- can you believe it? We weren't even doing nothin'!" He took out a cigarette and lit it. "So, what happened in there?" "Nothing," I mumbled. "Hey, you're really bummed about this, ain't you?" he asked, surprised. "What's the deal? It ain't like you never got caught with a chick before, or anything." "Yeah, and it ain't like I ever gave a fuck about any of the other chicks I got caught with, either." "Huh?" "Forget it." He shook his head in confusion. "Man, I just don't get you anymore." "You and everyone else," I sighed. We walked in silence for a while until at last Ganj suggested, "Wanna stop for a drink somewheres or something? It's early yet." "Nah, you go ahead if you want. I'm just gonna drop by and see Birch for a while." As an afterthought, I added, "You're welcome to come along if you feel like it." I wasn't planning to press Birch for any answers that night -- mainly because I seriously doubted that he'd have any -- but I was badly in need of the comfort that his presence had begun to provide me. "Uh . . . I don't think so," he replied. "I mean -- no offense, but the guy's kind of a drag, y'know?" "How would you know? You ever sit down and talk to him for more than five minutes?" "I don't think the dude's got enough words in his vocabulary to talk any longer than that." "Then you don't know him very well. He's got more brains than you and me put together, if you want the truth." "Right," he scoffed. "Look, just 'cause he's quiet most of the time, that don't make him stupid. Didja know Corey pulled a ninety-seven on her Lit final? Y'know why? 'Cause your friend with the lousy vocabulary was tutoring her, that's why. And he's been out of school for about eight years now. You been out for only a year or so -- how much Dickens d'you remember, huh?" "As little as possible," he grinned with pride. "Case closed." "Awright, awright -- I'll go with you," he chuckled. "But only so's I can find out how this guy you never said two words to up 'til a couple months ago became God. And I'm leaving the minute I get bored." "In which case, you may just be there all night long." "Yeah -- sure, George." I shrugged. "You'll see."

* In all fairness, I suppose I should mention that I wasn't altogether without ulterior motives in paying a visit to Birch's that night. Nothing shitty -- quite the contrary, actually. I was getting more than a little worried about his health, and -- along with the three joints I still had left of my share -- I was hoping to smoke him into either an attack of the munchies or passing out. Or, preferably, both. Let's face it, it was the best I could do. I couldn't give him what he desired most of all. Cokey answered the door, scowling as soon as he saw me. "Call the exterminator -- the rat's back," he said over his shoulder to Birch. "Nice to see you, too, sweetness," I cooed, stepping inside. Birch was curled up in his usual chair, clad only in a pair of patched, ragged jeans and lengths of soft, golden hair, a copy of Watership Down lying open on his lap. He smiled. "Hey, Angel. How's it goin'?" I smiled back as Cokey closed the door behind Ganj. "Worse than some, and better than most," he quipped. "Hey, remind me to give you this book if I see you tomorrow. It's quite good, really." "S'that the one you started last night? About the rabbits?" He nodded. "It's very well written. You'd enjoy it." Ganj stifled a snicker and Cokey grumbled, "Kiddie stories! Christ!" Birch sighed. "Ignore him, Jag. He still thinks The Hobbit is a fairy tale." "Well, it is," insisted Cokey sourly. "Any book with elves and dwarves and dragons in it is a goddam fairy tale, as far as I'm concerned." He turned to walk away. "Now, if you'll excuse me . . . ." I grabbed his arm. "Whoa, bud. Sorry, but you ain't pulling this little routine on me again tonight." Shoving him toward the couch, I continued, "Uh-uh, no way. Tonight you're gonna be sociable and have a good time if it fucking kills you. Now sit." "What?" he blurted in amazement. "Sit, asshole!" I ordered, assisting him with the process. "Now, you can get this started," I went on, tossing him a joint, "while I go and fetch a beer. Ganj? You want a beer?" He shrugged. "Sure." "Birch? No, you still got some wine left over there, I see. Cokey -- ah, you could use a fucking case of it, but I guess we'll start you off with one bottle. Okay, three brews coming up." I started to head for the kitchen, then doubled back to declare, "Oh, and by the way -- Ganj, I'm assigning you guard duty. If the dude with the purple eyes tries to escape, you deck him. Understand?" He saluted with amused skepticism. Birch actually laughed. "Very good. Great," I nodded. As I stepped out of the room, I heard Cokey muttering, "Ange, this guy is definitely not cooking on all four burners . . . ." I returned momentarily, noticing that Cokey still hadn't lit the joint. "C'mon -- torch it up, you mother," I prompted, handing around the Miller bottles I'd brought out. "I may have the whole night ahead of me, but that don't mean I wanna waste it in sobriety." "Jag?" Birch ventured. "Ganj tells me that you guys ran into some trouble over at Corey's house tonight." "Ah," I nodded sagely. "Yes, indeedy -- that we did. And first thing tomorrow morning, I'm gonna nominate myself for the Asshole of the Year Award. But for now I think I'll just drown my sorrows in suds and smoke, if y'don't mind." To Cokey, I added, "Darling, if you ain't gonna light the bitch, willya please hand it over to someone who will?" He tossed it into my lap. Birch stood and hooked a finger at me. "C'mere." "What?" He nodded back toward one of the bedrooms. "Let's talk." "Uh-oh. I'm in trouble." "Move your ass, Townsend," he demanded. "Now." "Sorry, Ganja," I sighed, hoisting myself up from the couch. "Looks like you're gonna have to entertain yourself with joy-boy here for a while. I gotta go get my ass chewed." Ganj looked surprised to find that someone other than Stefano was capable of ordering me around, but he said nothing. I followed Birch into his room, a bit curious anyway to see what it looked like. I'd always considered a person's bedroom to be an extremely revealing mirror -- on many levels. Corey's room, for instance, was picture-perfect on the surface, the ultimate stereotype of a girl's room. Pale lavender walls, white trim, stuffed animals abounding, French Provincial furniture, ruffled bedspread -- the whole nine yards. But I'd watched her rummage through drawers for dry clothing just hours earlier, and I knew the rebellious tangle hidden behind her parents' careful decorating. I knew about the ashtray she kept underneath the bed -- I'd used it -- and I knew about the powerhouse stereo waiting quietly inside her closet. On close inspection, it was obvious that the surface image was a false one, designed and cultivated by her parents. Exactly like the rest of her life. I'd imagined Birch's room as being rather spartan and utilitarian, I guess because of his basically sacrificial nature. I was wrong. Seeing it for the first time that night opened up entirely new facets of his personality to me. It was a world in itself, positively radiating sensuous comfort. The room was dominated by a large, worn, brass bed made up with deep brown satin sheets and a thick quilt to match. On the floor beside the bed lay a sheepskin rug, off-white spotted with brown. The far wall held a bank of windows overlooking the park across the street. Along the wall between ran a bookcase made from planks and deco-bricks, the shelves filled with books and record albums. Stereo speakers sat on the floor at each end, and the top shelf -- above which hung an exquisite bearskin -- held the turntable and receiver. These were flanked by a replica of Rodin's "The Kiss" and an assortment of framed photographs. Jesus, the photographs. A small baby picture -- a red- faced infant with a shock of dark hair. A little girl -- five or six years old, maybe -- with a pixie haircut, grinning broadly from her perch on a swing, a chocolate ice cream cone dripping stickily down her chubby fingers. Oh, God. Older now -- ten, eleven? A white cotton dress with puffed sleeves, flowers in her hair, hands folded demurely in front of her. Another, more recent -- tying on a pair of ice skates at the side of a frozen pond, knitted scarf flapping in a strong gust of wind. And in the center stood a five-by-seven not much more than six months old. Corinne curled comfortably in a corner of Birch's couch, one arm extended along the back, a cigarette held between now-slender fingers, the other hand cradling a glass of champagne, a wickedly inviting smile touching her lips. How could he possibly not love her? "Sit," he said gently as he closed the door. "Talk to me." I did. I chose a spot at the foot of the bed while he settled easily amongst the pillows at the head, and I poured out the whole story of the evening just past -- leaving out certain intimate details, of course. "You were buck naked when he walked in?" he asked once I'd concluded, obviously hoping for a denial. I sighed. "Do earrings count?" "Oh, man -- he'll never let you see her again now," he groaned. "How could you go and screw yourself like this? How could you screw me like this, for that matter?" "Screw you? How d'you figure I screwed you?" "Are you forgetting who's responsible for bringing the two of you together? Her father most definitely won't, I can assure you. From what you've told me, I get the sinking feeling that you aren't gonna be the only person she won't be allowed to see after tonight. You've fucked yourself even worse than you think, Jag -- and not only yourself, but me and probably Adele, too. Need I point out that you don't stand a chance of seeing Corey for even five minutes without me and Adele? Whether you care about my feelings or not, you do need me, y'know. And the same goes for Adele. Think about the nights you two spent in each other's arms, and then remember who covered for you." "Okay, okay," I interrupted. "So I got silver and gold, and I paid back pigshit. I didn't exactly plan all this, y'know. It ain't like I don't appreciate what's been done for me -- I didn't get up this morning and say, 'Well, gee -- how can I fuck my friends over today?'" "I know," he sighed. "I apologize." "Regardless of what you may think, I don't get my rocks off by hurting you. I didn't come over here tonight to cry on your shoulder -- if you want the goddam truth, I came over hoping to get you blitzed enough to eat something because I damn-fucking-well do care about you! I wasn't even gonna tell you about what happened at Corey's until that dipshit Ganj went and opened his big mouth." "I'm about to get blacklisted and you weren't gonna tell me?" "At the time, I hadn't actually thought about the long- range fallout. I was still recovering from the initial explosion." He nodded. "I suppose I can understand that." There was silence for a few minutes. He studied his hands, folded atop one patched knee. I looked over at the photographs on his bookcase for the hundredth time. "Those pictures irritate the shit out of me, y'know," I stated quite honestly. He replied in kind. "I'm sorry if they bother you, but I'm not taking them down." "No, I'm not asking you to. I just wanted you to know." "Your opinion has been noted." "And discarded," I added for him. "Right," he agreed, smiling slightly. "Wanna go get a couple pizzas?" He shrugged. "It's up to you." "Will you eat?" No answer for a moment. Then, finally, "I'll try." I reached over and gave him a gentle slap on the shoulder as I got up from the bed. "Try hard, huh?"

* He tried, I have to give him credit for that. But it was worse than I could ever have guessed. Cokey and Ganj scarfed up one whole pizza between the two of them in less than twenty minutes. It took Birch the same length of time to work through one slice, and five minutes later he excused himself to the bathroom. When ten minutes had passed and he still hadn't returned, I went to check on him. The bathroom door stood ajar, and I leaned against the frame and asked, "Birch? You okay, man?" He answered weakly, "Depends on your definition of okay, I guess." I pushed the door open. He sat on the floor, his forearms propped loosely on his knees, his head tipped back against the cool tile wall he leaned on. His eyes were closed. "You lost it?" I inquired, concerned. "Couldn't help it." I shut the door and went to squat down beside him. I'd had no idea it had gone so far. "How long's it been?" "I don't know," he admitted. I studied him in silence for a long time before asking him, "Do you know you're committing slow suicide?" "Jag, please . . . ." "No -- no 'Jag, please.' No more. We gotta talk about this, Angel. I mean it. Now you tell me: Do you understand what you're doing?" "Yes." Barely audible. "You made a conscious decision to do this?" "Not originally. It just . . . developed into that." "But you know you're killing yourself." "Yes." "Why?" He laid his head down upon his arms, his voice breaking as he replied, "Because it hurts." "What hurts?" No answer. I knew what it would be, but I pressed anyway because it had to come from him in order for it to do him any good. "C'mon, man -- what hurts?" He just shook his head, silent. I touched his shoulder, urging, "Let it go, Angel. You've got to." "I can't. It's too strong -- you don't understand." "Let it go, man. You can't keep it inside any longer -- that's where it's strongest. You've gotta bring it out where we can deal with it." "I can't . . . ." "Say her name, Angel." "No . . . ." "Say it. Say her name." "Don't . . . ." "You gotta get it out, man -- it's killing you. I can't let you die -- I need you, dammit! She needs you!" No response. I pushed. "How can you have the fucking balls to go trying to off yourself when you can't even say her fucking name?" That did it. He looked me straight in the eye and hissed, "It's Corinne, you pitiless bastard -- and you damned well know it!" "Yeah, and what about her?" "I love her!" He was so close. I pushed harder. "Sure. You love her like a brother, right? That's why you're killing yourself." "You know it's more than that . . . ." "Do I? Hard to say -- you keep it so well hidden. I mean, how much could you love her without wanting her, too?" He broke. Completely. Hot, bitter tears burst forth and he shook uncontrollably. "What makes you think I don't want her?" he spat in hurt anger. "You think I'm something less than human, maybe? That I'm not a man because I've never been laid? Let me tell you something, Townsend -- I do want her! And I don't really give a shit right now whether you like it or not -- it's a fact, and facts can't be changed just because you don't like them. Maybe you can have everything else your way, but not this. I want her, and you can't change that." "You want her? What -- to decorate your couch with?" I sneered, pushing straight to the edge. "No, you smug little son of a bitch -- not on my couch! In my bed! My bed, not yours! For me! Me, Townsend! I want to be the one she holds at night, the one she touches, kisses, makes love to!" "The one she loves?" I offered gently after a moment. "Yes," he sighed, deflated. "That, too." "Angel?" "What?" "Ain't you the guy who told me there's no crime in wanting?" He looked away and laughed harshly through his tears. I waited. Eventually he loosed a deep, shuddering breath and dropped his head back against the tile. "The world didn't end, did it?" I asked softly. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "Well, it's finally out, right? You admitted that you wanna fuck Corey -- to put it bluntly -- and the sky didn't fall. I'm still here, you're still here. Nothing's changed, except that it's not all bottled up inside you anymore. So you wanna fuck her. Is it so horrible out here in the light? I mean, it seems perfectly natural to me -- my own personal feelings aside, of course." He shrugged, sitting forward. "Birch, nothing's changed," I insisted. "I'm still your friend." "I can't stop wanting her," he warned, his eyes begging for understanding. "No more than I can." I patted his back. "You ready to go back out there yet?" He considered a moment, then nodded. "Feeling any better?" "Enough to try another slice of that pizza, I suppose," he smiled crookedly. I laughed and grabbed hold of his arm to help him to his feet.

* It was sufficient. I hated ripping it out of him like that, but it worked -- his second slice stayed down. It wasn't much, but it was a start. I never could've done it if I hadn't seen his room -- it was all so clear in there. From the animal skins to the satin sheets, there were such strong sexual undercurrents that I would've had to be blind and more to have missed it. Pure and chaste, my ass. He was every bit as human as I was, with all the same needs and desires. Exactly the same, considering the fact that we both wanted the same girl. The only difference was that she had met my need on a fairly regular basis over the past month, whereas his had continued unanswered. I wondered briefly if he ever jerked off to that five-by-seven on his bookcase, but I found the notion rather unlikely. With all that guilt stored up inside of him, it was doubtful he could've gotten any relief that way. It was a rough night all around, to say the least. There had been so much pain laid out raw that I was positively numb with it as I walked home alone at quarter of four that morning, satisfied that he had at last fallen into a comfortable sleep in his armchair. He had gone past the breaking point and was finally beginning to mend. I'd done that much for him. So why couldn't I seem to do as much for myself?

* It was over two weeks before he was able to get in to see her, and I was allowed no contact with her whatsoever. Things were quickly going from bad to worse at home, too. Timmy was getting further out of control every day, and Mom had reached the point where she simply didn't know what to do with him anymore. When he got fed up with her lectures and ass-kickings, he just started sleeping over at Tony's more often. I couldn't get through to him, either. I tried everything from talking reason all the way to knocking the crap out of him, and none of it worked. Grounding him was useless -- he walked right out anyway unless I physically sat on him. I hadn't seen him in three days the night that Birch showed up at my front door bearing a message from Corey. It was short and to the point:

Jag,

Be home by midnight tonight. I have a surprise for you.

Love you & miss you, "Cinderella"

"What's this all about?" I asked him, perplexed. He shrugged. "Search me. She just told me to give it to you -- she didn't explain it." "Oh, well. I guess I'll find out soon enough," I said, heading for the kitchen to grab a couple cans of beer. He followed along. "Got something else you might be interested in, too." "Yeah?" I handed him a beer and popped one open for myself. "Yeah, but I didn't come by this little gem quite as legitimately," he admitted, grinning sheepishly. "Oh?" "I kind of snagged it out of her wastebasket." "Tsk, tsk! For shame, Angel," I teased. "So, what'd you find?" "This." He produced a folded sheet of notebook paper from his back pocket. It had obviously been a crumpled ball in the recent past, from the look of it. "What is it?" "Read it." I walked out to the dining room and spread it out on the table. It was a letter to Corey from Adele:

Dear Corey,

I told Cyndi not to read this letter, so let me know if the envelope was opened or anything. "Who's Cyndi?" I asked. "Nobody important -- just one of her friends. Keep going." I went back to the letter:

I feel so terrible about us not being able to be friends anymore. I can't believe your parents are actually splitting us up because of that awful boy. Honestly, I don't know what you see in him anyway. He is so foul and vulgar I don't know how you can stand him, and he looks just like a girl with all that disgusting long hair. He doesn't even have a man's face, for goodness sake!

"What's she mean, I don't have 'a man's face'?" I inquired sourly. "It means you don't look like the Marlboro Man, I guess," he chuckled. "Fuck her," I scowled. It continued:

His friends aren't much better, either. I don't see how you can spend your time with people like that. Really, that girl Laurie is such a tramp! And all they ever talk about is sex, drugs, who they can beat up, and how many of their friends are in jail. Even that boy Gange that I thought was sort of nice turned out to be horrible. Do you know what he did to me while you were upstairs? He tried to put his tongue inside my mouth, that's what! I thought I would just throw up! I know you do some bad things like smoking and getting drunk sometimes, but you are going to get in a lot of trouble if you don't stay away from people like that. You should forget about that boy most of all! There are plenty of nicer boys around that you could date, and maybe if you would promise your father not to see him anymore, then he would let us be friends again. Even if you really are pregnant like you say, you could always go away somewhere until you have the baby and then put it up for adoption. I'm sure your parents would help you if you promised to be good from now on. Please write me back and tell me that you're going to stop all this crazy stuff once and for all! I miss you a lot. Your friend, Adele

"Jesus, what a snob!" I remarked, wadding the paper up a bit viciously. "Born and raised that way," he shrugged. "She means well, believe it or not." I fixed him with my best what-are-you-nuts? look. He shrugged again. "You don't think Corey would actually listen to any of this bullshit, do you?" "I doubt it, considering where I found the letter. Don't worry -- she still loves you. Christ, she only spent half the evening telling me how much she misses you!" he chuckled. "She didn't mention this, though?" I asked, indicating the ball of paper. He shook his head. "Not a word. She didn't talk about Adele at all." I lit a cigarette and took a swig of my beer. At length I sighed, "God, I just can't believe she told that uppity little brat about thinking she was pregnant." "Well, they were pretty close friends at one time, y'know," he reminded. "Yeah, but God! That?" "She must've had her reasons, I suppose. I don't know - - I wasn't aware of it." "Wonder why she didn't tell her it was a false alarm, then?" I mused. Birch said nothing. It was right about that time that my mom came in, clearly looking pretty upset. There was something else strange about her, too -- she'd left the house to go grocery shopping, but she wasn't carrying any bags with her. "Mom, what's wrong?" I asked immediately. "Not right now, Mike," she replied shakily, glancing at Birch. "It's a family problem." He set his beer down carefully on the table and quietly told me, "I should be going, anyway. I'll talk to you later." "No, stay," I urged, laying a hand on his arm to restrain him as he started for the door. Looking to my mother, I coaxed, "What happened, Ma? You can talk in front of Birch. Maybe he can help." She fidgeted with the strap of her purse for a moment, then wet her lips and began, "It's Timmy. I think." "What happened?" I repeated. "Well, I got to the store," she explained slowly, "and I . . . you know, put the things in the cart and got in the check- out lane." "Yeah?" "Well, I . . . when I went to pay the bill . . . ." At that point she reached into her purse, pulled out her wallet, and handed it to me. "Look," she told me. I opened the wallet. It was empty. "You didn't borrow it, did you?" she said, already knowing the answer. It really didn't even sound like a question, only a request for confirmation. I shook my head, handing the wallet back to her. "No. He took it, which means it's long gone by now. He hasn't been home in days." "I know," she sighed. "Well, shit!" I muttered, crushing out my cigarette much as I would've liked to crush my brother's skull at the moment. Determination set in and I turned to Birch. "You game for a little action, friend -- or shall I call Stefano? All you gotta do is watch my back." "Mike, what're you gonna do?" Mom cut in. "I really don't know yet," I admitted, "but I'm sure I'll think of something. In the meantime, I know where the little shit is, and I'm gonna go get him." Of Birch, I asked, "You with me or not?" "I'm with you," he nodded gravely. "Bitchin'. Let's go." I kissed my mom's cheek on the way out, saying, "Love ya, Ma. Don't worry, okay?" "Be careful," she implored, frowning her concern.

* We got into his van and he reached for the ignition. I grabbed his hand firmly. "Look, if you wanna back out, do it now," I told him, dead serious. "I can still go call Stevie. Maybe you live on the east side now, but you didn't grow up here like we did -- you don't know these guys. I ain't expecting any trouble, but there's a possibility that things might get rough, and I need somebody behind me who can keep his head if shit starts flying. Don't get me wrong -- I ain't saying I expect you to get into anything yourself. I doubt you could flatten anybody if your life depended on it. But I gotta be able to count on you to warn me if some asshole decides to jump me from behind -- y'know what I mean?" "D'you think I'm some kind of moron or what?" he retorted. "No, but these guys don't fuck around when it comes to gettin' down and dirty. I don't want you involved if you can't handle it." "I can handle it, Jag," he assured me. "Awright, but you promise me one thing, okay?" "What's that?" "You hear sirens, you haul ass. No matter what. Whether it's quiet as a cemetery or all hell's breaking loose -- you run. The place is a goddam warehouse, and if you get caught within a three-block radius, you'll be busted sure as shit. Got it?" "Yeah, I got it. Any more words of wisdom, or can we go now?" "Go," I said, hoping none of my worst fears would play out.

* They didn't. It was even more horrible than I'd anticipated. And -- as it turned out -- I was the one who was caught totally unprepared, not Birch. We parked around the side at an old abandoned gas station and walked up to the house. The yard was a mess -- weeds grown up a foot tall, beer cans and jagged glass littered all over the place, a bald truck tire rotting in the dirt by the front porch. Even the building itself was a wreck, its paint peeling and most of its windows either broken or gone completely. Some were boarded up; others weren't. I knocked and waited. A minute or so later, the door opened a crack. "Hey, Juan," I nodded. "My brother here?" "Who's with you, man?" he questioned -- although with his thick Puerto Rican accent it came out more like, "Who's weed jou, man?" "Ease off, slick -- he's cool. Timmy here or not?" "Yeah, he's here. You wan' him? Take him, man -- he stinkin' up the place." He pulled the door open. I stepped inside and Birch followed. The living room was deserted. "S'he down in the kitchen?" I asked. Juan laughed. "Of course! He practically live there!" I headed for the cellar. "Kitchen" was Tony's euphemism for the area he used to process his merchandise. I hadn't even hit the bottom of the stairs before Tony called out, "Jag! Long time, no see! Whatcha doin' here -- back in the market, I hope?" "Huh-uh. Still clean," I replied. "Just lookin' for my brother." "Yeah, good customer," he chuckled. He hooked a thumb over toward the corner and said, "Over there -- crashed out in the bean bag." I walked over and delivered a swift kick to the bean bag chair on which Timmy was sprawled. "Up, Tim," I snapped. "C'mon, move your scrawny little ass." He didn't move. "Don't play games with me, shitface. I ain't kidding," I insisted. Still no response. Something wasn't right. I knelt down beside him and shook him. "Tim? Hey, Tim -- you in there?" Nothing. Standing up, I turned to Tony. "Tony, you asshole! He ain't asleep -- he's fuckin' unconscious!" He shrugged and looked at me as if to say, "So what the hell did I do?" "Goddammit!" I spat in anxious frustration. "What's he on, man? What'd you give him?" He shrugged again. "He just did a little smack, that's all. Nothin' he ain't done before." "He's been shooting smack?" He nodded. "'Bout a week now." "What's 'a little,' Tony?" He told me. I about shit. His excuse was, "Hey, I cut it, man." "With what? Fuckin' rat poison?" I snarled, ready to tear his throat out. Behind me, Birch had gone to Timmy's side. At that point, he cut in to tell me, "Jag? He's not breathing." I whirled around. "What? Whaddya mean he ain't breathing? He was a minute ago!" "He isn't now." I turned back to Tony. "Go upstairs and call an ambulance. Now!" "I can't do that, man. You know that. I can't have those people comin' in here." "Call the ambulance," Birch instructed him calmly. "Tell them there's some kid in trouble over at the gas station. You don't know who it is, but he looks like he's in pretty bad shape." "Do it, Tony!" I demanded, shoving him toward the stairs. "And make it fast!" "Okay, okay!" he grumbled. He jogged up the steps and disappeared. There were several other people still in the room, but they had ceased to exist as far as I was concerned. I returned to the bean bag chair. With one hand, Birch was holding Timmy's wrist while he held his nose pinched closed with the other, blowing rhythmically into his opened mouth. "He's still got a pulse," he told me between breaths. I thanked God I'd brought him instead of Stefano. He let go of Tim's wrist and slid that arm underneath his limp body. "Help me lift him. We've got to get him over to that gas station." Wordlessly, I complied.

* It wasn't an easy task. As light as he was, it was still pretty tricky moving him while at the same time trying to keep him in a position where Birch could do his breathing for him. We managed it, though -- we didn't have a choice. The ambulance wasn't long in arriving. The driver called back, "Stretcher!" as he hopped out and hurried over. He knelt down beside Timmy and inquired, "What've we got?" "Heroin overdose," Birch responded. "It's my brother," I added, my voice coming out oddly choked. The attendants were there with the stretcher then, and I stepped back and watched them lift him onto it. It was all happening so fast . . . . "You got a car?" the driver was asking Birch. "Yeah," he answered, inclining his head toward the van. "Take him and follow me," he ordered, glancing sideways at me. "I don't want him in the wagon -- he's too upset." "You got it." The attendants were loading Tim into the rear of the ambulance, the driver was climbing back into his seat . . . . Birch's hand clamping down on my arm, pulling me toward his van . . . . "I wanna go with him . . . ." No reply, just that steady pulling on my arm . . . . * He left me in the I.C.U. waiting room and went to go pick up my mother. I sat like a zombie -- I don't know how long -- until finally a nurse approached me and said, "Mr. Townsend? You may see your brother now, but just for ten minutes." I nodded. I'd read the sign posting the I.C.U. visiting rules a thousand times already. Family members only, one at a time, ten minutes per hour. I wondered dazedly what happened if the patient started dying and your ten minutes were up -- did they let you stay anyway or did they kick you out? I followed her through swinging double doors, down a long, antiseptic-smelling hall, and into an area consisting of a number of small, three-sided rooms surrounding a single central nurses' station. She led me to the room that Timmy occupied, and then busied herself double-checking his numerous tubes and wires while I seated myself numbly in the lone chair beside the bed. All the equipment in just this one little room was mind- boggling. There was one machine to monitor his heart rate, another to check his blood pressure periodically, still another hooked up to the I.V. pole to regulate the drip. And then there was the respirator. I cleared my throat and inquired as steadily as I could, "He still can't breathe?" She looked up and smiled reassuringly. "No, he's breathing on his own now. The machine's just helping him. It'll probably be gone the next time you come in." "Oh." I continued my inventory of the room. My eyes fell upon an orange plastic box resembling an oversized tool kit. Across the front was stenciled "ADOL. CRASH BOX." Adol.? Adolescent, maybe? "What's a 'crash box'?" I asked her. "That has everything we might need to help your brother in a crisis. For instance, the proper equipment and drug dosages we would have to use if his heart stopped." "He needs that stuff in here?" She smiled again. "They're in every room here. This is Intensive Care, remember?" "Sorry," I mumbled, feeling like an idiot. "Stupid question." "That's okay," she assured me, adjusting the setting on the I.V. drip. "It can be a bit overwhelming at first. This is a difficult place to visit." "Yeah, no shit," I sighed, then caught myself and added, "Excuse my language -- I shouldn't've said that." "Oh, I've heard the word a few times before," she said lightly, dismissing my apology. I had to smile a little at that -- she was at least fifty years old. She completed her duties, tugged his sheet up an inch or two, and started for the nurses' station. "Um . . . is he gonna be alright?" I asked anxiously before she had quite crossed the threshold of the room. "I mean . . . ." "I'm sure he'll be just fine," she nodded. Then she was gone. I turned my eyes back to the bed to study my brother. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone or something -- none of it all seemed really real. My brother and the needle? Two years before, I would've said, "Yeah, right -- about as likely a combination as Mickey Mouse and Dracula." But there it was, right in front of me. And I was still having trouble believing it.

* Birch and my mother were in the waiting room when I returned there. "Mike?" she asked worriedly, rising. "Is he . . . ?" "He's awright," I replied. "He started breathing again. They're gonna take the respirator off pretty soon." "Oh, thank God!" she sighed in relief, sinking down again to the sofa. "I was so frightened." "Join the club," I muttered grimly. I seated myself on a straight-backed chair and leaned my head back against the wall, closing my eyes in the vain hope of unfogging them. It was just barely past ten o'clock, but I was utterly exhausted. Mom said, "Your friend here says it was heroin." "Yeah," I sighed, unmoving. "I can hardly believe it." "I know -- me neither. I thought he was smarter than that." "Now I know where our grocery money went," she remarked wryly. "If there's anything I can do to help . . . ," Birch offered. "Going for sainthood again?" I inquired, raising my head to eye him with weary amusement. He looked confused. "Pardon?" "Haven't you done enough miracles for one night?" He began to protest that he hadn't done anything special, but I ignored him and said, "Mom, did this guy -- by any slim chance -- happen to mention to you that your son would be dead right now if he hadn't been there? That he was responsible for keeping Timmy alive 'til the ambulance showed up?" She glanced at Birch, surprise registering on her tired features. "Nah, I didn't think he would. Well, anyway -- if you can come up with a good way to thank somebody for something like that, then let me know, wouldja? Everything I've thought of so far sounds kind of inadequate, if y'know what I mean." She gushed over him for a few minutes, while he muttered embarrassed denials. And I enjoyed the hell out of watching him squirm. I really couldn't think of any way to thank him sufficiently, but she was doing well enough for the two of us together and then some. Once she had wound down a bit, he repeated his offer, adding, "I don't have an overabundance of cash on hand this week, but I've got ten I could spare . . . and a fairly full pantry. Jag could come stay with me until you get paid again." "Oh, no -- that won't be necessary," she insisted. "We can manage, I'm sure." "How, Ma? I only got one yard left to do this week, and I won't be getting paid for it 'til the people get back from vacation." "What about the Petersons'?" "The kid's home from college. He's doing it now. And Mrs. Miller moved, so that one's out, too." "Wonderful," she sighed with heavy sarcasm. "Don't forget your toothbrush," Birch grinned at me, satisfied. "Never use the things," I retorted. "I just chew on the curtains for a few minutes after each meal." Mom groaned, "Oh, Mike!" as Birch countered, "That's cool -- they need washing anyway." "See, Ma?" I shrugged, smiling. "I'll be in good hands." Time passed.

* "Omigod -- Corey!" I blurted, sitting bolt upright in my chair. The clock above the "ICU Visiting Restrictions" sign read twelve-thirty-two. "Shit, I forgot, too," muttered Birch, glancing up at the clock. "Son of a bitch!" I spat as I hit myself a good one on the forehead. "What if she was gonna call me? Goddam, I'm stupid!" Mom was just pushing through the double doors at that point. "What is it, baby?" she asked, plainly a bit surprised by my outburst. I pulled the note out of my pocket and flipped it into her lap as she seated herself on the sofa. "Corey," I mumbled dejectedly. She read the note, then looked up and said, "You think she tried to call you, is that it?" "I d'no," I shrugged. "Probably." She smiled softly. "Why don't you run on home. Maybe she'll try again." "I can't, Ma. What about Timmy?" "What about him? He's doing fine -- under the circumstances -- and he's got the best possible care. Anyway, you just saw him an hour ago. When was the last time you talked to your girlfriend?" "Two and a half weeks ago," I nodded, having a tough time faulting her logic. "So go," she ordered. "If Timmy wakes up, I'll tell him you were here." "And tell him I'll come see him tomorrow. Or later today, I guess I ought to say." "Yes, yes," she chuckled. "Go on with you, already!" "Thanks, Ma," I told her sincerely, pausing to give her a quick hug. "You're a peach." "Take your note," she reminded, stuffing it into my shirt pocket as I leaned over her. "Now get." "Taxi!" I said to Birch, giving him a smack on the arm to get him moving. He scrambled to his feet and good-naturedly complained, "God, you're so demanding!" I pushed him toward the door while he joked, "I'll have you know that my fare doubles after midnight, mister." "Shag your ass, Jeeves," I urged. "You're under salary, remember?"

* I could scarcely believe my own eyes. When Birch pulled up in front of my house some twenty minutes later, there -- sitting on the stoop, hugging her knees -- was Corinne. "I'm delirious," I croaked, staring out the passenger- side window. "I'm sure of it. Christ, I knew I was tired, but now I'm hallucinating. Nothing this good could happen on a night this bad." "Shall I pinch you?" Birch inquired with a sly chuckle. "Hell, no!" And with that, I jumped out of the van, flew up the walk, swept her up into my arms, and swung her around -- her warmth feeling very real indeed. "Oh, Cinders -- God, how I've missed you!" I cried, burying my face into soft, sweet-smelling waves of auburn. I showered kisses everywhere, holding her tight as she laughingly attempted to push free. "You're late, blondie," she giggled, giving my hair a gentle tug. "I gave away all the goodies to the local pimp forty-five minutes ago." "Did you save a little hug for me, I hope?" asked Birch as he ambled up the walk. I couldn't begrudge him that much -- not after all he'd done. Ignoring the miserly little twinge beneath my ribcage, I let her go to him. She embraced him briefly, and then stepped back to wag her finger at him, smiling. "You!" she teased. "I was almost mad at you, y'know. I was beginning to think you forgot to deliver my message." He shot me a wink, saying, "This girl has so much confidence in me!" "Too true," I agreed. "She's such a bitch." "Well, I can certainly see that you two guys have been spending far too much time together!" she complained with a haughty mockery of indignation. He grinned. "Shall we tell her?" "Oh, let's do!" I nodded, affecting my best imitation- Harvard mannerisms. "Ahem, yes," he returned, doing likewise. "Ah, Miss Rogers? I should like you to meet my new roommate, Mr. Townsend." She froze in disbelief. "No." "The young lady doubts you, Fairchild," I smirked. "Yes, I'm afraid you're quite right," he agreed with an overly-dramatic sigh. "Whatever shall I do to convince her of my complete and utterly flawless integrity?" "You're kidding, right?" she pleaded, something akin to horror displayed upon her features. Birch and I dissolved into laughter, and I shook my head, choking, "No, sweets -- we ain't kidding, but it's purely a temporary arrangement." "Oh, my God!" she groaned. "This world'll never be the same again!" "I think she's insulting us," I told Birch, deadpan. "Yeah -- trying to, anyway," he nodded. "Are you insulted?" "Uh-uh. You?" "Can't say as I am." "Didn't work then, did it?" "Nope. Guess not." "Oh, will you guys shut up, for Christ's sake!" Corey snapped, hands on her hips in a rather maternal show of disapproval. "Ooh -- you're gonna get it now!" I warned Birch in childish glee. "Nuh-uh. You started it," he retorted. "Shut up!" she hollered, slapping us each on the arm. We burst out laughing again while she silently debated whether to join us or to actually get angry. The laughter won out in the end. I unlocked the front door, Birch said his farewells, and I took Corey inside. "Beer, hon?" I inquired as she seated herself on the couch. She shrugged. "Sure." I went into the kitchen, grabbed the last two cans from the fridge, popped them open, and tossed the tabs onto the counter. I was so happy it was pathetic. Then, rounding the corner on my way back to the living room, her question hit me like a flying fist. "Where is everybody tonight?" My joy at seeing her again faded and blinked out. For a few minutes, I'd forgotten. I'd actually forgotten. But that one innocent little question brought it all back to me in a great big knock-the-wind-right-outta-ya punch. I flinched. Handing her a can of beer, I sat down tailor fashion at the opposite end of the couch and quietly answered, "At the hospital." Concern flashed across her face. "Jag? Babe, what's wrong?" "My brother," I replied slowly. "Timmy. He OD'd on smack." "Oh, Jesus. When?" I shook my head. "Four, five hours ago -- I don't know. It was pretty hairy. He almost bought it." She moved closer to put her arms around me. "Oh, Michael -- I'm so sorry," she said sincerely against my chest. I rested my cheek upon the top of her head, confused as to why my vision was starting to blur until the first drop of moisture broke free and trickled down across the bridge of my nose.

* We never did make love that night. She stayed -- just holding me -- until about four-thirty, then called a cab and was gone shortly thereafter. And once her blessed comfort was gone, I was totally miserable. I fell asleep on the couch sometime near dawn, tightly embracing nothing but a tattered throw-pillow.

* Hours became days, just like always. And I wasn't really caught in a time warp -- it just seemed that way. I stayed with Birch a few days longer than necessary, simply because we'd come to enjoy each other's company so much. And Cokey had ceased to despise me since the night I'd worked my miraculous "cure" on his treasured friend, so he was at least civil to me during my visit. Timmy recovered and was sent -- despite his verbal and physical protestations -- to a rehab center some miles away, and Mom immediately regained half of the ten years she'd aged in the preceding two months. Corey continued to sneak out to see me as often as she could. We celebrated her birthday -- two days late -- one night toward the middle of August, with Oreo cookies and mint chocolate chip ice cream. And then I made her close her eyes, and I reached out and gently removed the gumball machine ring from her finger, and replaced it with smooth gold. "I love you, Cinderella," I murmured as I leaned close to touch a tender kiss to her lips. She opened her eyes, examined the very real pearls that now graced her hand, decided it was the most beautiful piece of jewelry that she'd seen in her entire life, and then burst into tears as she hugged me, smiling. It was my one bright spot during that very dreary period of time. * Now, I'm sure there is some asshole out there somewhere -- there always is, y'know -- saying, "Ah, quit yer bitchin'. It coulda been worse." Be patient, asshole. I'm coming to it. It was about two weeks after I'd given Corey her ring that Birch showed up at my door just as I was finishing my dinner. He waited until my mother had gone into the kitchen to start the dishes, and then said, "Bad news, friend." "Oh, please," I sighed. "Things've finally gone from suck city to only mildly raunchy." I popped my last forkful of spaghetti into my mouth and mumbled, "What now?" "Swallow first. I don't want you to choke." I obeyed. "Well?" "I just came from Corey's. I couldn't get in to see her." "Why not?" "The old man caught her trying to sneak out last night." I almost choked anyway. "What?" He nodded. "And that ain't even the half of it." "Get serious, Birch. That's as bad as it can possibly get! They'll probably bolt her door and nail her fuckin' windows shut now." Shaking his head, he replied, "Would you believe they're sending her out to stay with her aunt?" "No . . . ." "He's already arranged to have her records transferred so she can start school with the rest of the kids next week." "Oh, no," I insisted in disbelief. "He can't do that . . . ." "It's done. They're taking her out there tonight." "Aw, Christ!" I dropped my head into my hands, feeling about like a poor little slum kid who just had his one and only rotten old toy truck snatched away from him by the biggest damned bully on the block. "He can't, man -- please tell me he can't!" "He can and he is." "Goddam! Ain't there anything we can do?" "I tried to talk him out of it," he shrugged. "Didn't do anything but piss him off at me." "Well, shit!" "Yeah -- exactly." "They're taking her tonight?" He nodded. "Bastard doesn't waste any time, does he?" "No," he agreed, "he certainly doesn't." "Goddam!" I said again. "God-fucking-damn!" And it was only the beginning.

* The next week was hell. I couldn't even function through the pain. I went out Monday morning and quit all my lawn jobs, and spent most of my remaining time lying in bed wishing I were dead. I did go over to Birch's a few nights, and it was on one of those nights that Corey's parents turned up at his door. Birch let them in and invited them to sit, but they declined. It obviously wasn't a social call. Mr. Rogers (can you say Tyrant?) came right to the point, asking coolly, "Is my daughter here, Angie?" "No, sir," he answered in much the same manner. "I wish she were." "You haven't seen her at all today?" "No, sir. I was under the impression she was still living with her aunt." He turned to leave, muttering, "Alright. Thank you." "Wait a minute!" I cried, jumping up off the couch. "What's going on?" Her mother -- silent until that point -- broke down then and began to babble, "She's run away! I knew it was a mistake to send her out to your sister, Frank, and now she's run away! We'll never find her now! If she hasn't come back here, then there's nowhere else to look!" "Hush, Evelyn!" he commanded gruffly. "Go wait in the car!" I lost my temper at that. "Why don't you hush, you heartless old fuck?" I spat, turning on him. "Don't you have any feelings at all? You broke your daughter's heart separating her from anyone who even remotely gives a damn about her, and still you got the absolute balls to go prancing around here like King Shit! It would serve you right if she was out there lying dead in a ditch somewhere -- but you'd just better pray to God she ain't, because if anything happens to her I'll personally rip your puny little chest apart just so I can see for myself what the hell you got in there!" Birch had led the sobbing Mrs. Rogers over to the couch, and as I concluded my tirade, he looked up to glare at Corey's father. "Amen!" he bit out angrily, surprising me no small degree. "How dare you . . . !" the old coot sputtered, drawing himself up to his full height of maybe five-foot-seven. "How dare I?" I shot. "How dare you, you pretentious son of a bitch! How dare you try to take your own flesh and blood and put her up on a shelf like some dusty old antique, to be appraised and admired! How dare you forbid her to love and be loved like any normal woman! And how dare you barge into my friend's home and treat your own wife like a common dog!" I pointed a finger shaking with rage toward Corey's mother and thundered, "That woman went through hell and back to give birth to the girl I love, and I respect her for that, if nothing else! She gave you your daughter, and you order her around like a dog! Like a goddam dog! What the hell's wrong with you, man? Even trash like me knows better than to go out and get married if you can't treat a woman right!" "Oh, yes -- I realize that," he smirked with false bravado. "Your type never gets married! You just crawl in and out of decent girls' beds, hoping their foolish fathers will pay you enough to stay away! That's the reason you're so hostile toward me, isn't it? Because I won't pay your bribe!" I just stared at him, open-mouthed, for a moment. I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. "That little accusation was too fucking sick to even be dignified with a denial," I managed at last. "I mean, that was really warped, man. How much practice did it take for you to learn to be such a tremendous dick? I didn't go to bed with your daughter because I want your filthy money -- I did it because I love her! Understand? I love her! That means I treat her right, and take her home to meet my mother, and make love to her, and all of that shit! I don't care about your goddam money -- all I want is her, and you took her away from me, you disgusting, dirty old bastard! You took her away from me, and you took her away from my best friend -- who cares about her more than you ever could! And that didn't even satisfy you -- you had to go and take her away from her own mother! Well, listen up, Frankie, and let me tell you something. When I find your daughter -- and I will find her, I promise you that -- I'm damn sure not gonna bring her back to you!" He started to shout an indignant reply, but Birch stepped up and cut him off abruptly, declaring, "Mr. Rogers, you ordered me out of your home last week when I came to see your daughter. Now I'm ordering you out of mine." He reached around and pulled the door open, adding, "Leave. Now." "You'll regret this!" he threatened, his face flushed and perspiring. "You'll both regret this!" Birch remained calm. "Get out, Frank," he insisted, his voice soft but incredibly strong. Corey's father turned and stalked out of the apartment then, and Mrs. Rogers rose to follow. She stopped at the door, hesitated, and then lifted pleading eyes to me. Tentatively, her words little more than a whisper, she said, "If . . . if you find her . . . ." "I'll call you," I assured her. "I won't bring her home, but I will call you. Just make sure that you answer the phone, because I won't talk to your husband." She nodded and scurried out the door. Birch pushed it closed behind her and smiled. "I've wanted to do that for years," he admitted, crossing the room to plop down comfortably into his chair. "Didn't mean to blow the place apart," I grinned apologetically. "He had it coming and then some. Don't worry about it. Come sit." I walked over to the couch and slouched down into my usual corner. "So, whatcha think about all this shit, Angel baby? You know where she is?" He thought a moment. "Well, my guess would be that she'd head for your house first. And since you're not home, she's bound to show up here sooner or later. I'd say we should wait here a while before we go harnessing up the hound dogs." As he spoke, there was a knock on the door. "Your turn," he sighed. "If it's that idiot father of hers again, you have my permission to lay him out. I don't give a damn anymore." I got to my feet and went to pull the door open. And there in the hallway I found -- not the father, but the daughter. "Hey, good lookin'," she cooed flirtatiously. "I'm workin' my way through school. Buy a nice piece for a fifty?" "What're you doing?" I hissed, grabbing her arm and yanking her inside quickly. "You lost your mind or something? Your parents were just here!" "I know," she giggled. "I saw them in the parking lot." "You saw them?" Birch asked, shocked. "Yeah. I was hiding behind a Volkswagen." "God, don't scare me like that!" he groaned. "Well?" she inquired, putting her hands to her hips. "Don't I even get a hug from anybody?" I didn't need to be asked twice. I scooped her up into my arms, kissed her passionately, and then walked over to Birch and dropped her squarely into his lap. She placed a sisterly kiss on his cheek and smiled, "Missed you, babe." "Likewise," he said, touching a finger to the tip of her nose. "How 'bout you, blondie? Did you miss me?" I leaned back in my place on the couch and crossed my legs out in front of me. "Not a bit," I teased, shaking my head. "Ooh, you bastard!" she squealed, hopping off Birch's lap to come beat on me for a minute. "Hasn't changed a bit, has she?" I asked him cheerfully as I fended off her playful blows. "No, thank God," he sighed, content.

* "So, what happened with your aunt?" I asked her finally. She had snuggled comfortably into the crook of my arm, smoking a cigarette and occasionally lifting my hand to her mouth to nibble on a finger. "Oh, that old bitch!" she groaned, rolling her eyes. "You heard of fat old ladies that sit around eating bonbons and watching soap operas all day? This woman actually does it! She's such a moron!" She took a last drag of her cigarette and reached across my legs to stub it out in the ashtray on the coffee table. "Well, anyway. I just left, that's all. I waited 'til she cashed her pension check, and then I ripped off a twenty out of her purse, hitched into town, and caught a bus back here. I wasn't too thrilled to find out you weren't home, either, blondie!" She poked me in the ribs. "What? You mean I'm not allowed to go out whoring anymore?" I asked in a parody of incredulous surprise. "Not unless you wanna spend the rest of your life singing soprano," she threatened pleasantly, closing her hand down on my crotch. I froze -- uttering something that sounded like "Eek!" -- and she casually inquired, "Birch? Has my sweetheart here been out whoring around?" He stifled a snicker and replied, "Well . . . ." She squeezed slightly and I wailed, "Birch!" "Ah, I guess he's been a good boy," he laughed. She patted me lovingly and removed her hand. "Okay, stud -- you're forgiven. This time." "You die, golden boy," I warned, able to suppress only half of my grin. "Oh, you die." "Me? What for? I didn't tell her about the redhead!" Corey pursed her lips, arching both eyebrows, and said, "What redhead?" "The one in his dreams," I snorted, lighting a cigarette. "Better be," she declared haughtily. "Angel, you're gettin' me in trouble here." "I know," he chuckled. "Ain't life grand?" I looked at Corey and complained, "See what a shit he's getting to be?" "And whose fault is that?" she accused in return. "Certainly not mine. And you'd best quit pickin' on me." "Oh? And why's that?" "'Cause if you don't, I'm gonna put you over my knee and paddle your ass -- that's why." "Like hell." "Watch out, love," Birch grinned. "He's got that evil look in his eye." "He wouldn't dare." "Oh, wouldn't I?" And so saying, I took the arm that had previously been resting on her shoulder and pushed her flat across my lap. "Hey, Angel -- what would you do with a chick nasty enough to grab you by the balls?" I inquired mildly as Corey kicked and cursed. "Oh, I suppose I'd have to give her a good, hard spanking to teach her a lesson," he replied, nodding thoughtfully. "Birch, that's not fair!" she howled. "You're playing both ends against the middle!" "Now would I do that?" he asked innocently. I laughed. "Yeah, you would," I said, agreeing with Corey -- and then I brought my hand down anyway onto the seat of her jeans. I didn't hit her hard enough for it to have hurt, but she swore a blue streak at me just the same. "Tsk! Such language!" I scolded, whacking her again. She finally managed to wriggle free at that point, fell onto the floor with a bump, and scrambled away to safety behind Birch's chair. Did I say safety? I stood and advanced on her while she told Birch, "If you let him get me, I'll never speak to you again!" "You wanna tangle with me, Fairchild?" I grinned. He turned and said over his shoulder, "Sorry, love, but I make it a policy never to jump out in front of charging bulls, speeding semis, or Jag Townsend. You're on your own." "Bastard!" she shrieked as I lunged at her and missed. Hard to tell which one of us she was addressing. She made it to the other side of the couch, and that's where she screwed up. When I vaulted the couch, she ran for Birch's bedroom instead of circling around or heading for the kitchen. I chased after her, of course, and tackled her right down onto the brass bed. "Oh, you've had it now, bitch!" I chuckled, pinning her arms against the satin quilt. She bucked and fought and screamed for Birch -- and I put a stop to it all with one kiss. Birch did come to the bedroom door, incidentally, but only to pull it closed.

* Much later, tenderly stroking the length of her body, I leaned over to kiss her goodnight and softly murmured, "I always wondered what it'd be like to fuck you in satin, Cinderella." "You're crazy," she mumbled sleepily. "Crazy in love with you," I agreed. She turned onto her side with her back toward me and sighed, "Go to sleep, Michael." I cuddled up to her, spoon-fashion, and listened as her breathing gradually slowed and deepened in slumber. It wouldn't come that easily to me, though. My mind kept on racing ahead full throttle -- reminding me that I'd neglected to call her mother, wondering what Birch was feeling right then, making and rejecting plans for the next morning. So many thoughts battling for priority . . . and then I heard Cokey come home. The thin plywood door muffled his voice little more than a sheet of paper would have. "Whatcha doin' out here on the couch, man? Not going weird on me again, are you?" Birch's tired reply, "Rented out my room for the night." "Funny, Ange. C'mon, get your ass to bed." A crack of light bloomed across the bearskin on the wall as the door started to open, and Birch said, "Shut that, will you? I wasn't kidding." The light quickly retreated. "Who's in there?" "Three guesses, and the first two don't count." "Townsend?" "Well, you're half right." "Oh, Angie -- no. Not Corey, too?" "Give the man a big cigar," he replied with black humor. "God, how could you? The two of them right here in your own bed?" "You don't have to rub it in, you know." "Oh, man! How can you go on like this?" Birch's next words made little sense to me at the time. In retrospect, however, his meaning couldn't be clearer. "Let me bide my time in my own way, alright?" he said. "Things can't continue as they are much longer -- you know it and I know it. And furthermore, deep down inside she knows it, too. She's got to either tell him or give him up, and it has to be soon. And then I'll find out if the wait has been worthwhile, because I'll either lose her forever or I'll have her myself." "Angie, please -- tell her you love her," Cokey begged. "I can't do that. If she's truly blind to my feelings for her, then it's because she can't accept them, and I'm not going to force the issue. This has to be her decision." "But you can influence that decision . . . ." "But I don't want to. Just let it be, friend. You don't understand." "Yes, I do! I understand that you can't wait for somebody all this time and then just bow out without so much as a fight!" "No, you certainly don't understand. You don't understand what it's like to lie out here and listen to them making love, trying to think yourself inside his skin and imagine how she feels beneath you. You don't understand what it's like to hear her call his name in the midst of it all, and you don't understand how it feels to hear her confess her love for him in the aftermath. You weren't here and you aren't me, and you can't possibly even begin to understand." There was a long pause before Cokey finally admitted, "You're right. It seems as though there's a lot I don't understand." "Then back off." "Fine," he grumbled. "Do it your way. You always do, anyway." Moments later, his bedroom door banged shut. Corey murmured in her sleep beside me and nuzzled deeper into Birch's pillow. It was hours before I slept.

* I didn't waken until almost noon the following day, and when I did, I found it nearly impossible to get out of bed. That last conversation kept replaying itself inside my head, and I wasn't exactly eager to show my face. Funny thing was, part of me really wished that Birch would've listened to Cokey. A fair fight would've been a hell of a lot easier for me to deal with than having to go around acting normal while still carrying his secret locked inside of me. I mean, with Ganj or Jojo I could just say, "Back off or I'll kick your ass." But how could I go and tell this guy, "Hey, quit thinking about my chick," without sounding like a total asshole? After all, he hadn't done a damned thing to try to take her away from me. Quite the contrary; he'd done everything in his power to help me have her. How could I possibly find fault with that? And, of course, compounding the problem was the fact that I had really come to care for him a great deal. I didn't like hurting him. But then, there was no alternative as long as he insisted upon remaining silent. Oh yes, I suppose I could've brought it out myself, but I had very bad feelings about what the consequences might've been if I had. Not that I was afraid of losing Corey to Birch. No, he didn't stand a chance against me -- and we both knew it. But that was the whole point: I'd still have her, he'd still have his pain, and nothing would change in those respects. In other ways, however, everything would change. Corey would have new guilt at hurting Birch, and their friendship - - if it survived at all -- would undoubtedly become rather strained. Birch would be furious with me for betraying his confidence, and I knew that his quiet anger would be more frightening to me than even Stefano's bone-splintering punches could ever hope to be. No -- loving them both as much as I did, I couldn't dare to tell her of his feelings for her. As bad as things were, I couldn't solve anything that way. I would've been putting out fire with gasoline. So there I lay -- in his bed, in his apartment, having taken the one girl he loved and desired -- trying to solve the unsolvable. There simply was no answer, no way to please everyone involved. She wanted me and I wanted her. And he wanted her, too. Someone had to get hurt, and he was the logical victim. He knew it, he accepted it -- and if he could tolerate it, then why was it so damned difficult for me to do the same? And then there was this other crazy business I'd overheard. What was it that Corey was hiding from me that was so earth-shakingly awful that she would rather lose me than tell me about? Sitting here now, writing all this -- and knowing the answer -- I can hardly believe I was so blind. But lying there in Birch's bed that day, it all seemed about as clear as mud. I contemplated all sorts of odd possibilities: illness, skeletons in the family closet, anything and everything I could think of to explain her need for secrecy. All but the obvious answer. If I'd only paid closer attention to the things Birch had told me, if I'd looked deeper into his silences, if I'd stopped to notice how carefully he chose his words on certain subjects, if . . . . Books can be written on "ifs."

* I found the two of them seated at the kitchen table, talking softly across a pair of empty plates. Well, he was still eating, at least. Birch looked up, smiled, and said to Corey, "See, now? I told you that you hadn't loved him to death. He's even walking under his own power." "Fuck you," I mumbled pleasantly and went to drop a kiss on Corey's cheek. "Morning, sugar," I added to her. She giggled, replying, "You need a shave." "Coffee first, shave later," I informed her, going to grab myself a cup of the Cuban I'd come to savor. Then, slumping into an empty chair, I gave her my best poor-poor- pitiful-me look and requested, "Smokes please, lover?"

She got up -- muttering an affectionate, "Lazy bastard!" -- and went to fetch them from the living room, popping me gently on the top of my head as she passed me. I took the opportunity to quietly tell Birch, "Hey, I'm sorry about last night, man. Really." He smiled serenely and said simply, "Why? She isn't." I didn't know how to answer, and fortunately I didn't have to, because Corey returned a moment later with my Marlboros. He waited for her to sit again before prompting, "Alright, love -- he's up now. Talk. Tell him what you've been telling me." She took a cigarette for herself and lit it. "I'm not going back," she stated flatly. "Not home, and not to my stupid aunt's house, either." She paused to take a drag of her cigarette and continued, "I know I can't stay here without getting Birch in trouble, and I haven't really figured out yet where else I can go . . . but I know I'm not going back where I've been, so don't even suggest it." "Wasn't gonna," I replied, sipping my steaming coffee. I glanced sideways at Birch to check his reaction as I offered, "I was thinking more along the lines of the two of us splitting town together." "Where to?" he inquired, his expression unreadable. I shrugged. "Anywhere." Corey was silent as Birch thought. "How tight are you with Joel?" he said at last. "Joel?" He nodded. Suddenly the light dawned. "The cabin!" I cried excitedly. "Goddam, yeah! It's perfect!" "Can you get the keys?" "Well, shit yes -- of course I can. How many people you know that can say no to me?" "Too damn few for your own good," Corey cut in with a grin. I reached out to tweak her nose and then looked back to Birch. "You drive us up there?" He shook his head. "Take the van. I trust you." "But how're you gonna get to work, then?" Corey asked. "Well, as far as I know, they're still letting long-haired freaks ride the buses," he smiled in return. "Don't worry about me. I'd rather inconvenience myself a little bit than have the two of you stranded out in the middle of nowhere." "Oh, man -- I couldn't . . . ," I protested. He arched an eyebrow. "Are you arguing with me, Townsend?" "Well, no -- but . . . ." "But nothing. Accidents do happen, and I'm not leaving my little girl here out in the woods somewhere with no way to get to a hospital if she should get hurt. Not to mention yourself, you brainless wonder." "Okay, you win. I'll take the van." "Damned straight you will. And you'll teach her how to drive it, too." "Oh, Birch! I can't learn how to drive that frigging tank of yours!" she frowned. "You can and you will," he insisted firmly. "Just think about what you'd do if this stupid asshole walked himself right into a bear trap, okay?" "Okay," she sighed, beaten. He smiled. "And you owe me for every dent you put in it. This's a loan, not a gift." "I'm not gonna dent it!" she pouted. "I know, love," he chuckled, patting her arm gently. "Reckless you may well be, but rarely careless. You'll be fine." And looking to me, he said, "Go call Joel, friend."

* Outside in the phone booth, I tried Corey's house first. Her father answered and I hung up. Next, I dialed Joel's number. "Hey, Becky," I said when his wife picked up the phone. "S'the old man around somewhere?" "Jag? Is that you? Christ, you haven't been around in ages! When you gonna come by and see the new baby?" "What, another one?" I chuckled. "Four wasn't enough?" "Hey, I got my girl finally! Named her Heather. She's so precious!" "Must take after her mama, then. Ain't nothin' precious about her papa, that's for sure," I teased. "Oh, if that ain't the truth! Hold on, I'll go see if I can find the old poop. Come and see us though, okay?" "Yeah, maybe sooner than you think," I promised. On the other end, the receiver clunked down and was picked up by Joel a minute or so later. "Townsend!" he boomed in his customary lumberjack style. "What's shakin', shithead? Ain't heard from you in a month or more! Still bangin' that rich bitch you was so hung on a while back?" "Mmm," I mumbled as I lit a cigarette. "That's kind of why I called, actually." "Hang on a sec. Richie, you put that fuckin' cat down! No, you don't be pickin' it up by its tail, boy! I catch you again an' my belt's comin' off!" Pause, wailing in the background. "No, yer mama ain't gonna help you -- 'Becca, put that child in his room 'til I get off the damn phone. And don't you coddle him none, neither!" Another pause, and then, "Jag? You still there?" I laughed. "Yeah, I'm here." "I 'pologize. That boy's a devil an' a half." "Just like his daddy." "Think so?" he remarked, the vaguest hint of pride touching his voice. "I know so," I chuckled, remembering what a holy terror Joel had been before Becky'd tamed him. "Well, anyhow. You was sayin'?" "Yeah, well, I was wondering if I could cop a favor off of you. Sort of a big one." "So whatcha need?" "Let me use your cabin for a while?" "Sure. What's so big about that?" "It'd probably be best if I don't tell you that part. You can't get in trouble for what you don't know about." "Oh, somebody needs a hideout, huh? Sure -- shit, I don't care. Don't make no difference ta me. Just don't break nothin' ya can't fix, that's all." "Decent. You be home in half an hour so's I can pick up the keys?" "Where else would I be on a Saturday afternoon?" he asked wryly. "If I tried takin' one step outta this house, my honey'd go an' bash my brains in with her skillet!" "Ah, wedded bliss!" I sighed dramatically. "Yeah, it'll get you too one a' these days!" he threatened in good humor. "When hell freezes over," I assured him. "Check you later, man." "Right!" he boomed just before I hung up. I tried my own house next. No answer. Perfect -- Mom had gone up to see Timmy. One more call -- Corey's house again. Her mother answered this time. "This's Michael," I told her. "Corey's safe. She's with me." And then I hung up and left the phone booth.

* Birch handed me five twenty-dollar bills when I returned to the apartment, with the instructions, "Buy her a couple changes of clothes and use the rest for food and gas. And call me if you need more before you can find work." "Aw, I can't take this, Birch," I argued, trying to give it back to him. He wouldn't take it. "You've got to -- you need it. Now, you got my number at the store?" "I do," Corey nodded. "And everything's set with Joel, right?" "Told him I'd be over in half an hour," I replied, beginning to feel a funny clutching in my chest. I didn't want to leave him, I suddenly realized. "Then you'd better get moving," he was saying, trying valiantly to keep a smile on his face. Corey flew into his arms, and he held her a little tighter and a little longer than would've been expected in friendship alone. "Take care of my little one, Jag," he implored over her shoulder, tenderly petting her hair. "I will," I promised. He released her, and I went to give him a quick, awkward hug myself. "Thanks, Angel," I told him sincerely. "For everything." "Yeah," he returned, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Now get going, already. I hate mushy goodbyes." I draped an arm over Corey's shoulder and led her away, turning as I closed the door to his apartment to see him still standing in that same spot, unmoving.

* God, was it really so long ago? Seems like yesterday that I left him standing there, not knowing when I would see him again. It still hurts to think back on it, and even more so now because today's most bitter memories were yet to come on that day so many years ago. How could I have known then that -- because of my own incredible stupidity -- all of his painfully unselfish plans had been made in vain? We had less than three days together.

* We stopped at my house first that day, where I picked up some clothes and left a brief note for my mom telling her what was going on -- without mentioning where we would be -- and saying I would call her soon. Then we went by Joel's. Shawn, the three-year-old, opened the front door and squealed, "Papa! Unca Jag!" when he saw me. "Whoa, shit!" I chuckled, squatting down to his height. "Who's this big, bad, mean-lookin' fella?" He giggled. "Sawn, Unca Jag!" "Naw, you can't be Shawn! Shawn's just a little twerp!" I grabbed him up and swung him up onto my shoulders as he shrieked with delight. Joel rounded the corner of the kitchen at that point, with Elijah -- still shy at two years of age -- clinging to his daddy's jeans for dear life. "Hey, Lijah," I smiled. "You can't get no piggy-back that way, y'know." He smiled back, but decided to hang onto his daddy for a little while longer. Joel handed over the keys to his cabin immediately, eying Corey knowingly. "This must be the little runaway, eh, Townsend?" he inquired with an appreciative grin. "Yeah, but you never saw her," I told him. "'Course not. Can ya stay a minute? Becky'll shoot me if I letcha get away without seein' the baby." "A minute," I agreed, setting Shawn back down on his little feet again. Joel hollered for his wife, and she appeared a moment later carrying what seemed to be an armful of blankets. "Oh, my God -- there's a woman in my house!" she exclaimed with a joyful smile. "Here, take this child for a bit! My arms are ready to fall off!" And so saying, she handed little Heather straight to a very surprised Corey. Heather whimpered at first, and then quieted as Corey began to rock her gently. "God, she's a natural," Becky sighed, pleased. And to Joel, she said, "Why can't you do that, you old bear? Maybe I could get some work done around here, then!" "Quit yer gripin', woman," he returned affectionately. "I did yer dishes for ya this mornin', didn't I?" "He wants a medal for that," she confided to me. I hardly heard it. I was watching Corey, entranced, as she rocked Heather, singing softly to her. It was the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen. And all I could think of was how badly I wished that it could've been my daughter there in her arms instead of Joel's.

* Rebecca insisted upon packing up a bag of sandwiches, chips, and fresh fruit for us to take along, while Joel gave me instructions on how to set his rabbit traps in case we happened to run out of food and money at the same time. "I'm not eating any poor little bunnies!" Corey declared vehemently, to which Joel replied with a chuckle, "You can get sick a' fish mighty quick there, girl, an' I got a hunch you'd die a' starvation before yer pretty city boy could ever manage ta bring down a deer!" I thanked him wryly for his vote of confidence, and we were on our way soon afterward. It was a long drive, made longer by the fact that the last leg of the journey involved a series of pitted and winding dirt roads where it was possible to hit a top speed of maybe fifteen miles per hour on a good stretch. Corey was feeling more than a little carsick by the time the cabin came into view. I removed the padlocks from the door and carried in the bags we'd accumulated: my clothes, Becky's care package, and some clothing we'd picked up along the way for Corey. There were also a couple bottles of wine that I'd snagged back at the little country store some ten miles down the road when I'd stopped for gas. I took only one bottle inside, and then sank the other halfway into the creek in a wire mesh cage that Joel had anchored there to serve as a refrigerator. "What are you doing?" Corey inquired, observing my actions from the tree stump where she sat waiting for her stomach to settle. "Oh, that's right -- I forgot you never been up here before," I said, smiling. "Guess I should've warned you -- there's no electricity. That's the fridge." "No electricity?" she repeated in shock. "Huh-uh. You'll love it -- candlelight's infinitely more romantic, y'know." I grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet. "C'mon, wait'll you see the inside. Joel built this whole place all by himself, furniture and all. It's a real trip." I led her through the door and studied her face for a reaction as she surveyed the interior of the one-room cabin. There was none -- her expression was totally blank. At last, she forced herself to ask, "Jag? Where's the bathroom?" "Oops," I returned, grinning sheepishly. "'Oops'? Does 'oops' mean there ain't any plumbing, either?" "Guess that was something else I forgot to mention," I shrugged apologetically. "How could you forget about plumbing and electricity?" "Didn't seem important, really." "What?" "Well, hell -- we got all the basics, y'know. Food, clothing, shelter, and all that shit. And I got you, and that's all I care about." She flounced over to the rough-hewn table and plopped herself down onto the bench that ran along one side. "I can't believe you're doing this to me!" she snapped in irritation. "What?" I shot back, my own temper flaring. "Just what the fuck did I do? You wanted to run away, so okay -- I got us a place to stay. I'm sorry if it don't meet with your approval, but it suits me just fine, thank you very much. I don't mind choppin' wood or skinnin' a damn rabbit if it means I get to be with you, but you can't even take a piss in the bushes for me? Great." I snatched up the bag containing her clothes. "C'mon. I'll take you home, little princess. Or wherever the hell you wanna go." "I didn't say I wanted to leave," she argued, her arms folded stubbornly across her chest. "So just what in hell do you want, Miss Rogers?" I spat, throwing the bag viciously into a corner. "You want me to shit you a castle or something, maybe?" "No, I just want you to quit yelling at me, for one thing!" "You want me to quit yelling at you? Fine, I'll quit yelling at you. I won't even fucking talk to you, awright?" And with that, I turned and stomped out the door, slamming it hard behind me. God, why couldn't I ever do anything right? I walked down to the creek to retrieve the bottle of wine I'd left there earlier, and then wandered along the bank for a while until I found a comfortable-looking tree to prop myself against and get myself good and loaded. I don't know how long I sat under that tree, but I was there long enough to be able to coax one of the local squirrels to eat from my hand. It was full dark by the time I returned to the clearing where the cabin stood. The first thing I noticed was the dim light glowing from the windows, and the second was the smoke drifting up lazily from the chimney. I smiled and ran up to the door to find a torn piece of paper bag hanging from the hasp. And, lighting a match, I read the two words scratched in ash upon the brown paper: "I'm sorry." I tried the door, found it latched from the inside, and knocked softly, calling, "Cinders? Hey, lover?" I heard the bolt slide back a moment later, and then the door swung open. Handing her the note she'd left for me, I told her, "Me, too." She smiled shyly and observed, "You're drunk." "I know," I agreed, pushing the door shut once more and throwing the bolt. "All the better for you to take advantage of me, my dear." I scooped her up into my arms and started toward the four-poster bed over in the corner, and she giggled, "Aren't you even hungry first?" "Only for you, little darlin'," I grinned wickedly, dropping her onto the feather mattress. "Only for you."

* I rose early the next day -- making a mental note to put aspirin at the top of my shopping list -- and drove out to the little store down the road, leaving a brief message to Corey on a strip of bag on the table. I called Mom collect from the pay phone there, and was told that death would come swiftly the next time she got her hands on me. Laughing, I hung up and proceeded to make my purchases. Given the distance and the condition of the roads, I was gone probably close to two hours. Corey was sweeping out the cabin by the time I made it back there, and she looked up and blessed me with a radiant smile as I hopped out of the van with my packages. I kissed her soundly and informed her, "In these bags, my little Cinderella, I have all kinds of wonderful items guaranteed to strike terror into the hearts of all good mothers and dentists everywhere. For example . . . ." I raised one knee up to balance the sack I held in my right arm, then used that hand to reach inside for the bag of Oreos on top, which I tossed to her, grinning. She laughed. "Didja buy any real food, blondie?" "Ah, a little," I replied, carrying the bags inside to the table. She followed along behind to assist in unpacking them. "See? Look," I said, handing her a loaf of bread. "Great. We can have Oreo sandwiches for dinner," she snickered. "O ye of little faith," I sighed, digging out a package of hot dogs. "Ah, something for the infamous fridge, I see!" "Yes, ma'm," I nodded, continuing my unpacking. "And get me a cup of water while you're out there. I never did learn how to chew aspirin." "A bit overhung this morning, are we?" she teased as she selected a cup from the sideboard. "That we are, sugar. Water, please." "On my way," she laughed, skipping out the open door. I decided right then and there that I wanted to spend the rest of my life that way. She returned momentarily, and I gulped down three aspirin in rapid succession while she went back to investigating the groceries. "What's this?" she inquired, holding up a package of beef. "Tonight's dinner. We're having stew." "Oh, we are, huh? Sweetheart, I hate to tell you this, but I don't know the first thing about cooking stew." I gave her a quick kiss and told her, "So I'll teach you. It's easy." "Easy," she repeated, clearly having her doubts about it. "Well, if you prefer, I can always stay home and do the cookin' while you go out and find you a job shovelin' shit somewhere." "Okay, so I'll learn," she groaned. I laughed. * Once I'd gotten the meat, onions, and broth simmering slowly in the kettle above the fire, I turned to Corey and inquired, "Well, what would you like to do now, sweets?" "That's it?" she asked suspiciously. "For now," I chuckled. "The potatoes go in later, and the other vegetable are last. So whaddya wanna do in the meantime?" She shrugged. "Go for a walk?" I suggested. "It's really nice out here this time of year." "Is it okay to leave that?" she asked, indicating the fireplace. "Honey," I grinned, "your pretty city boy may not be much of a hunter, but he damn sure knows how to build a fire right. It'll be okay if we're not gone too long." "You sure?" "Trust me. This's your first time up here, not mine -- remember?" "Awright," she sighed, adding, "But if we come back to a pile of ashes . . . ." "The house ain't gonna burn, and neither is the stew. Now c'mon." I padlocked the door and we went off down along the creek a ways until we came to a path going up in through the trees. "Wanna go look for bear?" I teased. "Why not?" she countered with a mischievous smile. "Couldn't come across any that're meaner than the one I'm already with." "Ooh!" I chuckled, giving her a squeeze. "If we did find one, I think it'd run from you, you nasty bitch!" "Flattery will get you nowhere," she returned haughtily, pulling me onto the path. We walked on into the woods for maybe fifteen minutes, and then she left the path to flop down onto a stump, saying, "I've absolutely got to sit down for a minute and don't you even think about trying to tell me no." I laughed. "Aw, whatsa matter, princess? Roughin' it too rough for ya?" "I'm tired and fuck you," she declared blandly. I laughed again and went to sit on the ground beside her. It did seem a bit odd to me that she'd worn out so quickly, but I dismissed it as being due to the effects of unaccustomed backwoods living. Culture shock, in a way. She'd be alright in a few days, I decided. I dug my Marlboros out of my pocket, lit one for myself, and offered the pack to her. "God, no!" she groaned, dropping her head down onto arms folded atop her knees. "I'm dizzy enough already without making it any worse!" "Must be all this clean country air getting to ya," I grinned, stuffing the cigarette pack back into my pocket. "Must be," she mumbled, unmoving. I turned and leaned back against the stump, resting my head on the side of her thigh, and smoked my cigarette while I waited for her to revive. I hoped she wasn't getting sick or anything, being as how we were in the world's worst place for that sort of thing. The closest doctor was probably some fifteen or twenty miles away. She was feeling better shortly, however, and acted her usual smartass self for most of our return trip to the cabin. Over the last five minutes or so of the walk, she became a bit more subdued, but she didn't ask to sit and rest again until we were inside, where she immediately went to lie down while I tended to the kettle of stew. "You sure you're okay?" I asked as I got out the bag of potatoes and set them on the table. She sighed. "I'm fine, blondie. Just tired, that's all." I reached for a bowl from the sideboard and dropped some of the potatoes into it, saying, "I'm gonna take these down to the creek and give 'em a wash. You be awright for a few minutes?" "I said I'm fine," she replied irritably. I shrugged, a bit mystified, and headed outside. When I returned, she was sitting up leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. I set the bowl on the table, grabbed a knife, and sat down to start peeling. "Need some help?" she offered half-heartedly. "Oh, I think I can manage," I assured her. "Finish your cigarette." She came to the table anyway and sat across from me, watching me. At length, she said seriously, "Y'know, I'd tell you how beautiful you look, but you're far too conceited already." I arched an eyebrow at her and popped a piece of raw potato into my mouth to munch on. "Well, you are," she insisted, tossing her cigarette butt into the fireplace. "Which one? Beautiful or conceited?" "Both." I shook my head, grinning. "Rude bitch," I remarked affectionately. "Why'm I rude? It's true." I set my elbow firmly on the tabletop, pointing the blade of the knife toward her, and chuckled, "Didn't anybody ever tell you it's very foolish to insult a guy with a knife in his hand?" "Not recently, no." I laughed and went back to peeling the last potato. "So, what kind of job you gonna look for out here?" she asked, changing the subject. "D'no," I shrugged. "Guess I'll go on down to that little store in a day or two and ask around. Maybe one of the farms nearby could use an extra hand." "Can you do that kind of work?" she questioned as I stood and went to the kettle to dump the potatoes in. I pretended to consider while I stirred the stew, answering finally, "Well, now -- if I can't, I suppose I could always hire myself out for stud service." "Blondie?" "Mmm?" "Turn around." I did, and was amused to see her casually pointing the knife in my direction. "And then again, maybe not," I chuckled. "I really admire a man who knows enough to listen to reason," she smiled sweetly, testing the blade with her thumb before returning it carefully to the table. I went to sit beside her, thinking back on another time and another knife. I asked her if she remembered that day on the dock and she nodded. "You were still cherry then," I teased, running a finger down the center of her chest to her waist. "My, how times have changed," she sighed tolerantly. "And I certainly burned your ass, didn't I?" "Oh?" "You said we wouldn't last two months. Well, it's already been three now since the night we spent at Farley's." "I know," she replied, seeming distracted. "Hey, that's a compliment, sugar. I've never gone with any one chick that long before." "Told you you're conceited." "Oh, you're so nasty!" I grinned, taking her face into my hands. And, kissing her deeply, I added, "What a bitch you are, Cinderella!" "Yeah, and you love it," she declared as she reached up to snap a finger at my earring. "That I do, sugar," I agreed. "That I do."

* It was the next morning that all the crap came down. I'm still kicking myself for it, too, even though I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. I was up for probably a good hour at least before she wakened. She opened her eyes, looked around blearily for a moment, and then grunted, rolled over, and pulled the blanket up over her head. "Morning, lover," I smiled from the table, where I sat nibbling on a powdered doughnut. "Fuck you," she mumbled groggily from under the covers. "Well, aren't we all sunshine and brightness today," I chuckled, licking the powdered sugar off my fingers. I got up and went to sit on the bed beside her, tugging the blanket down to place a kiss on her cheek. "I love you, too, darling." She brushed me away. "Go away -- I wanna sleep for another year." "S'matter? Didn't sleep good last night?" "Like a rock." "Well, if you'll pardon the observation, you don't act like somebody who slept like a rock." She sat up and sighed in exasperation. "Do you have any idea how aggravating it is to be around someone so obnoxiously cheerful at this hour of the morning?" "No. Show me." She reached down onto the floor for her shirt, muttering, "Oh, eat shit." "Grouch," I accused as she pulled the shirt on and buttoned it clumsily with sleep-numbed fingers. She fixed me with a rather withering glare, pushed me aside, and started for the door. "Where ya going, sugar?" I inquired as she stepped outside, squinting in the sunlight. "Wash up," she replied, shutting the door behind her. I shook my head in a mixture of amusement and bewilderment, and went back to the table again. I knew some people could be quite bitchy first thing in the morning, but I didn't recall her acting this way the time she'd spent the night at my house -- which was the only time I'd been both present and conscious when she'd awakened. My mild concern heightened when she returned some minutes later looking pale as a ghost. "You awright, hon?" I inquired as she seated herself across from me. "Fine," she sighed, reaching for a cigarette. "You don't look fine." "Thanks a bunch." "You know what I mean -- you look like you might be coming down with something." "I'll be coming down with my fist on top of your head if you don't fix me a cup of coffee within the next ten seconds." "Okay," I shrugged, dropping the subject for the moment. I got her coffee and then offered her a doughnut to go along with it. "Oh, please!" she groaned, pushing the bag away. "Get that shit out of my face! I don't even wanna look at food right now!" I frowned. "Cinders, are you sure you're feeling okay? I mean, if you're getting the flu or something, I think maybe we should take you back home. I don't have any idea where to find a doctor out here yet, and we can't afford one right now even if I did." "Give me that!" she snapped, snatching the bag back. "I ain't going home! I'll eat and puke first!" I jumped a bit, startled by her angry reaction, and watched in stunned silence as she tore the bag open viciously and seized one of the powdery white doughnuts. She bit into it and chewed listlessly, honestly looking like she really was going to vomit. "Honey, don't try and eat if you're really that sick," I told her, worried. "I'm not sick!" she insisted, still attempting to choke down her one doughnut. I went around and sat beside her on the bench, my back to the table. "Don't, okay?" I pleaded, reaching up to take the doughnut from her hand. "Will you make up your mind? Do you want me to eat or don't you?" "I don't want you to do anything that's gonna make you feel worse--" "Then why're you telling me I ought to go home?" "Because if you're sick, you need to be where someone can take care of you--" "I told you, I'm not sick!" she argued, interrupting again. "Sweetheart, please," I said, laying my hands on her arms just below the shoulder. "Just for a while, okay? We can come back when you're feeling better and I've had more time to put some money together and plan things out a little better." "Oh, isn't it just like you to go dumping your responsibilities!" she hissed. "Awright, fine! Cop out the minute some little thing goes wrong! I should've known!" "Who's copping out? Baby, I care about you! I don't want you sick out here with no way for me to get you any medicine -- I love you!" "Like hell you do!" she spat, pushing me away. "I do!" "Bullshit!" She started to get up, and I grabbed her arm. "Where you going?" I demanded as she glared at me. "To throw up -- do you mind?" she retorted furiously, jerking her arm free and stalking out the door. I sat there a moment, dumbfounded, and then got up to follow her. I found her kneeling by the creek, splashing cold water on her face. She was crying. "Cinders . . . ," I began, trying to take her into my arms. She hauled off and smacked me across the face, hard enough to knock me over on my ass from the squatting position I'd been in. "Don't you touch me!" she snarled savagely. I sat frozen in total shock, completely immobilized by the hate in her voice. But I understood. It was going to end as it'd begun. Only it had gone one step further -- the absolute zenith of white fire: utter destruction.

* She stayed there down by the creek while I packed up the van. I double-checked the cabin, made sure there were no lives ashes in the fireplace left to spark, padlocked the door . . . went through all the proper motions, feeling nothing. Nothing but a numb emptiness in the pit of my stomach. I came up behind her and told her softly, "Let's go." She rose without reply and walked woodenly to the van. Climbing in beside her, I decided that I had to try one last time. "Cinderella? I love you." In answer, she removed the ring from her hand, held it up for my inspection, and dropped it carefully into the ashtray. I looked away and turned the key in the ignition. The hollowness in my gut began to ache.

* We got picked up by the Porker patrol less than three miles into town. Mr. Rogers (can you say Spineless Bastard?) had sworn out a warrant, and Birch's van was hardly what you might call inconspicuous. I ended up spending the night in jail -- which was cool, since fending off the advances of the fag in my cell kept my mind off of Corey, at least -- because it was well after six o'clock by the time all my paperwork had been processed, and the only place I could reach Birch by phone was at work. I did try Stefano, but he was out for the evening, and there was no way in hell I was going to call my mom. I finally got ahold of Birch the next morning and he came downtown, bailed me out, and got them to release his van -- which they'd impounded, charging me with grand theft auto. He straightened them out on that score, anyway, and they dropped the theft charge. "You look awful," he observed as we walked out to get the van. "Yeah, you try sleeping in the same room with a horny drag queen and see how good you look in the morning," I remarked, lighting a cigarette. "Up all night, huh?" "Well, he certainly was," I replied with perverted humor. Birch groaned. I went along back to the store with him, and we discussed the past disastrous weekend in between customers. "I just can't believe she got as pissed as she did," I sighed, helping him sort through a batch of T-shirts that had come in that morning. "She has a temper," he nodded. "All because I wanted her to go home for a little while?" He shrugged. I sat back and studied him for a moment. Dense as I was, something finally clicked inside my clouded brain. Not enough to tip me to the whole truth -- not even close, really - - but enough to make one small thing suddenly very clear. "Angel?" "Huh?" "It was an act, wasn't it?" He looked up, but said nothing. "It was," I answered myself. "At least part of it. She wanted to break up with me, didn't she? And you know why." He turned back to the pile of shirts in front of him, avoiding my eyes. "I heard you talking to Cokey Friday night, man," I pressed. "My radar must've been malfunctioning," he sighed at last. "I figured you were asleep." "Well, I wasn't -- I heard every word. And you know something you ain't telling me." "Yeah," he agreed, but said no more. "So?" I prompted. "I can't tell you." "What?" "I can't tell you -- she made me swear I wouldn't." "Corey did?" He nodded. "But man, you gotta tell me! I'm gonna lose her if you don't!" Quietly, he replied, "You've already lost her, my friend." There was more I wanted to say, but for some strange reason I couldn't find my voice.

* I tried to call her every night for over two weeks and could never get past her parents. And -- try as I might -- I couldn't get anything more out of Birch. All he would say was, "If she wants you to be told, she'll have to tell you herself." Time went on, and I went on with it . . . somehow. I went to court in October for my arrest, lucked out with a lenient judge, and was given only a lengthy period of probation as punishment for my transgressions. Then, one night early in November, Birch stopped by to deliver the absolute worst of all possible news. Mom let him in, and he came and knocked at my bedroom door. I opened it, and he handed me an envelope wordlessly and sat down on Timmy's bed. I examined the envelope -- it was addressed to him -- and then removed the contents:

Mr. and Mrs. Franklin A. Rogers cordially request your presence at the wedding of their daughter

Corinne Anne Rogers

to

Nicholas Philip Bannard I couldn't read any further. "Is this for real?" I questioned him, praying in vain for a denial. "Only too," he nodded slowly. "We both lost, friend." I sat heavily at the foot of my bed. "I can't believe this! Aw, Jesus!" "Believe it," he sighed, digging out a cigarette but not lighting it immediately. "Who is this asshole?" "Bannard? I d'no, really. I've been asking around, but I haven't been able to find out much." "So what did you find out?" "Well, supposedly he's a cousin of some sort to one of her parents' friends. Lives down in the projects on the west end. That's about it -- the rest was obviously bullshit." "The rest?" He shrugged. "Heard he was queer as a three-dollar bill." "Queer? As in faggot?" "You got it." "Since when do queers go out and get married?" "That's my point. It's a bit unlikely." "But he does live on the west end somewhere?" "As far as I know, that much is true." "That's shit city," I commented, shaking my head. "Definitely," he agreed. "That's probably where he picked up his rep -- I understand they have quite a little gay community down there." "God, this is crazy! You think she actually loves this creep?" He lit the cigarette he'd been fingering before answering, "I know she doesn't." "Well, then what the fuck . . . ? Awright, that does it. C'mon." I grabbed his wrist, dragged him out into the kitchen, and dialed Corey's number. "Get her on the phone," I told him, handing him the receiver. There was a brief pause while he waited for someone to answer, and then he said, "This's Angie. May I speak to Corey, please?" Another pause, then he handed the phone back to me, saying, "She's coming." "That her father?" I asked out of curiosity. He shook his head. "Mother. The old man wouldn't have let me talk to her -- you're not the only one on his shit list, you know." A sweet voice on the other end of the phone, "Birch?" "Wrong blond, lover," I replied. "It's Michael." Hesitation, and then, "Michael?" "That's what I said." "But my mother told me--" "That it was Birch? It was. Until he gave the phone to me, anyway." "I don't wanna talk to you," she declared bluntly. "Oh, but you're going to, sugar. I got a few questions I want answered -- right now. Such as what all this shit is about you getting married." "It's not shit -- it's true." "The hell you say. You can't marry someone else when you still love me." She laughed bitterly. "And what makes you think I still love you, you conceited son of a bitch?" "Try and tell me you don't." "Oh, will you get serious!" "You can't do it, can you? No more than you can tell me that you do love this Nichol-ass creep." "For your information, Townsend, I do love him. Very much." "Bullshit. You're lying." "What's the difference, anyway? Regardless of what your opinion happens to be, I'm still going to marry him." "Why?" "I told you -- I love him." "Look -- don't lie to me, bitch! What's the real reason?" There was a moment of silence before she finally admitted, "Because I have to." "What?" "I have to, stupid! Understand?" It took a minute to sink in. "You're pregnant?" "Yes." "Oh, Christ. Oh, sugar -- don't, please. Don't," I begged. "Don't marry that guy just because he knocked you up." I still hadn't put two and two together. "I have no choice in the matter. My father says I've got to marry Nicky, so I've got to. Period." "Cinders, no . . . ." "Will you cut that out? I hate that name!" I couldn't believe that. From the way her voice shook as she spoke, it sounded more like it hurt her to hear me say it. I dropped it anyway. "Corey, you can't do this," I insisted. "If it's your father that's pushing you into this, then for God's sake tell him it's my baby and marry me instead." "No, Michael -- I can't . . . ." "Sweetheart, please. I still love you -- I never stopped. I don't care who the kid's father is -- I swear I'll raise it like my own." "It's too late for that now. Listen, I've gotta go. Nicky's at the door and we have dinner reservations for eight o'clock. Please don't call me again, alright?" "Corey, wait!" I pleaded. "Don't hang up . . . ." But she already had -- the phone went dead in my hand. And, at the same time, something else went dead inside of me, too.

* PART II

CORINNE:

EXCERPTS FROM A JOURNAL November 21

Today was my wedding day. Happiest day of a girl's life, right? Ha, ha. Well, this was what I wanted, so I shouldn't complain, I guess. But oh, Christ, what a joke! The flowers never arrived, the minister was delayed, the groom was drunk, Birch refused to even attend the ceremony at all, and Adele (my reluctant maid of honor) started her period at the reception and ruined both her gown and her pride. And last but definitely not least, Michael showed up at the church just before the wedding was scheduled to begin and had to be forcibly ejected by the ushers. God, he'll never know how much I wanted it to be him there beside me instead of Nicky. I miss him so. But it's got to be better to marry someone I don't love at all than to marry someone I do and watch it all go sour. It would only have been a matter of time before he started feeling trapped, started pacing like a lion in its cage, started turning on the one who'd caged him. No, I know what he thought of Alice, and I couldn't bear to have him think of me the same way. I know he didn't really want to marry me. If he had, he would've asked again after I told him I wasn't pregnant. But he never did; he only offered because of the baby, not because he wanted me for his wife. I still feel terrible about lying to him, but I had to find out for sure, and that was the only way to do it. I have to admit, though, that I'm still a bit puzzled at his reaction to the news that I am pregnant after all. Not about his thinking it's Nicky's baby. That's what I wanted him to think (and Nicky, too, for a little while longer, at least). No, what surprised me was his offer to claim someone else's child as his own. I can't pass it off as just something he said in shock, because I find it hard to believe that he came to the church with only intentions of witnessing the ceremony. Disrupting it, yes, but not witnessing it. I don't know. Until today, I'd thought it was just a declaration made on impulse (much like all the rest), not to be taken seriously. But then, maybe showing up at the wedding was an impulsive action, too. God, who can tell? Birch has pleaded his case more times than I can count, saying how much he's changed since he met me and all that. But can anybody really change that drastically? After all of the girls he's had, how could I be so conceited to think that I'm any different? Why should he love me if he couldn't find anything to love in any of them? Well, regardless, it doesn't matter now. Now. There's a word that holds little joy for me. Now is 11:30, now is my wedding night. Now I should be slipping into my marital bed beside my husband, and I suppose I would if he were home. Ha, ha, there's another joke. The groom left the reception with the ushers instead of the bride. Contrary to popular opinion, he didn't think he'd had enough to drink yet and decided to remedy that little problem elsewhere without further delay. The bride was driven to her new "home" by her father (who also, incidentally, informally disowned her immediately following the wedding ceremony), and was dumped on the doorstep without a key. Lucky for me, Nicky's too stupid to latch his windows. Hope the neighbors got a good laugh out of it, at any rate. Adele wasn't the only one to end up with a ruined gown tonight (not that I really give a shit anyway). So, here I sit, waiting for Nicky to come home. Poor, stupid Nicky. His new bride is nearly six months pregnant (and very obviously so, when not stuffed into a voluminous wedding gown), and he's still foolish enough to believe the child is his when he's only known me for two months. I wonder how long it'll take him to figure it out. I feel so cruel, even though the wedding was really all my father's doing. I mean, yes, it's true that I set it up to have him catch me in bed with Nicky, but I only did that to make him think I really was a tramp like he thought, so that he wouldn't go after Michael with his "shotgun" when he found out about the baby. I didn't know he'd automatically go after Nicky instead. He's not a bad guy, at any rate. Nicky, that is. I could have done worse. And even if he is the complete opposite of Michael, at least I won't have any constant reminders of the past (except for the baby, anyway). Where Michael is tall and slim, Nicky is comparatively short and stocky; where Michael's hair is long and blond, Nicky's is short and black. Michael has blue eyes; Nicky's are green. And Michael wears an earring, while Nicky wears a moustache. Even their personalities are different. Michael is outgoing and a bit loud; Nicky is withdrawn and almost too quiet. And that extends to bedroom activity, as well. But I suppose there are worse things in life than being bored in bed. And he does seem nice enough in most other ways. Granted, his apartment leaves a lot to be desired, but it'll do. At least it has electricity and plumbing, and oh, what a sick joke that was, Corinne! I would rather be back in that awful cabin again if it meant I could have Michael as my husband instead of Nicky. Oops! I hear the door. Nicky's home.

Thanksgiving

Surprise, surprise! Nicky does have a temper after all! I found that out quite abruptly today when I fucked up the turkey and he threw it on the floor and stomped out the door, hollering about, "Goddam stupid women!" Wonder what Christmas will bring? Not turkey, I hope.

December 2

Met a girl at the laundromat today who says she knows Nicky. She seemed surprised to hear he'd gotten married. Anyway, her name is Abby, and she lives with a guy named Viv (What a name for a guy!) a few apartments down. She promised to stop by for coffee tomorrow morning so we can get better acquainted. I'm looking forward to it; it's so boring alone here all day while Nicky's at work.

December 3

Nicky was pretty upset when I told him about running into Abby. He wanted to know what she'd told me about him, and when I said, "Nothing," he took off over there like a bat out of hell. Of course, I didn't know where he'd gone at the time, but Abby told me that he'd been over there last night when she came over this morning. I asked her what had been wrong, and she just said, "Oh, there's a few things in his past he's not too terribly proud of, and he was afraid I might've said something to you that I shouldn't've." Well, I can respect that. There are a few things in my past that I don't particularly want him to know about, so we're even. Such as the fact that the long-haired freak that created such a scene at our wedding was a little bit more than just an old friend. December 7

Well, I found out why Nicky's been keeping the second bedroom locked and why he refused to discuss converting it to a nursery. God, I wish he just would have explained it to me instead of letting me find out the way I did. Scared the shit right out of me. I did hear voices downstairs late last night, but I just figured he'd had a friend drop in. Well, I wasn't exactly wrong. Thing was, the friend was still here when I got up this morning. I saw the other bedroom door open and looked in, and there he was. And if his presence alone wasn't enough of a shock, the interior of the room itself definitely was. Wall tapestries, macramé plant hangers (temporarily minus plants, of course), cable-spool nightstand complete with fringed tablecloth and candle (in a wine bottle, naturally), hi-tech stereo system, statue of David, fur bean-bag chair. I could go on and on. It was obvious that Nicky hadn't decorated it. I asked him who the hell he was. He rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow, answering insolently, "Name's Sander Christian. Who the hell wants to know?" Well, his appearance may have been rather attractive, but his attitude certainly left a lot to be desired. I gave him my name and he inquired, "I don't suppose you're Nicky's long-lost sister, by any slim chance?" "I'm his wife," I replied. "I wasn't aware that he had a sister." "He doesn't," he said, rising. "His wife, huh? Well, this adds an interesting little twist to things, I must say. Uh, Mrs. Bannard? Have I got something you've never seen before?" "Beg your pardon?" I asked, shaking my head to clear it. The man didn't have a single stitch of clothing on, and in all honesty, I have to say that he was truly rather magnificent to behold. "You're staring," he observed. I looked away and cleared my throat, informing him, "Well, I'm not exactly accustomed to seeing naked men walking around my house." "What?" he smirked, pulling on a ragged pair of jeans. "Your husband never takes his clothes off? My, you must have an extremely dull life." "That's not what I meant . . . ," I began, but he pushed past me and tossed out a rude, "Excuse me, dear," and headed for the bathroom. A moment later, I heard the shower go on and I didn't see him again for half an hour or more. I was sitting at the kitchen table when he came in and inquired, "Can you make a decent cup of coffee?" I told him I certainly could and he replied, "Then would you do so, please? If I really must tolerate living under the same roof with a woman, then I'm sure you can manage to perform some small service for me in exchange for my forbearance." God, how condescending could you get? I spat angrily, "I wouldn't even turn the fucking burner on for you, you obnoxious bastard!" "Did I forget to say please?" he returned, unruffled. "I could've sworn I did. Listen, dear, I'm trying very hard to be patient with you. Now let's not get nasty, alright? Be a good girl and fix me a cup of coffee, and we'll discuss your relationship with my, ah, roommate." I told him to fix it himself, and he asked deviously, "Is Nicky aware that the child you're so obviously carrying is going to be having a birthday in -- oh, I'd say February or March?" I didn't answer, and he continued, "Rather odd, isn't it? I mean, since I happen to know he wasn't seeing you at least until after I left for Florida in August. Late August, I might add. Or have you already informed him yourself that he isn't the father?" I got up to fix his coffee, fuming silently, and he smiled a smug, "Thank you, dear. I think we understand each other a little better now, don't we?" "Kiss my ass," I muttered, damning him for his intelligence. "Just the coffee, if you don't mind. I appreciate the offer and all, but you're not my type, to be blunt." I turned to glare at him, and I could tell he was just daring me to make another comment. I kept quiet, and eventually he said, "Now, you and Nicky were married when?" I told him, and he nodded thoughtfully. "And you obviously have slept with him if he's under the mistaken impression that he's the one who got you pregnant." "That's none of your goddam business!" I snapped, setting his cup of coffee down in front of him hard enough to slosh it over the side. "Are you always this clumsy?" he asked blandly, tipping his chair back to reach the dishrag on the sink. I fought the urge to kick it out from under him; he was Nicky's friend, after all, regardless of what a tremendous prick he also was. Instead, I just stormed out of the kitchen and went upstairs to lock myself in my bedroom. Which is where I still am. Nicky will be home from work any time now, and I have one hell of a lot of questions for him to answer.

December 9

I don't understand these two guys, honest to God I don't. When I tried to ask Nicky about this Sandy guy the other day when he got home, he wouldn't say anything but, "He just rents the other bedroom here, and that's all you need to know about him." And the way they act around each other is positively weird. Nicky gets even more quiet than usual, practically to the point where you're tempted to check and see if he's still breathing or not. But that Sandy is the real strange one. He's like some kind of Jekyll and Hyde, I swear. Whenever Nicky's around he's just as sweet as can be, but the rest of the time he acts like he's trying to set a new world's record for being antagonistic. Talking to Nicky about it doesn't do a bit of good, either, because he simply refuses to hear a single bad word about the guy. And then there have been these arguments the past two nights. I hear them downstairs long after I've gone to bed, but I can never make out what it is they're arguing about. I tried eavesdropping at the top of the stairs the first night, but Sandy spotted me and I had to pretend like I was coming down for a glass of juice or something. Anyway, I didn't get much for my trouble. All I heard was:

Sandy: I really think it was terribly unfair of you not to have written me about this. Or, at the very least, you could have told me last night when I first got here.

Nicky: I was gonna tell you soon! How was I supposed to know the hospital was gonna kick you out? Anyway, it doesn't have to change anything, y'know. I don't know why you're getting so upset. Sandy: Shall I enlighten you?

Nicky: Oh, cut it out, Sandy! You know what I mean!

Sandy: Save it. I believe your dear wife would like to wish you goodnight.

And that's when I had to go on downstairs so that it wouldn't look like I'd been trying to overhear their conversation. Nicky had the guiltiest look on his face, like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar or something. I just can't figure it. The other thing that bugs me is the "hospital" reference. What, was this guy in some psycho ward somewhere? Maybe his "Florida" story was just bullshit to cover up some heavy-duty straitjacket time. I don't know, maybe he was just sick, but he still makes me nervous as hell. I hate being left alone with him all day while Nicky's at work. There are times when he looks at me so strangely, almost like he would gladly offer to help me over the edge of the nearest cliff. It's like he hates women, and me in particular. Abby's no help, either. I tried to talk to her about it this morning at the laundromat, and all she would say was, "Well, what does Nicky say about him?" And when I told her the "renting the other bedroom" story, she just said that that's about all there really is to know about the guy. And to my questions on the "hospital" thing, she answered, "I think he worked there or something." Yeah, sure. Then why didn't Nicky say "fired" instead of "kicked out"? I don't think Abby's going to be any help whatsoever in figuring all this out.

December 15

Everything's changing. I don't really know what's happening, but it all seems linked to Sandy. I can hardly even find words to describe it, because it's nothing I can actually put my finger on. Just little things. Nicky spends a lot more time at home now; he's only gone out one night this week, and that was to cop a dime bag. But at the same time, he seems much more distant somehow. True, he's always been rather cold, but lately he's been practically frigid. And then, last night I woke up about 2:30 a.m. and he wasn't in bed, so I got up to see what was going on. It wasn't like him to stay up so late when he had to go to work in the morning. Well, all the lights were out downstairs, so I went ahead and knocked on Sandy's door. And who opens the door but Nicky! He asked right away what I wanted, and I told him that I was a little bit concerned when I woke up and found him gone. Well, he got all pissed off and started yelling at me to mind my own business and quit nagging at him like some fat old mother hen! And all the time, Sandy's just lying there in bed, propped up on one elbow with this smug little smile on his face. I mean, he looked for all the world just like a little whore except for the fact that he's the wrong sex. We're talking red light bulb in the lamp and the bedsheet not even pulled up high enough to cover his hipbone, here. Anyway, that's the last time I go knocking on Sandy's door.

Christmas

I have to give Sandy the credit for making today bearable. No turkey, thank God! He cooked roast duckling instead, and it was really quite good. I missed having a Christmas tree, but I didn't say anything because I didn't want to make Nicky mad. He's been getting mad a lot more often lately, but he was in a pretty good mood today, fortunately. He seemed to like the ski sweater I gave him, anyway. (Which is more than I can say about the cookbook he gave to me!) Sandy gave him a present, too, but he wouldn't show me what it was. And he gave Sandy a neckchain. (Needless to say, Sandy and I didn't exchange gifts!) My mother stopped by in the afternoon to bring my present (a maternity dress) and a tin of store-bought cookies for Nicky. She was obviously highly uncomfortable and didn't stay long, which was quite alright with me. Sandy kept to the kitchen while she was here, and I don't think she was even aware that there was a fourth person in the house. Well, I'd better leave this short. Nicky will probably be up to bed soon, so I guess I'll put this away for now.

New Year's Eve

Happy New Year to me. Nicky went out to a party with Sandy and left me home to celebrate with myself. Just me and my stomach. Ha, ha. God, I miss Michael.

January 11

Today was so horrible I can't even believe it was all real. It was a shitty day to begin with. The power was out for five hours and half the stuff in the freezer had melted before Sandy finally came downstairs and shook his head, commenting that I should've had the brains to put it all out in the snow. He was in fine form all day. The apartment was positively frigid by the time the heat came back on, and the baby was kicking its disapproval quite vigorously all afternoon. I had a splitting headache by the time Nicky got home from work. I hoped his arrival would at least bring respite from Sandy's badgering, if nothing else, but he only made things more miserable. I was in the kitchen starting dinner when he got home. He came in, tossed his buck knife onto the table with a clatter, and ordered, "Clean this." I turned around and asked him what in God's name had happened; the knife was a bloody mess. He paused in the doorway long enough to reply, "One of your trashy little friends paid me a visit at work today," and then turned and left the room. I followed him out into the living room, trying to get him to tell me who it had been. Finally, he answered, "Who do you think? It was that damn albino again." "Who?" I asked, confused. "The freak with the weird-looking white hair. The one they threw outta the church." He obviously misread my shock, because his next words were, "What? You thought I was too drunk that day to remember any of it? Well, fuck you, too. I don't forget things that easily, sweetie, and I suggest you remember that in the future." I didn't speak; I couldn't. For a split second, I was rooted to the spot, and then I ran, not even stopping to grab my coat. I went straight to Abby's and pounded on the door until Viv finally pulled it open. Ignoring his questions concerning what the hell I was doing running around outside without a jacket or something, I begged him to let me use their telephone. I didn't even know at that point exactly who I was going to call, but I had to call someone. I had to know. Abby came out of the kitchen, fussing at me, but I ignored her, too. "She wants to use the phone," Viv said. Abby led me back to the kitchen, still fussing. Who could I call? Birch had left work by then, Stefano might not have heard yet, the hospital probably wouldn't divulge any information. His mother? I searched my memory for the number that would connect me with that wonderful, tired little house on Third Street and dialed. Ringing. Oh God, I was so scared! Ringing. Where would he be? Emergency room, I.C.U., morgue? Ringing. "Hello?" The voice was flat, but strong. Drained, lacking emotion, it still sounded full and rich to me in my fear. His voice. I could see him, feel him, all from that one word. Again, "Hello?" I placed the receiver gently back onto its cradle and burst into tears of blessed relief, while Abby and Viv exchanged puzzled looks that I never did offer to explain away. Supper was ruined by the time I returned home, and it was then that I got a taste of just how ruthless Nicky could be. He didn't even give me a chance to take off the parka that Abby had loaned me before he back-handed me across the face and ordered me out of his sight, calling me a "worthless cunt." Fresh tears sprang to my eyes at the pain, and I ran up the stairs, hearing Sandy's mocking laughter follow my retreat. God, is this really better than any grudging resentment that Michael could have come to feel?

January 28

Nicky's been working double shifts while his boss is on vacation to the Bahamas. Sandy is being positively unbearable. Michael, where are you? What are you doing right now? Are you thinking of me? Do you know how much I want to be with you? You left a child within me, Michael, and I couldn't tell you. And I wish to Christ I had.

February 4

Well, now I understand the statue of David in Sandy's room, at least. I don't know why it never occurred to me before, but then I've never been known for my extraordinarily keen insight. We were halfway through dinner (under-cooked spaghetti, my first attempt) when someone knocked at the front door. Sandy got up to answer it, clearly glad to be excused from the rubbery mess on his plate, and I heard him say to his visitor, "Didn't I tell you never to come here?" The reply came in a casual male voice, "What's the diff? He's at work, isn't he?" All kinds of strange thoughts went through my head, wondering what Sandy was up to that he seemed to want Nicky ignorant of. Drug dealing, maybe? "It's still risky," Sandy was saying. The other's voice registered impatience. "Well, I'm here now. You plan on letting me in before I freeze to death, or what?" The door closed as Sandy issued a final warning. "Just be careful, alright? The cunt's here." The answer, "No problem," was almost obliterated by the clatter of dishes as I slammed them angrily into the sink. God, how he could piss me off! He suggested a glass of wine then, and received a cryptic reply of, "If that's all you have to offer." "Stop!" Sandy hissed irritably. "What did I just finish telling you?" "Sorry," the other said offhandedly, obviously not meaning it. "It just slipped out." They entered the kitchen and I turned to find that this person Sandy had brought in was not the monster I'd imagined, but a charmingly delicate, pale little elfin creature. Long, thin, blond hair was swept back behind his ears, revealing downy, darker-blond sideburns that traced halfway down his jawline. A curving ivory horn dangled from one ear. Blue eyes the color of a summer's afternoon sky sparkled with suppressed mirth as he said, "You must be Corinne. I'm Graham. Not to be confused with the cracker of the same name." I smiled until Sandy cut in, "He's not here and you never saw him," as he reached for two glasses to pour their wine. "Really," I returned dryly. He fixed me with an evil glare and blandly intoned, "Goo-goo. Da-da." I got the point (Nicky still hasn't realized the truth), and said to Graham, "It was a pleasure not meeting you." And with that, I excused myself and went upstairs. I read for a while, dozed off for maybe an hour or so, and then woke up with an incessantly gnawing hunger in the pit of my stomach. The spaghetti had really been awful, and I hadn't been able to eat much of it. Remembering the coffee cake in the breadbox, I headed for the stairs. I'd gone down only four or five steps when I saw them standing there by the front door. All I could say was, "Oh my god, Sandy!" They were embracing, kissing. Suddenly, I wasn't hungry anymore. Quite the opposite, in fact. Sandy looked up angrily. Graham turned, smiled, and said, "Oops." He seemed the only one unaffected; I couldn't move, couldn't speak from the shock, and Sandy was frozen with fury. Graham took it all in, sighed lightly, and said to Sandy, "Well, dearest, as I was about to say before we were so rudely interrupted, 'Parting is such sweet sorrow' and all that happy horseshit. I really should be on my way before the vice squad arrives. Call me." And then he was gone, and Sandy stood looking daggers at me for an eternal minute before turning to follow him. It took me at least five times that long to recover sufficiently to resume my descent. And then I couldn't even remember why I'd come down in the first place. Sandy banged back into the apartment at that point, spitting, "You will not tell Nicky what you just saw!" It wasn't a question; it was a command. I found my tongue. "Why? You afraid of what he might do if he found out you're a flaming faggot?" "Something like that." He started for the kitchen. I followed. "So now it's even, right? You got dirt on me and I got dirt on you. You say anything about my baby, and I'll tell Nicky you're a closet queen. You got that? You can't shit on me and get away with it anymore, Christian." "Likewise, dear," he said, his back to me as he poured himself another glass of wine. And, turning toward the stairs then, he added, "Now, if you'll excuse me -- and even if you won't -- I'm going up to bed." "To jerk off to an eight-by-ten glossy of Burt Reynolds, no doubt." He paused long enough to offer a bland, "You know, Mrs. Bannard -- my sexual preferences are no more your business than yours are mine," and then continued on his way. "Faggot!" I called after him as he started up the stairs. "Woman!" he tossed back over his shoulder, his tone of voice making it into an insult worse than my own. I lost my temper, snatched the wine bottle off the counter where he'd left it, and heaved it at the foot of the stairs. It was a mistake. It didn't faze him a bit, and all I got for my trouble was a big mess to clean up and the sound of his sneering laughter echoing in my ears. I don't know how much longer I can stand living in the same house with this insufferable bastard.

Valentine's Day

Got nothing from my darling husband today, not even a card. Even Sandy got flowers (from that fruitcake Graham, I'll bet). I was hoping Nicky would ask him about them, but he didn't. It would've been fun watching him squirm out of that one. Oh, well. My mother stopped by later to deliver a letter than had come to her house for me. The handwriting and return address on the envelope were Birch's, but the message it contained was written in Michael's careless, back-slanting script. Nicky ripped it to shreds, but I collected the pieces so that I could copy it here. This is what he said:

Cinderella,

Hope you'll forgive the deception -- it was necessary. I wrote you a 4-page letter last night, but I was drunk & it was kind of sappy, so I tore it up & started over. All I really wanted to say was that I still love you & I wish you'd get a divorce & come back to me. Please? It's not too late -- I know you still care.

Yours (body & soul), Michael

P.S. I met your husband -- he's a real gem. What are you doing living with a queer, anyway?

God, what would he say if he knew that the baby's due in just a few weeks? That it's still not too late? Or would he understand that a divorce takes time, and I don't want my child born in the middle of it? I can't do what he wants; I can't do what I want. I wonder how he found out about Sandy?

March ?

Oh God, Michael, why didn't I go to you when you asked? I hurt so bad right now and I need you here with me! These cramps aren't from anything I ate for dinner; it's the middle of the night and they aren't going away and I don't even know where Nicky is. I even tried knocking on Sandy's door, but Nicky wasn't in his room either. Your baby's going to have a birthday and I don't know what to do; I can't even think straight for the pain. I need you here to hold me and tell me everything's going to be alright. I'm so scared!

March 16

I take back every rotten thing I've ever said or thought about Sandy. He is one of the sweetest guys I've ever met, queer or not. And thanks to him, I have a beautiful, healthy daughter. I don't remember a whole lot about what happened because I was pretty much out of it. I do remember Sandy coming into the bedroom sometime near dawn to see what all the moaning was about. He sat down on the edge of the bed and then jumped up again, saying, "Shit!" I was too incoherent to even realize why until he bent over me and asked, "When did your water break?" Then he was trying to pull the blanket down, but I fought with him. He got angry, snapping, "Look, dear, you know what I am! I'm not the slightest bit interested in your twat; I'm interested in what's coming out of it!" I started to argue that I wanted a doctor, and that's when he told me, "For Christ's sake, Corinne! I'm the closest thing you're going to get to a doctor! I wasn't down in Florida combing the beaches for sharks' teeth and sea shells, you know! I was interning at a major hospital! Now let me see!" And with that, he yanked the covers out of my hands and went to kneel at the foot of the bed. The next thing I remember clearly was what scared the hell out of me. Sandy said, "Sweetheart? Listen to me, okay? We've got to work together on this one. The baby's breech, honey. Understand? It's in the wrong position. Now, we can do this, but you've got to do exactly what I say, alright? Can you do that?" I was sure I was going to die. God, it hurt so bad! Sandy's hands -- gentle, but firm -- helping the baby into the world. His voice commanding, "Don't push! Honey, don't! She's got the cord around her neck." "She?" I asked through my delirium. "Yeah, I hope you have a name picked out for a girl. Now ease up," he replied as he worked to reposition the umbilical cord. Then, unknown minutes later, "Okay, give me a real gentle push now. Gentle. C'mon now. Easy, easy. Good. Okay!" He was smiling, lifting my daughter up to place her on my stomach. "She's not crying!" I observed, alarmed. Even as he chuckled, "Be patient, dear," she coughed and began to scream. He stayed long enough to deliver the afterbirth (and here I thought I was done pushing once the baby was out!), and then he went off down to Abby's to call an ambulance for transport to the hospital. I was exhausted and sore and still half-scared, but never happier. No, never ever happier than I was then, holding Michael's daughter in my arms for the first time. Sandy came to visit me at the hospital the next day (and Nicky never did). He poked his head around the curtain and said, "Hi." I smiled and returned the greeting, and he asked, "How are you?" "Sore as hell," I answered honestly. "Come sit." He pulled a chair up beside the bed and told me, "I'm sorry I was so rough on you yesterday. You know I wasn't trying to be mean, don't you?" I reached for his hand to hold and replied, "You were terrific. Really." He still looked troubled, so I asked him, "Is something wrong? You seem kind of downed." He came out with a wry little half-smile and shook his head. "Nothing you need to worry about. I broke up with my lover last night, that's all." "Graham?" I inquired. He shook his head again. "No. Someone else. It wasn't all that serious with Graham." "Oh, Sandy, I'm sorry," I said in sympathy. "Don't be. You should be nothing but happy right now. I saw the baby down at the nursery before I came here. She's lovely." "Michelle," I smiled. "Pardon?" "That's her name," I informed him. "Michelle. After her father." "Her real father?" I nodded. "His name is Michael." He grinned and said, "Oh, Mrs. Bannard, there's a light in your eyes that tells me you still love this Michael." "I do," I admitted sheepishly, lowering my betraying eyes. But, instead of teasing me (or worse, threatening to tell Nicky), he said simply, "Tell me about him." "About Michael?" I asked, looking up again in disbelief. He nodded, his expression revealing no malice. "Yes, about Michael. What's he like?" I shrugged. "Well, he's nineteen. Very good-looking. And very conceited." "That doesn't tell me very much." "What do you want to know? He's got blue eyes, and blond hair down to his ass, and he wears an earring. And he has an excellent body." "Sounds very attractive, but that doesn't tell me why you love him." "I don't know why I love him. I guess because he's funny and he's brash and he's good to me. And because he loves me for who I am, not who he thinks I ought to be. I don't know." "Those seem like some pretty good reasons to me. So why didn't you marry him?" "Stupidity, I suppose. I didn't want him in front of the shotgun." "And he didn't have anything to say about your going off and marrying someone else while you were pregnant with his child?" "He didn't know." "What?" "I didn't tell him. I know you probably think I'm awfully dumb, but I didn't want him to marry me just because I was pregnant. He had another girlfriend before who tried to tie him down like that, and he hated her for it." I shrugged, adding, "I didn't want him to hate me, too." He leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Wow. So why Nicky, then?" "He just happened to come along at the right time. Or the wrong time, depending on your point of view. Either way, it was a mistake. I thought maybe it would work out okay, but I was wrong." "Well, maybe now it will," he said. "You mean because of the baby?" He hesitated a moment, almost as if there was something he wanted to tell me, and then nodded. "Yeah." "I guess it's possible," I conceded. The conversation died for a minute, and then I asked, "Sandy?" He looked up. "Hmm?" "How come you didn't finish your internship?" "You really want to know?" I nodded, and he made a face. "It was terminated." "Why?" "Why? Because I got caught in a very compromising position with a patient." "A male patient?" "That goes without saying, don't you think?" "Sorry," I mumbled, feeling like a world-class idiot. He chuckled, patting my hand. "You'll get used to it." I started to say something, reconsidered, and then said it anyway. "How long have you been . . . you know?" "A flaming faggot?" he laughed. "I'm sorry, I couldn't resist that. Seriously though, I really don't know. I can't remember ever feeling any different, although I have to admit that I tried for years to fight it." He shrugged as he added, "Didn't work." I noted for the umpteenth time his pleasingly average, even features, his appealingly shaggy medium-brown hair, his wide liquid-brown eyes (puppy-dog eyes, I guess you could say), and accidentally sighed aloud, "What a waste." He laughed again. "I know a few men who would beg to differ with your opinion, dear. More than a few, in fact." "You sleep around a lot, huh?" He raised an eyebrow. "Is that any of your business?" "I guess not," I admitted, feeling a blush spreading across my cheeks. He seemed amused. "Well, just between the two of us - - yes, I do. Quite a lot. Which was something that my lover frowned upon, needless to say, although he happens to be marginally involved with someone else at present, himself." "He expected you to be faithful while he was out messing around with another guy?" "Actually, it's a woman. I don't think he's ever accepted himself for what he is." "You mean he wants to be straight now?" "Well, I think he wanted to at least make the effort. It's not working out like he'd hoped, though, but unfortunately he's got himself into it just a bit too deeply." "What do you mean?" "They're, ah, living together." "But he still wants you?" "Very much." "That's awful," I said, shaking my head at the unfairness of it. He nodded. "True. I went along with it for a while, but I can't do that anymore. Yesterday . . . well, I guess you made me realize that women are people, too." "Hooray for me," I remarked with a lop-sided grin. He laughed softly. "So, you're out of it now, huh?" I asked, reaching for a glass of water from the bedside table. He grabbed it first and handed it to me as he answered, "So it seems." I thanked him for the water, then commented, "Not without a few regrets, from the look on your face. Did you love him that much?" He shrugged. "As much as I could love anybody, I suppose. I'm not exactly the most emotional guy in the world, but I did care for him a great deal, after a fashion. We've been together for quite a long time." "Then his girlfriend knows about you?" "No. She thinks we're just friends, although I've seriously considered telling her--" "Don't, Sandy," I said, interrupting. "Really, don't. It would break her heart." "You think so?" "Definitely. God, if some guy had come up to me and told me he was Michael's lover? I would've died right then and there!" "Yes, but you loved him." I nodded, and he continued, "I don't think that's a factor in this case. Her feelings for him appear minimal at best." "Then why is she living with him?" "Necessity, I guess." "Well, I still say you shouldn't tell her. There's no point in it anyway, now that you've broken up with him." He thought it over for a minute and then nodded his agreement. And following that, he stood and said, "I suppose I ought to be going now before I find myself getting kicked out of another hospital. Visiting hours are about over, aren't they?" "Yeah, I imagine they are. I'm glad you came, though." "So am I," he smiled. "Maybe I'll stop by tomorrow if I get the chance." "I wish you would," I told him, returning his smile. What a difference a day makes! He did come up the next day, and also on the days that followed until I came home. We didn't discuss our respective love-lives any further, but we did have some pleasant conversations about everything else under the sun. And it turns out he's really not such a bad guy after all. He's had a pretty rough life, and it soured him on a lot of things (not just women). But once you dig underneath it all, you find out he's actually a very good person deep down inside. And he just adores Michelle. Which is more than I can say for Nicky. Since I've been home, the most he's said about her is, "Can't you shut that thing up?" Other than that, he ignores her. (So much for Sandy's prediction!) He doesn't want to pick her up or hold her or anything, and he acts like he can hardly stand being in the same room with her. I guess he must have finally figured out that he isn't her father; he's been really horrible the past few days. Oh well, I suppose I can't blame him for being pissed off. He hasn't come right out and said anything, but I'm sure that must be the reason. He doesn't act any differently toward Sandy; if anything, he's been especially nice to him. So it must be just me he's angry with. I just wish he wouldn't take it out on Michelle. She still needs a daddy, regardless of how mad he is at me.

March 20

Abby and Viv stopped by last night to see the baby. Abby brought her a cute little stuffed bunny rabbit for an early Easter present. Viv, noting her obvious infatuation with Michelle, wanted to know when she was going to settle her ass down and have a baby of her own, and she smiled and told him to go fuck himself (to which he cheerfully replied, "I would, but it ain't long enough!"). Their light-hearted teasing made me miss Michael all that much more.

April 3

Nicky has taken to going out an awful lot again. Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night to feed the baby and he still isn't home, and one night he never came home at all. Guess he must have found himself a girlfriend somewhere. Funny, it doesn't really bother me all that much. As a matter of fact, I've almost come to enjoy his absences now that Sandy and I are getting along so much better. It's so peaceful here with just the two of us and the baby. I mean, he doesn't throw a fit at me every time she cries, and he doesn't even seem to care if she spits up on him when he's holding her. He just laughs and says something like, "Typical female!" And he's been teaching me some simple meals to fix, too, so now that's one less reason Nicky has to pick on me. He say tonight we're going to tackle the correct way to prepare spaghetti. Betty Crocker, eat your heart out!

April 19 Sandy has become so nice to have around. He is just so sweet to me anymore. Last night Nicky had some friends over for the evening, and so when it came time to feed the baby, I excused myself to go upstairs (not particularly caring to bare my breasts for an audience). Well, that was no big deal in and of itself, because the only times I've ever nursed her in the living room anyway were when I was home alone or once or twice when just Nicky was around. This time, however, I had just settled into the rocking chair with Michelle when a knock came on the bedroom door and Sandy let himself in, saying, "Thought you might enjoy some company for a change." I pulled Michelle's baby blanket up to cover myself, saying, "I have all the company I need, Sandy. I'm feeding the baby right now." "Looks more like you're smothering her to me," he chuckled, flopping down on the bed. "Move the blanket, dear; I promise it won't turn me on in the slightest." I glared at him stubbornly, and he reached out to grab a loose corner of the blanket, tugging it out of my hands. "There," he said to the baby, "you can see the world again now, little critter." "Sandy!" I sighed in irritation. "What? Are you ashamed of breast-feeding your own daughter?" "In front of you, yes." He laughed. "That's ridiculous. Why in God's name should it bother you if I'm here?" "You're a man," I reminded him. "Only by the strictest definition of the term," he reminded me. "And I do not find your body the least bit arousing in a sexual way. I do, however, consider the picture you present at this moment rather aesthetically pleasing." "Nicky says it's disgusting," I told him with a bitter smile. He shrugged. "So what does he know? Trust me -- you look beautiful." "Strange comment, coming from a queer," I remarked, not unkindly. "I've got a tremendous idea," he chuckled. "Why don't you drop all your labels -- 'man,' 'queer,' or whatever -- and just think of me as your sister or something? You'd get much closer to the reality of things that way." "Somehow I don't think I could ever learn to think of a man as my sister," I giggled. "Try," he said, smiling. We went on to talk of other things then, and gradually I did relax a bit more. Michelle thanked me for her meal with a loud burp (which brought forth a mouthful of milk, also), and Sandy changed her diaper and sang her back to sleep while I went to the bathroom to sponge off my blouse. ("You really ought to throw a diaper over your shoulder before you burp this kid," he told me later with an amused grin.) We're truly so lucky to have him.

May 6

Told Nicky that the doctor had said it was perfectly alright for us to start having sex again, and all I got was a flat, "No." He goes out four or five nights a week now (with no explanations), and he's completely stopped coming home Saturday nights altogether. He leaves about seven-thirty, and doesn't get back until nearly eleven on Sunday mornings. I told Sandy this morning that I didn't see any reason why he couldn't start inviting Graham over on Saturday evenings since Nicky wouldn't be around.

May 29

Graham has become a regular weekly visitor here, and he really brightens up the place. He seems to make Sandy very happy, for which I'm grateful, because I catch Sandy looking so depressed sometimes that it hurts me. And there are times when I think maybe Nicky suspects something; he just sits there and stares at Sandy, and poor Sandy gets the most painfully guilty expression on his face. But nothing is ever said in my presence, of course. Graham is a lot of fun, though. It's still kind of difficult for me to get used to the way he touches Sandy, but I guess I'll adjust eventually. The worst of it is the once or twice that I've gone to the kitchen or something and come back to find them kissing. I don't think I'll ever get used to that.

June 12

Well, Nicky was in a really sorry state tonight. I had just put Michelle down for the night and was in the process of helping Sandy decide whether we wanted to play cards or bake some brownies, when this guy Alec shows up at the door practically carrying Nicky. He pushed Nicky at Sandy, saying, "Here! You can have him back! He's been acting like a fucking asshole all night!" and then he turned and stalked out the door without another word. In the meantime, Nicky was so damned drunk that he couldn't even stand up without hanging onto Sandy (and he was having trouble managing even that much). I was rather shocked, to say the least. He was crying, and begging Sandy, "Take me t'bed -- please, Sandy? Please? Take me t'bed." Sandy gave me a kind of funny look and said, "I'm going to take him upstairs before he passes out. Wait here, okay?" I nodded while Nicky babbled, "Don't make me get in bed with her again, Sandy! Oh, please! I wanna sleep in your room . . . ." They disappeared up the stairs, and I went to the kitchen to have a Coke and a cigarette. Sandy returned in about fifteen minutes. "He's out cold," he said, joining me at the table. I didn't know what to say, so I kept silent. Finally, he spoke, sighing, "Listen, dear, there's something I've got to tell you." I didn't really want to hear it coming from him. "Don't," I mumbled. "I already know. He hates my guts, and he's been cheating on me for months. I'm not blind." Biting his lip, he studied me for a minute, and then got up to pour himself a glass of wine. So Nicky is crashed out in Sandy's bed tonight, and Sandy fell asleep on the living room sofa.

Fourth of July

Had a great time this evening. Sandy, Michelle, and I met Graham up at the park, and Graham brought some sparklers and small fireworks. The noisier ones scared Michelle a bit, but she stopped crying as soon as her "Uncle Sandy" took her. God, he's so good with her! Graham was sweet, too; he took her for a ride on one of the swings (on his lap, of course), and she was smiling like nobody's business. I think this was the first time I've really had fun since I stopped seeing Michael.

July 27

Today was really wacky. Nicky had made plans to go fishing with Viv and some other guys, so Sandy and I decided to go out to the country for a picnic with Graham and the baby. Well, Sandy went down to Abby's to call Graham, and came back with her in tow. "We have here another lost soul," he said by way of explanation. "I invited myself along, if it's okay with you," she added, to which I smiled, "Of course!" Graham showed up some twenty minutes later, and we all squeezed into his Mustang (with Sandy up front, naturally) and headed out of the city limits. I tried not to notice that Graham's hand stretched across the open space between the bucket seats once we were out on the highway. He drove us out to a beautiful little clearing near a sparkling stream, and he and Sandy got the cooler and things out of the car while Abby laid out a blanket on the grass. We ate lunch, kidded around some, smoked a joint or two, and then Graham asked Sandy to go for a swim with him. "You come, too, dear," Sandy said, slapping me lightly on the knee as he got to his feet. I declined, telling him I had to stay with Michelle, but he wouldn't accept my refusal. "You spend far too much time being a mommy, you know," he insisted. "Let Abby watch her for a while. She won't curl up and die if you leave her with someone else for half an hour or so, I promise." And when I tried to argue further, he simply grabbed my hand and hauled me up and away. The three of us walked upstream a ways until we came to a waterfall that emptied into a fairly deep pool. There we stopped, and Graham began to strip off his clothes, while Sandy did likewise. I hesitated a moment, and then figured what the hell; after all, they were more interested in each other's bodies than they were in mine. So I went ahead and undressed and joined them in the water. And I'd be lying if I said we didn't have a lot of fun splashing around in that pool. It was all very innocent until Sandy decided to climb up onto an overhanging rock and take a couple of well-executed dives. Seeing him displayed that way -- wet and glistening in all his naked splendor -- apparently had the same basic effect on both Graham and myself. Graham left the water a few minutes later with a raging hard-on. "You'll have to excuse my little friend," he grinned at me, only mildly embarrassed. "It has a mind of its own, and a purely one-track one, at that." I nodded, smiling, and thanked God for blessing me with different equipment so that my own desire wasn't as obvious as Graham's. Sandy approached then, zipping his jeans. He stole a quick glance in my direction, took a breath, and said to Graham, "Let's take a walk." Graham didn't wait to be asked twice. Left alone, I pulled on my shirt and panties (not caring to try to struggle into my jeans until I'd dried off some), and ambled back to the blanket to join Abby. "Where's the boys?" she inquired as I plopped down beside Michelle, who was playing happily with a large leaf. "Out in the woods somewhere, knocking off a piece of ass," I shrugged. She giggled. "Literally." "Yeah, well, believe it or not, I'm jealous," I admitted, reaching for a cigarette. "Of those two?" she asked, surprised. I sighed. "Of anybody that's getting laid, actually. Nicky won't sleep with me anymore." She made a face and said, "Oh," as if it wasn't a totally unexpected answer. Michelle started to fuss then, so I put my cigarette out in the dirt and picked her up to feed her, grinning, "You're wanting some lunch, too, huh? Well, come here, then." She settled in comfortably to nurse, and shortly Abby said, "Y'know, your hair would look so pretty done up in a French braid. Want me to fix it for you?" I shrugged, not really caring one way or the other. "If you want to." "I used to work in a beauty shop a couple years ago," she told me as she came around to kneel behind me. "But it got so I was allergic to some of the dyes and setting solutions and stuff, so I had to quit. My hands used to get all red and bumpy-like." She went on and on, but I stopped listening after a while. I mean, I always considered her a nice person and all, but nobody who would ever break the bank on a TV quiz show. She simply isn't terrifically intelligent. Well, she finished with the braid, stroking it appreciatively, and then I assumed she would move away to sit down again. She didn't. Instead, she began to massage my neck and shoulders. I asked her what she was doing, and she replied, "Oh, well, you just seemed kind of tense and I thought maybe this would help you relax. I'll stop if you want me to." Naïve little me, I told her it was okay. After all, it seemed perfectly harmless and it really just felt so good to be touched by somebody. The first time she brushed her lips against my neck, I was sure I'd imagined it. The second time there could be no doubt, because she simultaneously slid her hand over my shirt to caress the unoccupied breast underneath. I froze for an instant, some filthy little part of me telling me to enjoy it, that it was better than nothing. Then I turned sharply, revolted by the thought, and snapped, "Abby, don't!" I startled both her and Michelle; they both began to cry (Michelle being the more obvious of the two). Abby back away almost fearfully, saying, "I . . . I'm sorry! You said . . . I thought . . . y'know, that you were lonely! I was just trying . . . I mean, I only wanted to make you feel better!" I tried to soften my voice, but it still came out rather harsh as I told her, "I am lonely, Abby, but not for you, not for a woman!" Michelle was screaming, and I was trying with little success to calm her back down. "I'm sorry!" Abby repeated, sobbing and shamed, as she stumbled to her feet and dashed out of the clearing. As disgusted as I was by what she'd done, I still felt like a real creep for getting her so upset. She was a nice girl, after all, and she really hadn't done anything with the purpose of hurting me in mind. So, I decided to go look for her after Michelle had finished eating and see if I could patch things up (with the understanding that she wouldn't try anything like that again in the future, of course). Sandy and Graham returned before I had the chance to carry through on my plan, however. Sandy (looking appealingly disheveled) smiled as he approached and asked, "Where'd Abby go?" And then, upon closer inspection of my expression, he added, "What's wrong?" I didn't know exactly what to say, so I settled for the truth. "She tried to put the make on me," I sighed. "I guess I upset her when I told her to stop. She ran off back to the car, I think." "Ah, shit," he muttered, mildly irritated. "I suppose I ought to go talk to her . . . ." "I'll go," Graham offered, teasing, "You're no good whatsoever with women, Sander my darling." "Eat me," Sandy retorted blandly, to which Graham replied a pleasant, "Later, sweetheart." Sandy laughed at that, and Graham went off in search of Abby, grinning. I put Michelle over my shoulder to burp her, telling Sandy, "I didn't really mean to be so shitty to her, y'know, but she kind of scared me." He shook his head as he sat down on the blanket and said, "It's my fault. I should've warned you about her. I apologize, dear." "You knew?" I asked in amazement. "She's been attracted to you for quite some time now, but I didn't really expect her to be foolish enough to actually come right out and make a pass at you. Obviously, I was mistaken." "But I thought that she and Viv were straight!" I protested. "Viv is. Abby's AC/DC." "What?" "Bisexual. She sleeps with Viv, but she'd be just as happy sleeping with you if you let her." "Ugh!" I said, making a face. He shrugged. "To each his own." And then he chuckled, adding, "Personally, I don't understand it either. I can't see what on Earth she'd want with you when she's already got a fine man like Viv." I told him to shut up, swatting him with the diaper I'd gotten out to change Michelle, and he burst into hearty laughter. Graham returned shortly thereafter, a consoling arm draped across Abby's shoulders. I got up and went to give her a hug, assuring her as I did so that I still wanted to be her friend even if I didn't care to be her lover. She smiled tentatively and accepted my apology. She and Graham got into a rather rowdy game of Frisbee after that, and Sandy and I stretched out lazily on the blanket to enjoy the sunshine and play with the baby. "You know, you handled that very well," he said at length, tickling one of Michelle's feet as he spoke. She drew her foot back, smiling, and he looked up at me and declared, "I guess you're not half bad, for a woman." I laughed. "Thanks, sis. You're not half bad, either. For a flaming faggot, that is." "I deserved that, didn't I," he groaned, shaking his head in amusement. "Yes, you did," I agreed pleasantly. And then I had to go and spoil it all. The Frisbee came winging our way out of nowhere just then, and Sandy reached up to pick it out of the air, practically falling on top of me in the process. Without thinking (obviously), I shot my hand out to his hip to catch him. It was a bad move on my part. Sandy's face registered hurt and confusion, and he got up to go toss the Frisbee back to Graham. A moment later, I realized that he had left me completely and joined the game. I've tried to justify it as a reflex action, but that doesn't quite ring true. I know if it'd been Abby, I would have grabbed for her arm, not her hip. No, I'm guilty as charged. I want him, queer or not, and I can't help it. I suppose I've known it for a long time, but the trouble is that now he knows it, too. And he very subtly avoided me for the rest of the day.

My Birthday

I'm seventeen today; big fucking deal. Nicky had no gift for me. He forgot, but then what did I expect? I didn't even hear from my mother, and that was sort of tough because (silly me) I half-hoped that maybe Michael would send me a card. Oh, well. Sandy, sweetheart that he is, baked me a chocolate cake. He's still behaving a bit coolly toward me, but it's so slight as to be almost undetectable. I guess I just notice it because I'm getting to want him so badly. But then again, a duck-billed platypus would probably be capable of turning me on right now, as long as it's been since I've gotten laid.

September 10

Well, my darling husband has really outdone himself this time. Last night as I was putting Michelle to bed, Sandy came in and sat down on the foot of my bed, saying, "How about slipping into something pretty for me? We've got a date tonight." "Funny, Christian," I replied, winding up the baby's music box. "You're a real riot, y'know that?" "Who's trying to be funny? I'm serious," he insisted. "C'mon, where would you like to go? Drinks, movies, bowling, what? Your choice." "How about a quick trip to Venus? And we can stop off at the moon and grab a bite of cheese on our way home." He sighed. "You're going to force me to tell you something that I'd rather not, aren't you?" "Tell me what?" "Nicky's made plans to 'entertain' tonight. He wants us out of the way; it's as simple as that. Now, would you please find yourself a nice blouse to wear so we can leave before he decides to throttle us both?" "Just wait a minute!" I said angrily, setting my hand on my hip. "Are you telling me he's got a girl coming over here?" "Look, I don't want to get into details with you, alright? This wasn't my idea." "I don't care whose idea it was! I've put up with all his running around, but I am not going to tolerate him bringing his sluts home to my bed!" I started for the door, but he jumped up and grabbed my arm, warning me, "Corey, don't!" "You let go of me!" I snapped, shaking him off. "You won't touch me any other day of the week, so don't you touch me now!" I should have listened to him. Really, I should have. But I didn't. I stormed downstairs in righteous fury and proceeded to confront Nicky, instead. "You rotten son of a whore!" I yelled at him. "Sandy told me what you're up to, and if you think I'm just going to step meekly aside so that you can go ahead and do your whoring with all the comforts of home, then you're sadly mistaken!" Nicky shot an evil glance at Sandy (who had followed me as far as the bottom of the stairs), and Sandy shook his head slowly, mouthing the word, "No." I'm not too sure what the significance of that little exchange was, but I wasn't about to stop to ponder it at the moment. "How dare you invite your sleazy little girlfriends back here!" I continued. "How dare you try and cheat on me right in front of my own daughter!" "You stupid cunt!" he spat hatefully. "I wouldn't dream of banging anybody in the same room with your precious little blond bastard! I wouldn't wanna take the chance of getting interrupted by her God-forsaken caterwauling!" "Don't you talk about Michelle like that!" I hissed, slapping him hard across the face. His fist caught me in a similar spot, and I fell backwards into the magazine rack, my cheek exploding with pain. Tears came, unbidden. "I'll call that little brat a bastard any time I want to, 'cause that's exactly what she is! Did you really think I was too dumb to know that you don't get blond hair from parents with brown and black hair? Or that kids aren't born four months early looking fat and sassy and healthy as a horse?" he raged, delivering a swift kick to my side. "You tricked me, you lying little slut! I lost everything because of you, and it wasn't even my kid! So don't you go trying to tell me what I can and can't do in my own house or I'll put you out on the street for good!" He brought his foot up to strike again, but Sandy stepped in front of him and took his arm. "Nicky, stop it," he said softly, pulling him away from me and out to the kitchen. Even from there, I could hear Nicky's voice, half a sob, "Oh God, Sandy, I can't stand it anymore! I can't live like this, I just can't! Why're you putting me through this hell? What did I do so wrong to deserve it all? Tell me, please?" I heard Sandy's gentle murmurings, the words themselves unclear, as he tried to calm Nicky down. I made an effort to sit up, suffered a nauseating wave of dizziness, and reconsidered. A few minutes later, Sandy returned and knelt by my side. His shirt was damp; it looked like Nicky had been literally crying on his shoulder. "Can you walk?" he said, brushing a loose strand of hair out of my face. "I don't know," I told him. "I haven't even been able to sit up so far." "Well, try," he insisted, taking my hand to pull me up. "We've got to get out of here before his 'guest' arrives, or all hell's going to break loose. Come on." "No! I'm not leaving Michelle here to be his audience!" I argued. "Listen, dear, I'm losing my patience with this game. Now, he's not going to be balling anyone in your bed, alright? Michelle won't see a thing, because they'll be in my room. He promised. So get your ass up and let's go. Now." I obeyed (reluctantly), mainly because I got the distinct impression that Sandy felt he'd already overstepped his boundaries by coming between Nicky and me, and he wasn't likely to do so again. I made it as far as the shopping center and couldn't go any farther; my head was throbbing, and my side hurt like crazy. "How bad?" Sandy asked, stopping in front of the drugstore. "How bad does wanting to lie down in the gutter and puke my guts out sound?" I replied flatly. He sighed. "Alright, wait here. I'm going to go see if I can pull some shit. It may take a while, so don't get all bent out of shape if I'm not back in a few minutes." I sat down on a bench to wait. He was gone quite a long time, maybe twenty minutes. When he returned, he had a can of Pepsi and a prescription bottle with him. "Here," he said as he handed me the bottle. "Enjoy. You owe me." He opened the Pepsi, took a couple swigs, and passed it over to me. "What is this?" I asked, studying the bottle. "Percodan. It's a painkiller. Doesn't work unless you put one in your mouth and swallow, though." "You're hysterical," I said dryly. I popped a pill into my mouth and washed it down with a gulp of Pepsi. "Okay, let's go before that stuff hits you," he told me matter-of-factly. "You're probably going to be sound asleep within half an hour, so I suggest that we opt for a movie tonight." "It's that strong, huh?" I inquired, getting to my feet. "Let's just say it's a controlled drug." "I didn't know you could write prescriptions." "I can do anything I want in this place, for the right price." "What do you mean?" The slightest shadow of a frown flickered across his face. "You don't want to know." "Yes, I do. Sandy, did you get these illegally?" "Is there another way?" "Oh, Christ. What did you do?" "I'm telling you, you don't want to know." "And I'm telling you I do. Now what did you do?" He sighed. "Same thing I used to do to get some speed when I was in pre-med. The pharmacist in there weighs about four hundred pounds, has a face like a newborn loggerhead turtle, and takes phony scrips in exchange for a good blowjob. Are you satisfied?" "You didn't," I said in disbelief. "I did," he assured me. "I can't write a legitimate scrip; I'm not licensed." "Oh, Sandy, that's disgusting!" I told him. "Fine," he shrugged irritably. "Next time you decide to get your ass kicked, I'll just buy you a bottle of aspirin and let you suffer." Neither of us spoke for several minutes, and then finally I said, "I'm sorry, Sandy. I didn't mean to sound ungrateful." He managed half a smile. "You're forgiven, dear." "Don't be mad at me, okay?" "Wouldn't think of it." I lit a cigarette and asked, "Is he really that ugly?" He chuckled. "Hideous," he replied, putting a hand up to cover his eyes as he shook his head in wry amusement. "Yuck! I don't see how you could do that!" I said, grimacing. "I just close my eyes and pretend it's Burt Reynolds," he teased, referring to a now long-standing private joke of ours. I laughed, and shortly thereafter we reached the theater, where I did indeed fall asleep about fifteen minutes into the movie. Sandy woke me when it was over, and we headed back home to find Nicky crashed out in Sandy's room. Sandy slept on the couch again, and this morning when I dragged myself out of bed, I found his sheets all bunched up in a pile in the hallway. I asked him about them at breakfast, and his answer was, "Let me put it this way, dear: If Michelle had wanted a baby brother or sister, you probably could've arranged it for her just by sitting down on my bed this morning." Which reminds me, the laundry is probably done by now, so I'd better get back down to the laundromat before it's time to get dinner started.

October 1 Nicky continues to boot us out of the house once or twice a week. I don't argue anymore, because I'm rather partial to breathing. We've started going over to Graham's on our nights out, which usually ends up with me watching television while the two of them occupy themselves in the bedroom. Oh, well, at least it's peaceful.

Halloween

Took Michelle trick-or-treating to Abby's and Graham's. Sandy bought her a bright green knitted cap and I dyed a pillowcase orange and stuffed it with dishtowels, and she was the cutest little pumpkin I ever did see! Abby even took a picture of her, saying she'd order a duplicate for me to keep. And Graham had made candied apples, which I haven't had since God knows when. (They were delicious!) He thought Michelle's costume was really cute, too, and Sandy told him, "Yeah, and if she goes bad, we can always cook her up into a tasty little pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving." Sometimes I almost love him.

November 14 Tonight was an absolute bitch. If it weren't for Sandy, I don't know what would've happened. None of it would've happened at all if we'd gone to Graham's like usual, but we'd decided to take the bus out to the bowling alley instead and bowl a few games. Well, we went into the lounge there around 10:00, and he ran into this guy he knew. They talked for maybe fifteen minutes or more, and then Sandy took me aside to ask, "Listen, would you mind terribly if I left with Aaron for a while? I'll be back for you before this place shuts down for the night, I promise." "You're such a tramp, Christian," I scolded, teasing him. "Go ahead. I hope he's got the clap." "Thanks, sis," he grinned, dropping a twenty-dollar bill on the table. "Here, get drunk on me. Who knows? Maybe you'll get lucky, too." "Get lost, you asshole," I laughed, giving him a friendly shove in Aaron's direction. They left, and I contented myself with a succession of mixed drinks and an occasional tune from the jukebox. It was probably close to 1:00 when I heard a vaguely familiar voice asking, "Small world, ain't it?" I looked up to find that the speaker was none other than Jojo, and something inside me did an excited little skip. "Hi, Jo," I smiled happily. "What you been up to?" "About nine inches since I laid eyes on you, babe," he grinned. "How about yourself? I heard you went and got married a while back." I shrugged. "Yeah, more or less." "More or less?" he chuckled, pulling out a chair to sit down. "I think I like the sound of that. Tell me more." "There's nothing to tell. We don't get along very well, that's all." "S'he gonna start some shit with me if he sees me talking to you?" I shook my head. "He's not here. I came with a friend." "Oh? Male or female?" "Hard to say," I laughed. "He's gay." "Going out with faggots now, are you?" "No, we're just friends. As a matter of fact, he's not here, either. He left with another guy a couple of hours ago." "On your own then, huh?" "Until he picks me up, yeah. You?" "Supposed to be meeting a friend up here. Later," he said, sliding his arm around the back of my chair. "Not Jag?" I asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. "Never see the dude anymore. Stefano heard he's living with Ronnie now." "But I thought she was married?" "Divorced. The story goes that she left her old man and her kids to play sugar-mama for the stud. Rented him a fancy apartment out of her alimony payments and all that shit." My heart sank. "Is it true?" He shrugged, answering, "Birch told Stefano he'd been over there and it was a fucking palace." Then he leaned over to touch a kiss below my ear, murmuring, "Do you really wanna talk about Townsend right now?" "No," I lied, trying to remind myself of the saying about a bird in the hand. "Good," he nodded, and then he kissed me full on the mouth, erasing all my other thoughts for a brief, blinding moment. And that's when I heard that unforgettably horrid, cutting voice sneering, "Well, well, well! What have we here?" Jojo looked up and complained, "You're early, Mitch." Suddenly I felt every drop of blood in my body go to ice water. "Alice got pissed off and sent me home early," he was saying. "Remind me to thank her tomorrow." "Awright," Jojo sighed, standing, "let's go then." "Not just yet," Mitch snapped. He moved closer, snatched a handful of my hair, and yanked my head backward. "I haven't even had a chance to say hello to Townsend's favorite little slut. Ain't you gonna say hello to an old boyfriend, sweetie?" "Leave her alone, Mitch. C'mon," Jojo tried. "Fuck off, man!" he shot back. "I got me a score to settle here. C'mon, little Miss Corinne. Ain't you got a little kiss for me or nothing?" "Eat shit, English!" I hissed, drawing back to take a swing at his crotch. He grabbed my arm and twisted it up painfully behind my back, bringing me up out of my chair. "That wasn't very nice, sweetie," he scolded. "You and me, we're gonna have us some fun tonight, and you almost spoiled it all there. Guess maybe I'll have to teach you some manners first before we get down to business." "You couldn't teach manners to a cocker spaniel!" I spat, trying futilely to free my arm. "You're awful brave, considering how your pretty little stud ain't here to protect you this time around," he laughed harshly. "And maybe she doesn't need him to protect her when she's got me," came the cool reply from behind him. A sharp click penetrated the hush that had befallen the room some moments earlier, and cold steel flashed in Sandy's hand. "Take a hike, asshole," Mitch blustered. "This's a private discussion." "Not anymore," Sandy stated firmly. "And as I see it, you have two choices. You can either take your hand off this young lady immediately, or I can sever a few tendons and resolve the problem that way. Of course, I may hit an artery in the process . . . ." He shrugged. "You wouldn't," Mitch sneered. "Are you quite sure? Arteries are devilish little things, you know. You could easily bleed to death before an ambulance even makes the parking lot." Sandy took a step forward then, and Mitch released me, pushing me into Sandy's waiting arms as he fled. "Are you alright?" he inquired gently, his eyes still following Mitch's flight. "I am now," I replied, hugging him tightly. "Then let's go," he said as he snapped his switchblade closed against his thigh and slipped it carefully into his pocket, his other arm still holding me close at his side. "We're busted if we stay here. The bartender's already got the cops on their way." Jojo came forward then, offering an apologetic, "Corey . . . ." I just shook my head and said, "You should've told me, Jo." "Split, red," Sandy told him, a warning clear in his voice. "The lady's had enough bullshit for one night, and I'm not much in the mood for any more, myself." Jojo backed away, and Sandy led me outside then, his hand gripping my shoulder firmly up until we boarded the bus some thirty minutes later. Sitting here in bed now, the soreness in my arm is nothing compared to the sweet, remembered pressure of his hand on that shoulder. God, is it just loneliness that's making me feel this way, or am I really falling in love with a queer? Thanksgiving

We had a lovely, "family-style" dinner this year, although it was strange, to say the very least. We'd already planned to invite Abby and Viv over, but Sandy threw a little shocker in on me this morning as we were preparing breakfast. "Graham's coming, too," he informed me, keeping his voice low. "I'm going to tell Nicky in a few minutes when we sit down to eat. Stick with me, will you? It'll go a lot easier for me if you're around." I agreed, too shocked to say more, and he asked me to please provide an opening for him by reminded Nicky that Abby and Viv would be having dinner with us that afternoon. I agreed to that, also. Nicky was halfway through his first slice of French toast when Sandy nudged me underneath the table. I was so nervous, I almost jumped. Cautiously, doing my best to sound normal, I told Nicky not to forget that our guests would be arriving around 11:00. "Yeah, right," he mumbled grumpily, his mouth full. Sandy drew a breath. "Nicky?" he said, deliberately trying to seem casual as he worked a bite-sized piece of the toast loose with the edge of his fork. "What?" he grunted. "There'll be one other person coming that I think you ought to know about." He hesitated, and Nicky looked up, prompting, "Well?" I steeled myself. Sandy answered, "My lover. His name is Graham." Nicky went white, but said nothing. He simply stared long and hard until finally Sandy looked away. Then he uttered a curt, "No," and turned his attention back to his plate. Sandy bit down on his lip, but held his ground. "I think you must've misunderstood me," he said. "He's already been invited." At that point, Nicky stood up abruptly and slammed his fist down on the table, shouting, "I said no!" Sandy stood, too, passionately insisting, "I'm not sneaking around behind your back any longer, Nicky! I'm tired of it! He's part of my life, regardless of how you feel about it, and he will share this holiday with me if I so choose -- which I do!" "Upstairs!" Nicky ordered, pointing a finger shaking with rage toward the doorway. "I wanna talk to you!" "Then talk to me right here and now, or not at all!" Sandy returned, unmoving. Nicky completely exploded. "You bastard!" he shrieked. "You fucking bastard, to do this to me!" He tried to say more, choked on his words, and ran out of the room and up the stairs. Sandy collapsed back into his chair. I suddenly realized I'd literally been holding my breath, and exhaled. "Christ!" I muttered in amazement. "Now I know why you stayed in the closet for so long! He's nuts!" Sandy just gave me a really weird look and said, "We'd better get the turkey started. Come on." I saw no more of Nicky until about 10:00 when I went up to use the bathroom; he was waiting for me in the hallway when I came out. "What do you know about this shit?" he asked me angrily. "Nothing," I said half-honestly. "I was surprised, too." "You ever seen this guy before, this Graham?" I shrugged, trying not to cringe noticeably. "Once or twice." "When?" "I don't know, Nicky," I hedged. "I can't remember." He grabbed my shoulders and shook me, saying, "Then think harder, stupid! I wanna know how long this's been going on! Now when's the first time you saw this slimy son of a bitch?" "I don't know!" I cried. "Maybe almost a year ago; I don't remember! Let me go!" He shoved me backward into the wall and turned, slamming the bedroom door as he went back inside, cursing, "God damn him!" Something crashed behind the door, and I hurried downstairs, trembling. Sandy wanted to know what had happened, and I recounted the details to the sounds of Nicky trashing our bedroom upstairs. Sandy just sighed and went back to setting the table. We didn't see Nicky at all for the rest of the day. Abby and Viv arrived shortly before 11:00, and Graham some fifteen minutes later. We had a pleasant afternoon; the meal was delicious (thanks to Sandy's assistance), Graham was his usual charming self, and Michelle had an absolute blast tottering along the furniture from knee to knee. Unfortunately, the warmth left with our guests this evening. Nicky finally came back downstairs after everyone had gone, but he's not speaking to either of us tonight. As a matter of fact, he's been sitting all alone in the kitchen for the past hour and a half, apparently trying to drink himself into a coma. Sandy's in his bedroom listening to a T. Rex album, working on a crib mobile for Michelle's Christmas present. I wonder what her real daddy is doing right now? Sliding into bed with Veronica, maybe? God, how that hurts!

December 10 Well, we have a Christmas tree this year! I'd mentioned to Sandy how much I missed having one last year, and this morning he and Graham went out and picked one up! The three of us (with Michelle's "help") spent the afternoon stringing popcorn and colored marshmallows (which we dyed with food coloring -- what a mess!) for decorations. And Graham went out and bought some tinsel and candy canes to complete it all. It really is a masterpiece, if I do say so myself. Nicky is still being extremely disagreeable about having Graham over. He obviously hates him, and he isn't the slightest bit hesitant to show it, either. Fortunately, Graham takes his insults in the same manner as he takes all things in life: with a terrific sense of humor. I think Sandy's falling in love with him, and I really should be glad for him because Graham's such a sweet guy and they seem so happy together. I'm not glad, though; I'm jealous. I want Sandy for my own.

Christmas

The holiday was a little tense. Graham came for dinner, thereby sending Nicky up to our bedroom with his plate (and he was steaming more than the food was, I might add). We all got positively plastered on eggnog and brandy after Michelle was in bed, and Graham ended up deciding to spend the night here with Sandy. When Nicky found out, he got all pissed off and left. It's after two a.m., and he's still not home. Anyway, the gifts were as follows:

Michelle -- crib mobile from Sandy, busy-box from Graham, and pink flannel pajamas from me.

Nicky -- two shirts from me, and nothing (surprise, surprise!) from Sandy.

Graham -- diamond earring from Sandy, and a set of pastels (his favorite hobby) from me.

Sandy -- a framed male nude that Graham had done and a set of satin sheets (which reminded me all too painfully of the night that Michael and I spent together at Birch's) from who else but Graham, and 8x10 glossy of Burt Reynolds (as a joke) and a bottle of good wine from me, and a book of poetry from Nicky (weird!).

Me -- nothing from Nicky (what else?), a sketch of Michelle and a box of chocolates from Graham, and (triple surprise!) a friendship ring from Sandy.

New Year's Eve

I originally thought that tonight was going to be a good night. Nicky actually threw a party, strange as it may sound. Totally out of character for him (Scrooge that he is), but not an unwelcome change as far as I was concerned. Of course, he and Sandy were about the only people I knew, but it was still fun for the most part. Sandy did invite Graham (much to Nicky's disgust), but Graham declined, saying he'd promised to babysit his sister's kids overnight while she and her husband went out on their own rounds. I wish he would've come, because his absence turned out to be my downfall. It all started around 11:00 when Sandy (who was growing a bit weary of all the unaccustomed revelry) asked if I'd like to take a walk with him. I accepted eagerly, always happy for a chance to be alone with him (fool that I am). Well, we grabbed our jackets and took off, talking as we trudged through slush and snow. Graham's name came up repeatedly until at length I had to ask, "Sandy? Do you love him?" He shrugged. "I suppose it's possible." "What I mean is . . . ." I fumbled for the right words. "Like, if he was a woman, would you want to marry him?" "If he were a woman, I wouldn't have anything to do with him," he chuckled in reply. "No, that's not what I meant," I told him. "I'm saying like if you were straight and all." Laughing, he mussed my hair affectionately and answered, "If I were straight, dear, I'd already be married. To you." I was too stunned to speak, and fortunately I wasn't required to, as we reached the outer edge of the park just at that precise moment. It had snowed fairly hard earlier in the evening, and the vast expanse of glittering whiteness stretching out before us was simply breathtaking in its unbroken purity. "God, is that beautiful!" Sandy sighed, always appreciative of nature's wonders. "Just look at it, Cor!" I murmured agreement, thinking at the same time how beautiful the man beside me had become, his features softened by the peaceful contentment that Graham's love had brought to him, his unruly brown hair grown long in layers that fell past his shoulders now. I wanted to touch him so badly. He turned to look at me with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. "Shall we?" he grinned. I wanted to say, "No, I just want you to take me home to your bed," but instead I answered, "Why not?" He sprinted ahead, ruthlessly raping the virgin snow, and I followed close behind. "I'll bet," he called back, "that I can make a better snowman than you can!" "You're on, Christian!" I returned, teasing, "I can make any man better than you can!" "Really? Have you checked that out with Graham lately?" he laughed. "What, and take him away from you?" I giggled as I began working on my snowman. "Ah, don't you just wish!" he grinned, doing likewise. I packed handfuls of snow tightly together, thinking that no, I really didn't just wish I had Graham. What I wanted more than anything was to have Michael back, and, barring that, I would gladly settle for Sandy. Very gladly. I had just patted my creation's head into place and was adding a few last finishing touches when a speeding iceball came sailing through the air, splattering it all over me and the snow-covered ground below. I looked up to find Sandy grinning devilishly a few yards away. "Ooh, Sandy, you lousy bastard! That's cheating!" I shrieked in indignant good humor, scooping up a fistful of wet white flakes to hurl at him. He ran, laughing, and I chased after him, pelting him with snowballs and yelling, "You die, Christian! I swear, you die!" It ended up in a full-blown snowball fight, and before long, he was the one chasing me. "This one here is going down the back of your shirt when I catch you!" he warned, close behind me. A moment later he tackled me, bringing me down face first into a low drift. "Now who dies?" he laughed, pulling at the collar of my jacket to find an opening for the icy crystals he held. "Oh, no! Sandy, don't!" I squealed, giggling. "I give! Don't!" I bucked and twisted, and then suddenly we were face to face and it wasn't funny anymore. Breathing hard from the exertion of the past few minutes, I gazed up at him expectantly. He started to pull away. "Sandy?" I asked, putting a hand on his arm to restrain him. "What?" he replied warily, something akin to fear evident on his face. "Do you suppose it's midnight yet?" He hesitated, then answered, "I don't know." I released his arm and reached my own up around his neck, whispering, "Happy New Year, Sander." And then I kissed him full on the mouth, knowing that if I waited for him to make the first move, it would never be made. It was like kissing a brick wall. He backed away, his expression that same one of betrayal and hurt confusion that I'd seen the day of our picnic. "Don't," he said softly, looking almost close to tears. "Oh God, Sandy!" I cried, feeling similar emotions at his rejection. "Am I that repulsive to you? It was just a New Year's kiss! Everybody kisses at midnight on New Year's!" "That was no New Year's kiss," he insisted, shaking his head. He was right, and we both knew it. He got to his feet, turned, and walked away back toward home. I stayed there in the snow, waves of self-pity washing over me, drowning me, as streams of hot tears tracked relentlessly down my cheeks. Just one kiss; was it really too much to ask? Nicky's party had broken up by the time I finally got back to the apartment, and the place was dark. I tried Sandy's door when I got upstairs (wanting so desperately to talk to him), found it locked, and successfully fought the urge to knock. I didn't want to wake him if he was asleep. I'm alone now. I don't know where Nicky is. Michelle is sleeping peacefully in her crib across the room; I pray Nicky didn't go off and leave her before Sandy returned. Sandy. My clock reads almost 2:45, and I'm still crying for him. It comes and goes. I just can't seem to stop wanting him.

January 15

Well, it appears that Sandy and I have declared a rather uneasy truce. Not without two weeks of hurt looks and cold silences, however. Plus all the bullshit of the last two days. Actually, it all came to a head this noon, but only because of what happened last night. Nicky snored me awake some time around 1:30 in the morning, and I couldn't get back to sleep with all the racket he was making, so I decided to go downstairs and have a cigarette and a cup of cocoa. I slipped into a robe and quietly made my way to the hallway, not wanting to disturb anyone else. Sandy's door was standing halfway open. In the dim glow from the candle beside his bed, I could see him kissing someone; someone with dark wavy hair, not Graham. Sandy was trying to coax him into undressing. The other protested weakly that he wasn't the type of person that took sex lightly, that he just couldn't sleep with someone without some sort of commitment. And that's when I heard Sandy say, "Come on, Kevin. You know I love you." His words unlocked Kevin's passion with a force and a fury comparable to that of a raging river when the floodgates have been thrown wide. And I watched it all from the shadows. Every disgusting, exciting minute. I hated myself for my voyeurism; I hated Sandy for the lie he'd told; and, most of all, I hated Kevin for being where I wanted so badly to be. I was still feeling bitchy when I got up this morning. I snapped at Sandy for even the slightest wrongs he committed, real or imagined. Finally it all blew at lunchtime, when he asked me to bring him the mustard since I was already up. "What am I, your fucking slave?" I spat back. "Get it yourself, you lazy shit!" He gave me a rather weary look and told me, "Don't be such a cunt, Cor." "And just what the hell would you know about cunt, anyway?" I retorted. He sighed impatiently. "Look, what's up your ass today? You've been at me since the minute I got up this morning." "Not a damn thing's up my ass! The question is, what's been up yours, little fairy queen? Or should I say who?" "What in God's name are you talking about now?" he complained. "You wanna know what I'm talking about? Fine, I'll tell you what I'm talking about! I saw you last night, Christian! You and that faggot friend of yours!" He held back a laugh. "I see. And did you enjoy watching me fuck Kevin, dear?" "Not half as much as I enjoyed listening to you lie to him, 'dear'!" He looked at me like I'd just lost the last of my marbles, so I elaborated, "I heard you telling him that you loved him, so don't try and act innocent with me! It was bullshit and you know it!" He did laugh then. "Oh, so that's what this is all about, huh? Because I told Kevin I loved him?" He shook his head, chuckling softly, and then shrugged, "What can I say? It got me what I wanted, didn't it?" I totally lost my temper at that point. Picking up the damp dishrag from the back of the sink, I whipped it straight for his head, yelling, "You fucking bastard! You don't give a damn about anybody, do you? All you do is use people! That's all you ever do, and tough shit for everyone you hurt in the process! You cheat on Graham, you lie to Kevin, and you treat me like the fucking slime of the Earth just for trying to kiss you! That's all, just one goddam lousy kiss, and for that you won't hardly even speak to me anymore! I mean, it's so goddam horrible for me to wanna kiss someone I love, isn't it?" He was on his feet and gripping my shoulders before I had even finished. "What do you want from me?" he asked harshly, giving me a shake. "Just what is it you want? You want me to lie to you, too? Is that it, Mrs. Bannard? Is this what you want me to do?" He pulled me close and kissed me roughly, angrily, crushing my mouth in a passionless assault. My senses reeled; they say there's a fine line between pleasure and pain, and now I know why. I didn't want him to stop. And then his lips softened, the kiss became real, and I was lost in the sheer ecstasy of it for endless seconds. He backed away, releasing me. "Corinne," he said unevenly, "I can't be what you want me to be. Don't you understand? I can't give what you need, because I just don't have it to give. I'm sorry." I started to protest, but he silenced me, saying, "It won't work. It can't. Don't you see? Don't you remember how you felt that day when Abby came on to you? How you almost -- almost -- gave in and let her go on touching you, kissing you, making love to you because it felt so good and you cared for her and you didn't want to hurt her?" "I never told you that!" I interrupted. "You didn't have to," he replied. "I know the feeling. And I can't let you make love to me any more than you could've let her make love to you. Can't you understand that? I don't want to lie to you because I do love you, sweetheart, but only as a sister. That's all. I can't love you like you want me to." Unshed tears fought for their freedom, making me crudely blunt. "But what's the difference whether it's Kevin's ass or my pussy that you're sticking your cock into?" He smiled patiently. "I don't know. What's the difference whether it's my tongue or Abby's that's between your legs?" The tears won out. I wept bitterly, and Sandy took me into his arms and held me close, gently patting my shoulder. Like a sister, not a lover. February

Chicken Little must've been right; the sky did fall. My whole damned world has turned completely upside down, and I'm still trying to piece together the series of events that brought it all about. Maybe if I go back to the very beginning and start from there, it'll all fall into place. I guess it really started about a week and a half ago when Nicky gave that party on Friday night. Michelle had a bad cold, so I took her up to bed early and then kept checking on her periodically throughout the evening, since it was impossible to hear her crying with the stereo cranked up loud enough to cause permanent hearing loss. It was on one of my return trips from her cribside that I found Sandy sitting alone on the stairs about halfway up, gazing dreamily off between the railing posts. "What happened to Graham?" I inquired, seating myself on the step just above him. He nodded in the same direction that his eyes were taking. I looked; Graham was sitting on the floor beside the sofa, at the feet of a person of questionable gender. "What in God's name is that?" I asked Sandy, staring fixedly at the object of not only Graham's enraptured attention, but that of several other people of both sexes as well. "Caiman," he answered absently, his eyes still drawn magnetically to the person named. "Is it male or female?" He smiled faintly. "Very definitely male." I looked again and argued, "But he's wearing make-up!" "Mmm," Sandy replied. "He wears it well, wouldn't you say?" I couldn't argue that; it was true. The man was positively gorgeous. He didn't have the slightest single flaw, from what I could see. Soft layers of loose, blue-black curls cascaded down around his shoulders, contrasting sharply with the blousy white silk shirt he wore half-unbuttoned. Skin-tight black leather pants ended in tall white boots, and when he turned his head I caught the flash of a diamond stud from his ear, the fur-like tufts of a black feather dangling just above it along the outer curve. And Lord, his face! Eyes dark as pitch were enhanced by long, jet-black lashes and smudges of charcoal-hued eyeshadow. Dark, plum-gray slashes of color angled in downward across his cheeks, making the hollows seem deeper somehow. Full lips stained with wet, wine-red lipstick were set attractively in a sultry pout. He was the epitome of decadent beauty, and the more I studied him, the more impossible it became to tear my gaze away. "Can't take your eyes off him, can you?" Sandy chuckled, interrupting my thoughts. I glanced briefly at him, accusing, "Neither can you." "True," he admitted pleasantly. "He's quite a lovely creature." "Yes, he is," I conceded. "Aren't you jealous of Graham being down there with him?" "Jealous? Not really. Envious might be a more appropriate word; I wouldn't mind being where Graham is right now." "Then why aren't you?" "Self-preservation. It'd be far too easy for me to fall in love with a man like that." "So?" "Falling in love with Caiman can be deadly, dear, believe me. He simply can't be had. And I personally know of at least two people who offed themselves when they discovered that heartbreaking little fact." "You're kidding," I insisted. "I'm not. Trust me, it's safer to worship him from afar. The man is emotionally frigid." Well, emotionally frigid or not, he certainly wasn't cold in any other respect. Graham had laid his head on Caiman's knee, lovingly stroking the inside of one leather-clad thigh, while the girl perched on the arm of the sofa to his right had tangled her fingers into the mass of dark curls, tipping his head back to ravage those highly-glossed lips. The girl at his left was unbuttoning her blouse. It looked like the beginning of a full-blown orgy. "I can't watch this," I said abruptly, getting to my feet. Sandy sighed wistfully. "Well, I certainly can. See you later, darling." I shook my head, half amused by Sandy's blatant voyeurism, and mounted the stairs. Michelle was crying; she'd thrown up in her crib. (Oh, there are times that I absolutely despise motherhood!) I took her into the bathroom to clean her up, changed her pajamas and crib sheets, and had just settled into the rocking chair with her to sing her back to sleep with a lullaby when I saw someone else going into the bathroom across the hall. Someone with long, blue-black curls. And, from where I sat, I could see his reflection in the mirror as he re-applied his lipstick. God, he was so frighteningly perfect! And then suddenly I had to assume that he could also see me through the mirror, because the searing eyes in his reflection seemed to focus directly on me. I looked away, lowering my head and desperately trying to concentrate only on my daughter. She'd gone back to sleep. Slowly (trying not to reawaken her), I carried her back to her crib. And then I heard a voice, deep but almost feminine in its sleek sensuality. "Charming," Caiman said from the doorway, a hint of sarcasm not masked in the slightest as he spoke. I looked up in time to see him take a swaggering step into the room. "You've been eying me all evening like a bitch in heat," he stated boldly, holding my eyes with his own. "I . . . I'm sorry," I stammered, totally at a loss for words. His reply was calculated. "I'm not," he said. And moving closer, he inquired, "Well, bitch? Do you like what you see?" "Like" wasn't even a fitting word to describe the effect his appearance had on me at such close proximity. Hot, paralyzing flashes of desire ripped through me like internal lightning bolts. I couldn't trust my voice enough to answer. He stepped closer still. Brushing the hair away from my neck, he touched his lips there and ran his tongue lazily up to the base of my ear, where he murmured, "And do you like what you feel?" A sound escaped my throat, and his next words were, "You want me, don't you?" His mouth traveled across my cheek as I whispered, "Yes." He kissed me then, and no one -- not even Michael -- could even begin to approach the level of pure, raw sex that Caiman put into just that one kiss. I was completely lost to him, forgetting all Sandy's words of warning. He traced the tip of his tongue across my lips and said, "I want you to have me." Then he paused, his eyes burning with the unspoken promise of all he could give to me, and asked softly, "Can you afford me?" I didn't understand. In that same sultry, mesmerizing voice, he explained, "Hamburger comes cheap, my precious little slut. I'm afraid the choicer cuts are rather expensive." He kissed me again, saying, "Didn't your little watchdog tell you?" "Tell me what?" I asked breathlessly. He tilted his head back to one side, his eyes nearly halfway closed, an open invitation to unadulterated lust. "I'm a whore," he answered almost lovingly. His words plunged me into a pit of despair. I wanted him so badly, but I had to admit, "I don't have any money." "And the bitch is so hungry," he sighed in pity. He brought my hand up to his mouth, kissing my fingers with both his tongue and his lips. "Oh, so very hungry. Nicky is just starving you to death, isn't he?" "Oh, God! Nicky!" I said, remembering. He touched a kiss to his own finger and pressed it gently against my lips. "Hush, bitch. Never mind." And taking my hand again, he carefully eased the wedding ring off of my finger. I didn't try to stop him. "This will do," he decided, adding, "I love pissing Nicky off." Even if I'd wanted to protest, I couldn't have. His mouth covered mine again as he lowered me down onto the bed that I normally shared with my husband. I had no desire to argue, though; the only desire I had was for the bewitching creature that was teasing my bulky knit sweater down to bare one shoulder, his lips closely following the movement of his hand. The ring was meaningless to me, its only worth being in what it was purchasing for me at that very moment. I had no regrets whatsoever. Well, maybe one, in that the transaction was never fully completed. Sandy cut short my rapture, appearing at the door to tell me, "Corinne, Nicky's looking for you." "And why don't you just run along and inform him that she's otherwise occupied, darling," said Caiman, annoyed at the interruption. Sandy ignored him, impatiently urging, "Corinne . . . ." I gazed longingly at the man beside me and told him, "I've got to go." He shrugged. "Then go." "Wait for me?" I pleaded softly. He shook his head slowly, wordlessly. I was near tears when I joined Sandy in the hallway, hissing, "I hate you, Christian!" "Go ahead and hate me, but wipe that shit off your face before you go downstairs," he answered, steering me toward the bathroom. "You look like you've just been in bed with a painted whore." "Well, I was!" I reminded him angrily. "My point exactly," he sighed as he reached for a tissue and began to dab at my cheek. I snatched it away from him and finished the job myself, muttering, "Y'know, you could've told Nicky I was busy with the baby or something! I mean, really!" "Need I remind you that that's one hell of a dangerous baby you were busy with, dear?" he inquired mildly, pausing then as Caiman passed the doorway in a smooth, panther- like strut as he moved toward the stairs. Sandy shook his head, continuing, "He's too hot, Cor. He'll burn you alive." "I can handle it, okay?" I snapped irritably as I took a final swipe at a slash of wine-colored gloss adorning my shoulder. "Even assuming that you could, have you stopped to consider the other possible consequences? Think for a minute, will you? If Nicky catches the two of you together, I can guarantee you that Caiman won't be the one the shit comes down on. He can be just as brazen as he likes, because he happens to have a very large and exceptionally nasty pimp who would not take kindly to anyone stupid enough to damage that pretty face. To put it plainly, Caiman is valuable property and, as such, he's very well protected. Nicky won't mess with him. You, on the other hand, are expendable. Your husband can and will beat you within an inch of your life." Bluntly, I told him, "And if he did, it'd be worth it as far as I'm concerned." And so saying, I pushed past him and headed down the stairs to go find the rotten bastard I'd married. It turned out that all Nicky had wanted was his cigarettes. Caiman had been surrounded by hopeful admirers once again, I noticed numbly. He lounged comfortably in the corner of the sofa, his right elbow leaning on the armrest, his cheek set lightly against his knuckles. My wedding ring glittered from his little finger. As I studied him from across the room, he looked up and caught my eye. Lifting his head ever so slightly, he traced a slow, sensual path down the length of that finger and across his lips with the tip of his tongue. I tore my gaze away with difficulty and started collecting empty beer bottles to take out to the kitchen, knowing that I had maybe fifteen seconds to spare before I was going to burst into tears. I made it. Barely. Thankful that no one else was present, I collapsed helplessly against the refrigerator and sobbed out my frustration. Minutes passed as I wept uncontrollably, my forehead pressed against cool metal as my only comfort. And then suddenly I could feel that I was no longer alone. A sleek, sultry voice purred gently behind me, "You're too pitiful. You know that, don't you, bitch?" His hands were on my shoulders, turning me to face him as he soothed, "Come. I wasn't done with you yet." His mouth crushed down upon mine, hot and demanding, making my head spin dizzily. A tender, teasing hand stole up inside my sweater to caress the bare skin underneath. If I hadn't been pinned against the refrigerator, my knees surely would've buckled. Moments later, brushing the hair back from my face, he discovered in the glaring overhead light a relatively fresh bruise that my husband had inflicted upon me the previous night for not having his shirt ironed and ready for him to wear when he wanted to go out. A lazy smile curved the corners of Caiman's mouth. "Very becoming," he commented softly. "I see Nicky still considers himself something of an artist." And, trailing a lingering kiss across the spot, he murmured, "You'll find my technique much more pleasing, I think. So much more." His lips moved lower to mark my throat for a long, excruciatingly beautiful minute. My eyes closed, my thoughts swirling in an ecstasy of pain and pleasure. "Now, bitch," he whispered as his mouth returned to scorch mine once more. "Love me now." And I would've. Oh God, I would've. Right there in the kitchen; I didn't care. It had been so damned long and everything about him was so compelling. But I'd only gotten as far as loosening the wide, silver-studded belt slung low across his hips when Nicky walked in. His anger burst forth without hesitation. "What the hell?" he bellowed, green eyes flashing. "Just what the goddam hell d'you think you're doing?" Caiman cocked his head to look at Nicky over his shoulder, sighing, "Really, darling! Must you be so melodramatic?" Nicky sputtered, retorting, "You get your fucking hands off her right this minute, slut! I mean it! Now!" He turned, resting his elbow on my shoulder, and uttered an impudent, "No." Nicky really blew then. He threw the half-empty beer can in his hand across the room, shouting, "Why, you rotten slit-licking bastard! You've got the balls to come crash my party, sit in my living room and let anyone who wants to come and pet on you, and then you go trying to seduce my wife -- of all people -- right in my own goddam kitchen!" "You're far too possessive, sweetheart," Caiman replied insolently. "You really should calm down. You'll work yourself into cardiac arrest with your jealous rages one of these days, you know." He stroked my hair absently as he spoke, fueling Nicky's fury even further. The next thing I knew, Nicky was ordering us both out of the house. Caiman shrugged and went to retrieve a tailored knee- length coat from the pile on the kitchen table, not even bothering to buckle the belt I'd undone. "Come, bitch," he invited. "I rarely take my business home with me, but you've provided me with enough entertainment for me to make an exception tonight." He led me outside then, but Sandy ran up behind and grabbed my arm before we'd even gotten as far as the street. "Corey, hold it!" he insisted, throwing a jacket around my shoulders to ward off the cold that I hadn't even felt. "Wake up, will you? You can't leave with this guy! Think!" While I struggled to clear my head, Caiman was purring, "Why don't you go find yourself a nice, hard cock to suck on, darling? We have unfinished business to attend to . . . alone." Ignoring him as before, Sandy pleaded, "Corey, think of Michelle! You can't trust Nicky with her right now! As pissed as he is, what if he decides to take it out on her?" That shook me. It hadn't even occurred to me, but it was a grim possibility. "Okay," I mumbled dejectedly. "I'll stay." I glanced up at Caiman, then back to Sandy again, adding, "Just give me another minute first, alright?" He considered, then replied, "Alright. One minute, no more." I watched him retreat half the distance to our front door and then turned to Caiman and sadly said, "I can't go with you. Sandy's right; Nicky might do something to my daughter if I leave her here with him. I can't take that chance." "Another time, perhaps," he offered lightly as he ran warm fingertips gently down my face and throat to linger briefly on the front of my sweater beneath the jacket. And then he whispered temptingly, "Touch me." I looked behind me. Sandy waited near the front porch, but that didn't disturb me. It was my husband standing in the doorway that made me hesitate. "Nicky's watching," I said nervously. He smiled his alluring, lazy smile and answered, "I know. Touch me." I couldn't refuse. How could I? The man could've seduced the Devil himself with just one look from those shadowed bedroom eyes. My hand went mindlessly to his crotch, stroking, caressing, and then he took me into his arms one last time, kissing, licking . . . . And then Sandy was beside me again, jerking me roughly away. "Your minute's up," he spat in disgust. "Come inside before you find yourself signing your own death warrant, Mrs. Bannard." Reality hit as Sandy dragged me back to the house -- the frigid air, and Nicky's even more frigid glare. I shivered. Michelle was spared that night, but I wasn't. The rest of the guests (sensing impending disaster, no doubt) left hurriedly, and Nicky promptly kicked the living shit out of me to the point that I never could've even made it up the stairs that night without Sandy's assistance. The next day was sheer hell. Sandy had patched me up as best he could and fed me enough Percodan to keep me pretty much unconscious for most of the day, but there wasn't a single square inch of flesh on my body that didn't ache, I swear. He also took care of Michelle for me so that I could stay in bed, for which I was immensely (albeit groggily) grateful; I couldn't have gotten up to fix her breakfast that morning if her life had depended upon it. By Monday evening I was beginning to feel halfway human again, and that's the night that everything really went haywire. Nicky went out immediately after he'd finished his dinner, and Sandy took Michelle upstairs to give her a bath while I returned to my room to lie down. I was half asleep when he brought her in to receive her goodnight kiss. I hugged her extra-hard, feeling guilty that I hadn't been able to be much of a mommy to her over the preceding few days. Sandy carried her to her crib and wound up her music box, and then he came to sit quietly on the bed beside me. "Why don't you leave him?" he asked suddenly, his voice softly sincere. I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly, but he repeated himself again, adding, "Corinne, this is such a shitty way for you to have to live. It's shitty for both of us, if you want the absolute truth. I would've left long ago myself, but I wouldn't feel right leaving you here without someone you could turn to. Really, why don't you call that guy Michael and see if the two of you can't work something out? Or I'll call for you, if you'd rather. You've got to get out of this; I mean it." "Michael?" I replied wryly. "Michael wouldn't want me now, I'm sure. Last I heard, he was being 'kept' by some horny divorcée almost old enough to be his mother. I doubt he'd care to give up all her money to tie himself down to me and Michelle." "You sell yourself short, dear," he smiled, mussing my hair. "You and your daughter, both." I shrugged. "He likes his freedom. What can I say?" "Well, it wouldn't hurt to try," he insisted. "It would if he told me to fuck off," I returned honestly. "Oh, ignorance is better than rejection, huh?" "Exactly." He shook his head. "Well, I can't agree with that under the present circumstances, but if I can't convince you, then I can't convince you. Let it be said, however, that I think you're crazy." "What else is new?" I told him, forcing a crooked grin. "So let's say we just forget about it and go on to a more pleasant subject." "Such as?" I shrugged again. "I d'no. How about, 'Wanna get high?'" He laughed. Quietly, so as not to wake Michelle. "Sounds like as good a subject as any. I take it you'd like me to fetch you some toke, dear?" "Please." He rose agreeably and went across the hall to his room to grab a joint. He was back momentarily, and we talked about nothing in particular as we smoked. Now, my biggest problem with reefer is that it tends to have one of two very predictable effects on me: I either get extremely sleepy, or extremely hot. And having Sandy sitting there beside me on the bed did not exactly make me feel like yawning, to put it mildly. Truly, it wasn't all my fault, though. He should've known me well enough to realize what would happen when he offered to give me a hot-oil massage to make me feel better. His hands gently kneading the bare skin of my back were hard enough to take, but those fingers gliding over my ass and down the length of my legs were not relaxing in the least. Far from it. It may have all been purely clinical to him, but to me it was intensely arousing. No small wonder, then, that before long I found myself rolling toward him onto my back and pulling him down to capture his mouth with my own -- too quick for him to have the chance to protest. But protest he did the moment I set him loose. "Corey, don't," he said weakly, hurt. "You've got to stop doing this to me. I'm not kidding. It's getting too hard to say no to you." "Then don't say no," was my logical reply. He started to get up, but I grabbed his wrist to restrain him. "Sandy, please don't turn away from me again! For God's sake, close your eyes and pretend I'm Graham if you have to, only please don't shut me out! Can't you at least try? For my sake?" He was shaking his head, but I could see indecision in his eyes. "Please," I pressed. "If you want me to beg, I'll beg." "I don't want you to beg," he said softly. "Then don't make me. Be my lover, just for tonight and I swear I'll never ask you again." "Never?" "Never. I promise." He considered a moment before asking, "And what if it doesn't work?" "It will if you pretend I'm Burt Reynolds," I answered, bringing the beginnings of a smile to his face. He closed his eyes. "Okay," he sighed uncomfortably. "Go for it, Burt." I kissed him then, with a loving passion born of months of friendship and frustration. He responded only marginally, but his lack of ardor merely served to make me just that much more determined. I brought into play all that I had learned from my brief encounter with Caiman several nights before, and gradually his reluctant tolerance became more of a passive acceptance. But that level of acceptance seemed to be his limit. Try as I might, I couldn't manage to stir in him the same emotions that Graham could. When I drew his zipper down, there was nothing there to meet me, and when I touched him it had no effect whatsoever. He pulled away, murmuring, "Sweetheart, I just can't. I'm sorry." Despite my pleading, he rose and returned to his own room. I followed and found him stretched out on his bed, contemplating the wall in front of him. And, although he was lying on his stomach, his jeans were low enough and loose enough that I could tell he hadn't bothered to zip them. I went to lie beside him, just needing to be close, and he turned slightly to put an arm around me, seeming to understand. And that's how we fell asleep. It was also how we woke up when Nicky first started hollering. But then, I was sure I was still dreaming because I couldn't believe my ears. It was real, though. All too sickeningly real. Because my husband really was screaming, "That's it, you sorry-assed cunt! No more! No fucking more! I've had it with you! It wasn't enough for you to mess up my whole life; it wasn't enough for you to try and take Caiman away from me! Oh, no! No, now you want Sandy, too! Well, you went too goddam far this time!" Christ, what a fool I'd been! All that time, so many clues, and I'd still been too blind to see! I looked at Sandy in shock and his eyes begged forgiveness as his lips said, "Not since Michelle, Corey. I swear it." "That's right!" Nicky spat hatefully. "Not since you shat that little brat bastard of yours! No matter what I did, no matter what I said -- everything was the wrong thing! And now I find out that it wasn't even because of that stupid twerp Graham that I lost out; it was you all along!" Sandy tried to argue, but Nicky wouldn't hear him. Instead, he reached into his boot, raging, "Well, goddammit, if I can't have him anymore, then neither can you!" And then he lunged at me. It was too fast; I never even saw the knife. Sandy did. He rolled on top of me before I'd even realized what was happening, and the first glimpse I caught of steel was where it had pierced his side. Nicky uttered something that was a cross between a gasp and a curse. I think I screamed. Sandy's blood showered down against my skin with a warmth that didn't seem quite real, and his face contorted with pain that told me it was. I know I screamed. The rest I can only recall in fragments. I remember being on Sandy's floor (although I don't know how I got there) and Nicky hitting me anywhere and everywhere. I remember his hands on my throat and not being able to breathe. I remember his vow to "shut that fucking bastard up once and for all!" I remember Michelle's shrieks of terror. I don't remember hitting him over the head with the chair. I know I must have because Sandy hadn't moved from his bed, but I don't remember it. I don't remember throwing clothes into a paper sack. I do remember the biting cold of the night air as I stepped outside with my daughter safe in my arms. And I do remember the warmth that poured out of Birch's apartment as Cokey pulled the door open. I don't remember passing out on the doorstep. The next few days I lost in a fog, my only awareness being in that I was relatively safe where I was. I didn't even recognize my surroundings until Wednesday sometime. And even then, they still seemed unfamiliar. Birch's room (and Birch himself, for that matter) seems strange to me after being away so long. It used to feel like home here, but it doesn't anymore. The guys have been sweet, though, so I can't complain. There've been no lectures (though I can tell Cokey is having a tough time keeping his mouth shut); no one has said, "I told you so." Birch hasn't even asked what happened, other than to inquire, "Do you want to talk?" to which I replied in the negative. How can I explain the past year to him? At any rate, at least part of it must've come out last night when Sandy showed up. I'd gone to bed early since I'm still not feeling quite up to par, and Birch woke me from a sound sleep when he opened the bedroom door, letting in the light from the living room. "Someone's here to see you, love," he said softly from the doorway, his voice low so as not to disturb Michelle. I mumbled a groggy, "Who?" and he replied, "You have a friend named Sander?" "Had," I corrected. "He's dead." And from behind him, another voice argued lightly, "Oh? I beg to differ, dear." "Sandy?" I said incredulously, turning to squint at the doorway. Sure enough, it was him. God, was I ecstatic! He came around to sit beside me on the bed and hugged me tightly. I felt bandages beneath his shirt. There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask him, but all I could come out with at that point was, "Sandy, Jesus! I thought . . . ." He laughed. "Yes, I heard what you thought. Fortunately for me, you were quite wrong." I glanced over toward the door and noticed that Birch had disappeared, before continuing, "But the knife . . . you were bleeding . . . ." "That's all it was," he assured me, smiling. "Just a lot of blood; nothing vital was damaged. Nicky took me up to the hospital, and they patched me up and sent me home a few days later." The mention of my husband's name sent a shiver down my spine, and I had to ask, "Does . . . does he know where I am? Nicky, I mean?" A slight frown crossed his face. "Corinne, you don't need to worry about him anymore. Okay?" His expression bothered me. "Why? What do you mean?" He sighed. "I suppose I should tell you now and get it over with. I'd hoped it wouldn't come up until later, but I guess this is as good a time as any. You've been mourning the wrong person, dear." "What?" I said, unsure of his meaning. "They buried him this morning," he replied flatly. "I hope I wasn't mistaken in assuming that you preferred not to attend." "I don't understand," I told him, shaking my head in disbelief. He was silent a moment, and then he asked, "Do you remember the first time I visited you in the hospital after Michelle was born? When I told you I'd just broken up with my lover?" "It was Nicky, wasn't it?" I said quietly. He nodded. "Yes. It was Nicky." He paused a moment, and then went on, "Have you also figured out that he never stopped loving me? That he was constantly trying to win me back?" "Yeah, pretty much." "Well, he never quit. He stayed with me the whole time I was at the hospital last week, begging me to take him back now that you were gone. And, hate me if you want to, but I gave in." "I couldn't hate you, Sandy," I interrupted. "Really." "Thanks, sis," he said with a wry grin. "But I think you'd better reserve judgment on that until I've finished. There's a lot more to this story." I waited patiently and at length he continued. "He started talking about you after we'd gone to bed Friday night, saying how sorry he was that you'd come between us and so on. He was telling me how very much he loved me and how he hated you for all the trouble you'd caused, and that's when he said that he was going to fix it so you could never ruin things for us again. Now do I have to explain that statement more graphically, or do you understand what it was that he had in mind?" "No, I understand," I replied, not much louder than a whisper. There was no need for details; I still remembered that knife all too clearly. "And can you also understand that I couldn't allow that? Would it make any sense to you at all if I told you that my feelings for you as a sister run ten times deeper than the feelings I had for Nicky? Not to mention how much I care about Michelle." "I'm not sure I follow you . . . ." "Then I'll be blunt, alright? This is a confession, and I'll deny every word of it if you ever repeat it to another soul, because I'm responsible for Nicky's death." I shook my head. "Sandy, no . . . ." "It's true," he insisted. "I slipped out of bed after he'd gone to sleep that night and went down to the telephone booth. I made one call -- to Caiman -- and spent the rest of the night there in the phone booth. In the morning I walked back to the house, got my things together, and then went to call Graham to come pick me up. That's where I'm living now. With Graham." "But I still don't understand! What happened to Nicky?" He took a deep breath before answering, "Caiman had his throat slit." I was speechless for minutes on end, and then when I finally found my tongue, all I could come up with was, "But I thought Caiman had been sleeping with Nicky!" "And didn't I tell you once that the man is emotionally frigid?" he asked in reply. "He was more than happy to arrange a hit for me, given the proper motivation." "Which was?" "A fistful of cash. What else? That's the only true love that man will ever have." I still couldn't believe it. "You paid Caiman to off Nicky?" "Not quite. I paid him to arrange it, not to do it. You wouldn't honestly expect him to dirty his own pretty hands, now would you?" "But how could you do that to someone you cared for?" "I thought I explained that part already. I had to do it in order to protect you and Michelle. And probably Graham, too, for that matter. Christ, after all you went through with him, don't you realize yet how vicious he was capable of being? Let me give you some history, dear. The first time Nicky caught me in bed with another man, he quite literally castrated the guy." "You're not serious," I insisted. "I'm very serious," he returned gravely. "That was four years ago, right after we first started living together. Nicky was only seventeen and the other guy was my age, twenty- one. He had all the advantages -- age, height, weight, and experience -- but that doesn't make for shit against six inches of cold steel. Nicky put him out of commission with one quick slice." "That's why you didn't want me to tell him about Graham that night I found the two of you together!" "Exactly. The man had no aversion whatsoever to carving people up like turkeys, so you see why I couldn't doubt him when he told me what he had planned for you." I considered a moment and then nodded slowly. "I suppose I ought to thank you." "Seeing you still breathing is all the thanks I need. Is this guy Birch taking good care of you here?" "I guess so," I sighed. "I mean, he is and all, but it's just . . . I don't know, it's kind of funny being around so- called 'normal' people after all that's happened. I can't talk to him anymore. Not like I can with you, at any rate." "He seems alright to me," he shrugged. "I talked to him for quite a while before I came in here, and he struck me as a highly empathetic person." "Well, yeah, but it's still not the same. You know what I've been through because you were there; you can understand what's going on inside me and why. I mean, like if he'd heard some of the shit we were just talking about, he would've freaked." "How old did you say he is?" "What?" "Didn't you tell me he's twenty-six?" "What's that got to do with anything?" "Are you going to sit there and tell me that he's spent that many years on this planet and has never heard anyone discuss murder or homosexuality?" "Funny, Christian. Alright, point taken. But what I'm saying is, it's one thing to read about it in the newspaper. It's different when it's somebody you know." "Well, in any case, he already knows I'm gay and he didn't seem all that horrified." "You told him?" "More or less. Guess who's out there waiting for me with him." "Graham's here?" He smiled. "He wouldn't let me out of the house without an escort. Afraid I'd bust my stitches open and collapse on the street or something." "Sandy," I said, an idea springing to mind suddenly, "go call him in here and ask him if I can move in with you guys. Please? I know he'll say yes; he likes Michelle." He laughed softly. "Whoa, girl! What's wrong with this place? These guys here like you, too. As a matter of fact, I'd say that Birch likes you quite a bit. The way he talks, I'd be willing to bet that he might even be the answer to your little problem." "What little problem?" "Let's put it this way: I don't think you'd have to worry about any rejection from that guy. I got the distinct impression that he would more than welcome a seduction if you offered it." "Oh, come on, Sandy! Birch? Shit, it'd be like balling my brother!" "So you'd rather ball your sister?" he grinned. "Seriously, Cor, what's wrong with it? The man obviously loves your ass. Don't tell me you never noticed." It was just too far-fetched for me to accept. "Look, we're just friends, okay? Christ, I've known him since before I can even remember and he's never even so much as tried to flirt with me!" He shrugged. "Maybe he's been waiting for you to make the first move, I don't know. I'm telling you, though, you'll get a lot further with him than you ever will with me." "You're crazy," I decided, shaking my head. "I'm crazy?" he returned. "I tell you that this good- looking guy you're living with is head over heels for you and you're not even interested, and I'm crazy? You need help, dear." "Oh, stop it. There's no way . . . ." "Believe me, the guy would fall into bed with you in a New York minute. If you won't take my word for it, try asking him and see what happens." "I can't do that!" "Why not? You did it to me." "That was different." "Why? Because I'm a flaming faggot?" "No! I told you, I just can't talk to him anymore. Especially like that." "Then don't talk about it. Just do it." "Do what?" "I don't know. Turn him on and see what he does, I guess." "Oh, and just how do you suggest I do that?" "Well, what did I do to turn you on?" "Sandy, this is ridiculous! This whole conversation is totally pointless, really. I can't go trying to seduce Birch; it wouldn't feel right!" "And trying to seduce me did?" "You weren't my babysitter for eight years." "No, and you're not a baby anymore, either. Give it a chance, alright? Trust me, you'll be a lot happier here than you would be with Graham and me." "Yeah, says you," I grumbled, disappointed. Shortly thereafter, Graham appeared in the doorway to nag Sandy about how he ought to go home and get some rest before he passed out or something. His devotion was plain and sweet, and I found myself feeling more than a little jealous again. They left together and Birch came in to say goodnight, asking once more if I wanted to talk, which I declined in favor of being alone with my thoughts. Sandy had left me with a lot to think about. Basically (horrible as it may sound), I suppose I'm glad Nicky's gone. It's still hard for me to believe that Sandy pulled off something that cold-blooded, but then he's better schooled in survival than I am. I'm just relieved to know that Michelle and I are safe, I guess. As far as his observations on Birch go, I don't know what to think. I've been over it again and again in my mind, and I still can't get used to the idea that he could ever consider me as more than just a baby sister. It just doesn't seem possible. It's going to take me a long time to get all this straight in my head, I guess. March

Well, Michelle's first birthday was celebrated minimally at best, and all thanks to her stupid father. Oh, what an asshole he is sometimes! It all started last month on Valentine's Day, a couple days after Sandy's first visit. We'd had a fairly pleasant evening, and everything was fine up until about 8:00 when I took Michelle in to give her a bath and put her to bed. I'd just gotten her snuggled down into her little pallet on the floor when I heard someone banging on the apartment door. Well, the next thing I heard was Michael's obviously drunken voice booming, "Hey, where the fuck ya been, Angel baby? You ain't been around in a good three weeks now! I'm almost startin' ta miss your sorry ass, golden boy!" I couldn't make out what Birch said then, but Michael's reply was loud and clear: "Aw, man, I couldn't stand hangin' around that dumb whore tonight! Fuckin' Valentine's Day sucks, man, y'know that? I'd like ta shoot the son of a bitch that invented it. I mean, she's been on my ass all day, y'know? Wantin' me ta take her out ta dinner an' buy her some fuckin' flowers an' all that shit! Christ! What the hell would I wanna go an' buy that sloppy broad flowers for, anyway?" Right about then his mouth fell open, because that was when I walked out of the bedroom and spoke his name. He looked first at me and then at Birch, and anger sparked in his eyes. "You fucking Judas, Fairchild!" he hissed hatefully, turning then to stalk out of the door. It slammed behind him even as Birch was pleading, "Jag, wait!" He glanced briefly at me and went to grab a jacket. Cokey jumped up from the chair he'd been sitting in, saying, "Ange, what're you doing?" "What does it look like I'm doing?" Birch replied as he shrugged the jacket on. "I'm going after him." Cokey tried to argue with him, but he wouldn't listen. "Wait, then," Cokey insisted. "I'm coming with you." Birch shook his head. "You stay here with Corey. I've got to talk to him alone." He was out the door before Cokey could argue further. Still numb from shock, I went to the couch to sit down and light a cigarette. "Shit!" Cokey complained, returning to his chair. "This is nuts!" I nodded silently. "I mean, how the hell does he expect to talk any sense into a drunk? I'm sorry, hon, I know how you felt about the guy, but he ain't done nothin' but drink himself stupid ever since he moved in with that woman. I ain't seen him sober once in the past six months! How can Angie ever expect to get through to the dude when his brain is fuckin' pickled?" "I don't know," I answered quietly, my thoughts racing with instant replays of the last few minutes. God, I'd seen him! For the first time since my wedding day over a year before, I'd actually seen him. And plastered or not, he was still so damned beautiful it made me want to cry. Oh, I wanted him back so badly at that moment! I changed my mind a few hours later. After half an hour or so had passed and Birch still hadn't returned, Cokey decided to go after him anyway, regardless of the instructions he'd received. It was a good thing he did. When he came back to the apartment some two hours later -- alone -- he told me that he'd had to take Birch straight to the emergency room. He'd found him lying on the sidewalk outside with three broken ribs; Michael had knocked the crap out of him.

Late March

Well, I did it. I don't really know what to think of myself now, but I did it. I made love to Birch yesterday afternoon. It was his first day back at work, and he'd come home around 2:00 saying he'd had to take off early because he'd just gotten too light-headed to make it through a full day. So, I sent him in to lie down while I sat with Michelle in the living room for the next half hour or so, at which point she wore herself out and conked off on the floor with her stuffed mouse. Seeing that my services as mommy were no longer needed, I went to go check on Birch. He had stripped his shirt off and was curled up underneath the quilt, dozing. As I studied him, Sandy's words came back to me with a new strength. One sentence in particular kept repeating itself in my mind: "Well, what did I do to turn you on?" Before I had the chance to talk myself out of it, I sat down beside him on the bed and reached a hand around to gently stroke the length of his back. He opened his eyes, the look on his face somewhere between pleasure and puzzled uncertainty. "Hi," I said softly. "How're you feeling?" "Better," he replied cautiously. But unlike Sandy, who measured his words because he himself was frightened, Birch seemed instead to be trying not to frighten me. "Michelle fell asleep," I told him. "I thought I'd come in and give you a backrub." He smiled, murmured his appreciation, and closed his eyes again as I continued to run my hand over his skin. And a few minutes later, I leaned over and began kissing his face and neck. His eyes opened but he didn't speak, and so (taking his silence for willingness), I plunged in headfirst: I pushed him gently onto his back and kissed him full on the mouth. It was warmer than kissing Sandy's brick wall, but still his response seemed to be lacking somehow. Steeling myself for the rejection that I was certain would come, I asked him, "What's wrong, Birch?" His answer surprised me no small amount. "There's nothing wrong, love," he told me, shrugging slightly as he added, "It's just that I've never done this before." "Never?" I repeated incredulously. His only reply was to look away. I could hardly believe it. "You've never been with a woman before?" He shrugged again. "I've been waiting for . . . someone special." All I could manage to say was, "Oh." I started to move away, assuming his last remark to be his way of letting me down easily, but he reached out a tentative hand to stay me, saying, "I'm through waiting, Corey." Then he took my hand and squeezed it lightly, and he asked, "Will you teach me how to be your lover?" So I did. It was a little bit awkward, a little bit funny, and a little bit tender; not like the stormy passion I'd almost had with Caiman, not like the loving urgency I'd shared with Michael, but not like Nicky's cool, mechanical detachment, either. It was nice. Peaceful and quiet and sweet. He even told me he loved me, which was nice to hear even though I'm sure he couldn't have really meant it in any kind of romantic way. And no one slept on the couch last night (which was what Birch was doing up until Michael kicked his ass, at which point we traded). I thought Cokey's eyes were going to pop right out of their sockets at breakfast this morning. Not that he appeared to disapprove or anything; on the contrary, he seemed almost smugly satisfied. As irritated as he used to get about my going out with Michael, I figured he'd freak when he found out about me and Birch. Matter of fact, I figured he'd probably give us both one hell of a lecture. He didn't, though. The only comment he made at all was a sly, "Feeling better today, Ange?"

April

I don't know what's wrong with me, I really don't. Everything has been just great here for the past few weeks; Birch has been as sweet and attentive as I could possibly hope for, Michelle is positively blossoming now that Nicky's intimidating presence is no longer a factor, and even Cokey seems to have mellowed considerably. So why am I still not happy? I've got everything I could ever want, but for some reason it just doesn't seem to be enough. I talked it over with Sandy the other day, and his answer was, "Just do what I do, dear. Count your blessings and forget the rest." And when I pressed him to explain my feelings, he said, "Well, it sounds to me like you're about as much in love with Birch as I am with Graham . . . which isn't very damned much." "If you don't love him that much, then how come you're living with him?" I wanted to know. "I could ask you the same question, but since you asked first, I'll tell you," he replied. "Convenience, affection, and sex; basically the same reasons you have for staying with Birch. Don't look at me like that, dear. It may be crude, but it's true. Face the facts: As pissed as you are at Michael, you're still very much in love with him whether you want to admit it or not." Needless to say, that conversation ended up in a rather large argument.

May

Well, we celebrated Birch's 27 th birthday yesterday (that is, if you can call a total disaster a celebration). I suppose it was my fault for being so damned touchy, but really everything would have been fine if it hadn't been for Cokey's new girlfriend Sarah. Seems she objected to the relationship existing between Sandy and Graham (which was obvious since Graham has never exactly been known as the master of discretion), and she wasn't too terribly subtle herself about her feelings on the matter. Graham, of course, was oblivious of her disdain, but I could tell that it annoyed Sandy a bit, especially when she got up from the couch and went to sit on the floor by Cokey's chair the minute Sandy sat down beside her. Anyway, I knew Sandy was getting rather pissed off about the whole thing, so naturally I was getting the same way myself. I mean, he's not really comfortable outside his circle of friends on the west end to begin with, and his basic opinion of women in general hasn't changed all that radically from when I first met him. Yes, it's true he's fond of me now, but mainly because he considers me one of the few exceptions to the rule. (The rule being, of course, that all women are hiding pointy black hats in their broom closets and make regular visits to the plastic surgeon for wart removal.) Well, as far as Sarah is concerned, I'm afraid I'll have to agree with him; the girl is a witch and a half. She proved that fact in the kitchen after we'd all finished chowing down on the traditional cake-and-ice-cream business. I was rinsing off the dishes in the sink as she brought them in to me, and Sandy came in and offered to help. So what does the wicked witch of the east have to say? She comes up with this snide little, "I don't think so. I'd say two ladies in the kitchen are just enough." The emphasis, of course, being on the word "two." Sandy opened his mouth to speak, but I didn't even give him the chance. I wheeled on her in a flash, spitting, "Goddam, you're a bitch! Y'know that, Sarah? You really are!" She stuttered and stammered for a minute in righteous indignation, which pissed me off even more. "Why don't you just shut your stupid fucking mouth?" I snapped angrily. "It's none of your damn business who my friends choose to sleep with, so just keep your dumbass remarks to yourself, alright?" "Well, the way I see it," she huffed, "they make it my business when they sit there pawing each other in front of me!" "Perhaps it wouldn't bother you quite as much if you made an effort not to stare so hard," Sandy remarked coolly. I held a hand up to hush him and continued my attack on Sarah. "Uh, correct me if I'm wrong, sweetie, but since when does sitting next to someone with your knee resting against their thigh constitute 'pawing'? Or were you referring to the time that Graham leaned his head over on Sandy's shoulder laughing at that ridiculous third-grade joke you told that wasn't even funny? Either way, it seems like an awfully fanatic definition of the word to me." "Well, whatever you want to call it, they're still a couple of homos and I think it's disgusting!" she sniffed, crossing her arms in front of her. "So who gives a shit what you think?" I retorted. "I think your whole goddam attitude is disgusting, personally! And the next time you go calling one of my friends a lady, you'd best be talking about someone who's got tits the size of yours or I'll kick your ass up one side and down the other!" Cokey came in on that last remark (with Birch just a few steps behind him). "What the hell is this, Corey?" he demanded to know. "What's wrong with you, talking to Sarah like that!" "Not a damn thing's wrong with me," I told him, adding, "That's the way I always talk to self-righteous bigots who try to start shit with my friends." "Well, I don't much like the way you're treating my friend right now, either!" he returned sternly, trying (as usual) to play Poppa. Getting irritated (as usual) with his authoritarian bullshit, I insisted, "She's a cunt, Cokey!" His reply startled everyone, I think, because it came in the form of a stinging slap across my face. Suffering flashbacks of the beatings I'd received at Nicky's hands, I stumbled backward fearfully into Sandy's protective embrace, and he coldly informed Cokey, "That was definitely not necessary." Graham (who had just walked in) added, "No, and if that's the type of thing you feel you have to do in order to prove your manhood, then I'll thank God 'til the day I die that He saw fit to make me gay." I think it was about the first time I'd ever seen him actually get angry. Sarah was making some cutting remark like, "Lord, you're sick!" when Michelle toddled in to see where all the "grown-ups" had gone. Graham scooped her up to remove her from the middle of all the conflict, prompting Sarah to say, "You'd better put that child down before she catches something from you!" "What? Like a bad case of chronic compassion?" he retorted. "Oh, God forbid! That'd be just too horrible for words!" He turned to take Michelle out of the room and then paused. Birch was approaching me, offering comfort that I really didn't want; I nuzzled closer against Sandy's chest. Graham reached out his free hand to grab Birch's arm, urging, "Come on, let her be. She needs a friend now, not a lover. Let Sandy take care of her." Birch allowed himself to be led out of the kitchen, and Cokey broke the silence that followed by apologizing profusely, telling me he hadn't meant to hit me, that he'd just lost his temper, and so on. Sandy said calmly, "Will you please just shut up and leave us alone?" Cokey drew in a sharp breath and bit back whatever it was he'd been about to say, while Sarah fumed, "Are you actually going to sit back and let this sicko pervert tell you what to do in your own home?" "Shut up, you bitch!" I screamed through my tears. Sandy held me tighter, stroking my hair, and told Sarah, "You know, I'd much rather be queer than ignorant. And unless you get your foolish little mouth out of this room very quickly, I'm going to turn this girl loose on you." Sarah set her hands on her hips and began, "Cokey won't--" "Do a damned thing to stop her," Sandy finished for her. "Because if he ever touches her again, he's going to have to deal with me. And I don't fight fair," he added, removing the switchblade from his pocket for their appraisal. A moment later, we were alone. He handed me a paper towel and I blew my nose, sniffled a little, and rested my head back against his shoulder, still clutching the paper towel. "Where did it hurt the worst, sweetheart?" he asked gently. "On the inside or the outside?" "Inside," I told him, noticing for the first time that I was shaking. "Okay," he soothed. "Be quiet now. It wasn't Nicky; Nicky's dead. You listening, Cor? He's dead, he can't hurt you anymore, and I swear with God as my judge that I'll never again let anyone hurt you like he did. Okay? I love you; you're my sister, remember?" I nodded into his shirt and he sighed, "Okay. Now keep remembering that." He just held me there for some ten or fifteen minutes until Graham returned and placed a steady hand on my shoulder, asking, "You okay, sugar?" I nodded. "Graham," Sandy said hesitantly, "I'm not so sure that this is the best place for our little girls to be staying." I held my breath as he replied, "Meaning?" "Meaning we have enough room, don't we?" Sandy elaborated. Graham smiled and my spirits soared. "Of course we do," he declared pleasantly. "Christ, a woman in the house? My father may even start speaking to me again!" I actually giggled. "I love you guys!" I said, hugging each of them in turn. "Alright, come on," Sandy grinned crookedly, taking my hand. "Let's get your things." We walked straight to the bedroom I shared with Birch, while Graham stopped in the living room to explain this latest development to the others. I was happy and nervous and relieved as I began emptying drawers, not even considering for a moment what I would be leaving behind. Not until Cokey appeared in the doorway, at any rate. He just stood there for a long minute, silent, his hands in his pockets, and then at last he said quietly, "Corey, please don't." I simply looked at him. "Please," he said again, averting his eyes. "I'm really sorry, I mean it. I'm so fuckin' sorry you could never even guess. Just please don't leave, okay? I don't know what else I can say, but you just gotta stay here with Angie, babe. He's so fuckin' torn up right now it's unbelievable. And I'm not kidding, either. All he's done for the past fifteen minutes is stand in front of the windows staring out at the street with the fuckin' tears just running down his face, and I can't hardly stand to see him like that! He won't even talk to me or nothing! God, Corey, what do I gotta do to keep you from going? Just fuckin' tell me, will you?" "He's crying?" I asked, shaken. Never in my life could I once recall seeing Birch cry. Cokey nodded. "This's breaking his fuckin' heart, Corey. Really. I don't know how I can ever make it up to you for what I did, but you gotta at least stay for his sake even if you keep on hating me forever. Please, I'm begging, okay?" I looked to Sandy for an answer and found him shaking his head, his arms crossed at his waist and half a grin on his lips. "Some 'brother,' Cor," he said wryly. "I've got to say it, dear -- your judgment truly sucks. By the way, how much did we bet on this little deal, anyway?" "Oh, shut up, you smartass faggot!" I snapped without anger. Sandy laughed. "You'd better go to him, sweetheart. I'll put your things back where they belong." I sighed, a bit frustrated, and did as I was told. I found Birch right where Cokey had said I would -- over by the living room windows. He didn't turn when I came up behind him, so I put a hand on his shoulder and spoke his name. "Are you leaving now?" he asked quietly, still staring straight ahead. God, he looked so miserable. "No," I answered as I moved to stand in front of him. "I'm not leaving now or any other time, babe. I couldn't. Not after Cokey told me how much it upset you." I reached up to brush his tears away with my thumb, and he turned his head and focused on the curtain. "I'm being selfish, love, that's all," he said softly, trying to make it sound light. "I don't want you to go, but that's hardly enough reason for you to stay if you're not happy here." "I'm not unhappy here, either," I told him. "Cokey just scared me a bit in the kitchen before. See, this is the thing, Birch. You guys just don't understand all that happened to me while I was living with Nicky. Sometimes . . . I don't know, sometimes I feel kind of uncomfortable around you because I've changed so much and you haven't. It's hard to explain. Cokey's still the same, you're still the same, but I'm different now. Sandy . . . well, Sandy understands. I guess in a way he's part of what changed me. Is any of this making any sense at all?" He nodded. "You feel more at ease with Sandy and Graham than you do with Cokey and me." "Right, but that doesn't mean I'm unhappy here, though. I'm just having some trouble re-adjusting to the east side definition of 'normal.' I spent over a year of my life living on the west end; I was with these people every day. You have no idea what a different world it is over there." "How could I?" he returned. "You won't tell me." I bit my lip. "You're right," I had to admit. "I haven't really given you a fair chance, have I? It's just . . . God, I don't know. It's not something I like to talk about, I guess. I mean, there were good parts, true, but mostly there were a lot of bad parts. Some of it I didn't even really know how bad until later on. There were the obvious things, like the winos puking up on the laundromat floor. You learn to walk around them and ignore the smell. After a few months, you even get to know the local hookers and pimps. You find out which pushers are dealing which drugs and which corners you can find them on. No shit, I can tell you, Birch. If Cokey ever wants to go back to his old habit, all he's got to do is look for Leroy at Tenth and Falcon Street 'round about six p.m., because that's good quality there. I can even quote you prices, and I don't even do the stuff. And did you know that my husband was fucking both me and Sandy for about three months solid? I didn't. Oh, I knew he was cheating; I was just too damn naïve to realize that it wasn't other women he was cheating with. Or did Sandy tell you that part already? You don't seem terribly shocked." "I'd heard rumors," he answered, shrugging slightly. "Rumors, huh? And did you also hear rumors about all the times Nicky beat the shit out of me? Or how Sandy used to suck off the pharmacist to get painkillers for me? Did you hear rumors about the night I used my wedding ring to pay off a male prostitute because the only other person that wanted to sleep with me was a woman?" I paused a moment and then observed, "Now you're shocked." "And you don't think I'm justified in feeling that way?" he inquired mildly. "Maybe six months ago I would've; not now. Now it's all just part of my life as far as I'm concerned. Nothing shocks me anymore, Birch. Not even Michael kicking your ass. Christ, that was kindergarten shit compared to the way my husband died." "You never told me . . . ." "I never told you a lot of things. Nicky died with his throat cut, and I thanked the person who was responsible for it. Are you beginning to understand why it's a bit difficult for me to just settle back into your kind of reality?" "I think so," he sighed uncomfortably. "It's not that I'm not happy here, babe, honest it isn't. I just scare easier these days. I have a whole new set of reflexes, which include running like hell if a man tries to hit me. It wasn't you I was running from, and I don't think it was really even Cokey, either. It's more like I was still running from Nicky, in a way. I don't know, can you see what I'm trying to say?" He nodded slowly. "You're having trouble getting used to civilization again, huh?" "That's about the size of it, yeah," I agreed. "So can you please just be a little bit patient with me? There are certain things I'm going to have to unlearn, and it's going to take some time." "You can take all the time you want, love," he smiled gently. "I'm a very patient person." I thanked him then and gave him a hug, and a few minutes later Sandy came over to tell me that he and Graham were leaving and that I should be sure to call if I needed anything. His meaning was clear; his offer would remain open if I happened to change my mind. "Thanks, sis," I said, giving him a hug, too. And shortly thereafter, Cokey and Sarah left to take in a movie, and Birch and I were by ourselves once I'd put Michelle to bed. We spent the rest of his birthday making quiet love on the sofa.

June

Had one hell of a scare this month. My period was over a week and a half late, and I was an absolute basket case by the time I finally got it. Birch, on the other hand, didn't seem the least bit upset; as a matter of fact, I could swear he seemed almost pleased about it. He even went out and bought this big, fluffy teddy bear (who was christened "Arthur" for some obscure reason). And it was like he was disappointed when I told him I wasn't pregnant after all. He just nodded wordlessly and went in to shower and change while I started dinner. And, although he usually comes into the kitchen to help out, he didn't that night; I had to go fetch him from the bedroom. He was just sitting on the edge of the bed fingering the ribbon around Arthur's neck when I went in to call him to the table. Sandy confirmed my worst suspicions when I discussed it with him this morning. "Sounds perfectly natural to me," he shrugged off-handedly. "The man loves you, dear; of course he'd want you to bear his child." Well, I was afraid of that. God, does it make any sense that I don't want him to love me that way? Just thinking about it makes me feel smothered. I mean, I do like him and all (enough to sleep with him, at any rate), but it's nowhere near what I feel for Michael. Felt, that is. Sandy would probably call that a Freudian slip, rotten damned college brat that he is. Christ, how he can still piss me off sometimes!

July

Confusion reigns supreme, as always. My brain is functioning on the level of a bowl of cottage cheese today, and that's pushing it. I saw Michael again last night, needless to say. Birch and I took Michelle out on the island to see the fireworks, and who do my eyes have to find out of a couple thousand other people? He was with Ronnie, Cobra, and Candy (Geoff's ex-wife), but something was obviously a bit odd because Ronnie wasn't the one cuddled up on Michael's lap, Candy was. Cobra and Ronnie were sharing a joint, Cobra looking pissed to the gills and Ronnie looking restless and bored. And as for Michael and Candy, she was clearly on cloud nine and he was just as clearly dead drunk. Birch caught me staring and, taking a measured glance in the same direction, offered quietly, "Would you like to go say hello?" I turned to him in amazement and replied, "What in God's name for? I hate him for what he did to you, Birch; you know that!" He shook his head. "Don't hate him, love; please. I don't," he said earnestly, taking my hand. "He reacted in the only way he knew, and I was fool enough to put myself into a situation that I should've known would turn violent. If it was anyone's fault, it was mine; I never should've tried to talk to him that night." I could hardly believe my own ears. Birch taking the blame for the ass-kicking Michael had delivered? Never in my life had I heard anything so ridiculous, and I told him as much in no uncertain terms. He explained it this way: "Corey, he still wanted you back; probably still does, in fact. We spent a lot of time together while you were away, you know, and I can tell you that he brought your name up just as often the month before you came back as he did the month you first were gone. That night when he saw you come out of the bedroom like that, he just naturally assumed the worst, even though it wasn't true at the time. So in ten seconds I went from friend to traitor. Simple. He jumped to the wrong conclusion, and I was stupid enough to want to try and set him straight before he was sufficiently calm and sober enough to listen. He was too screwed up to know what he was doing, and I obviously didn't know what the hell I was doing, either. What can I say? He has booze and a bad temper for an excuse; all I have is poor judgment for mine. So don't blame it all on him, love. Okay? The whole damned thing was as much my fault as it was his." It was of no use to argue with him, so I didn't. But nevertheless, I still didn't want to "go say hello." So now I'm totally mixed up. The longer I consider Birch's words, the more sense they make, and now that he's so effectively removed my hatred for Michael, I don't really know what to do with all these strong feelings left over. They can't all be attributed to the slight, smoldering anger I still have. God, do I really still love him so much after all this time? Has Sandy been right all along?

August

Well, I turned eighteen last week, but that was no big thrill compared to yesterday. Yes, I almost found myself out on the street again, thanks to my own damned impulsive stupidity. Michelle and I had gone up to the shop with Birch as we sometimes do, but it didn't turn out quite as uneventfully as usual. Far from it. And I knew something was going to happen the minute I stepped out of the back room and caught sight of the long, blue-black curls bent over the record bin. I stared in remembered frustration at the tight, muscular ass and thighs packed so well into the faded, low- slung jeans that hugged so close. Laced suede boots turned and fell into an all-too-familiar strut as he approached the counter. My eyes traveled upward, over the front of his jeans, the snug white undershirt and worn denim jacket, up to that incredibly perfect face. No make-up on this day, but he was just as breathtaking without it. A black pearl stud and a gold hoop hung from his ear, and I noticed that my wedding ring still glittered from his little finger when he casually laid a copy of the new Kiss album down on the countertop. And as Birch rang up the sale, he spoke to me. "Fancy running into you here, sweetmeat," he purred, turning on his lazy, seductive smile. I lowered my eyes and managed a nervous, "Hi." He tossed a fifty-dollar bill at Birch absently and continued, "You know, I just happen to be free this afternoon if you'd care to settle that little overdue debt. Interested?" Interested? Christ, what a joke! Could any normal female possibly say no? I looked at Birch and saw discomfort in his face, but his only comment was, "You can leave Michelle here with me if you want, love." No way was I going to wait around until he changed his mind. Caiman led me out to a black TransAm trimmed in gold and kissed me intensely the moment we were both inside. "Still hungry, I see," he murmured softly as his lips left mine. "This one isn't starving you, too?" I glanced away. "No, I thought not," he answered himself. "More like he's boring you, I'd guess. And you need something hotter than that, don't you, bitch?" I couldn't form words; I could only nuzzle in against his throat and nod my head. He smelled like spice. Taking a handful of my hair, he pulled my head back gently, and his mouth descended upon mine again for a long, passionate minute. He kicked the engine on then, asking invitingly, "So, where to?" "Your place?" I ventured uncertainly. He shook his head. "Your place, sugar snatch. The only thing getting laid at my apartment today is new carpeting. It's a mess." I gave him directions to Birch's. He stroked the inside of my thigh as he drove, and at every red light we hit, he opened another button on my shirt. It was all I could do to get my legs to function properly when we reached the parking lot. I thought I had it made by the time we started up the stairs, but then he stopped me a step or two above him, hands on my hips, and lightly bit me on the ass. "Oh God, Caiman, don't!" I pleaded, struggling for composure. "Don't what, bitch?" he inquired slyly, amused. "Don't give you what you want? Then why am I here?" I moved faster. I showed him to the apartment and he stepped inside, cast a cursory glance around the living room, and brought a lingering kiss to my neck, purring, "Where do you want me, precious? Right here on the floor? On the sofa? In your bed, perhaps?" No, not the bed. Christ, I couldn't sink that low! I chose the sofa. "Then come, bitch," he invited, taking my hand. "Let me make a woman of you." He touched his lips briefly to my fingers and led me over to the couch, and he made love to me then, doing things I'd never dreamed possible. Even the way he stripped his clothes off was uniquely tantalizing, not to mention what he did with mine. (It was definitely the first time I'd ever had a man unzip my jeans with his teeth, I must say.) God, I still tingle just thinking about all he did! And it went on and on. Even after I'd been thoroughly satisfied, he teased and teased until I was practically begging him for more. Consequently, we were still rather heavily involved several hours later when I heard the key turn in the front door. Cokey was a bit surprised, to put it mildly. Not so much as to render him speechless though, unfortunately. He started in on me right away. Caiman sighed irritably and propped himself up on one elbow. Fixing Cokey with a positively withering glare, he issued an insolent, "We're busy, darling. She'll talk to you later." Cokey sputtered angrily, and Caiman blandly inquired, "You're not the boyfriend, correct?" "Well, no. But--" he began. Caiman interrupted. "Then fuck off, sweetheart. Your petty little ass doesn't mean shit to me." "Look, this apartment is mine . . . ," Cokey argued. "Maybe so," Caiman smiled shrewdly, "but the handgun in the pocket of my jacket is mine. Unless you'd care to try and beat me to it?" Cokey backed down, as he had with Sandy before. Living on the east side, he was accustomed to dealing with bare fists, not weapons. He stalked off to his bedroom and slammed the door. "Now, where were we?" Caiman murmured as he lifted the arm I'd used to cover myself and laid it gently across his shoulder. His kiss was as hot and exciting as ever, but I made myself tell him, "You've got to go now." "So soon?" he returned, his expression designed to cause an immediate change of heart. "This is an expensive piece of jewelry you've given me, here; it's worth a great deal of my time, you know." I held my ground (shakily, I might add), and finally he shrugged and got up to pull his jeans on. "By the way," he said as he eased his zipper up and bent to retrieve his shirt, "who's Michael? The blond back at the store?" My breath caught. "No. Why?" He shrugged again, answering, "Just wondered. You called his name." "I did what?" I croaked in disbelief. "You called his name. In the heat of the moment, so to speak." Slipping into his jacket, he added, "You can dispense with that charming little blush any time; I'm not the least bit offended. I'd watch myself with the blond, though, if I were you. He might not be quite as open-minded about it." I cursed under my breath and brought my hand up to my face. He leaned over, brushed my fingers aside, and touched a kiss to my lips. "Well, it's been a pleasure," he said lightly, straightening again. "You're truly a precious little bitch. Give me a call some time when you have an extra hundred or two lying around; your friend the fairy queen has my number." I was puzzled by the derogatory tone he used to refer (obviously) to Sandy. "How can you talk about him that way?" I asked. "You sleep with men, too." His voice was silken with amusement. "And I'd also fuck a polecat if the money was good enough, sweetmeat. Doesn't mean I want to smell like one, though, now does it?" He turned to leave, but I asked him to wait. "I wanted to thank you," I said quietly. He shrugged. "I was well-paid." I shook my head. "No, not for today." I paused a moment and then explained, "For Nicky." "I was well-paid for that, too," he replied easily. There wasn't much I could think of to say in response to a statement like that, and so he kissed me goodbye then and left a moment later. I lit a cigarette and started pulling my shirt on. Cokey's door opened almost immediately. "That does it!" he declared, hauling me up off the sofa before I'd even finished fastening all my buttons. "Maybe Angie's willing to put up with all of your bullshit, but I'm not! I'm sick and tired of it, so you can just get your cheating little ass dressed and get out of here! Now! I mean it!" "I'm not going anywhere now!" I insisted, shaking off his grip. "Not without my daughter!" "Your daughter?" he laughed harshly. "What do you care about your daughter? If you were any kind of a fit mother, you would've been with her just now instead of that sleazebag that just left! Yeah, you tell me how much you give a damn about that kid, you cheap little whore!" He picked my jeans up off the floor and threw them at me. "Go on, get dressed and get out! Angie don't need no more crap from you; you've already given him enough to last him the rest of his whole entire life!" I yanked my jeans on, too upset to stop to look for my panties, and ran out of the apartment in tears. When I reached the street, I stopped some old guy and bummed a dime to go call Sandy. He wasn't home; Graham told me he hadn't seen him since he'd been home from work. "Do you know where I could find him?" I asked hopefully. "Well . . . ah shit, this is awkward!" he replied, pausing uncomfortably for a moment before he continued. "Sometimes . . . well, Jesus, how do I say this? Sometimes he goes down to the cemetery. Y'know, to take flowers to Nicky. That's where he is tonight; he left me a note." "He's at the cemetery?" I repeated, feeling lost. I didn't know who else I could call. "Yeah. Hey, is anything wrong? You sound pretty low tonight." "No, it's nothing," I lied. "Right, it's nothing. So, you want me to come pick you up and you can tell Sandy all about nothing when he gets home?" I breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm at the phone booth out front," I told him gratefully. "See you in fifteen, twenty minutes then," he said, and hung up. Less than an hour later, I was pouring out the whole terrible story to Sandy at his kitchen table, stopping now and then to blow my nose or wipe my eyes. "Christ, Corey!" he groaned, shaking his head. "When are you ever going to learn that that man is nothing but trouble?" "Skip the lectures, Christian," I replied, sniffling still. "It's too late for that." He nodded. "So it seems." "Look, all I want is my daughter and a place to sleep," I told him, taking another swipe at my nose. "Are you going to help me or not?" "What time does Birch get home?" he asked. "He'll be home now," I answered, adding, "And he'll give me back my baby if he knows what's good for him." He nodded again. "He will; I'm not worried about that. What bothers me, dear, is what you're going to do with the rest of your life." "And what do you mean by that?" "Look, this isn't the right place for you to be raising your daughter, either. With a couple of queers? Come on, girl, get serious." "Oh, and I suppose you have a better idea?" I retorted. "As a matter of fact, I do," he said mildly. "Let me call Michael for you, alright?" "Oh, no," I argued, shaking my head vigorously. "No way, Sandy. Just forget about that one right now." "Why? What's it going to hurt? Your feelings? Like they've never been hurt before?" "Sandy . . . ," I started. "What? Are you afraid he might just surprise you and say yes?" I gave up the argument and simply glared at him. He obviously wasn't about to listen to anything I had to say. He went and got the telephone book. "What's her name?" "Who?" I grumbled. "You know damned well 'who,'" he sighed impatiently. "The woman he's living with. Who else?" "Veronica Talbot," I muttered, irritated with him. He flipped through pages for a minute, memorized a number, and then reached for the phone. "She calls him Jag," I informed him quietly as he dialed. I was numb; he'd taken it all out of my hands. Someone answered on the other end of the line; Sandy said, "Could I speak to Jag, please?" Then, "I see. Would you give him a message for me? Thank you. Have him call Sander Christian at this number." He gave her the phone number and then added, "Ask him to please call as soon as he gets home, if you would. It's rather important." He thanked her again, hung up, and turned to me. "You've got a temporary reprieve; he's out for the evening." "Thank God," I mumbled. "I hope she loses the number." "Won't help as long as I've still got hers," he returned with a hint of a smile. "Now, let's go pick up Michelle in the meantime." I got up and went to the sink to splash some water on my face, while Sandy fetched Graham from the living room and offered him a brief explanation of what was going on. Shortly thereafter, the three of us were on our way over to Birch's in Graham's Mustang. Birch answered the door, and before he had the chance to say anything, I stated plainly, "I want my daughter, Birch, and I'm not leaving without her." "She's asleep," he said softly. "Can we talk this over before you go wake her up, please?" "There's nothing to talk about," I replied stubbornly. "Then I evicted my roommate to no purpose?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow. "That's what you're telling me? I went through all that for nothing?" I was incredulous. "You threw Cokey out?" He nodded. "I did." I looked at Sandy. Graham said, "I think I'm beginning to feel a sudden craving for a good, hot cup of coffee. Come along, dearest." He took Sandy's arm and started pulling him toward the stairs, adding, "We'll be back in half an hour or so in case you need a ride, Mrs. B. See you later." From behind me, Birch chuckled, "He's incredible." "He most certainly is," I agreed dully. I wasn't all that eager to be alone with Birch just then, to be honest. "Come inside?" he invited, stepping back from the doorway as I turned. I shrugged and followed him. He sat down wordlessly in his chair, and I took up the corner of the couch opposite him, tucking my feet up underneath me. I lit a cigarette, and he remained silent while I searched for something appropriate to say. "I'm sorry, Birch," I said at last, my voice low. "I don't know what else to say, except maybe that I didn't mean to cause all this trouble." "I know you didn't, love," he soothed. "There's no need for apologies. I understand." I couldn't believe he wasn't angry. "But . . . didn't Cokey tell you . . . ?" He nodded. "Oh yes, he told me. Several times. In detail." "And you're not pissed?" "Should I be? It was old news; I didn't exactly think you were heading out to a picnic when you left the shop, you know. I wasn't pissed then, so why would I be now?" "You don't care?" I asked, stunned. He shook his head, smiling slightly. "No, love, I do care. But I don't own you; you're free to do as you please. Getting angry won't accomplish anything other than making you feel guilty, and I don't want to do that." He paused to light a cigarette of his own, and then continued. "I love you, little girl. Just the way you are, even if it hurts me once in a while. I'll take everything you'll give me but I'll never ask you for more than that, and if that means that I have to share you now and then, then so be it. All I want is what you're willing to give -- no more, no less." "But I slept with him, Birch!" I insisted, still unable to believe his calm acceptance. "I know," he nodded. "And maybe you'll sleep with me tomorrow. Unless you still want to leave, of course." I shook my head, staring into my lap. How could I leave someone so unselfish and gentle? "I'll stay," I said quietly, trying to ignore the feeling that it was a mistake. Birch smiled. "I'd hoped you would." I stubbed my cigarette out in the ashtray, avoiding his eyes, and said, "Can I just ask you one other thing?" "What's that?" "Well, I don't really know how to put this; it's pretty embarrassing. It's . . . well, it's about something that Caiman said to me today. You know, the guy I was with." He nodded. "Go on." I couldn't think of a proper way to phrase it, so I just blurted out, "Do I . . . well . . . God! Have I ever said Jag's name? In bed, I mean. Have I ever called you Michael?" He didn't answer right away. I cursed myself silently. "Birch?" I said aloud. "A few times," he admitted finally. "Four or five, maybe." I felt about three inches tall. All he'd done for me, all the shit I'd given him in return, and still he'd never told me. "I'm sorry," I mumbled. "I never realized . . . ." My voice trailed off to nothing; I didn't know how to complete the sentence I'd begun. He came to sit beside me on the sofa, taking my hands as he replied, "Corey, I told you there's no need for apologies and I meant it. I told you that I love you, and I meant that, too. I'll take the crumbs from your table and be happy for them, because a crumb from you means more to me than a full meal from anyone else. I know you don't love me, and it's okay." Forcing a smile to surface, he shrugged and added, "Maybe in time your feelings will change. Who knows? Anything's possible, I suppose." I couldn't speak; I felt like such a shit. All I could do was put my arms around his neck and bury my face in his shirt. When Sandy and Graham returned, I sent them away again with false gratitude and a hug. And once they were gone, I asked Birch to make love to me. It hurt. Not on the outside but on the inside, as Sandy would say. It hurt because he won't accept my apologies; it hurt because he loves me too much. But, most of all, it hurt because I don't love him enough. I guess that's what made me say it. I guess I thought that by saying it, maybe I could somehow make it true. So I carefully kept my mouth shut until afterward, when he was just holding me close, and then I told him, "I do love you, Angie. Very much." His tears were joyous, passionate ones; mine were only of disappointment. I'd almost meant it, but not quite. The magic didn't work as I'd hoped it would. I want to love him but I can't, because I know the truth now. God forgive me, but I'm still in love with Michael. PART III

CONCLUSION:

PAST AND PRESENT And while Corey was lying to Birch, I was talking to some guy I didn't know by the name of Sander Christian. I came in around eleven-thirty in my customary drunken stupor and was immediately handed a message by the fair lady Veronica, whom I had increasingly begun to despise. "What's this shit?" I grunted, having difficulty making out the words that kept jumping around on the notepaper. "He wanted you to call as soon as you got home," she shrugged. "Said it was important." I squinted at the paper. "Who the fuck is Sander Christian?" "Beats me," she answered, returning to her other lover - - Johnny Carson. I staggered into the kitchen and grabbed a beer first and the telephone second. It took me several tries to dial the number right. Now, anyone who's ever heard the expression "talks like a fairy" will have full comprehension of what answered the phone. I thought I'd dialed wrong again. "Yeah, is this Sander?" I asked curtly, ready to give up and go fall into bed. "No, but he's right here if you'd like to speak with him," was the pleasant reply. With my usual grace and tact, I inquired, "Is he a fag like you?" He laughed. "Well, either that or he fakes it very well. Did you want to talk to him, or would you prefer me to slam the phone down in your ear?" "Tell him it's Jag Townsend," I grumbled, lighting a cigarette with difficulty thanks to my alcohol-numbed fingers. "Oh, with pleasure," he returned, heavy on the sarcasm. Then, away from the receiver, "For you, lover -- it's him. A real charmer, this one is. Watch your temper." A moment later, a distinctly masculine voice stated, "This is Sandy." "Jag Townsend. You called me earlier." "Yes, I did," he confirmed. "I was told that you were out." "Yeah, well, I'm here now, so what'd you want?" "Actually, my original reason for calling no longer exists, but if you wouldn't mind indulging a total stranger, I'd like to ask you a question of sorts." My patience -- what little of it I had, anyway -- was rapidly wearing thin. "Spit it out, dick-licker," I snapped irritably. Oh, was he ever smooth! He never even missed a beat. "Then again, I suppose I could always tell Corey that you never returned my call," he sighed lightly. He sure knew how to get my attention fast. I choked on the beer I'd just swallowed. "What?" I croaked, wondering if I'd heard wrong. "Corey Bannard. The name rings a bell, I trust?" "Look, just who the fuck are you anyway, Christian?" I snarled. "I'd like to meet you so's I can kick the shit out of you, 'cause I'll tell you something -- I don't much care for your sense of humor. As a matter of fact, I think it sucks royale." "And shall I take that to mean that you also don't care much for her anymore?" he countered easily. "What business is it of yours, lotus blossom? You planning on being her second queer husband?" "Hardly. Funny you should bring up Nicky, though. That's how I became acquainted with your former girlfriend -- I was her husband's lover. I lived with Corinne for over a year. Now, are you ready to conduct a rational discussion yet, or shall I just hang up? Your insults bore me." It took me a second to catch my breath before I could answer, "Why'd you call me, Christian? You some kind of sadist or what?" "Is that what you think?" he chuckled. "No, I'm not trying to be sadistic at all. Simply put, her feelings for you intrigue me, and I'm a bit curious as to whether or not yours are comparable." "She's got no feelings toward me, so I don't know what you're talking about." "You both sing the same song, I see. I know for a fact that you're wrong, though -- my question is, is she?" "Yeah, you're full of shit, too," I scoffed, tossing my cigarette into the sink. "She's fucking Birch Fairchild these days -- or weren't you aware of that?" "And you equate sex with love, do you?" he returned. I scowled to myself. "Talk sense, queer boy." "That's a rather difficult task, since none of this makes any sense to begin with. We have an exceptional young woman who -- for some strange reason -- is deeply in love with a totally obnoxious young man -- who shall remain nameless for obvious reasons. She turns around and marries a man she doesn't even know -- for all the wrong reasons -- and then leaves him to move in with someone else she doesn't love. Meanwhile, the first young man has been living with someone that he doesn't love. I find very little sense in any of that, to be truthful." "What're you out to prove with all this soap opera bullshit?" I pressed. "She doesn't love him, Townsend," he answered, as if instructing a four-year-old in the art of shoelace-tying. "She's still in love with you -- God knows why. Now, all I'm trying to find out is how you feel about her." "You wanna know if I still love her?" "Ah, the light dawns!" he sighed sarcastically. "Well, that's the dumbest fucking question I've heard in a long time." "Is that a yes or a no?" "Yes, I still love her. So what? What fucking difference does it make?" "It makes all the difference you want it to make. If you're too much of a cretin to make the effort, then you don't deserve her anyway. You answered my question -- what you do with the answers I've given you is none of my business. Which is just fine with me, incidentally, because you annoy the hell out of me." "Likewise, smartass." "Well, congratulations! You finally came up with a cut that didn't involve my sexual preferences. I think I'll give you an A-plus for that one." "Yeah, it's the highlight of my day. I'll try real hard to contain my gratitude." "Please do. In any case, I'll be talking to Corey in a day or two. Any message?" I thought. "Well?" he prodded after a minute. "I don't know," I replied vaguely. "If I think of anything, I'll call you back." "Make it tomorrow, please. I have other plans for what's left of tonight," he said wearily. "Yeah, I'll just bet you do," I smirked. "Well, I hope you have a damn good time with your little fruitcake friend, princess. You'll probably have a hell of a lot more fun than I will tonight." "Life is what you make it, Townsend. If you're not happy, do something about it. I'm hanging up now." "So am I," I returned, doing so. I drained the rest of my beer, tossed the bottle into the trash, and reached into the fridge for another. It wasn't until then that I noticed Ronnie standing in the doorway. "You're going back to her, aren't you?" she said blankly. "Who?" I frowned, wishing she'd go back to good old Johnny. "You were talking about that little girl, weren't you? The one you thought you were in love with?" "Fuck off, Ronnie," I snapped, pushing past her. "I'm going to bed, and that's the only place I'm going tonight. As for tomorrow -- who the fuck knows. Just leave me alone." She retreated -- good girl that she was -- and went back to her television. Me? I sucked down the contents of the bottle in my hand and passed out on the bed, having already decided that I was indeed going back to Corey . . . somehow.

* The following day I woke up with a God-awful hangover, stumbled blindly to the bathroom, and gulped down three or four aspirin. Nothing out of the ordinary, to be sure. It was what happened afterward that was different. Yes, folks, Michael Townsend -- sleaze, stud, and terminal scrounge -- actually went out and got himself an honest-to-goodness job. Nothing fantastic -- just janitorial work over at the high school -- but a job, nonetheless. And after that? Well, I went back home, told Ronnie I was leaving her, and then proceeded to hit her up for a couple hundred bucks until I got paid. She was just dumb enough to give it to me. And? I went out and rented myself an apartment near my old neighborhood. Again, nothing fantastic. But it had electricity and plumbing. And stray dogs and noisy kids. And after all that, I headed for Birch's. It was past the time he normally got home from work, but I was determined to either have Corinne in my bed that same night or die trying. She answered my knock in person, and I was hard put to keep from laughing at the way her mouth dropped open when she saw me. She was as lovely as ever. "No more bullshit, Corey -- okay?" I said as humbly as I possibly could manage. "I'm sorry I fucked with Birch. I love you, I want you back, and I hear tell that you still love me, too. Is it true?" She hedged. "Who told you that?" "A friend of yours, I guess. Christian. He called me last night. So, is it true? "Can't we discuss this somewhere other than the hallway?" she sighed uncomfortably. I nodded. "Name a better place." She hesitated a moment, then stepped back and said, "Come on in." "Where's Birch and Cokey?" I asked first. "Cokey doesn't live here anymore," she answered. "And Birch took Michelle out for an ice cream." "Michelle?" I inquired as I followed her inside. "My daughter," she said flatly. "Oh. Well, anyway -- what about it? Any truth to what this guy told me last night?" "It's not that simple, Jag. A lot of things have changed since we broke up." "At the risk of pissing you off, can I ask you not to make it sound so much like it was a mutual decision? 'We' didn't break up, sugar -- you dumped me." "Technicalities." "I'd prefer to call them important details. Regardless, what's changed so damn much that complicates things any more than they already are?" "Well, Birch, for one. He's in love with me." I laughed. "Newsflash, sweetheart: He was in love with you long before I ever came around. Nothing's changed there." "No . . . ," she insisted, shaking her head. "No? Ask him sometime. But watch him close, though -- he likes to lie about it." She didn't speak, so I went on. "Look, I said no more bullshit and I was serious when I said it. We're both living with the wrong damn people, Corey -- can't you see that? Well, on second thought, scratch that. You're living with the wrong person; I moved out today. But it was the same thing, anyway -- Ronnie loves me and I don't love her, just like Birch loves you and you don't love him. So it's plain fucking stupid to keep on with it. I got me a decent job this morning, and I got my own apartment, too. Getting a church for next Saturday oughta be a piece of cake. Now, are you gonna marry me or not?" "Michael, you don't understand!" she protested. "Well, at least we're back to 'Michael' now. When do I get to start calling you Cinderella again?" "Stop it! This isn't a fairy tale, in case you hadn't noticed!" "Uh-huh, still the same smart-assed bitch you always were. That much ain't changed, either . . . thank God." She groaned. "You just don't understand." "So what's to understand? I love you, you supposedly still love me, I'm willing to take on your kid. Fuck, I'll even adopt her if you want me to -- I don't give a shit. What more is there?" "Oh Christ, Michael! You don't know me anymore! I'm not the same person I was two years ago!" "Well, you sure look the same to me," I shrugged. "Aside from a few new wrinkles and gray hairs, anyway." She stifled a shriek of frustration. "Look, sweetheart," I sighed, giving in for the moment, "what's so damn different about you? You tell me, 'cause I sure don't see anything." "Didn't Sandy tell you anything at all about what I'm like now?" "The only thing he told me that I didn't already know was that he was your old man's lover. And that he was living with the two of you. Oh, yeah, not to mention that little gem about you still being in love with me. I take it there's more?" "Plenty," she laughed coldly. "He could've told you about how he had to deliver my daughter himself because my darling husband was too busy with his boyfriends to come home at night. She almost died, y'know. He probably didn't tell you that he's practically a doctor, either. If he hadn't been there, my little girl wouldn't even exist right now." "So he's a hero," I shrugged. "I thought we were talking about you." "We are. That's part of why I am what I am now. He saved my daughter's life, more or less, and now he's my best friend." "Your best friend is a queer, huh? Well, I suppose I can handle that with no problem. Your last best friend was madly in love with you and I did okay with that." She shook her head -- still doubting me, obviously -- and continued, "It's a lot more than that. My husband -- Nicky -- quit sleeping with me when Sandy dumped him, and I mean completely quit. I had nothing for one whole year. Nothing, Michael -- picture it. D'you have any idea of how desperate I got?" "I can imagine." "Really? Can you imagine your sweet little Cinderella trying to buy herself a piece, too? Nicky blew that deal, of course -- turns out he'd been sleeping with the guy himself, so he beat the shit out of me when he caught me making out with him in the kitchen. I finally did collect on it, though. That's why Cokey isn't living here anymore -- he walked in on us yesterday when we were screwing on the couch and told me to get out. Well, Birch decided to throw Cokey out instead and let me come back." "Yeah, I gotta admit that's a pretty good story," I nodded. "What makes you think I'm finished? I'll bet there's something else Sandy didn't tell you about -- namely, the night I tried to seduce him. My husband tried to kill me that night when he found out. How's that for a story, blondie? Wanna hear how it ends? I'm not divorced, honey -- I'm widowed. Nicky's dead. Somebody slit his throat to keep him from coming after me." "Somebody like Christian, maybe?" "I don't know who did it; it was a hit. I can tell you who set it up, though -- the same guy I spent about three hours fucking yesterday. Now, tell me again how I haven't changed." "Yeah, I guess you're right," I sighed dramatically. "I keep forgetting that the rest of the world stopped while you were off doing your own thing. Nobody else did any weird shit or anything -- we were all just sitting around with our thumbs up our asses, waiting for you to come back and cry about all your tough breaks." "Oh, I always knew I could count on you to be a veritable fountain of sympathy, dearheart," she snapped. "Anytime. I won't even tell you about how your old man tried to slice me up when I went to see him at work, or how I did a six-month stretch for the county for busting up a couple of guys in a west end bar one night when I was down there trying to find someone who could tell me where you lived. I won't tell you about my mom throwing me out when I almost burned her house down. I won't tell you how I felt the morning after I beat the shit out of my best friend. I won't tell you about the thirteen-year-old I fucked on the living room floor while Ronnie was sitting less than two feet away watching her goddam Johnny Carson. The kid's uncle showed up and broke my fucking arm the next day, but I won't tell you about that, either. I couldn't tell you any of that shit even if I wanted to anyway, because see, I don't remember any of it except what I've been told. Aside from the time I did in county, I ain't been straight more than five minutes in the past two years. Oh, it didn't get too far out of hand for the first year or so, but after that I was sucking down half a six before I even brushed my teeth in the morning. Notice I said 'was.' I haven't had a drop yet today." She was silent. I sighed. "Are we done with the pity party now?" "I guess," she mumbled, staring at her feet. "Fantastic. And do we have a date next Saturday at the church?" "I guess," she mumbled again, shyly lifting her eyes to meet mine. "Even better," I nodded. "So can I kiss you now?" The corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly. "I guess," she repeated once more. I stepped closer and, taking her delicate face into my hands, tasted the soft passion of her lips for the first time in two years. Tentatively, she slid her arms around my waist, and I promised myself right then and there that no power on Earth would ever separate the two of us again. That's when Birch walked in. Corey backed away from me guiltily, but he'd already seen. His smile faded. Time froze for an instant and then picked up where it had left off. Birch kissed the cheek of the little girl straddling his hip -- not the dark-haired beauty I'd envisioned, but a child with long, dainty wisps of snow- blond and eyes of ice -- and gently murmured, "Go to Daddy, Michelle." He looked up, and the pained acknowledgment in his eyes erased the puzzlement in mine. The little girl in his arms clung tightly to his shirt and questioned, "Da-dee?" A gentle smile returned to his face just for her. He kissed the top of her head, shaking his own head, and smoothed her hair as he told her, "No, sweetheart." And handing her into my arms, he explained, "This is Daddy." She arched backward and began to wail. I was terrified. He swallowed hard and said, "She'll get used to you, Jag." And with that, he turned and walked out of the apartment, hands stuffed into his pockets in final defeat.

* Days passed in a blur of activity. I had a job to learn, an apartment to fix up, a daughter to become acquainted with, and a wedding to prepare for; I went from pushbrooms to curtain rods to Dr. Seuss to blood tests and somehow still managed to hang onto my sanity. Corey positively glowed. There was nothing to mar our happiness except for Birch's sudden slip into quiet depression, and even that appeared to improve as our wedding day drew nearer. Tactless as it may seem, I asked him to be my best man since I still considered him my closest friend, and he accepted, saying he'd be honored. Sandy was chosen to stand up for Corinne in lieu of a maid of honor -- unorthodox, perhaps, but perversely appropriate in that she consistently referred to him as "sis." But what the hell, anyway -- if Corey hadn't worn a dress, nobody would've been able to tell who was what without a program. Of the four of us, Sandy's hair was the shortest at only an inch or two past his shoulders. The preacher was probably hard put to decide whether we were a bunch of bull dykes in penguin suits or just faggots minus the feather boas. The ceremony went off without a hitch, though. Even Michelle managed to sit through it without squirming too terribly much, or so Sandy's lover reported later on, at any rate. My mom cried, of course, and my brother shook my hand and offered congratulations as a man would, the light of sober maturity still new in his eyes. And on our way to the reception in the backseat of Graham's Mustang, my bride quietly informed me that she was approximately six weeks pregnant. "Are you sure?" I hissed, trying to keep my voice low. She nodded, suppressing a mischievous grin. "How long have you known?" "Oh, about a week now," she answered in a whisper. "And you didn't tell me?" "What, and fuck everything up all over again? Not a chance, blondie. Consider yourself trapped." She giggled and tugged at the gold cross dangling from my ear. "Let's have this one in a hospital though, huh? I don't wanna give poor Sandy a nervous breakdown." I nodded, holding her close, and kissed her forehead. My stomach went a bit queasy on me, but I guess that's not really an abnormal reaction to the news that your wife is going to have your best friend's baby.

* The reception was incredible. I got wedding cake smashed in my face -- not only by my wife, but by my cherubic little daughter, as well. Graham, of course, photographed the results. That wasn't the only plot that he and Corey cooked up, either. When she got ready to throw her bouquet, he grabbed Sandy off the sidelines and hauled him right out in front of the hopeful knot of single females. She peeked over her shoulder and tossed the flowers straight at his black velvet bowtie, where he had little choice other than to catch them. We have a picture of that one, too. I couldn't remember when I'd ever laughed so hard. Even Birch appeared to be enjoying himself. He ate well, drank a moderate amount of champagne, and laughed along with everyone else. He seemed to be just as stable as everyone else for once, for that matter. Midway through the evening, he approached Corey as she sat by herself nibbling on a second small piece of cake. I don't think he realized I was standing nearby talking with Graham and my brother. He squatted down beside her and smiled, "Hi." "Hi yourself, babe," she returned, licking the last of the frosting from her fork. God, she was so beautiful! Watching her like that, I could still scarcely believe that she was finally mine. "I've got to leave in a minute," he was saying, "but I wanted to say goodbye first, and tell you what a lovely day this has been for me." "Thank you, Birch," she replied tenderly. "You are happy now, aren't you? Truly?" Her smile was radiant. "Yes, I am. Truly." "Then I am, too," he said gently, mirroring her smile. He brought his fingers up to her chin and leaned forward to touch a kiss softly to her lips. "I love you, little one," he told her then. "Stay happy forever, alright?" She nodded uncertainly -- seeming perplexed at his rather blatant display of affection on this, her wedding day -- and stared after him as he walked casually from the room. She never saw him again.

* It was several hours later that I went to the cloakroom to fetch my suitcoat. I found Sandy there, jacket in hand, studying a long envelope with a note clipped to the front. "Whatcha got there, Christian?" I inquired conversationally. "The proposals coming in already?" He shook his head. "It's a note from Birch. Says to give you this envelope tomorrow night." "Well, let's see it, then," I shrugged, curious. "It says 'tomorrow,'" he protested. "Yeah, and never put off 'til tomorrow what you can do today, too." I held out my hand. "C'mon, give it up, princess." Sighing, he handed it over. I tore it open immediately, and -- as I read the letter inside -- it tore me open, as well. I still have the tattered page tucked safely away in my wallet, but the words themselves were committed to memory years ago through reading and re-reading in an effort to understand. He wrote:

Jag,

This is the night I've spent my life waiting for, and I wouldn't feel right leaving you without expressing my gratitude to you for making it possible. You've made my little girl happy . . . something I could never do myself. You were always jealous of my love for her, I know, but it was still your name she called even in my bed. You are together now, the way it should be and should always have been. Make each other happy throughout the rest of your lives, and know that my heart is finally at peace because of your happiness. Don't grieve for me; celebrate my release from suffering, instead. You are my friend. You know my soul, and it will stay with you when I am gone. You've shared my life and my heart -- use what you need of them when the time comes. Remember me and remember my love, not with sadness but with joy, and pity me only in that I was too weak to stop loving.

Birch

"Holy God!" I muttered, looking up to Sandy's questioning gaze. "He's gonna kill himself." "What?" he sputtered in shock. "He's gonna kill himself -- this's a fucking suicide note," I replied blankly, my veins suddenly pumping ice water. He grabbed my arm. "Come on," he ordered, propelling me out to where Graham stood entertaining my mother and brother. "Keys," he demanded of Graham unceremoniously as soon as we were within earshot. Graham looked up, puzzled. "Keys, sweetheart," Sandy repeated. "Now. I need the car." He fished in his pocket, asking, "What's up, darling? Did I miss an earthquake or something?" "Close enough," Sandy returned, snatching up the car keys almost before they'd cleared the cloth. "We'll be back. If we're missed, stall for time." "Oh, I guarantee you'll be missed," said Graham as Sandy dragged me away. "You've got the groom with you, you know."

* Sandy picked the locked on Birch's apartment door, and I let myself in and headed for his bedroom in a daze. Somehow I knew I would find him there, and I was right -- he was curled up on the bed, holding tight to a big stuffed bear. I sat down gently beside him on the satin quilt. His chest still rose and fell in slow but rhythmic movement, I saw. "Angel?" I murmured, laying my hand lightly on his arm. His eyes opened for a moment and then closed again. There was a deep, boundless peace in those eyes on that night -- a peace that I'd never seen there before. Time warped into infinity, and I felt what he felt and knew what he knew. "Ask him what he took," Sandy prodded, but I ignored him. It was right; it was the way it was supposed to be. Sandy started searching for a pill bottle, a syringe, anything to yield a clue. I stayed with Birch, reaching within him for my own answers and finding them. "You weren't supposed to come yet," he said slowly, his voice little more than a sigh. "I know," I answered, smoothing the gold silk that lay upon the satin. "He won't find what he's looking for." "I know that, too," I agreed. His eyes opened briefly again as he told me, "I'll always love her." I nodded. "And you gave her a child, Angel. My wife is pregnant." "Then take Arthur with you when you leave," he breathed. "For my son." And something tremendously powerful was at work in that moment, because I didn't know who Arthur was -- but I knew. Just as Birch had no way of knowing that the child Corinne carried was a boy -- but he knew. "I will," I promised him. The movement of his chest ceased for an instant and then began again. "I think I'll go to sleep now," he sighed, the barest hint of a smile touching his lips as his world gradually slowed. "Sweet dreams, Angel," I whispered, brushing a stray length of gold from his face. Sandy returned a few minutes later to inform me that he'd called an ambulance from the landlady's apartment. "It's too late," I told him calmly. "He's already gone." He moved to touch him then -- to check for a pulse, to make him breathe, anything -- but I pushed him back firmly. "Let him be, Christian," I insisted. "He had no control over his life; let him at least have control over his death. You can't do anything for him now, anyway. No one can." Maybe I sounded cold, maybe I sounded heartless -- I don't know. Maybe I sounded like I actually wanted him dead and out of the way. That wasn't it, though. I just knew it was right somehow. His purpose in life had been fulfilled -- he had made Corinne happy, by giving her up to me. There was no longer any reason for him to stay. And people like Birch don't really belong in this world to begin with -- it's far too painful for them. I remained by his side until I heard the pitiless shriek of the ambulance split the still night air outside, and then I gently gathered up Arthur and made my way downstairs to wait for Sandy in the Mustang. I didn't want to see what they would do to him; I wanted to remember him in satin and brass, not plastic and stainless steel. I wanted to remember the perfect, golden serenity that was my friend.

* Some seven and a half months later, my wife gave birth to a frail, six-pound two-ounce baby boy. We chose the name David for him because of its meaning -- "beloved" -- and we took him home and made him strong. He is ten years old now -- tanned, golden, and husky -- and beginning to ask more detailed questions about the father he never knew, whose photograph sits atop his dresser beside a now-ragged teddy bear called Arthur. We answer what we can and teach him to look inside himself for the rest. That's all we can do, after all; we still don't fully understand it ourselves. Michelle just had her twelfth birthday, and already the boys are calling her up to flirt with her. Her favorite, though, is still her "Uncle" Sandy -- whom she sometimes refers to as "Aunt," just to tease. And he and Graham are -- for all intents and purposes, at any rate -- married, in our eyes. Through time, Sandy's affection for Graham has grown enough to make him faithful and content. Ronnie -- for anyone who cares -- remarried her ex- husband seventeen days after I left her. As for Corey and me, we really haven't changed much. We've grown up a little, I guess, but basically we're still the same. We love each other, we love our kids, and we love the friend we once had. We take a single white rose to him once a year on our anniversary, which is a tradition that I believe David intends to take over very soon. I still think about it from time to time, though. It's hard not to.

* * *