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  myself over to his scrutiny. I push my hands over my body,

  al the curves that scared and annoyed me when they

  started forming but I'm grateful for now. Boys like boobs

  and ass and even a little bely is okay if you have the rest

  of it, too.

  He unzips his jeans, too, while he watches. Soon his prick

  is settled firmly in his fist and he pumps it slowly as he

  watches me caress my body with my hands acting like his.

  I have seen him do this before, stroke himself erect, give

  himself a few quick pumps now and then. I've never

  watched him finish this way. He's always done it in my

  mouth, or my hand, or in my body.

  "Take off your panties," he whispers in a voice rough-

  edged with need.

  I can't remember him ever saying that to me before.

  They've always just…come off. But now I slide the cotton

  and satin down to end up on the floor next to my jeans. I

  try not to think about the couch under my bare flesh, or

  wish we'd at least put down a blanket.

  When he groans, I'm no longer distracted. I can't focus on

  When he groans, I'm no longer distracted. I can't focus on

  anything but my hand moving between my legs and his

  moving on his cock. I'm wet and my fingers slip and slide.

  I push two inside myself, echoing the motion he's making.

  It's like my fingers are his prick, his fist my pussy. Our

  bitten-back moans come at the same time.

  My clitoris is hard. Rigid. When I brush it with my

  fingertips I want to arch and squirm, thrust my hips. I want

  to fil myself deep with something hard. I want to ride his

  dick while my clit rubs his hard bely.

  I want to come.

  My hand moves faster between my legs. My other hand

  finds my nipples, which I twist and tug in time to the

  thrusting of my fingers. My knees fal open and my head

  fals back. The arm of the couch is unyielding, but I push

  against it anyway.

  The couch dips as he moves closer to me. He's on his

  knees, his jeans and boxers tangled on his ankles. He

  stops just long enough to pul his shirt over his head, the

  sleeves going inside out as it flutters to the floor. Then his

  hand is back on his dick and his other is on my hip.

  I stop rubbing my clit, thinking he's going to take over.

  That he means to cover me with his body and push up

  inside me. Every nerve is singing now, and I want that. I

  want him to fuck me, but he doesn't.

  "Don't stop, Paige," he says. "I want to watch you."

  So my hand moves back between my legs and my fingers

  stil, going slower even though he's hand-fucking himself

  ever faster. I want to draw it out, make it last, build the

  pleasure.

  My breath is coming in short, harsh pants and my hips are

  moving al on their own. I'm so close I could come only by

  thinking about it. I take my clit between my thumb and first

  finger and squeeze, just gently. Just softly. Just enough.

  Everything contracts at once. My pussy, my ass, my clit.

  My breath bursts out of me in a cry that's too loud but I

  can't hold it back. This time when I bite my lip, I do taste

  blood.

  My orgasm has taken over. I am steamrolered by it and

  left flat. I can't move, though my neck is kiling me from the

  awkward angle and something sharp is poking me in the

  ass.

  ass.

  "Ah, God," he cries. "Ah, Paige!"

  Hot wetness spatters my chest and belly. It pumps out

  of him in three hard spurts. The rest surges over his

  hand as it cups the head of his cock and he strokes a

  few last times. The scent of him fills me. The couch

  beneath me dips again as he leans to put his hand on

  the arm behind my head.

  Crouching over me, his hand stil on his penis, his face is lit

  by the television's moving shadows but I have no trouble

  looking straight into his eyes. His jizz is going cold on my

  skin and I'm afraid to move in case it drips off me onto the

  cushions.

  He leans to kiss me with an open mouth, but no tongue.

  It's sweet and unexpected. I taste the salt of his sweat on

  his upper lip.

  He puls his shirt up from the floor and wipes me clean,

  which is also unexpected and leaves me uncertain how to

  react. He scrubs at the wetness on my bra with his sleeve,

  but it's too late. I can wash it, but there wil always be a

  stain.

  stain.

  "You are so beautiful," Austin says when he kisses me

  again.

  It's the first time he says it and this time, though later I

  won't, I believe him.

  My fingers had gone stiff from gripping the pen. I hadn't

  thought about that night in a long time. Other memories

  had crowded it out. Worse memories, actualy, that had

  made me forget there'd once been a time when I'd been

  young and in love.

  "Discipline," I said aloud. I wasn't smoking, but the taste and scent of tobacco smoke filed my senses anyway.

  What the hel was going on?

  I gave in to the need to let my legs buckle under me then. I

  let myself fal onto my couch, where I curled into a bal and

  puled the knitted afghan over my head. Through the holes

  the stark wals of my apartment glared at me until I closed

  my eyes.

  I'm no prude. When other kids were watching Aladdin,

  my mom was working third shift and leaving me alone in

  my mom was working third shift and leaving me alone in

  the house from ten-thirty at night until eight in the morning.

  She thought I was asleep when she left, and it was true I

  was in bed. I never told her how anxious I was when she

  left, or how hard it was for me to sleep knowing I was

  alone in the house al night. I'd creep downstairs and

  console myself with hours of cable television. I saw a lot of

  things I probably shouldn't have, but it also taught me a lot.

  Even so, these notes. The commands. What had seemed

  fairly innocuous at the start couldn't be confused for

  anything innocent now.

  The lists had been specific. Detailed. And now, explicit.

  What sort of woman wanted someone to tel her how to

  live her day? What sort of woman needed someone else to

  tel her to be beautiful, to be strong? What sort of woman

  craved the commands of someone else dictating her life?

  I put my hand between my legs, on the damp cotton of my

  panties, and felt my clit pulse.

  What sort of woman?

  I thought I knew.

  I thought I knew.

  Chapter 13

  Here's a funny story made humorous by time, since it

  wasn't funny when it happened. I was nineteen when my

  mom had Arthur, which means that when she got pregnant,

  I was eighteen. A senior in high school and screwing my

  brains out with Mr. Popular Jock.

  My mom had always been up front about sex and

  protecting myself. Too up front, in my opinion, since my

  sex life was the second-to-last topic of discussion I ever

  wanted to share with her, the last being hers. Austin wasn't


  the first boy I'd fooled around with. He wasn't even the

  first boy I'd slept with, though the previous few times I'd

  had sex had been so unremarkable and meaningless I

  mostly forgot it had ever happened. I'd been on the pil for

  a couple years already, but I made him use condoms, too.

  There's nothing quite like being an ilegitimate child to

  make a girl fear pregnancy. There was no way I was going

  to end up the way my mother had.

  Stil, when a condom broke I wasn't too worried. At least,

  not until my period was late. Not even a warning cramp to

  announce its pending arrival. I counted the days and when

  we'd had sex—easy enough to do because it was pretty

  we'd had sex—easy enough to do because it was pretty

  much every time we were together, which by that point

  was almost every day.

  I didn't tel Austin what I suspected. I didn't tel anyone. I

  went to the drugstore on the far end of town and bought

  the first pregnancy test I could find. I came home and

  drank a quart of water before I went to sleep so when I

  got up I'd have plenty of pee to use for that first morning

  urination. I read the instructions four times. I peed on the

  little stick and watched with my guts cramping from fear,

  not PMS, for the lines to show up. One or two? Safe or

  caught?

  One line.

  I hadn't been raised a regular churchgoer, but I got on my

  knees there in front of the toilet and I sent a prayer of

  thanks so fervent I was sure any God who'd listen would

  forgive me for my past sins. Then I wrapped the test in a

  handful of toilet paper the way I usualy wrapped my

  tampons and shoved it to the bottom of the garbage can.

  I got home from school to an empty house, my mom at

  work as usual. And, as usual, I was already flying through

  my homework and my chores so I could spend the rest of

  my homework and my chores so I could spend the rest of

  the time with Austin until she got home. When I went into

  the bathroom to clean it, my heart stopped. Literaly. The

  world grayed out in that two seconds before it started to

  beat again, and I clutched the sink to keep from faling.

  There on the counter was a pregnancy test. The same

  brand I'd used that morning. Only this one had two lines in

  the little window. A positive result.

  This time when I got on my knees it wasn't to pray. I put

  my head in my shaking hands and concentrated on

  drawing in breath after breath. I could smel the bleachy

  cleanser I'd meant to use on the shower wals, which never

  wanted to come clean from the soap scum no matter how

  hard I scrubbed. I could feel my breath whistling through

  my fingers.

  I got myself under control and onto my feet to stare again

  at the test. Hadn't I left enough time for the results? Had it

  turned positive after I'd thrown it away and gone my merry

  way to school, secure in my un-knocked-up state?

  Had I been pregnant al day and not known it?

  Normaly I wouldn't touch the garbage without rubber

  Normaly I wouldn't touch the garbage without rubber

  gloves, but I dug through the layers of used tissues and Q-

  tips without even a gag, though my stomach had risen in

  my throat. I found the box I'd wrapped as carefuly as the

  test, but before I could tear it open to reread the

  instructions to see if it was possible a test could turn

  positive later than the three minutes I'd given it. And I

  found, stil wrapped tightly and hidden, the test I'd taken

  that morning. Which meant, of course, the one on the sink

  wasn't mine.

  My thanks this time were louder and more fervent than

  they'd been that morning, but shorter. Because if it wasn't

  mine, that meant it was my mother's. I didn't want to think

  about that.

  Thinking of this now, I puled up in front of my mom's

  house. The one she'd lived in with Leo and Arty for the

  past three years, not one of the many in which she'd raised

  me. A brick row home sandwiched between two others

  and within a stone's throw of the railroad tracks, it wasn't

  anything like my dad's house. Yet inside the good smels of

  something baking tickled my nose instead of expensive

  scented candles, and the hug I got from my mom felt

  natural and not forced.

  "Arty's upstairs getting ready," she said. "I told him he couldn't wear his Batman costume to the movies, but…

  wel."

  "I don't care if he wears his Batman costume."

  My mom sighed and shook her head. "You're sure?"

  Once upon a time I'd have been appaled at the thought,

  but distance seemed to have melowed me. Or time,

  maybe. I shrugged.

  "What's it to me if the kid's happy?"

  I couldn't decipher her look, which only lasted a second as

  she turned to shout up the stairs. "Arty! Paige is here!"

  "Where's Leo?" I'd always liked him, even if he did laugh

  too loud at truly stupid television shows and wear offensive

  novelty T-shirts.

  Again with the look I couldn't interpret. "He's not home."

  "Obviously." She didn't return my smile, but before I could ask her if something was wrong, Arty bounded down the

  stairs. "Hey."

  stairs. "Hey."

  "Pow!" Arty leaped in front of me with his hands on his

  hips. His brown eyes glinted from behind the mask.

  Clearly he'd had no intention of listening to our mom. "I'm

  Batman!"

  "I see that. Are you ready to go, Batman?"

  He launched himself into me, his arms and legs wrapping

  around me. "Yay! Yes! Yay for Paige!"

  "Good luck with him. Today was somebody's birthday at

  school. He's had a lot of sugar."

  "Oh, joy. Put a sweatshirt on, shorty. The movie theater

  might be chily." I squeezed him back, tight. He smeled

  like baby shampoo and candy. I could handle even a

  sugar-infused Arty.

  My mom tried to press a ten-dolar bil into my hand as

  Arty struggled into his jacket, but I refused to take it.

  "Mom, no."

  "For popcorn."

  "I said no." I'd been taler than her since seventh grade, but

  "I said no." I'd been taler than her since seventh grade, but looking down at her now it seemed strange to be staring at

  the top of her head. She'd starting graying early but had

  always kept up the color. Now I saw half an inch of white

  here and there along her part.

  I noticed lines in the corners of her eyes, too, when she

  looked up at me. My mom had never looked old to me, I

  guess because she wasn't, but she looked tired. Her

  eyeliner had smudged a little as though applied by an

  unsteady hand, or as if she'd been rubbing her eyes. She

  did that when she had a headache.

  "You okay, Mom?"

  "Fine, baby." She pressed the folded bil toward me again,

  even though I jerked my hand away. "Take this."

  "I said no. C'mon. It's my treat."

  She frowned. I looked like my dad most every other time,

  but now I saw myself in her face. "Paige. You can't tel me

  that fa
ncy apartment's not expensive."

  "And I have a good job, remember? You don't have to

  worry so much. Realy. I'm happy to take Arty to the

  movies. I'm fine."

  movies. I'm fine."

  With a sigh she tucked the bil into the pocket of her jeans.

  "As if you'd tel me otherwise?"

  She had me there. I merely grinned and shrugged. She

  shook her head and bent to help Arty slide his arms into

  his sleeves. Considering how much Arty was bouncing up

  and down it was no smal feat. I reached a hand to help

  her and she stepped back with a strangely defeated sigh.

  "Let's go, let's go, let's go, let's go!"

  "Chil, little dude. Chil," I admonished with a hard look at my mom. "You sure you're okay?"

  "Just tired, baby. Go have fun. I'l see you when you get

  back. Not too late," she cautioned for Arty's benefit and

  not mine. "School tomorrow."

  Arty, stil bouncing, grabbed for my hand. "Let's

  goooooooo!"

  Like me, my little brother looked like the man who'd

  fathered him. Personalitywise, though, he was almost

  entirely my mother. Nonstop chatter from the backseat

  entirely my mother. Nonstop chatter from the backseat

  kept me entertained on the ten-minute drive to the mal.

  Growing up, I'd had to go al the way to Palmyra to hit a

  multiplex, but now Lebanon had its own stadium-seating

  theater fancy enough to rival anything in Harrisburg. The

  prices were cheaper, too, a reminder there were some

  minor advantages to life in the town where I'd grown up.

  Halfway through the movie, my phone vibrated against my

  thigh. I flipped it open with a sigh when I saw who it was

  from…ignoring the fact that not only did I recognize the

  number on sight, but that I had, in a fit of insanity, assigned

  it a photo. I shielded the glare of the backlight with one

  hand as I read it.

  Where you @?

  I didn't reply, just flipped the phone closed and slid it back

  into my jeans pocket. The movie went on and on. And on.

  And on some more. I never knew an hour and a half could

  last so long, but since Arty stared slack-jawed in wonder

  at the cavorting cartoon figures I figured he, at least, was

  enjoying it.

  I blame the cartoons. If the movie had held my interest I

  would never have puled out my phone again. I'd never

  have answered Austin's text. I know better now, but that's

  what I told myself at the time.

  I'm watching a movie.

  Cool. What movie? The answer came within seconds.